by James Hunter
Table of Contents
Summary
Shadow Alley Press Mailing List
The Upstart
Late-shift Shenanigans
Endless Distractions
Order from Chaos
Disappearing Act
Apprentice Aggravation
School of Night
Opening Salvo
Hasty Retreat
Trial and Error
Aftermath
Experiments in Inversion
Well-laid Trap
Retribution
Transmuting Troubles
Constabulary
Control Freak
Lunch Rush
Home at Last
Five-Alarm Loot
Hellstrike
Elemental Adolescence
A Ration of Grief
Subtleties of Transmutation
Rogue Evolutions
Musical Solutions
Alliances
Changing Faces
Spy Games
Jungles of Eternal Night
Isara the Spinner
Royal Failure
Orbweaver Evolution
Corporate Conspiracy
Into the Cairns
The Dragon’s Maw
The Ultimate Loot
The Final Straw
Bargaining Chip
The Twist
The Poser Owners
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
Books by Shadow Alley Press
Books by Black Forge
LitRPG on Facebook
Even More LitRPG on Facebook
GameLit and Cultivation on Facebook
Copyright
About the Author
About the Publisher
Summary
BUILD. EVOLVE. CONQUER. Welcome to the dawn of a whole new kind of monster...
Roark von Graf built a nation on the bodies of griefed players and disgruntled mobs who wanted him dead. He grinded his way up to the level cap of the Troll Evolutionary Path and made powerful underhanded alliances along the way, but even all of that isn’t enough to defeat the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage, Lowen, and the Divine armies of the most powerful dungeon in the game.
When Lowen and the Vault of the Radiant Shield go on the attack, Roark’s only hope of survival lies in the stolen World Stone Pendant and its mysterious transmutation magic. To stand a chance against the overpowered mage, he’ll have to unlock the game-changing cheat that is Mega-Evolutions.
But while Roark and his Troll Nation are entrenched in an all-out battle for survival, the Tyrant King is preparing to unleash his hidden weapon—one that will hit Roark where he’s most vulnerable...
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The Upstart
LOWEN VON REICH SAT on the throne of the Vault of the Radiant Shield, perched on the hanging dais high above the throne room floor, and watched as a battle unfolded on the illuminated page of his gilt-edged Dungeon Lord’s grimoire. Absently, he tossed and worried a smooth stone in his hand, the glowing rune on its surface cold against his golden flesh.
On the page, his least favorite hedge mage and biggest thorn in his side, Roark von Graf, faced off against the strongest hero in Hearthworld, a man named Bad_Karma. The pair desperately tried to kill one another in a room rapidly filling with seawater. A few spells and hexes caught Lowen’s attention, but the combatants relied a tedious amount on physical weapons, like peasants brawling in the street.
“I always said you had commoner’s blood,” Lowen sneered at his former rival. During their days at the Academy together, a snide remark alluding to von Graf’s mixed heritage had always been more than enough to rile him into a fight.
When the hero Bad_Karma ran von Graf through with his billhook and tore out a goodly chunk of the man’s entrails, Lowen chuckled. It was the fulfillment of a fantasy for anyone who had ever met von Graf, and true to form, the hero looked especially pleased with himself. Lowen had missed the beginning of the fight, but knowing that mouthy cur, it had likely been filled with I’m-too-clever insults and a predictable amount of trickery. Two decades of cheating death had turned Roark into a pest of plaguelike proportions. The whole von Graf family had always been snakes, lying in wait to strike at the foot of their betters. And worse, they’d constantly taken pride in their sly cheats and schemes as though they somehow elevated them to greatness.
Lowen ran his thumb over the face of the stone, tracing the icy groove of the rune. He knew the truth—it wasn’t cleverness that made one great, but power.
Good riddance to that entire fool bloodline.
