by J. A. Hunter
I saw a flash of opalescent light in the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see Cutter and Amara slip through a portal, which promptly snapped shut behind them. A huge weight I hadn’t even been aware of slipped from my shoulder. They were gone. Safe. A lopsided victory grin spread across my face as I turned back to the Imperials and the battle all around me. Clearly, something had gone wrong with our operation, but it was fine now. Osmark and his lackeys would be reeling from this assault for a while, and a few extra hours was all we needed.
It was high time for me to get gone.
The countdown timer on Umbra Bog finally hit zero and the spell faded and disappeared, freeing the Imperials to attack. I had another fifteen seconds or so before I could trigger Shadow Stride and make my getaway … except I didn’t need to. Instead of surging around me, the Imperials in the supply yard retreated as one, pulling back into a large circle with me at the middle. I saw why a second later as one edge of the ring parted, admitting a brown-haired Imperial with a wiry athletic build, a slightly crooked nose, and an angular face.
Robert Osmark.
Except this time around, he was sporting armor and gear I’d never seen anything like before.
I’d had a few meetings with Osmark, but he’d always worn dark slacks and a dark long-sleeve tunic. Clothes that would’ve looked normal on a tech billionaire back IRL, but which were out of place inside the world of V.G.O. Now, however, he’d done away with his low-key clothes in favor of something much more garish and flashy. Instead of traditional armor, he wore a sleek black suit—vaguely Victorian in design—studded with brass gears and covered with colorful, almost holographic, thread that created intricate patterns and complex sigils.
A short cape trailed down his back, while a black top hat sat perched on his head at a rakish angle. Instead of the wire-rimmed glasses I’d seen him in before, he now wore a set of leather-and-brass steampunk goggles with a series of telescoping lenses over one eye. “Jack,” he said, the word carrying in the suddenly still air. “I knew a direct confrontation was going to happen eventually. I must confess, though, I never imagined you’d be brazen or bold enough to try a stunt like this.” He waved a gloved hand around the chaos in the yard.
“But you continue to surprise me,” he said, slowly drawing into the circle of Imperial bodies, “though I have to say this move has a certain air of desperation to it.” He smirked at me, one hand coming to rest on the butt of what looked like an old-timey flintlock pistol. “Obviously, we caught you unaware with our maneuver and your defenses at Rowanheath aren’t prepared to hold us. So, you decided to stage a delaying tactic. You’re as predictable as a cheesy novel, and just as easy to read, I’m afraid.”
He cocked a condescending eyebrow at me, which drove me nuts since he was right. But I got the sense the words weren’t really for me at all. No, it almost seemed like they were for the Imperials around us. Which is when it dawned on me—he knew the power of propaganda too, and if he could knock me down here, in front of his men, that would be a huge morale booster.
“Tell yourself whatever you want, Osmark,” I replied, shooting for a casual tone while propping my blood-spattered warhammer against my shoulder. You don’t scare me, that look said. Nothing scares me. Not even a legion of soldiers. “The Alliance is going to wipe the floor with you at Rowanheath exactly the same way we wiped the floor with Carrera.” I paused, scanning the faces peering at me from the crowd. “And where is Carrera by the way? I haven’t seen much of him since that battle. I’ve heard he’s disappeared, just sort of vanished off the face of the map.”
Osmark offered me a fierce smile, filled with the promise of violence.
I knew what had happened to Carrera, of course—I’d stabbed him in the gut with a Hexblade, temporarily banishing him to the plane of Morsheim. No one aside from my inner crew, and Osmark himself, knew the details, and that only played into my mystique.
Osmark just shrugged noncommittally. “I replaced Carrera, of course,” he lied, the words smooth and effortless. “After all, I celebrate success, and anyone incompetent enough to lose an impenetrable city like Rowanheath to a thirty-two-year-old EMT doesn’t deserve to retain power. And that is what you really are, isn’t it, Jack?” He let the question—the accusation—linger in the air. “You’re just some dumb kid from San Diego who got lucky. You’re a nobody. Or, at best, a figurehead being manipulated by smarter, more talented people. But you and I, Jack”—he waved a hand between us—“well, we know the truth, don’t we?”
