by James Hunter
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I dismissed the notice with a wave, but a brilliant purple afterimage stained my vision, making it nearly impossible to see. Quickly, I blinked it away and stared at the chaos erupting in the cavernous chamber. The Bone Dragon—before only seconds away from killing Devil—now writhed on the floor, head and tail whipping this way then that as bits of tapestry burned and chunks of bone broke away, crumbling to dust now that the Priestess’s magic no longer powered it. And the cultists themselves weren’t faring much better. Twenty or more corpses lay scattered across the room, and my party was making short work of the few remaining stragglers.
Not that it much mattered to me, since my HP was flashing scarlet and all the debuffs were chewing up what little remaining HP I had. Still, Cutter and Amara would make it out of this debacle alive, and that was the most important thing. I closed my eyes as blackness crept in, preparing for respawn …
TWENTY-FIVE: Aftermath
I blinked my eyes open, expecting to feel my mammoth bed beneath me and see the ceiling of my master suite overhead. Typical respawn. Instead, my palms brushed over dusty stone and Abby stared down at me, her lips drawn into a worried line as she searched my face. Searching for any signs of life, no doubt. I tried to sit up but broke into a coughing fit that left my ribs feeling like a pro boxer had just used me as a punching bag for the last hour. Oh, my God, everything hurt. My skin was too tight, my head ached with a dull throb, and my muscles screamed in a mixture of protest and pain.
Still, Abby’s worry disappeared a second later.
“Wow, that was close,” she said, dropping down next to me and letting out a long sigh. “Seriously, Jack. You had a single point of HP. One. Measly. Point. I wasn’t sure there was a potion in the world that could bring you back from that.” She pressed her eyes shut and reached one hand up, gently rubbing at one temple. “Maybe you were right about this whole adventuring thing. Paperwork is awful, but these high-stakes missions are too stressful.”
I smiled weakly. “Everyone else okay?” I asked, conjuring the strength to prop myself up on my hands.
“Everyone but Devil,” she replied with a grimace. “Even at a distance, that explosion was enough to kill him. Frankly, I’m astounded it didn’t kill you instantly. It certainly did a number on the Priestess.” She swept a hand toward a fallen body ten feet away. The explosion had obliterated the Priestess completely. Her bottom half was scorched and ragged, and her top half—everything above the chest, anyway—was simply gone. A disgusting splatter of charred meat and burned blood surrounded her in a halo. “A few of the remaining cultists fled, but Forge is hunting them down now.” She blanched and looked away. “Mopping up.”
And suddenly, I was mad.
Mad at the game, mad at the Devs for creating this stupid quest chain, mad at the Dark Conclave for sending me here to wipe these people out. And Amara, I was fuming at her. This was her fault, I was sure. Everything had been going fine—nice and peaceable—then she stormed off, distraught and angry, and then everything was Cultists, Chaos, and Bone Dragons. True, things probably would’ve ended up this way even without her anger issues, but maybe not. Maybe we would’ve been able to come to a compromise with the Priestess and her followers.
But instead, Devil was dead, the Disciples were all history, and the Priestess was a corpse decorating the floor of a sacred temple.
I scowled and gained my feet, locking eyes on Amara—currently looting the body of a female cultist with a vacant stare and a giant gash running diagonally across her face.
She did this. This is all her fault.
I beelined for her, stepping over the dead Priestess without giving her a glance—not wanting to see the devastation again—grabbed the Huntress by the shoulder, and yanked her away from the body. She spun in an instant, drawing a curved blade in a single fluid motion, lashing out. Her attack was instinctual and lightning fast, but the blinding rage gave me strength and purpose. I caught her blade with my spike vambrace and casually batted the knife from her hand. The weapon flew, clattering along the stone floor a few feet away, coming to a rest next to a deeply charbroiled cultist without a head.
“Grim Jack?” she asked, confusion flashing across her features.
“Shut up,” I hollered, giving her a rough shove away from the dead woman with the oozing diagonal gash. “Who told you to go and pick a fight with them? Who? Because it wasn’t me, that’s for sure!” I was in her face, only inches away, jabbing her in the chest with one finger as though it were a dagger and I was going for the kill.
