Viridian Gate Online- Doom Forge

by J. A. Hunter

  I gave them a lopsided grin and a wave, then triggered Shadow Stride, exerting my power down, drawing Devil with me through the veil between worlds. Time shuddered to a halt as color leeched away from Glome Corrie, replaced instead with monochromatic grays and whites, stained by the occasional splash of purple. In the Shadowverse, everything was quiet and still, the battlefield frozen. We cruised past the incoming ballista bolt, banked slight left, and flew into the Abami, phasing through them as though they were ghostly specters.

  There was still twenty seconds left on my countdown timer by the time we reached the walls, but there was no reason to draw out my time in the Shadowverse. Kill as many as you can, I sent to Devil, swinging one leg over, then slipping from the saddle.

  I will not kill as many as I can. I will kill all of them, he replied confidently, jaws salivating, eyes flaring brightly. I will show them the power of my kind. Teach them fear. And then I will feast...

  Nothing at all unnerving about that. But these were monsters, I reminded myself. If anyone ever deserved to be eaten alive, it was the Vogthar and the players who had traded their humanity for power by siding with them. No mercy.

  I patted him one last time, then dropped toward the ground, plummeting like a stone. I slipped into the Material Realm while I was still fifty feet from the ground. Time and motion and sound crashed back down on me as I fell, but I blocked them all out, focusing instead on one of my specialty abilities, which was arguably my rarest of talents: Avatar of Order. The pinnacle of my Champion of Order Skill Tree.

  With a deep breath, steeling myself for the pain to come, I triggered the ability.

  Breaching the Walls

  AS I CAREENED TOWARD the ground like a bunker buster headed for impact, my body shifted and changed. My Spirit gauge dipped by 2,000 points, leaving it just a hair above zero while my Current Experience bar dropped by a whopping 50,000 points—all permanently removed as part of the hefty price tag associated with this particular ability. Five days’ work, gone, right down the drain in the blink of an eye. Still, becoming the Avatar of Order was totally worth it, and I anticipated that I’d earn the points back plus interest by the time the battle was over.

  Men shouted, and arrows whistled past me, blurry streaks in the night, but I ignored them all.

  Thirty feet from impact...

  Power swelled inside me, hot and terrible, and with it came a wave of pain, which pummeled me like a mob of Imperial troops armed with baseball bats and tire irons. My bones groaned in protest, my muscles screamed in abject terror. Magma burned its way through my veins, shooting down my arms and legs with every beat of my heart, while terrible pressure built inside my head. My stomach clenched, and bright jags of cutting pain invaded my joints. The razor blades came next, an invisible whirlwind of them, flaying me alive.

  Twenty feet...

  My muscles no longer screamed; instead, they bulged and distorted, my gray skin flaking away, revealing sleek purple-black scales, identical to Devil’s. My fingers swelled, my nails popping free as wicked ebony talons erupted along each tip.

  Ten...

  The terrible pain faded to background noise as my shoulder blades writhed and wriggled; a pair of new appendages ruptured outward, unfurling into leather wings. They caught a furious gust of wind, yanking me upward and slowing my meteoric descent even as my mouth stretched and elongated, giving way to a reptilian muzzle bursting with teeth perfect for rending flesh. I slammed into the earth like an asteroid, the snowy ground cratering from my weight, a cloud of white splashing up around me as I dropped to a knee.

  Despite the fall, my Health bar burned bright red and impossibly strong.

  I stood slowly, scaly lips pulling back from my wicked fangs as the debris cloud settled around me. The sentries on the wall had fallen still; they stared at me, unmoving, a mixture of terror and awe dashing across their features in turn. Though the Vogthar had dungeon mobs working on their behalf, it wasn’t every day they saw a human-dragon hybrid falling from the sky only to land on their front stoop. I was twenty feet tall now—easily rivaling their monstrous Cyclopes—and my warhammer had grown with me, ten feet long with a hammerhead the size of a truck tire.

