by James Hunter
“And how to help you kill Marek.”
He gritted his teeth. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“It will be,” she said, as if there could be no doubts on the matter. She stepped closer to him and raised the rune stone, but didn’t break it.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Before we go...” She looked down at the ground far below, an errant gust of wind lapping at her hair, hiding her face. “I’m sorry I called you a coward for running. You were just a little boy. Part of me knew that all along, but... When we were children, you always seemed so much older. So clever and fearless.” Her hand darted under the curtain of her hair, and though Roark couldn’t see it, he realized she might be wiping away another wayward tear. “But you were just a child. There was nothing you could’ve done.”
It felt as if a fist in his chest suddenly unclenched. The spot had been clenched tight for so long that he’d stopped noticing it. Until she said that.
Roark put an arm around Talise’s shoulders and squeezed. It was awkward, but he did the best he could. Maybe if he kept trying, he would eventually be able to hug people as naturally as Kaz did.
“Come on,” he said, pulling away after a long beat. “Best we get moving. Sadly, Lowen isn’t going to kill himself, which means we have work to do. First and foremost, getting you back, where you’ll pretend you killed me but couldn’t take the World Stone off my corpse. Then you’ll go back to Marek, keep your head down, and stay safe.”
Talise faced him, opening her mouth to protest, but Roark cut her off.
“Please,” he said.
After a moment, she frowned and nodded. “Fine. For now.”
That seemed to be the best he was going to get.
“Thank you.”
As she took his hand and prepared to break the stone, Roark cast a final glance out over the vast city. His friends, his dungeon allies, the NecroDragon Core stowed away in his inventory, and now his sister. Finally, after grinding his way up from the very bottom, he had everything he needed to get revenge on that pompous ass Lowen. And from there, Marek. It was time at last to invade the Vault of the Radiant Shield.
Blood-soaked retribution was coming, and Roark intended to lead from the vanguard.
The Poser Owners
AS SOON AS SCOTT’S respawn time ended, he logged back in to Hearthworld and checked his messages, a giddy sense of excitement washing over him. The Griefer had sent him one about an hour after he died, letting him know that Aczol the NecroDickface was dead, and Roark had the Transmutation Core in hand. Quest finished, stupid amount of Experience collected, his Ranger-Cleric was now a bitchin’ level 19. But the end of the message was the best part.
As agreed, the Troll Nation vaults are open. Take what you need to start your guild and recruit.
Roark could be a total jerkwad, but at least the guy was a jerkwad of his word.
“Fuckin’ A,” Scott said. Finally, he was going to get some sweet revenge on all the dickweeds that’d been camping him—and Bad_Karma was firmly at the top of that fucking list.
Not wanting to wait around, Scott spawned in as his Ranger-Cleric, shuttled over to the Troll Nation, filled his Inventory to the brim—including a metric shit-ton of gold coin—and hopped a portal scroll to Avery City.
He couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he sauntered through the streets toward the One-Eyed Unicorn. Already he’d picked up a couple low-level tails, probably dweebs too scared to face him like they had a pair until their buddies were there to back them up. Along the way they picked up a couple more, then a couple more. They looked like they were just getting ready to attack as he came around the corner toward the Unicorn.
Too bad for them. They were about to miss their shot.
Through the tavern’s front window, Scott spotted GothicTerror, sitting on the bar, drinking with ol’ Flappie_Sak. The ratio of Karma worshippers to Other in the Unicorn had definitely shifted while Scott was gone. The only unaligned folks still hanging out were the bartender and the pickpocket trainer.
Scott kicked open the door. “Daddy’s home, losers.”
He grabbed a chair, jammed it under the door handle, and planted his ass in it. The bartender got real smart real fast and disappeared into the back room.
Scott looked from one player to another, making sure he had their undivided attention.
“Today’s about to be your lucky day, because I’ve got a limited time offer for everybody in here”—he pointed at the gothed-out whoretot—“but her.”
She made a pouty face and tsked at him.
“Oh no, excluded by Cocky McCockmouth? That hurts my feels. You know what makes them better, though?” She flicked something on her wrist guard, and a shiny black bone crossbow popped out, the bolt aimed over the back of her hand. Green Undead Chaos energy burned dully along the weapon. “Every time Karma makes it rain fat stacks of gold for a dead Cockmouth.”
Scott smirked. “First person to one-shot Razor Blades ’n’ Roses here gets two Gs gold, right now.”
That wiped the smile off her pretty face awful damn fast. And the looks passing back and forth around the room said hers wasn’t the only attention he had.
A chair scraped over by the stairs—
GothicTerror fired off a bone bolt and nailed the rising tank in the face before he could equip his war axe. He clanked back a couple steps, HP dropping down below the halfway mark.
“Come at me again, Juan.” With a crank of her crossbow, a new bolt slammed into place. “Any other dickbrain in here want a faceful of BoneRot?”
“Three large,” Scott said, a nasty grin stretching across his face. Throwing money at problems was the best.