“But, but—” she sputtered, flabbergasted as she backed away, attempting to get a little breathing room.
I didn’t let her finish. I didn’t even let her start.
“No,” I said, shadowing every step she took, keeping the distance between us uncomfortably close. “I don’t want any excuses, Amara. None. I understand you didn’t like what they were saying—but storming off that way? Picking a fight with a room full of powerful enemies without telling us? You could’ve gotten someone killed! Heck, you could’ve gotten all of us killed. All because of your pride.” My fist was by my side, trembling, ready to swing. To pop her in the mouth—
Cutter stepped out of the shadows, materializing in a blink, then popped me in the mouth. One good hook right across the cheek, busting open my bottom lip and sending me stumbling away. It was a warning shot if I’d ever seen one. “That’s enough, friend,” he said, glaring at Amara and me in turn, forehead creased in concern. “You’re being a right arsehole, and you need to get your head on straight, Jack. Understand?”
“What?” I demanded, shaking with a combination of pent-up frustration and hot-blooded adrenaline. “How can you defend her? She picked a fight that nearly got us killed! A fight that turned into a massacre that maybe could’ve been avoided entirely.”
“Listen to yourself, Jack. Just listen!” he shouted back, slipping between Amara and me like I might be a rabid bear ready to maul her. “I know you’ve got your blood up right now, but ask yourself—does that honestly sound like Amara? Meticulous, professional, honor-bound Amara?”
I paused. Faltered. Some of my rage died away as I thought.
He was right, it didn’t sound like Amara. Not one bit.
Cutter could be impulsive at times, and Forge, likewise, might pick a fight for a sideways glance—I knew from experience—but not Amara. She was always prepared for every eventuality, and though she could be ornery, disagreeable, and even downright unlikeable at times, there was one thing she did implicitly: follow orders. She’d wanted to kill Cutter and me the first time she found us trapped in a spiked Punji pit, but an order from her superior, Baymor, had kept us alive. Same thing with Chief Kolle, and my initiation into the ranks of the Maa-Tál.
“That’s right, I can see you working it out, Grim Jack,” Cutter said, relaxing and loosening his clenched fists. “She didn’t do this, not because she didn’t want to, but because that’s not who she is. And I bloody well know because I saw it all go down and it was this sod”—he strutted over to a copper-skinned man with a thick mustache and blood-drenched robes lying dead near the tunnel—“who started this whole mess. The bloke that high priestess left in charge. Makin, err no, that’s not it … What was it?” He paused, eyes hazy, tapping idly at his chin.
“Nasim,” I said, feeling a hot surge of guilt stampede through me like a herd of wild horses. “His name was Nasim.”
“Bloody right,” Cutter replied with a nod. “So this Nasim fella, why he’s leading the chant one second, then charging Amara the next, carrying on about how we’re all infidels and that we wanted to steal the divine secrets of the Sky Maiden or some such shite. There wasn’t anything we could do. It happened like that”—he snapped slim fingers—“and when Amara went to defend herself, why the rest of the blighters went right mad. Like they’d contracted the bloody plague, but with a case of the crazies instead of a case of the pox.”
I shuffled over to the wall and plopped do
wn, pressing my back against the cool stone as I rubbed my palms into my eye sockets, trying to release a growing stress headache. Of course that’s how it had happened. How could I have been so stupid to forget about Nasim bar Ruwayd, the undercover sleeper agent Sophia had told me to be on the lookout for? Nasim’s connection with Serth-Rog gave him a compelling reason to want me dead, especially after my encounter with Gentleman Georgie. Obviously, he’d have jumped at any chance to prevent me from getting whatever info he was hiding about Serth-Rog’s operations.
But with all the things on my mind—Osmark, Death-Head mode, uniting the Storme Marshes, running an entire faction—I’d forgotten about him. And my mistake had almost gotten us killed, not Amara.
I looked up at her and shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said with a grimace. “I shouldn’t have assumed the worst—Cutter’s right, you’re better than that. And I should’ve known it. I guess what they say about assuming is true.” For a long beat, I looked down, not wanting to meet her gaze, afraid I would find anger, rage, or even worse, disappointment waiting there. At last, though, I looked up and found her with the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She rolled her eyes, cocked her head to one side, and planted her hands on her hips.
