Viridian Gate Online- Doom Forge

by J. A. Hunter

  When the timer hit zero and the world screamed back to life, I created the largest possible Shadow-Warp Portal I could directly above one of the spewing magma columns.

  A gout of fire flashed up, consumed by the darkness, only to fall back to earth in a torrent as the exit portal opened directly above the conjured weapons. The whole lot vanished in less than a heartbeat, burned to dust in the incomprehensible heat. One problem down, but I couldn’t celebrate since Khalkeús was the real threat, and I hadn’t even laid a hand on him yet. With a thought, I called Umbra Bog up from the forge floor; tendrils of black exploded out, pawing at the godling, scrambling to find purchase. The snaking strands of black wrapped around his oversized feet and wound their way around his hands, arms, and even the meaty hammer in his hand.

  That worked for all of ten seconds before a wave of searing heat and flame rolled out from Khalkeús, enveloping the shadowy limbs, burning them from existence. “If ya hunger so fer death, Champion,” he growled at me, “then perhaps Ah’ll indulge you.” He turned away from Carl, rage plain on his face, and charged, blacksmith hammer swinging toward me. Oh crap. He was attacking me, which was a good thing, I guess, since it meant he wasn’t attacking Carl... But it sure didn’t feel like a good thing.

  It felt like staring down a charging rhino who, for some reason, hated you with undying fury. Yay!

  I raised my own hammer, ready to parry the blow, but I wasn’t even remotely prepared when Khalkeús’s weapon unleashed a blast of gale-force wind, which smashed into my side and swept me from my feet. The winds pummeled me like a thousand fists as I tumbled head over heels; I plowed into the cavern wall, the world spinning, a quarter of my HP vanishing on impact.

  “Ya and yer fellow Champions may have had the power to fell my son, Eitri,” he boomed, “but Ah am no scion. No demigod. Ah am an Aspect of Aediculus. Ah am older than the foundation of Eldgard. Older than the ancient Vogthar, banished to the plane of Morsheim. Ya speak of defeating Arzokh, but Ah was there when she was but a wee dragon hatchling, small enough to fit in my palm. Ah watched as the Imperials landed here on their great quinquereme warships and waged their war, scarring the face of the continent. Ah have walked all the known realms, and Ah will not be undone by some mortal upstart, whelp. Ah will have my revenge.”

  “It doesn’t need to be this way.” I pushed myself upright and circled left. “This isn’t what your son would’ve wanted.”

  “Don’t ya dare speak of my Eitri. He was too good for this world, and yer precious gods and goddesses saw fit to reward him with death.” He shot forward, great legs pounding, each footfall shaking the foundation of the room as he drew closer. He lashed out with the hammer—a wild sweep that would’ve flattened me like a pizza. I ducked beneath the blow and shot in low, my own hammer connecting with the outside of his knee as I triggered every ability I had at my disposal: Savage Blow, Crush Armor, Black Caress, Champion Strike.

  The attack landed like a thundercrack, my hammer ringing and vibrating in my hands as if I’d just slammed it into a solid steel door. Khalkeús’s Health dropped just a hair, and the massive godling faltered for the first time, grunting in pain as his knee buckled from the force of the impact. I had a narrow opening, and I intended to exploit it for all it was worth. I darted in, driving the spike on top of my warhammer into his gut, which, unfortunately, seemed far less effective.

  Undeterred, I channeled Umbra Flame down my arm and through the warhammer still touching his barrel gut. A wave of deathly purple flame exploded out from the spike, rolling over his golden skin and forcing him back from the sheer power of the spell. Since Khalkeús was a forge deity with an obvious affinity for fire, I doubted the attack would do much damage, which was why I was surprised when I saw his Health dip noticeably. Umbra Flame primarily dealt Shadow damage—not Fire damage—which seemed to be surprisingly effective.

  The juggernaut Aspect stumbled back, reeling, arms pinwheeling as he fought to regain his balance. My Spirit was dropping fast, so I cut off the onslaught and triggered my most powerful Umbra-based attack, Night Cyclone. The familiar hole appeared in the air, the desolate hardpan landscape quickly dissolving as a murderous twister ripped into the room, buffeting the already staggering godling. Whipping winds and bolts of blue-black lightning slapped against him, incrementally robbing him of Strength and Health—though he was still well above 90% HP.