GothicTerror scowled and activated her Death’s Head Shield, putting the bar between herself and the rest of the room. Even looked like she was starting to sweat her buddy Flappie_Sak’s loyalty. Three thousand gold was an assload of coin in Hearthworld. Enough to fully deck out a new alt or pick up a complete set of Peerless armor. These lowbie jerkwads could grind for a month without earning that kind of payday. He knew, because he used to be the loser doing the grinding.
Not anymore. Not now that he had the Griefer bankrolling him.
“Think you can kill all these dillweeds before they take you out?” Scott asked her, waving a hand at the room. “Ya_Boy and everybody else in this bitch?”
“Please, these ladies can’t touch me.” She pointed her crossbow at Scott’s head. “Of course, that becomes a nonissue if I kill the dick who put out the hit on me.”
Scott grinned and sat forward in his seat. “Now you’re speaking my language. See, players’ll do all sorts of crazy shit for money and loot. Karma paid you losers to grief me, now I’m ready to double whatever that dick shells out to pay you not to grief me. Plus, I’ll let you in on the ground floor of my baller new guild, PwnrBwner’s Poser Owners. The Pwnrs for short. I’m talking full membership, no exceptions, no lame-ass errand running to get in—something I notice those jank pledge badges say BK hasn’t got off his ass and done for you yet.”
Ya_Boy_Flappie_Sak shifted in his seat, which Scott was happy to see made GothicTerror turn her crossbow on him. But instead of attacking, the rog jerked his chin at Scott.
“How’d your pockets get so deep? Tossing out three Gs to kill someone is a Karma move, not a Pwnr move.”
“Well, dickhole, for one, I’m a badass.” He stuck a finger into the air. “And for two, I know people.”
“Like that modder.”
“Like Aczol the Eternal,” Scott countered.
“Yeah right,” GothicTerror sneered. “Everybody knows the Endgame Dragon’s god-tier. Whatever this crap build is you’re wearing now is barely even junk-tier.”
Scott shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Check the Immortals board if you don’t believe me.”
All around the room, eyes glossed over as they pulled up their interfaces and checked the boards. When the mouths started dropping open with the
appropriate amount of awe, Scott couldn’t suppress the proud smile.
“Pretty fucking impressive, right?” he said. “And that’s just my opener. Check this shit out.” He stood up and started dropping ridiculous, game-breaking Unique items on the closest table. “All the loot you can eat. I keep my boyz stocked. Only the best. What’d Karma ever give you? Some crappy Peerless Bone Crossbow outta some generic barrow?” Scott snorted and rolled his eyes. “I used to think those were tough, too—then I got gud and started being a real gamer.”
Last but not least, he pulled out a gleaming black-and-red Unique Wraithpiercer Arbalest and held it up for GothicTerror to lose her fucking mind over. Which she totally was, even if she was trying to hide it.
“Basically, Screamo-tots, you’ve been an uberbitch to me,” he said, “but I just so happen to need somebody like that on my side to help me run this show. So, here’s your shot. I’ll give you one chance: ditch that loser Bad_Karma and join the Pwnrs or get ready to respawn. A lot. Like I’ll pay to have you camped until you fucking rage quit. Understand?”
GothicTerror didn’t say anything for a minute, her brow scrunched as she considered the options. She was trying to play it cool, but Scott could see her lowkey drooling over that crossbow. Who wouldn’t be? The thing was epic as balls.
“Whatever,” she finally said, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m just in it for the payday. Keep the loot flowing, and you bought yourself an uberbitch.”
He threw her the Wraithpiercer. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant.”
She turned it over, checking out the stats.
“Wicked.” Then she saw her new guild badge. “Hell yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!”
After that, the rest of them couldn’t join up fast enough. Scott finished equipping his new crew with Unique weapons and armor, then got their attention again.
“All right, everybody, follow me. We got one last order of business to take care of.”
Scott led the way out into the street, wishing they were moving in slow-mo with some kind of headbanging soundtrack to complement how badass they looked. A couple of BK’s ass-kissers took a run at them, but his crew slapped them down like they weren’t shit. Unique weapons would do that for you.
Two minutes later, they rocked up to the Avery City Market like gangstas. Scott climbed onto the stage at the far end where everybody would see him, while GothicTerror directed the rest of the Pwnrs to spread out in a protective ring.
“Listen up,” Scott shouted at the top of his lungs.
Activity in the aisles slowed to a crawl as all eyes turned his way. The chatter died down.
“PwnrBwner’s Poser Owners here. Remember the name, ’cause from now on, we run this game. Bad_Karma’s done, and it’s open season on any asshole in the Karmic Cycle of Whoopass guild. If you’re in with that dick, you’ve got two minutes to GTFO of Avery City or come over to the dark side with the rest of us bad motherfuckers.” Scott paused long enough to smirk out at his stunned audience. “Starting now, Hearthworld’s under new management. PwnrBwner’s Poser Owners and the Troll Nation run this show, and shit is about to get real...”
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Looking for more litRPG and need it right this minute? Check out James A. Hunter’s Bestselling litRPG epic, Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)! Or keep reading to take a sneak peek!