“Sometimes you’re a fool, Grim Jack. But only sometimes. Given the circumstances, it was not an unreasonable conclusion. And everyone is entitled to a lapse in judgment on occasion.” She paused, her eyes darting toward Cutter—just a flash—then her face was flat and unreadable once more. “It is forgiven. A thing of water and bridges. Now, stop sulking about like an unruly child. The Storme Marshes won’t unite themselves.”
Her words stung, but only a little since she was right—no matter how I felt at the moment, we had a job to do and a mission to complete. Resigned, I gained my feet, running my hands along my trousers as I surveyed the bloody carnage. “Yeah. Alright. Let’s clean this place up. Get everything you can: weapons, armor, bone fragments, books, whatever.” I paused, deeply troubled by how this had turned out. “At least something good can come out of this mess,” I murmured under my breath, gaze lingering on the headless Priestess. “I’ll personally search her and Nasim.”
Reluctantly, the crew scattered, picking over the corpses as I turned my attention to Nasim—the Serth-Rog sleeper agent responsible for this debacle. From what I’d been able to figure out, he’d been one of the lieutenants in the Winged Disciples, and his gear certainly reflected it. He didn’t have much in terms of armor—just priestly garments and soft leather boots—but his weapon and jewelry were nothing to scoff at. He carried a scaling Dragon Bone Dagger with +25 points of Fire Damage, a +15 Spirit boost, and an Intelligence bonus equal to .5 x Character Level.
Crazy good, though not for me. He did, however, have an enchanted cloak which offered some wicked abilities right up my alley:
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Disciple’s Holy Cowl
Armor Type: Medium; Heavy Cloth
Class: Rare; Blessed
Base Defense: 15
Primary Effects:
+5 Vitality Bonus
+8 Spirit Bonus
+8 Intelligence Bonus
Secondary Set Effects:
Increases effectiveness of all Aura spells/abilities by 10%.
For the devout, a simple cloak can be imbued with faith powerful enough to turn even the sharpest blade.
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I swapped that out with my Cloak of Web-Walking without a thought.
The real prize, however, was a slim leather-bound journal identical to the one I’d taken off Gentleman Georgie. I pulled it free from Nasim’s corpse and flipped absently through the pages. Well, nearly identical. Interestingly, this notebook was not filled with names, but with locations. And not random locations, but the locations of dungeons. At least, I assumed they were dungeons. With names like Blackbog Hallow, The Burning Labyrinth, The Spectral Vault, and Dread Bat Burrow, there was no other plausible explanation.
Yep, this was definitely what Sophia had sent me for. A popup appeared a second later in confirmation:
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Quest Alert: Unholy Mystery
Congratulations, Jack! You located Nasim bar Ruwayd—though you very nearly screwed the pooch. The leather-bound journal you found confirms Nasim’s status as a doppelganger and agent of Serth-Rog, and by proxy Thanatos. The fact that these are clearly dungeon locations is deeply troubling, though it does explain why I’ve been out of the loop. Dungeons are the province of my sister Enyo. I’m not sure what this all means, but it can’t be good. Keep your eyes open, Jack, and I’ll be in touch.
<<<>>>
I read over the quest alert in mild bafflement—I’d never received a notice quite like that. Yet another reminder of Sophia’s power and influence over the in-game world. I shook away the unsettling thoughts and headed over to the Priestess, whose brutalized body lay close by. I knelt down beside her, my stomach churning and seething at the sight of the gory mess, and placed one hand on her leg. I wasn’t religious—my dad had been a Christmas and Easter Christian, my mom a non-practicing Catholic—but I muttered a prayer anyway. Just a quick Hail Mary, Full of Grace to send her off to whatever came next.
Deep down, I knew there probably wasn’t anything next for her—she’d been an NPC, after all, and now she was a string of deleted code—but secretly, I hoped there was something more.
Then, with a sad sigh, I accessed her inventory.