“You’re so full of crap, Osmark,” I said with a snarl. “You’re a liar and a cheater. And you’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of what I know, and what I can do.”
He threw back his head and laughed, clutching at his belly. It was all a giant show, I had no doubt. Osmark didn’t strike me as a man who laughed—not about anything, ever—but this wasn’t for me, I reminded myself. This was about him. About saving face. About making some sort of point in front of the Imperials assembled around me.
“You talk a big game, Jack,” he said, his false laughter finally dying off. “And I’ll admit you’re an effective and likeable mouthpiece, but we know I’m not scared of you. I’ll fight you right now, Jack. By myself, with no aid from my supporters because I don’t need their help. What do you say, Jack? Care to demonstrate what exactly you’re made of? Or are you scared you can’t back up all the legends sprouting around you?”
I thought for a second, pursing my lips as uncertainty constricted my chest. Is he serious? Can I trust that he wouldn’t backstab me somehow?
No, his offer was probably good.
If he challenged me outright then did something underhanded, it would only serve to hurt his credibility with the assembled Legionnaires, and credibility was what this whole act was all about. But why make the offer at all? There was no way he could beat me in a fair fight. He was a higher level than me, sure, but the guy was wearing Victorian-era dinner clothing—he hardly looked like a fighter. Doubtless, he was dangerous, but probably not in a one-on-one fight.
My best guess? He was bluffing through his teeth.
He probably wanted me to run, to show all his troops how spineless I was and dispel the mythical hold of Grim Jack Shadowstrider.
“You’re on, Osmark. And I’m going to bury you.”
“Best of luck,” he replied with self-assurance.
Time to wipe that look off his smug, goggle-wearing face.
TWENTY-FOUR_
Face-off
Night Cyclone and Umbra Bog were both on cooldown, so I’d just have to do this the ol’-fashioned way: by hitting him a lot in the head with my hammer. I darted forward, but he just stood there unmoving, one palm resting on the butt of his pistol. At ten feet out, I threw one hand forward, conjuring a column of Umbra Flame bright enough to leave afterimages stained on my eyes. The fire roared through the night, but Osmark still refused to move. Instead, he simply tossed out a square copper plate, about the size of a small Frisbee and just as thick.
Burning runes and intricate geometric patterns were inscribed across the top of the plate.
A small blue light appeared on the disc, and a moment later, a semitranslucent black portal appeared in the air before Osmark. Instead of diverting my attack the way my conjured shield did, the barrier seemed to drink up the flame like dry ground getting a taste of water for the first time. No matter how much fire I pumped into the black wall, it just vanished—gone in the blink of an eye. Begrudgingly, I cut off the attack, not wanting to waste more Spirit on something so clearly ineffective.
The second I cut the flows of magic, the black portal disappeared—and promptly opened in the air above my head. Fire rained down in a torrent, washing over my skin and scorching my armor as my HP plummeted. With a scream, I threw myself into a lightning-fast roll away from the torrent of flesh-melting death. I quickly came back to my feet, but everything hurt: my skin tight, red, and raw, blisters sprouting up along uncovered flesh.
I glanced back and noticed the wormhole—which is what it had to be—was still open, dumping out the rest of the magic I’d fed into the portal.
I wanted to kick myself—somehow, I’d managed to set myself on fire. Again. I needed to up my game.
For a second, my hand darted toward my belt and the Regen potion waiting there, but then I decided against it. The pain was immense, but this was a straight-up PvP fight, and using an HP potion was an admission of weakness. Of failure. So instead, I gritted my teeth, fought through the pain, and triggered Shadow Stride. The world crept to a standstill, and I took a long moment to breathe deeply. Okay, Osmark had a couple of fancy tricks up his sleeve, but I had a few of my own.
I stalked closer, halting just a few feet from Osmark, searching his smug features.
He didn’t look worried in the least. Yes, we were at his base of operations, surrounded by his troops, but even with that as a given, he seemed so self-assured. What did he know that I didn’t? I circled toward his back and dropped into Stealth with my warhammer upraised. I could’ve stepped out, then, but decided to wait. With Shadow Stride at level four, I could spend an entire minute inside the Shadowverse, and while in the Shadowverse my Health and Spirit Regen rate both jumped by a whopping 20%.