  The surreal, uncertain moment was broken, as shouts of “fire” and “shoot it,” broke from the walls. The nearest Vogthar archers unleashed a hail of arrows, which darkened the sky, but the missiles plinked harmlessly off my impossibly tough scales, falling uselessly to the ground. The siege weapons came next, along with a flood of fireballs and other magical attacks. Those, I knew I wouldn’t be able to brush off quite so easily as the arrow storm, but I wasn’t worried.

  I had a few tricks up my sleeve.

  I thrust my free hand forward, talon-tipped fingers splayed out, and conjured one of my standard Avatar abilities. A small pop-up appeared in the corner of my eye—Pulse Shield: 2/3—while a shimmering wall of brilliant pearl light, twenty feet by ten, sprung to life before my open palm. The enormous shield of Divine Energy absorbed the spells without missing a beat and bounced the heavy ballista bolts away with pitiful ease. But I couldn’t celebrate my victory for long—I had heavy-hitting Vogthar dungeon bosses flanking me on either side: a pair of Cyclopes to the left, a Ragna-Wolf off to the right.

  Plus, there was a whole slew of ground-pounding Vogthar troops streaming through the now open portcullis. All according to plan.

  I twirled left, facing the encroaching one-eyed giants while simultaneously lashing out with my tail, slapping the Ragna-Wolf across his muzzle. The sheer force of the blow hurled the wolf from its feet, slamming it into the wall with bone-breaking force. The whole wall trembled and a handful of defenders manning the ramparts toppled over the side, plunging to their deaths as they screamed in panic. I ignored them, focusing on a hulking creature of muscle and fat covered in leathery brown skin, tough as plate mail. The Cyclops roared, lashing out with a gnarled, spike-studded club as big as a tree.

  The attack was deadly powerful but ponderously slow.

  I sidestepped with sinuous grace, then attacked with my warhammer, bringing it around in a vicious arc, slamming the blunt face into the creature’s malformed skull with a burst of violet shadow energy. Bone cracked, fetid blood sprayed, and its HP dropped by over half as it staggered. I slipped right and shot in, my left hand free, my obsidian talons extended. I triggered another of my Avatar abilities. Burning Talons: 4/5 strobed in the corner of my eye as I raked my claws across the Cyclops’s exposed throat.

  The attack left deep, jagged furrows in its flesh, the skin around the wound charred black from the deadly opal fire surrounding each talon. Critical Hit. The creature’s HP plunged, flashing into the critical zone for just a moment, before hitting zero. A dungeon lord, killed with two hits. The Cyclops listed for a moment, dead but somehow still standing, then pitched to the side, slamming into the earth like a felled tree. The next Cyclops was already on me—ignoring its friends embarrassingly quick and painful death.

  I twirled around like a tornado of scales, wings, and death, my oversized hammer slamming into knees and shoulders, pummeling its neck and face, before I finally buried the wicked spike jutting from the top—now the size of a long sword—deep into the creature’s single eye, putting my full weight and power into the thrust. Every muscle in the monster’s body gave up at once, and the Cyclops promptly collapsed into a heap of limbs. The regular Vogthar troops were on me now, surrounding me in a loose circle, trying to hem me in, as though I didn’t have functional wings poking out of my back.

  I cast an eye at the Ragna-Wolf currently righting itself even though half of its face looked like a crumpled soda can: crushed and mangled. The creature was trying to maneuver around to my blind side while the Vogthar forces closed in. I let him. Meanwhile, the troops manning the walls were back in force, more pointless arrows raining down, all bouncing off my scales. But heavy-duty ballista bolts accompanied the arrows, and those hit like freight trains of force. True, I could’ve summoned another Pulse Shield—I stil
l had two charges—but I needed my Health to drop.

  So, I gritted my teeth and bore the terrible pain as a bolt punched into my side, scraping along my ribs, leaving a bloody wound behind and taking a bite out of my HP. Another slammed into my left shoulder, shredding scales and flesh. I dodged a third, couldn’t make it too obvious, then threw myself forward at the Vogthar ground pounders bearing down on me with battle-axes and hooked swords. I swung my tail around, batting a pair of tanks into the air like pop flies, then laid into a trio on the left with my claws, unleashing Burning Talons again.

  Vogthar died, crippled, disemboweled, and screaming, while I made for the wall.

