by J. A. Hunter
Still, though, the man was too quick for me. I was back on my heels and didn’t see the incoming front kick until it was too late to do anything about it. His cloth-covered foot slammed into my stomach like a sledgehammer, knocking me back a handful of steps as a debuff popped up in the corner of my vision:
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Debuffs Added
Stunning Blow: You have sustained a stunning blow! Attack damage -15%; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; movement speed reduced by 35%; duration, 1 minute.
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Wow, that was brutal. Even unarmed this guy could hit harder than most fighters. He feinted left, then shot right with a roundhouse kick, his leg whistling toward my head at breakneck speed. I triggered Shadow Stride half a second before the attack landed, which was a good thing since the blow probably would’ve shattered my skull like fine china. His leg crept to a halt, the man balanced precariously on one foot as blacks and grays invaded the landscape.
Obviously, this guy was built for speed and ferocity, but chances were his defenses were crap. If I could manage to get a solid shot in, it would probably take him down for good, and as fast as he was, he wasn’t faster than Shadow Stride. I slipped around him, dropping into a crouch as I prepared to smash his head from his shoulders like a major leaguer hitting for the stands. I hefted my warhammer and took a few practice swings, the weapon phasing harmlessly through his head. Then, satisfied, I slipped from the Shadowverse and lashed out.
I triggered both Savage Blow and Black Caress, ensuring this attack would do maximum damage—absolutely vital since I had that Stunning Blow debuff dragging down my attack damage—but, somehow, he was already on the move. His fingers flashed out, tapping another black brand. My weapon landed with a colossal thud, and instead of dropping the monk like a load of bricks, the hammer reverberated in my hands as though I’d just hit a steel plate instead of the unarmored back of a man’s head.
I reeled, my hammer quivering in my grasp, and my eyes widened in pure shock. The monk’s skin was now a bright silver as though every inch of him had been transformed into metal. He grinned as though he knew exactly what I’d been thinking, then darted forward, throwing a lightning-fast hook that caught me across the jaw and sent me sprawling onto the cobblestone road. Devil, need some help ASAP, I sent through my mental link with the Shadow Drake, who was rampaging just out of sight.
Instead of finishing me, the monk stood tall and crossed heavily muscled arms, staring down at me with smug contempt. “After all the talk I’ve heard about the great Grim Jack Shadowstrider,” he said, “I was expecting more. You’re slow. Weak. Predictable. Your class gives you some significant advantages against someone who has never gamed, but against someone like me? Unimpressive.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, struggling onto my elbows. “And who are you?”
“Jay Taylor—I’m Emperor Osmark’s new right-hand man. He’s gonna pay me well once he hears how easily I took you down.” An arrogant sneer spread across his metallic features.
I scrambled back and pushed myself to my feet, bringing my weapon up in front of me. “You know, Jay,” I said, hoping to buy a little time, “it’s not my class that makes me strong. It’s that I use my head and depend on my friends.”
“Too bad you don’t have any friends around,” he said, his lips pulling back into a snarl as he dropped into a martial arts stance, his fists up, his weight settled squarely over his back leg.
“That’s only because you aren’t looking closely enough,” I replied with a grin, glancing over his shoulder to the tree line.
His eyes flared wide and he spun on one heel, fingers slamming home against a small scimitar burned into his shoulder. A smoky, onyx version of the weapon appeared in his outthrust hands, but he was far too late. Devil’s vicious, burning gaze stared out from between a pair of thick elms with broad leaves, smoke wafting up from his nostrils in twin plumes. The monk gasped, bolted left, then shot in with his conjured sword. He should’ve run, but apparently, he was overconfident in his unique abilities. The blade whistled through the air, but Devil simply lunged out, his mouth thrown wide.
The monk’s weapon clanged against a bony ridge of black spikes jutting up from Devil’s skull, doing next to no damage. In the same instant, however, Devil clamped down on the monk’s shoulder and neck, and even his gleaming metal skin seemed completely useless against the crushing power of Devil’s jaws. The tattooed man shrieked—one part rage, one part shock, one part hurt—as Devil jerked away, taking out a huge swath of flesh and two-thirds of the man’s HP. The monk groped at his belt, no doubt searching for a Regen potion.