Considering how much damage I’d sustained from my own stupid flame spell, I needed all the extra HP I could come by.
So, I waited patiently while my HP and Spirit bars slowly crept up and my timer wound down. I tightened my grip on my warhammer as the timer hit zero and the real world lurched back into herky-jerk life. I swung my hammer, spike out, right at Osmark’s temple. The guy didn’t even try to move. The spike landed with a sickening crack, blood trickling down his pale cheek as his head snapped to the side. I grinned—a hit like that, with a backstab multiplier, Black Caress, and Savage Blow, would put down even the most heavily armored foe.
And Osmark wasn’t even wearing a helmet.
But he didn’t drop. No, he straightened his head and dabbed at the smear of blood along his temple with one finger. Even worse, his HP bar hadn’t moved more than a fraction of an inch.
The grin melted from my face like ice in the summer sun.
He wheeled around with impossible speed, and suddenly he was facing me, that smug look still glued in place. “Is that what all the fuss is about?” he asked, voice oozing with condescension. “You sneak up on people and hit them in the head with a silly hammer? I must say, I’m rather unimpressed. Why don’t you try again?”
My brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and frustration. I didn’t know what game Osmark was playing here, but he didn’t need to ask me twice to lay down a beating. I surged into motion, swinging my hammer in a lightning-fast flurry, smashing and jabbing at him from every side, moving with a speed and efficiency driven into me through long hours of practice and countless battles. Each blow landed with a solid thud, and my spike ripped through his flimsy outfit like a hot knife through a pad of butter.
I knew deep down those blows had to hurt, they had to, but Osmark took each assault stoically, going so far as to fold his hands behind his back as though he were bored.
His HP bar did drop as I attacked, but far too slowly. Even after six or seven solid hits—any one of which would one-shot most players—his HP was only down by a fifth. Heck, even most high-level tanks in heavy armor couldn’t absorb that kind of sheer devastation unfazed. Either he had insanely high resistance to physical attacks, or he had an obscene amount of vitality.
I snarled and thrust my free hand forward, dousing him in purple flame from three feet away. The fire washed over him, burning so brightly I had to squint against the light. Still, he didn’t move, and when I killed the fire a few seconds later, I noticed his HP bar had only moved by another fraction of an inch. It was unlikely he had insanely high resistance to both physical damage and magical damage, which meant obscene vitality. But how? I wondered. He was obviously some sort of wizard or crafter, so how could he have vitality levels like that?
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jack,” he said, shaking his head, hands still behind him. “Is that all you have? Really? And you scared my Legion so much. Why don’t you let me show you how it’s done?” He struck like a cobra the second the last word left his mouth. I’m fast—it’s built into my class—but somehow Osmark was faster. His left hand shot out, latching around my throat like a python, squeezing down on my trachea, making it almost impossible to breathe. I gasped, prying at his hand with my fingers, lashing out at his head with my warhammer.
He ignored my blows and lifted me by the neck into the air until my feet dangled and kicked feebly, half a foot above the ground.
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Suffocation: You are being suffocated, you suffer 10 points of Stamina damage each second until you can breathe once more.
If your Stamina reaches 0, you will die.
Current estimated time of death: 35 seconds.
<<<>>>
I continued to fight and flail against his hand as blackness crept in on the edges of my vision—in the back of my head, however, I couldn’t help but wonder how this was possible. An insanely high HP and enough strength to lift me into the air single-handedly? I wasn’t sure even Forge, with his insane Risi fighter strength, could pull something like this off.
“You see, Jack,” Osmark said, drawing in close, his lips only inches from my ear, “I’ve studied you. I know you inside and out. What attacks you use. How you fight. How you think. I know exactly what to expect from you because you’ve shown me over and over again. But me? No one knows what I’m capable of, and they never will—not unless I want them to.”