The von Grafs had dug their graves with their own arrogance, refusing to bow to the Tyrant King’s rule out of some outmoded sense of justice. More like naiveté. Lowen’s family, the von Reichs, had sensed which direction the wind was blowing. As a result of pledging their allegiance to Marek Konig Ustar, they had been granted not only more land and power, but Lowen had been afforded every advantage of education and luxury a mage could hope for.
Lowen smirked. Before he killed von Graf, he should ask him whether holding to his parents’ foolish ideals had been worth shivering alone in filthy back alleys and fighting strays for the scraps the peasants had thrown out.
The battle in the grimoire continued to play out, Roark and the hero treading icy water in the cursed room. Predictably, this Bad_Karma, who should have outmatched von Graf and had even struck numerous deadly blows, died with a whimper. Drowned in seawater while Roark transformed into some mer-type creature that looked as if it had come from Traisbin’s old fisherman tales about finfolk.
“You underestimated him,” Lowen tsked, shaking his head at the hero’s idiocy.
While a single moderate spell would work on a normal opponent, one should always use two or three vastly overwritten spells against a von Graf.
If there was one thing Lowen had learned from his very first duels with Roark, it was not to underestimate him. The von Grafs were worse than cockroaches—Roark in particular—and what didn’t kill them outright only made them craftier. He’d heard similar stories about Roark’s father, who’d made a nuisance of himself time and again. At least that one had had the good graces to die right and proper on Bloederige Noct, the Night of Blood. Not Roark, though. Nothing seemed to properly stomp that one out.
If the battle Lowen had just witnessed was any indication, the mutt was growing too clever for the difference in their levels to subdue him for much longer. Roark was a lowly level 36 Troll, while Lowen and every Ustar in the Vault of the Radiant Shield were at level 99—the maximum available to Malaika Heralds—but Lowen knew he couldn’t rely solely on that to crush Roark. When dealing with a cheat who wasn’t afraid to stoop to commoners’ tactics and beyond, something far more underhanded was required.
Pocketing the rune stone, Lowen stood.
“Darith, mind the throne room,” he snapped at his second-in-command. His voice echoed through the cavernous chamber and bounced off the shining golden walls and ceiling. “I will return shortly.”
Darith stopped plucking the wings off the Greater Vigilant Gargoyle he’d captured.
“Aye, sir,” he agreed, dropping the porcine creature with a rocky clatter, then taking up a position at the throne room door and pulling out a shining glaive. “Will do.”
Cruel, useful man, Darith. Strictly muscle, of course, but excellent at slaughtering heroes before they made it into the throne room. Essential for any Dungeon Lord who occasionally had to pop out of the dimension for a bit, and with the added benefit that Darith was too stupid to consider a power grab while said Dungeon Lor
d was gone.
Lowen sprung from the edge of the hanging dais and launched himself into the air. His wings responded as if he’d been born with them, carrying him in a graceful glide across the throne room. When he’d first followed Roark to this world, he’d been shocked to find he had transformed into some sort of angelic being with gold skin and wings growing from his shoulder blades. He’d been disoriented and more than a little incensed at the change. After having seen the twisted, demonic creature von Graf had become, however, Lowen had to admit he’d gotten the better shake.
He touched down lightly at the opposite end of the throne room next to a freestanding stone archway shimmering with violet light.
A fixed portal to Traisbin.
Lowen hesitated before it.
Most of his life, he had been taught that portal magick was the most unstable of any magicks. That even with perfect spelling and grammar and the most clear and accurate wording in the world, mages who attempted to pass through portals were frequently killed in all manner of gruesome and horrific ways. Even the oldest masters at the Academy had admitted that in the two hundred years since its founding, no one had yet been able to decipher the trick to safe portal travel. And a fixed, stable portal? Such a thing was less than legend. A myth too wild for any to believe.
Except it was no myth at all.
Marek had learned the secret. Or, perhaps, had known it all along.