I wasn’t going to let him get to it.
I flipped my hammer, so the spike faced out, and slammed the weapon into his arm, triggering Black Caress once more. Bone snapped, metal flesh dimpled and broke under the force of the attack, and a burst of raw life essence trickled up through the hammer and into my body, reinvigorating me like a shot of good coffee. More of his already limited HP vanished as the monk dropped to his knees, eyes hazy, likely from some debuff. I pulled back, twirling my hammer in a tight arc, but before I could finish him off, Devil struck again, as fast as a cobra.
His mouth closed over the man’s head, his teeth slamming down with a wet, meaty thud that left me nauseous, despite the fact that I’d seen Devil do this same thing countless times before. No matter how many people I killed in V.G.O., it never seemed to get better. Not fully. The monk pitched over to the side, only a stump of a neck left behind. I shuddered, but there was no time for second-guessing myself—there were still Imperials to be dealt with. Good work, I sent to Devil. Secure the front of the convoy, make sure no one gets away.
Devil grunted, his lips pulled back from glassy black teeth, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. He crept back, his slick scales glimmering in the light trickling in through the canopy overhead, then disappeared into the forest like a ghost. Devil was about as conspicuous as a fighter jet with racing stripes, but when he wanted to, he could move almost as stealthily as Cutter—one of the perks of being part shadow. Nikko, Kong, Mighty Joe, I sent out, connecting with the three Void Watchers. Head to the back of the convoy, keep out of sight but stop anyone from leaving.
Of course, manling, Nikko replied, her voice equal parts stern, motherly, and amused.
I put the Void Terrors from mind and turned my attention back to the wagons, looking for any other pockets of resistance that needed stomping down, but found none. Forge was twenty or thirty feet away, climbing through the back of one of the covered wagons, no doubt searching for loot. Cutter was likewise mopping up, currently crouched over the body of a Legionnaire, relieving the man of coins, precious stones, and any serviceable armor, which could either be sold on the black market or repurposed for the faction.
There was never enough good-quality gear to go around. I made sure to grab the off-white surcoat emblazoned with the Imperial brand—they were faction-bound items, but we had some talented seamstresses who could forge a knockoff if need be.
I slipped my warhammer back into my belt and hoofed it toward the bend in the road and the other wagons, which were still out of sight. Amara rounded the corner a second later, her face a mask of anger. “Grim Jack,” she barked, “there is a situation, you must hurry.” She hooked a thumb back toward the way we’d come. “It’s the Wolf’s Fangs, again. This way.”
I grunted and picked up my pace, jogging toward her as I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt, replenishing my reserves in case there was another fight waiting up ahead.
I rounded the corner behind Amara, prepared for a fight, but not for the sight that met my eyes. Two more wagons littered the roadway, their wheels and axles obliterated, and bodies dotted the ground, butchered and bloodied from the ambush. Those were NPC corpses, since players disappeared a few seconds after death—sent for respawn. It was a disturbing sight, of course, but not an unexpected one. Not far away, however, was a line of Imperial merchants kneeling on the ground, their hands
laced behind their heads, tears streaming down their dirty cheeks.
Members of the Wolf’s Fangs loomed over them, weapons drawn and laid against bare skin, ready to kill.
Across the road from them were the Murk Elf raiders, standing with bows drawn and trained on the Rebel bandits. A standoff, though I didn’t understand why.
“They deserve death, you fools,” one of the bandits was yelling. He was a beefy Wode with blond dreadlocks and hardened leather armor, whom I immediately recognized: Balmar Garmson, an NPC and the de facto leader of the Wolf’s Fangs.