  More of the land troops shot in toward my legs, but that was a mistake. One hard kick sent a Vogthar Rogue flipping through the air like a rag doll, its arms and legs flailing wildly, before smashing rudely into unforgiving stone. Its back broke with a sharp crack—the sound of a snapping bough—and the creature crumpled, its HP at zero. A fresh wave of arrows sailed from the wall, accompanied by the snap of bowstrings, and reflexively I put a hand up, shielding my eyes from the incoming fire.

  A pair of crushing, powerful jaws latched onto the back of my left leg a moment later, meaty fangs slicing into my hamstring. I growled and twirled—or at least I tried to. The Ragna-Wolf held fast, its hackles up, hateful red eyes staring defiantly at me as it jerked its head, first left then right. More of my HP leaked out, dipping below 75%.

  Bingo.

  A wave of awesome strength flooded into my body, filling me with raw power—like getting a great night’s sleep, then downing a gallon of primo gas station coffee. That was one of my many Avatar abilities, Desperate Strength, which added a hefty Strength bonus to my already formidable stats. But it only kicked in once my Health dropped past the 75% threshold. Just like an actual dungeon boss.

  I activated Burning Talons once more, trailing my glowing claws across the wolf’s muzzle, shredding through fur, flesh, and bone. The creature yelped and retreated, offering me its back as it tried to flee—to regroup. But I wasn’t about to let that happen. I lunged and grabbed the mangy wolf by its tail, then, with a heave, I pulled the creature from the ground and used its body like a humongous flail. The wolf arched into the air and slammed into the encroaching Vogthar, mashing several of them into the crimson-stained snow. The wolf yelped again, thrashing and scrambling, but instead of letting go, I slammed it down again.

  This time its neck snapped from the impact, and its eyes went glassy.

  And just like that, the gate defenders outside the wall were down.

  “Fire,” someone called from the wall. I wheeled, eyes flaring wide as a lightning bolt the size of a telephone pole slammed into my neck followed in quick succession by a trio of ballista bolts—the first punching into my guts, the second smashing into my left knee, the third clipping the edge of my wing. Critical Hit! The pain was sudden and intense, railroad spikes of agony sending out pulsing jags of hurt that were nearly blinding. My Health dropped again, this time flashing a brilliant red as it edged below 50%.

  A reminder that no one was invincible or immune from superior firepower and a little bit of forethought. Not even the Avatar of Order.

  But I’d come expecting that. In the corner of my eye, a new ability flashed: Cleansing Light. An uber-powerful beam of Divine Energy, it dealt 550% of spell power on contact. True, Cleansing Light only affected players and creatures with an “Evil” or “Holy” Alignment, but everyone on the wall ahead of me was Evil to the core. The beam also did an ample amount of property damage. I shook off the agony and steadied myself, throwing my jaws wide as I unleashed a javelin of pure white fire.

  Cleansing Light, 1/2.

  I swept my head from side to side, targeting the troops and equipment on top of the wall. The fire charbroiled siege weapons and decimated the Vogthar and Darkling sympathizers unfortunate enough to be out in the open. The second the attack guttered and died. I triggered Cleansing Light again, this time taking out the handful of remaining sentries that had weathered the first attack. A few took cover behind the merlons, but by the time the second attack faltered, the siege weapons were entirely gone.

  Overhead, the aerial battle continued to rage unabated.

  My Avatar countdown timer spun merrily away. I had a little more than a minute before I reverted back to my normal form, and I still had a ton to do. Not wasting a second, I lumbered forward and raised my warhammer high. I skidded to a halt before the wall, planted my feet wide, and swung for the fences. My hammer slammed into the black stone of Glome Corrie, chunks of rock raining down as a jagged crack formed. I pulled back, squaring my shoulders, then struck again. This time the crack fractured, morphing into a fissure, light from the far side peeking through.

  I lined up my hammer again—keeping an eye on the timer—and laid into the wall a third time. The whole wall quivered and groaned from the impact and rock spilled in, revealing a breach large enough for even the beefiest Risi warrior to squeeze through. A trumpet blared as my hammer fell away; this trumpet call, however, came courtesy of Osmark and the Imperials. Small hatches littered across the battlefield sprung open, casting aside sheets of fresh powder as a horde of Imperial Troops, two thousand strong, poured out, rushing for the opening.