  “Enough,” he roared, clearly frustrated, his free hand curling around the colorful key at his neck.

  A burst of opalescent light rippled through the air, momentarily blinding me. I blinked sporadically, a hazy purple afterimage tattooed across my eyes, and my jaw nearly hit the floor when I could see again. The cyclone was just... gone. As though he’d cast some sort of Dispel Magic spell, cutting down my most powerful attack before it even had a prayer of hurting him. That was twice inside of twenty-four hours that someone had managed to nullify my most powerful spell. Annoying, to say the least. But also, what in the hell kind of attack was that?

  I wasn’t sure what that key around his neck was, but clearly it had some sort of protective debuff built in.

  Khalkeús was on the move again, charging toward me like an elephant on the warpath, ready to gore some overzealous poacher. As he ran, he dropped his free hand low, digging his enormous digits into the floor, leaving finger-sized furrows in the otherwise firm ground. Colorful mosaic tiles and stone parted as though they were wet clay, gathering into an earthen ball as he sprinted toward me. A heartbeat later, he straightened; in his hand was a boulder the size of a wheelbarrow and shot through with vibrant veins of color.

  With a bellow, he hurled it right at me.

  Oh crap.

  I broke right, avoiding the crushing stone by half an inch—the wind of the boulder ruffling my hair in passing—but that put me squarely in the line of Khalkeús’s swinging weapon. I caught the blow with my upraised hammer, but this was the first time I’d actually felt the force of his hammer in action, and I wasn’t even close to ready for that kind of action. Power exploded free on contact, swelling outward in a circle, crashing into my chest and robbing me of the ability to breathe. That wasn’t the only casualty, though.

  My weapon, the Gavel of Shadows, twisted and cracked, the metal squealing in protest before the shaft of the hammer simply burst under the strain, shards of white-hot metal burying themselves in my hands, chest, and face. I screamed, equal parts shock and pain, and stumbled back uncertainly, not ready for the ferocity of going up against someone, something, like Khalkeús. A golden boot whipped out, catching me in the chest, propelling me back into the wall once more.

  Then, before I could move, he thrust his free hand forward and hurled a spear of obsidian through the air. I moved without a thought—acting on pure muscle memory—casting Dark Shield instead of opening a Shadow-Warp Portal, which proved to be a serious mistake. The conjured spear carved through my shield as though it were a soap bubble, sinking into my gut and pinning me firmly against the wall. The pain was unbearable: a bright jag of hurt, sapping my strength and my will to fight. I coughed and gasped, blood dribbling from my lips.

  A combat notice flashed in the corner of my eye, and I knew things were about as grim as they could get.

  <<<>>>

  Debuffs Added

  Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

  Blunt Trauma: You have sustained severe blunt trauma damage! Stamina regeneration reduced by 30%; duration, 2 minutes.

  Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage! 1 HP/sec; duration, 45 seconds.

  Internal Bleeding: You have sustained internal bleeding! 3 HP/sec; duration, 1 minute.

  <<<>>>

  Khalkeús offered me a frosty smile as he planted his feet and raised the colossal Doom-Forged weapon—a batter coming up to the plate, ready to clobber a ball into the stands. With one hit, he would turn my head into jelly, and there was nothing I could do about it. Weak as a day-old ki
tten, I triggered Shadow Stride, hoping to make a clean getaway. But time kept right on ticking, and all I got for my trouble was a notice that my attempt to Shadow Stride had failed, thanks to the fact that I was pinned to the wall like a butterfly in a collector’s case.

  “If it’s any consolation,” the Aspect said, “you are but the first of many to perish.”

  “It’s not,” I grunted through the pain. “But you know what is?” I stole a look behind him. “The fact”—I wheezed, then broke out into a bloody coughing fit—“that you’re about to get pwned.”

  As the words left my lips, a glimmering prismatic wall sprang up around the perimeter of the forge, running from runic carving to runic carving, forming a hexagon of light and power. Khalkeús roared, falling back a step, then two, one hand clutched to his stomach, the other struggling to maintain his grip on the deadly warhammer capable of shattering my weapon with a single hit.