“No,” came a fierce rebuff from a towering Murk Elf, who was built like a pro football player and dressed in heavy, black-coated plate mail. Chakan of the Lisu tribe, son of Chief Sakal. He and I had fought not so long ago—a deadly battle to determine who would bear the artifacts of the Jade Lord—but after defeating him and sparing his life, he’d become one of my most loyal followers. “The Jade Lord has already spoken on this issue, cutthroat.” He hefted a heavy mace, splattered with Imperial blood, and leaned it against his pauldron. “Noncombatants are not to be harmed. Especially those who are native citizens”—the in-game term for NPCs.
“There’s no such thing as a noncombatant,” Balmar replied, his eyes narrowed to slits, his words a hate-filled whisper. “You don’t know what they do, these Imperials. The one you call Osmark, he raided the Wolf’s Fang. Burnt my men alive, and left us for dead. They have no mercy, no honor—so, why should we, huh?” He raised a shoddy sword, pitted with rust, ready to strike the mousy female merchant kneeling before him.
Without a thought, I acted, thrusting one hand forward and hurling a powerful Umbra Bolt. The violet missile erupted from my palm, smacking into the man’s sword, slapping it from his hand. The weapon flipped and spun before clattering noisily on the road.
“Who in the nine blighted Hells just did that—” Balmar roared, rounding on me. The color promptly drained from his face, and his words seemed to die on his lips.
“We’ve already discussed this, Balmar,” I said. “I sympathize with whatever you’ve gone through at the hands of the Imperials, but this isn’t how we do things. Not in the Crimson Alliance.” I stalked forward, pulling the warhammer from my belt, the rasp of metal on leather carrying through the still, tense air. “Do I make myself clear, or do you need a reminder?”
“Be smart,” Cutter said, appearing at my side. “Don’t ask for a reminder. Grim Jack’s a good fella, but he’ll rip you a new arsehole if you push it, friend.”
I kept walking, my boots crunching on the dirt and wooden debris from the wagons until I was right in front of the man. He was larger than me, but that didn’t matter; I wasn’t scared of him or the Wolf’s Fang. They were tough, true, but if push came to shove, I could end this guy without even breaking a sweat.
“But they’re working for the Imperials,” the Wode bandit replied, struggling to keep a respectful tone. “Taking out the supply trains isn’t enough. We should kill these merchants and line the road with their heads. Let every citizen know they aren’t safe. That no one’s safe. That’s what the Imperials would do to us.”
I eyed him long and hard, lips pressed into a tight line. I reached out and dropped one hand onto his meaty shoulder. “I understand that’s what the Imperials would do. Heck, I’ve seen them do it, but we’re different. If we aren’t better than what we’re fighting against, then we might as well give up now.” I stepped away and faced the merchants, who all had their eyes averted.
“We’re going to take your supplies, and we’re going to burn your wagons,” I said coolly, surprised at how steady and authoritative I sounded. “But we’re going to let all of you go. Head back to the Imperial City. Tell every Imperial who will listen what happened here. Tell them that we’re willing to fight, but that we’re not the monsters Osmark and the rest of your leaders are making us out to be.” I turned toward Balmar and dropped my voice. “Now secure their hands, and set an escort to get them safely away from here.”
The Wode hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, then grunted and nodded. “Alright, sir.”
My hand shot out, grabbing the sleeve of his rough garb. “And Balmar, if I hear that anything happens to these merchants, you will personally be held responsible. Understand?”
He nodded again, a dark scowl flickering across his features, then wheeled around and started barking orders to those standing over the merchants. I turned back to Chakan, flashing him an easy, lopsided smile. “Thanks, man. I appreciate the backup.”
“Of course, my lord,” he replied with a grin of his own and a quick wink. “I know some of the War Tribes don’t like your tolerant stance toward Imperials, but I think there’s much wisdom in it. Why make enemies when you can make friends?” His grin widened. He would think that—after all, that’s exactly what I’d done with him.
THREE_
Emergency Message
I turned away as Chakan and the rest of the Murk Elf raiding band dispersed to secure the perimeter and collect their well-earned loot. Cutter and Forge were behind me, but there was no sign of Amara. Probably stalking the Wolf’s Fang bandits to ensure they followed orders—that would be just like her.