That, more than anything, led Lowen to believe that the Tyrant King—an epithet he was smart enough never to call Marek to his face—was a far more powerful mage than any who had come before. Others had been surprised that the man had crushed the entire continent of Terho under his bootheel in five short years, but not Lowen. When one controlled that much power, how could conquest end in any other way?
Though portal travel seemed prevalent and even commonplace here in Hearthworld, it remained a closely guarded secret in Traisbin. If the Rebel Council realized they could transport themselves anywhere at will with hardly any consequences, they could mount an offensive against the Ustari Empire. Marek hadn’t even wanted to send many of his own troops through the portal, concerned some of the brighter ones might work out the mechanics for themselves, but Lowen had convinced the Tyrant King that overkill was the only response for a nuisance like Roark von Graf. Desperate for the return of his World Stone Pendant, Marek had finally relented and sent waves of his mages and soldiers to Hearthworld under Lowen’s command.
Reminding himself that all would be well, but unable to completely avoid bracing for the worst, Lowen stepped into the portal.
An icy breeze ruffled his hair and feathers. His flesh prickled with goosebumps and he shivered involuntarily, but he was otherwise unaffected. There wasn’t even a sudden stabbing headache or twinge of nausea, as was common in even Marek’s perfectly crafted portals in Traisbin. That was Hearthworld’s stabilizing magick at work.
A moment later, Lowen felt solid stone beneath his boots. The breeze dissipated, and heat suffused his body. He had stepped out of the portal beside the great hearth in the imperial stronghold’s war room. The emerald light from several lamps competed with the orange flames in the fireplace, giving the chamber a warm, inviting cast at odds with its brutal function.
“Lowen,” drawled the bored voice of the Tyrant King. “Unless you’ve come to put my World Stone Pendant back in my hand, I very much doubt I’ll be interested in what you have to report.”
Slowly, Lowen’s eyes—dazzled by the violet light of the portal—adjusted to the dimness of the war room.
Before him, Marek stood over an elaborately carved table covered in maps and lit by a trio of green-flamed lamps. A pair of tired looking burung wizards flanked him, and the war chiefs he commanded leaned over the table with him. A strategy meeting, then.
Salt-and-pepper hair fell back from the Tyrant King’s face as he lifted his chin a touch, piercing Lowen with his pale green gaze.
“Well?” The Tyrant King raised an eyebrow and held out his hand sardonically.
Though most people shrank with fear when faced with that cold, aristocratic glare, Lowen stood calm. He hadn’t fought his way up through the ranks to become Marek’s right-hand mage by cowering. In truth, it was because he was willing to stand tall that he had earned the position. Marek had an overabundance of sycophantic yes-men more than happy to fill his ears with pleasant, lying whispers. Lowen could count on one hand those willing to risk Marek’s wrath with the hard truth.
“I will have the World Stone for you soon, Your Eminence,” Lowen said, careful not to hem himself in with deadlines. Truth was valuable, but where Marek was concerned, it also needed to be tempered with prudence. A truly fine line to tread. “If that von Graf nuisance isn’t launching an attack on our Hearthworld stronghold as we speak, then he’ll be preparing to do so in short order.”
Marek didn’t bat an eye. “Don’t you think you would better serve me there, retrieving my pendant and crushing his attack, than standing here making promises you have yet to fulfill?”
“I came to ask for your leave to use the”—Lowen glanced at the war chiefs and wizards, making it abundantly clear that he thought them beneath this conversation—“secret weapon,” he finished.
This time, Marek did blink. He smoothed over his surprise quickly, but Lowen had been around the man long enough to catch the heartbeat of uncertainty. Having just lost his precious World Stone—the secret to his universal-law-defying magick—the Tyrant King was afraid to lose another of his most powerful weapons. Lowen didn’t allow his disgust to show on his face, but it was appalling how attached to that trash the man had become in his old age.
“Did you come here to admit that with dozens of my best troops at your disposal you are still too incompetent to accomplish what I sent you to do?” Marek asked.