  “You’ve got thirty seconds to do whatever you’re gonna do, Jack!” Carl yelled at the top of his lungs, straining to be heard over the anguished bellowing of the Aspect.

  Khalkeús, still obviously in pain, swiveled, his gaze landing on the mouthy Cleric like a wrecking ball. “The unfaithfulness of my priests knows no bounds.” He straightened, the act one of sheer will and determination, then swiveled at the hips, launching another of the massive obsidian spears at the Dwarf. Carl’s eyes flared wide. He was far too slow to physically evade, so he opted for a magical barrier just as I had. Unfortunately, his golden dome served him no better than my Dark Shield had served me. The spear carved through the flimsy barrier like a knife through hot butter, catching the priest dead in the throat, nearly severing his head in the process.

  Carl swayed drunkenly, empty hands pawing at his neck, trying to staunch the cascade of blood pouring down his front. That was a lost cause. He toppled a second later, hitting the floor with a wet thump before his body vanished in a spray of light, leaving only a pool of gore to mark his passing.

  Still, mercy of mercies, the ritual held. The walls of swirling rainbow light were tied to the ritual carvings and the objects instead of the caster.

  “Now, where were we?” the Aspect said, turning on me, a snarl on his face while sweat poured down his head and chest in a sheet. Whatever the ritual’s effects were, they clearly hurt. Bad. “Time to end you, Champion,” he said, lifting the hammer in a shaky hand.

  Cutter materialized like an angry ghost, exploiting the Aspect’s momentary inattention—namely gloating over his victory instead of simply pulverizing me. The Rogue flipped through the air, landing on his Khalkeús’s outstretched arm, sinking his twin daggers into a wrist that was thicker than my neck. The attack itself didn’t do much damage, but Cutter’s precision was perfect and the move flawlessly executed. Critical Hit! Khalkeús’s hand snapped open on reflex, and the hammer clattered to the floor.

  Cutter disappeared in a flash of smoke—his Cloak and Dagger ability on full display—only to reappear a moment later, this time on Khalkeús’s back. Cutter had his legs wrapped around the giant’s neck, ankles crossed, trying to choke the goliath while he stabbed at the Aspect’s head and face with his daggers. An effective strategy, except for one small detail: Khalkeús’s beard was made from actual fire. Cutter’s boots were already smoldering, a plume of sickly-sweet smoke drifting up as the flames crawled along his legs.

  Instead of screaming, he stoically fought on, letting the fire eat through his Health and his skin while he stabbed and slashed at the Aspect’s unprotected head, giving me time. Not much, maybe, but some. I was still pinned against the wall, the obsidian spear killing me in painful increments, but there was a way out. I steeled my resolve, grabbed the spear protruding from my gut, and used my hands to pull my body forward, along the length of the shaft. My feet were low enough to reach the ground, so once I got clear of the wall, I dug my toes in and used them to push as well.

  Of all my experiences inside V.G.O., this was hands down the worst. Like swallowing broken glass while walking over a pile of rusty nails covered in lemon juice and cayenne pepper. But the prize was only feet away. With the ritual up and running full tilt and Khalkeús momentarily distracted by Cutter, all I needed to do was get free and get that damned hammer. Once I had that, I’d be able to do something. What, exactly, that something would be, I wasn’t sure, but I’d have a lot more options with the Doom-Forged weapon in my hands than I had right now.

  And as terrible as the pain was, if Forge was willing to die, Abby was willing to have her throat slit, and Cutter was willing to let himself be burned alive to finish this quest, I could do this. So, I fought through the agony, pulling myself hand over fist, until at last my body jerked free from the length of stony spear.

  My HP was just under a quarter, which meant another good hit might well put me under, but I was in the home stretch. I dropped onto my knees, wheezing, blood seeping from the hole in my gut, and crawled forward. And then I was there, the Doom-Forged weapon a foot away, victory as good as mine. I glanced up as Khalkeús hurled Cutter away by the scruff of his neck; the thief was alive, but burned almost beyond recognition. This time, the enraged Aspect didn’t waste any time gloating—apparently, he’d learned his lesson—stomping over to the broken and battered man. With a howl, Khalkeús raised one giant foot and drove it down with the force of a bomb blast, right onto Cutter’s head.