“So what were they moving?” I asked, rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation as I put Amara from mind. Despite the drama that’d happened with Balmar a moment before, this was still a successful raid, and I was looking forward to finding a few goodies. After all, we might’ve been preparing for a war against Osmark and his Imperial Legion, but loot was still loot.
And I loved loot.
Forge’s face sagged, though, and a frown settled over his gruff Risi face. “Nothin’ good, Hoss,” he said, folding his arms, then leaning over and spitting a fat wad of phlegm onto the ground. “Bunch of weird metal parts. Big cogs. Some brass plates. I ain’t gotta clue what they’re supposed to be for, but these wagons are full to the brim with this stuff.”
I sighed, stowed my warhammer, and ran a hand through my hair. “Show me,” I finally said.
I followed Forge to the nearest wagon, then clambered up onto the driver’s bench, pulled back the canvas curtain, and glanced inside. Yep, I had no idea what I was looking at. Well, that’s not precisely true. There were bits of metal stacked and strapped to the floor. Metal plates, with predrilled holes. Iron struts. Brass cogs, some as big as a wagon wheel, others the size of my fist. I just couldn’t imagine what these things were for. I mean, V.G.O. was a giant world, filled with more quest lines and classes than I could even hazard a guess at, but I hadn’t seen anything like this.
“And all of the wagons are like this?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at Forge.
He nodded. “More or less.”
“The guards have some okay loot,” Cutter offered, leaning his shoulder against the hitch. “Nothing too fancy, mind you, but a bit of decent gear, plus each one has a bagful of silver Imperial Marks. Good experience, too.”
I paused and pulled up my player interface. Sure enough, I had a new level-up notification, which was a nice surprise. More than nice, really. Amazing.
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x1 Level Up!
You have (5) undistributed stat points
You have (2) unassigned proficiency points
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After defeating the Dragon known as Arzokh the Sky Maiden and completing the hellishly difficult Path of the Jade Lord quest chain, I’d jumped from level thirty-four to level thirty-nine, making me one of the top tier players in the entire game according to the leaderboard in the game chat. Number two, actually, just under Osmark who’d somehow managed to hit level fifty. Still, knowing I was number two in the game was more than a little humbling, though it made sense considering everything I’d accomplished so far. Since then, though, it’d been a slow, slow grind for points.
This was my first level-up after nearly two weeks of constant raids and faction-related quests.
I quickly toggled over to my character screen. My avatar appeared in the air—l
ean build, dusky gunmetal gray skin, glossy raven-black hair—and next to that was my stat screen:
I couldn’t help but grin. Not only had I leveled up, but I’d finally reached level forty, which was the level Night Cyclone unlocked. I rubbed my hands together in greedy gamer glee. I dropped my 5 new Stat Points into Intelligence, bringing it up to 116, then toggled away from my character screen and over to my Shadowmancer Skill Tree, carefully surveying my current skills:
Since claiming the title of Jade Lord, I’d earned a total of 6 Proficiency Points. Three of those had gone into tried and true favorites, which had already proven their worth. Umbra Bog had earned itself another point, bringing it up to level 3, and Umbra Flame received one more for the massive damage it dealt out at close range. Another point went into Astral Connection, increasing Void Terror Base Damage and Void Terror Base Armor by 15% and granting an extra 500 EXP to the Void Terrors for every kill they made.
Then, because I wanted to unlock Shadow Lord once I hit level 50, I’d invested a single point into the passive ability Black Strength.
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Ability: Black Strength
Draw on the ever-present power of the Umbra to restore your Stamina from the strains of battle and increase the Damage you deal to enemies.
Ability Type/Level: Passive/Initiate
Cost: None
Range: N/A
Cast Time: N/A
Cooldown: N/A
Effect: Increase Stamina Regeneration by 15%.
Effect 2: Increase Base Damage by 15%.
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