  Alliance engineers had spent the last week building reinforced tunnels, allowing us to move Osmark’s superior force into place unobserved.

  I watched as more troops spilled out—these bearing long ropes capped with matte-black grappling hooks. Rogues and Assassins. They scaled the walls, which now stood unguarded, and made their way into the abutting watchtowers and the Vogthar garrison, not far away. A second later an alert flashed:

  <<<>>>

  Faction Alert:

  Congratulations! Your faction, the Crimson Alliance, has captured the Glome Corrie Command Center. If your faction holds the Command Center for (30) minutes, you will control Glome Corrie and displace the current ruling faction, the Peng Jun Tong.

  Countdown: 29:59

  <<<>>>

  I couldn’t help but smile. The message had come right on time. That would be Forge and his boys in the Malleus Libertas. Aside from being shock troops, they’d become the Alliance’s premiere Urban Warfare Task Force and specialized in taking enemy Command Centers. The aerial invasion was the first distraction, and my assault on the gates had been the second, but Forge and his crew were the real threat, sneaking in through back passageways while we kept the Vogthar busy with our overt showboating.

  I watched the Legion troops assault the walks for another handful of seconds—they would subdue the rest of the Vogthar and capture Darklings. Much as I wanted to catch my breath and watch, I had other places to be and no time to waste. I backed up a few steps, broke into a furious run, and launched myself high into the air, huge wings beating like mad as I cleared the wall.

  My shoulders burned from the strain of flying as I soared over the city, staying high enough to clear the boxy houses with their slate roofs, but low enough to avoid the massive dogfight going on in the star-studded sky above. I swerved left, scanning the ground. There. Not far off was the Unbroken Shield, a three-story inn a stone’s throw from Glome Corrie’s central Keep. I dove, folding my wings in close, and touched down on the weather-worn cobblestones just as my Avatar countdown strobed and hit zero.

  The whole world reeled as my limbs shrank, scales retreating into my body, wings disintegrating beneath me, turning to dusty ash, carried away on the biting breeze. Thankfully, the awful pain that came when activating the Avatar of Order ability was blessedly absent as my body resumed its normal proportions. I wobbled uncertainly for a moment, shaking my head to clear the sudden disorientation, then fished a cherry-red Health potion from my belt and downed it in a single long gulp. Done, I tossed the bottle away. It clinked on the wet paving stones, before rolling to a stop next to the side of the inn.

  I froze as the sound of boots on stone drifted to my ears.

  Lost and Found

  CUT
TER EMERGED FROM the shadows, then shot me a wink as he let out a sharp whistle. The inn’s heavy wooden door swung open and out trotted the rest of my crew, save Forge, who was with the Libertas holding down the Keep. Abby, Amara, Otto, and Ari all present and accounted for. Everyone looked tired and worse for the wear—understandable since it’d been a solid twenty-four hours since anyone had slept—but they were alive, and that was the important thing.

  “Any sign of Osmark?” I asked, glancing from face to face.

  “Nope, no word,” Abby replied with a shake of her head.

  I let out a groan, then rubbed the bridge of my nose, feeling the full weight of my exhaustion settle around me. Perfect, just what we needed. Another complication. I pulled up my interface and accessed the chat log, selecting Osmark from my list of allies. “Osmark? Where are you?” I sent, feeling a minor tinge of panic. Osmark wasn’t the kind of guy to be late. Not to anything. Ever. He was punctual as a clock—pretty fitting, considering that as an Artificer he was literally covered in clockwork gears.

  No reply. I tried to hail him a second time but found more silence waiting for me.

  Was it possible Osmark had died during the raid?

  That seemed exceedingly unlikely.

  Osmark was the highest-level player in the game—though he only had me beat by a mere two levels at this point—and he was damned near unkillable. I’d tried often enough to know firsthand. I frowned, then jotted off a quick PM to Jay Taylor, Osmark’s right-hand thug, and Sandra Bullard, his extremely capable personal assistant. If something had happened to Osmark, one of those two would know about it.