  I turned away at the last second, not wanting to see the bloody carnage.

  That was it, then. Cutter dead.

  Mentally I crossed my fingers, holding my breath. Would he respawn?

  As the Aspect rounded on me, fury screwing up his golden face, there was a telltale shimmer of light, Cutter’s gruesome corpse vanishing into the ether. The ritual light flickered and died as Cutter’s body disappeared, which meant Khalkeús would be back to full strength. But it didn’t matter. He was too late.

  I felt like howling in laughter. We’d done it. Sure, this mission had been a complete party wipe for everyone except me, but we’d battled our way through the Judgment, found the Doom Forge, and activated the ritual, and I’d gotten my hands on the most powerful weapon in Eldgard. Khalkeús might’ve been one bad SOB, but even he wasn’t immune to the power of the Doom-Forged weapon. I wrapped my hand around the handle of the hammer and dragged it over to me, using it like a cane to gain my feet, the heavy head still resting on the floor.

  Secret Weapon

  FINALLY, AFTER ALL this time, I had it. Still, I had no idea how exactly to use it, which was slightly problematic. Quickly, I pulled up the item description, hoping for some clue about how to employ the weapon’s capabilities before Khalkeús could wipe me off the map. My heart nearly skipped a beat at what I saw.

  <<<>>>

  Mad-God’s Fury

  Weapon Type: Blunt; Warhammer

  Class: Ancient Artifact, Two-handed

  Base Damage: 215

  Primary Effects:

  75 points fire damage + (.5 x character level)

  Increased Attack Speed by 8%

  +15% damage to all Blunt Weapon attacks

  Strength Bonus = .5 x character level

  Vitality Bonus = .5 x character level

  Secondary Effects:

  +3.5% Chance to Blind on hit

  +1 Luck per 10 character levels

  Increases all Blunt Weapon skills by 2 while equipped

  Reduces all skill cooldowns by 16%

  <<<>>>

  The weapon was incredible, far better than the Gavel of Shadows, but there was something horribly wrong... It wasn’t the Doom-Forged weapon.

  No, no, no. My mind whirled, running through the Judgment, the trials, every piece of information Carl had given us, scrambling to figure out where everything had gone off the tracks.

  Which is when I realized the terrible mistake I’d made. The second trial, that had been the only piece of the puzzle I hadn’t managed to make sense of. My mind shot to the clue Carl had uncovered in his research: only the wisest will understand
my true form.

  Crap. I’d made the same mistake that Vlad had by assuming that the ultimate weapon would be an actual weapon. I glanced at the opalescent key hanging from Khalkeús’s neck, the same key that he’d touched to banish my Night Cyclone. The same key that had been inscribed onto the chalice from the challenge room. Hell, looking more closely at it, I realized it might have actually been the same damned key we’d earned after dispatching the statue. I’d chosen poorly. That key was the real weapon, as unlikely as it might’ve looked, and there was a good chance I was going to die because I hadn’t put it all together in time.

  “Wait,” I yelled, dropping the colossal hammer.

  Discarding my weapon was probably a stupid move, but truthfully, there was no way I could win this fight. Carl and Cutter were both gone, and the one ritual that could give me a leg up on the Aspect was spent and gone. But then, maybe I wasn’t supposed to win, at least not in the conventional manner. I couldn’t help but think of the Chalice of Peace and the fiery words that had burned across the dark after we took down the stone golem. Only those who seek peace deserve to wield a weapon capable of delivering unending war.

  Maybe there was still a way, though it was a long shot. The longest shot, even. I raised my hands, showing I meant no harm. Only those who seek peace deserve to wield a weapon capable of delivering unending war. The words played through my head on repeat.

  “Look, I wasn’t lying when I said it doesn’t need to be this way. And I wasn’t lying when I said this isn’t what Eitri would’ve wanted—I know because I’ve seen him. Spoken to him.”

  For the first time since entering the Doom Forge, Khalkeús really hesitated. Not out of pain, but out of uncertainty. “Lies,” he said, the word dripping hate, but maybe also something else... Hope? “My son is dead. Taken from the world by the gods. By them and their Champions. Champions just like you.”