An extinction-level asteroid is blazing toward Earth. Collision, imminent. The world is doomed, and only a select few lottery winners will be saved.
UNFORTUNATELY, JACK Mitchel—a down on his luck EMT from San Diego—isn’t one of those winners.
Still, there might be a way for him to survive the impending cataclysm: a slim chance, requiring a radical leap of faith. Through a connection at Osmark Technologies, Jack’s acquired a NexGenVR capsule and with it, a one-way ticket to the brand-new, ultra-immersive, fantasy-based VRMMORPG, Viridian Gate Online. Taking that leap of faith, though, means permanently trapping his mind in the game, killing his body in the process.
Worse, one in six die during the transition, and even if Jack beats the odds, he’ll have to navigate a fantastical world filled with vicious monsters, domineering AIs, and cutthroat players. And when Jack stumbles upon a secret conspiracy to sell off virtual real estate to the ultrawealthy—transforming V.G.O. into a new feudal dark age—the deadly creatures inhabiting Viridian Gate’s expansive dungeons will be the least of his concerns.
If Jack can’t game the system, he’s going to be trading in a quick death for a long, brutal one ...
Chapter One: Beginning of the End
I TOOK ONE LAST GLANCE around my apartment. A tiny studio flat, just under five hundred square feet, which still cost me a sizeable chunk of change every month. It didn’t help that the cost of living had skyrocketed over the past few years while my meager paycheck had remained rock steady. Which is to say, low. Being an EMT doesn’t pay what it used to, not that it’s ever really been a lucrative career field—kids flipping burgers at most fast-food joints made what I did, despite the demands of the job. Working grueling shifts. Saving lives. Watching people die.
Still, even in spite of the pay, it was good work. Fulfilling.
My little slice of paradise had a small kitchen, a nearly microscopic bathroom, and a living room that doubled as my bedroom, office, dining room, and pretty much everything else. I’m something of a minimalist, I suppose. Someone less generous might say I was poor. Everything I owned was old, worn, and just this side of broken: a dented stove, a bulky white fridge that’d certainly seen better days, a used brown sofa I’d picked up from Goodwill a couple of years ago. The couch was heavily stained, the cushions deeply creased and sagging. A full mattress in the same condition bordered the far wall, near the door to the bathroom.
The TV was nice at least—a hulking seventy-five-inch Shintaro with a nano-crystal screen and multi-zone backlighting. My VR headset, a matte black helmet with a sleek viewing screen, sat on the floor next to the massive television. I smiled looking at it. Lots of good memories.
For a moment, I stood there staring, swaying slightly on my feet. I frowned, trying to decide what to do next. As an EMT I know what shock looks like, and I had it bad, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I briefly considered going around my apartment and unplugging the appliances, just to make sure the place didn’t catch fire and burn to the ground. No point in that, though. A house fire was the least of my concerns at this point.
So instead, I shrugged numbly, readjusted my bathrobe, shuffled over to the cramped kitchen, and poured myself a cup of day-old joe, strong enough to knock teeth out.
The coffee was tepid at best, so I stuck the mug in the barely serviceable microwave, hit the auto start, and headed over to the front door. The only door. The only way in or out, save the windows, but I was four stories up, so that wasn’t a huge concern. I checked the lock for what was probably the hundredth time. Still shut nice and tight. The deadbolt was engaged, the hanging chain in place. Then, I rechec
ked the shoddy wooden chair I’d jammed up under the knob—in case someone decided the lock wasn’t enough of a deterrent.
That was fine, too.
The microwave sounded, beep-beep-beep, letting me know my formerly lukewarm coffee was ready to go.
I retrieved my cup, now steaming, took a few tentative sips, and headed over to the far window overlooking the street below. I didn’t open the blinds—didn’t want anyone to see my apartment was occupied, since that might mark me as a target—but instead peeked through one of the plastic slats. A quick gander. It was getting dark, and the streetlights were starting to kick on; not that the streetlights needed to be on, what with the fires raging all over the city. Sooty orange-and-yellow light littered the skyline, plumes of smoke drifting, rising, visible even against the darkening sky.
A man in a hockey mask strode by on the street below, a pump-action shotgun clutched in his hands, a bag of looted toilet paper slung across his back in a duffel bag. The strobing lights of an empty police cruiser washed over him in splashes of red and blue. Toilet paper. His prize loot is toilet paper. Maybe the world deserves to die. I shook my head, then took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter liquid wash down my throat and hit my belly with a surge of delicious warmth and caffeine.
I turned away from the window and fixed my gaze on the brand-new, state-of-the-art NexGenVR capsule—a coffin of glossy black plastic and sleek chrome. Really, it looked more like a high-tech suntanning bed, but, all things considered, it sure felt like a coffin. A host of tubes snaked away from the capsule to a hefty generator powered by a renewable hydro-cell. The capsules drew far too much power to operate on the city grid, so they needed their own private source, and that generator could keep my VR capsule up and running for a solid month. Not that I needed a month.