Without missing a step, Lowen mentally backtracked and took another path.
“No, Your Eminence, I came to ask for a tool to prepare a secondary plan in case my first should fail.” Lowen reached into his pocket and ran his thumb over the surface of the rune stone. “I doubt it will, but only fools and zealots leave outcomes to chance.”
Marek gave the smallest of facial shrugs, a sign he approved. He was a pragmatic man above all else.
“Fine, you have my leave to use the weapon if your plan fails,” he agreed, turning back to his maps. “Whatever it takes to return the World Stone and kill that rebel upstart. Painfully.”
Lowen grinned and nodded. “It will be my pleasure.”
Late-shift Shenanigans
“WELCOME TO TACO BELL. Would you like to try our new Baja Blast Twists?” Scott Bayani asked the latest car of stoners to pull up to the Bell’s drive-thru menu.
“Yeah, um... Like, let me get a large number eight with three chicken quesadillas and a party pack of tacos.”
Scott tapped the order into the ancient touchscreen.
“You want those tacos hard or soft?” He wasn’t going out of his way to get it right when he made the order, but he was required to ask.
Snickering came through the headset. “I like all my tacos soft. Real soft.”
Ha ha, great innuendo, dickbrain. “What do you want to drink with that? Bong water?”
Of course Chaz, the overnight manager, immediately appeared, glaring at him in a mixture of disapproval and judgement. Scott rolled his eyes.
“What?” the customer asked, leaning closer to the speaker.
“I said, what do you want to drink with that? We have sixteen different flavors of Mountain Dew, and our monthly special is a suicide of all of them.”
“Ah, sweet! Gimme the suicide.”
Scott jabbed the touchscreen way harder than he had to. “Please pull forward.”
As soon as he’d taken the stoners’ payment, he did an about-face and got to work on their order. It was just him and Chaz tonight because Raeanna had called in “sick,” so he had to work both the drive-thru and the kitchen. Scott probably should’ve been docked for showing up
an hour late for his shift, but since they were so short-staffed, all Chaz had been able to do was get all sanctimonious and shit. Luckily, the douche couldn’t fire him without permission from the day manager, and Allie had a major lady-boner for Scott.
Probably why Chaz hated him so much.
While he served the munchies crowd and the occasional out of state plate, Scott’s mind kept wandering back to the party he’d left behind in Hearthworld. The Griefer was still an asswad, but he sure as hell knew how to throw a rager. The mob party had been as sick as any of the post-raid guild celebrations Scott had ever been to. That big Troll, Kaz, could cook like a mofo, and he kept the booze flowing. Scott snorted at the memory of Randy falling backward over a bench and getting all tangled up in his own wings. Not that he liked the nerd, but it had been funny watching an admin get all sloppy over a couple glasses of virtual wine.
You’d think a level 40 would have better Constitution.
Thinking back, Scott could say without a doubt that going back to Hearthworld was the single best decision he’d ever made. Not only had it been stupidly gratifying to lead Bro_Fo and his train of ass-kissers into the trap that ultimately got all of them killed and hopefully camped by sentient mobs forever, but watching Karma get dead had made Scott’s day. BK should never have crossed him way back when he first wanted to raid the Griefer.
Scott guessed he had helped Roark a little out of compassion or whatever, too. So he was bighearted and magnanimous and shit. Fucking sue him. The Griefer couldn’t have pulled it all off without him, and unlike Karma, Roark knew how to reward his MVP. Scott hadn’t had time to check the wikis yet, but he figured Greater Vassalhood probably came with all kinds of unique perks and enough Experience to drown a Selkie.
“Bayani,” Chaz droned, snapping his chode fingers in Scott’s face. “Are you with us?”
Scott jerked back to IRL. The quesadilla press was beeping frantically and emitting a stream of smoke as it burned the cheese-filled tortilla inside black.