He drew back, fetched the pistol at his side, and pressed the barrel into my gut. “You’ve shown your hand,” he continued, his normally warm voice now cold, hard, and unforgiving, “and that is why you’ll lose. You’ve been playing against amateurs, drug dealers, and miscreants. Not anymore. I am better than you, Jack. Stronger than you. Smarter than you.” His finger squeezed down on the trigger, once, twice, three times, rat-tat-tat, and fiery agony bloomed in my stomach as my life dropped by a quarter.
I groped at my stomach, still wheezing, and knew deep down I was probably going to die a slow death at Osmark’s hand. A second later, however, he surprised me again by tossing me away like a used paper cup. I landed in the clearing with a thud, a small puff of brown dust twirling around me. I pushed myself up onto shaky hands, then slowly gained my feet with every eye fixed on me—weighing me, reassessing me. This is the legendary Grim Jack? those gazes seemed to ask.
Then, before I could even think, Osmark fished several small gray orbs from a leather belt slung low around his waist. Six of the grenades flew at once, flicked with deadly precision, landing in a semicircle around me. The second the metal orbs touched down, they exploded in a spray of smoke and black shrapnel, releasing thousands of metal spikes into the air. The spits of razor-sharp steel blanketed the ground like thorns, peppering my ankles, calves, and feet. Somehow, the little buggers penetrated my thick leather armor, digging painfully into my flesh, drawing blood to the surface.
A new combat debuff appeared:
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Caltrop: You have been ensnared by caltrops! Your movement rate is reduced by 85%; duration, 1 minute.
<<<>>>
I dismissed the notification with a grimace and hobbled forward, each step painful and ponderously slow. Osmark just stood at the far side of the clearing, smirking at me, not even trying to end me, though it was obvious he could. Which meant the jerk was showboating. “It’s not fun being trapped, is it, Jack?” he said. “It’s even worse fighting against an enemy you can’t seem to touch. And me? I’m as untouchable as they come.” He threw out two more orbs, these the size of cantaloupes and built from gleaming steel.
The orbs thudded down on the ground ten feet apart, exploding to life with a whirl and a flash of brilliant electric-blue light.
When
the glaring glow finally faded, the orbs were gone. In their place were two mechanical turrets, each about waist high, balanced on spindly tripods and constructed of copper tubing, brass fixtures, and hundreds of clanking cogs. I slowed and swallowed hard—I’d never seen anything like those in the game, but they looked incredibly similar to steam-powered Gatling guns. Osmark winked at me, aiming his finger at me like a pistol, and suddenly the turret on the left roared to life with a thunderous racket.
The weapon vomited a constant stream of bullets my way, its six barrels rotating clockwise as it fired.
I scrambled back on unsteady legs, but the damned metal spits made it nearly impossible to move. The first rounds punched into my side, digging through my armor and jabbing into my muscles like a swarm of angry bees. They didn’t do nearly as much damage as real bullets would—and not as much raw damage as Osmark’s handheld pistol had dealt out—but it was still excruciating. And with the sheer volume of shots fired, my HP quickly dropped. I fought to get my arm up, but then the second turret started in.
And this one wasn’t shooting bullets. It was shooting rockets.
Rockets.
Like little arrow-tipped, jet-propelled missiles.
With bullets plowing into me on the left, rockets firing on the right, and red-hot pain rampaging through my body, it was so hard to think clearly. I whipped my right hand up, ready to summon Dark Shield, but the first rocket plowed into my shoulder, exploding with enough force to lift me from my feet and slam me into the spike-littered ground. The blanket of caltrops clawed at my back, neck, and triceps—holy crap, it felt like falling into a bed of tacks. A groan of agony escaped my lips, and a big part of me insisted on just lying there.
But if I did that, I was dead.
So instead, I pushed myself onto a knee and finally thrust one hand forward, conjuring Dark Shield. A barrier of shimmering violet light sprung to life in front of me, absorbing the deadly barrage of bullets and rockets before they could strip my diminishing HP any further. And truth be told, my life bar was flashing an angry warning at me already, alerting me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t afford to lose much more life. Worse, the machine turrets were still firing strong, with no sign of letting up, and my Spirit gauge was dropping fast.