She had a load of good gear—robes, rings, ceremonial daggers—but my conscience nipped at me like an ornery puppy hungry for attention. This was wrong, and looting these people felt gross. Evil, even. But it also felt like a crime to just leave the stuff to rot away; this gear could literally be the difference between life and death for someone else. So, as much as I regretted it, I pocketed her stash of items, followed by the Jade Lord’s Belt. With the unsettling deed done, I stood and put some distance between me and the body, examining the new set piece with avid fascination:
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Belt of the Jade Lord
Armor Type: Medium; Belt
Class: Ancient Artifact; Set Item
Base Defense: 33
Primary Effects:
Strength Bonus = .5 x Character Level
Constitution Bonus = .5 x Character Level
15% Resistance to Slashing Damage
Secondary Set Effects:
+10 to all Resistances per set piece worn
All Spell Costs are reduced by 20% (2 pieces)
+1 to Class Specific Skills (3 pieces)
The Belt of the Jade Lord is an ancient symbol of authority and power, forged from the bones and soul of Arzokh—one of the last great Dragons of the North.
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Like the Crown of the Jade Lord, the belt was a truly incredible find: extraordinarily better than my current Belt of Agility with its pitiful +7 Dexterity Bonus. With reverent, trembling hands, I slipped the belt on, fastening it in place with a soft click. New power—vitality and restless energy—ripped through me as though I’d just chugged a whole pot of coffee. Despite the awful circumstances, and the grisly scene surrounding me, I couldn’t help but pull up my interface and toggle over to my Character screen. My avatar appeared—lean build, dusky gunmetal gray skin, glossy raven-black hair—next to my stat screen:
Satisfied, I closed the screen, which is when I noticed the jade light bleeding from the belt around my waist, drifting up and twirling in the air. Everyone stared, transfixed, at the spectacular light display, their eyes tracking the hypnotizing and sinuous movements. In a handful of heartbeats, the lazy cloud of light coalesced into a picture: a meadow of electric-green grass, ringed by a series of gray stone archways, nestled in a magical forest. Seven sprawling chairs, heavy wooden things edged in gold, sat in the clearing.
The Sacred Glade, home to the Dark Conclave.
As I watched, a brilliant portal of opalescent light appeared between one of the stone arches, and then, in a blink, the glade was gone and a new landscape appeared. Ev
erything was hazy and indistinct, blurred and distorted in every direction, as though I wasn’t meant to see this. Not yet. One image was clear, however: the enormous dragon, larger than a semitruck, crouched on the ground. The Sky Maiden, Arzokh. Even more disconcerting was the thing she wore around her redwood-sized neck: a golden chain with an amulet cobbled together from yellowing bone and chips of jade.
The last set item. Of course.
The Amulet of the Jade Lord was inside the Twilight Lands, where the Jade Lord was being held captive. The real problem, though, was I needed to have all three set items in my possession to render the Sky Maiden mortal, but she had the last set item. Which meant I’d need to travel to the Twilight Lands and figure out how to get the amulet off the neck of a bloodthirsty, indestructible dragon without her noticing. As if this ridiculous quest weren’t hard enough already.
The swirling light faded and died, immediately replaced by another quest update:
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Quest Update: Path of the Jade Lord
Congratulations! You’ve retrieved the Belt of the Jade Lord from the Citadel of Arzokh and discovered the location of the last set item, the Amulet of the Jade Lord. Unfortunately, the Amulet is in the Twilight Lands and currently in the possession of the Sky Maiden, Arzokh. Travel to the Sacred Glade of the Dark Conclave, use the Horn of the Ancients to access the Twilight Lands and steal the Amulet from Arzokh. Once you have all three Artifacts in your possession, destroy the Sky Maiden and free the Jade Lord and his brothers from their imprisonment in the Twilight Acropolis.
Quest Class: Ultra-Rare, Secret
Quest Difficulty: Death-Head
Success: Capture the Amulet of the Jade Lord, destroy Arzokh, and free the Jade Lord.
Failure: This is a Death-Head Quest; if you die at any point before completing the objective, you automatically fail and the quest chain will forever be closed to you!
Reward: The Set of the Jade Lord; the Blessing of the Jade Lord; 40,000 EXP.
