Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 4)

by James Hunter

  Contents

  Summary

  James Hunter's Mailing List

  ONE_ Ambush

  TWO_ Supplies

  THREE_ Emergency Message

  FOUR_ Imperial Trickery

  FIVE_ Change of Plans

  SIX_ Ravenkirk

  SEVEN_ Defenses

  EIGHT_ Unexpected Guests

  NINE_ Royal Favor

  TEN_ Battle Royale

  ELEVEN_ The Dungeon-Hearted

  TWELVE_ Encroaching Darkness

  THIRTEEN_ The Frozen Warrens

  FOURTEEN_ Dungeon Dive

  FIFTEEN_ Black Conclave

  SIXTEEN_ Gate Hound

  SEVENTEEN_ Down for the Count

  EIGHTEEN_ Goodbyes

  NINETEEN_ Shut-eye

  TWENTY_ Revelations

  TWENTY-ONE_ Final Preparations

  TWENTY-TWO_ Infiltrate

  TWENTY-THREE_ Chaos

  TWENTY-FOUR_ Face-off

  TWENTY-FIVE_ Calm Before the Storm

  TWENTY-SIX_ Wake-up Call

  TWENTY-SEVEN_ Opening Salvo

  TWENTY-EIGHT_ Round Two

  TWENTY-NINE_ House to House

  THIRTY_ Automatons

  THIRTY-ONE_ The Horde

  THIRTY-TWO_ Divine Intervention

  THIRTY-THREE_ Familiar Faces

  THIRTY-FOUR_ Stealth Attack

  THIRTY-FIVE_ Celebration

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  VGO Reading Order

  Other Works by James A. Hunter

  Books from Shadow Alley Press

  About the Author

  litRPG on Facebook

  Even More litRPG on Facebook

  Dedication

  Special Thanks

  Copyright

  Summary

  December, 2042

  The Imperial Legion marches, and war looms on the horizon …

  Jack Mitchel and his misfit crew of rebels never wanted a fight with the Empire, but the time for diplomacy has passed.

  Ruthless tech-genius Robert Osmark is coming, and trailing behind him is a vast army determined to wipe the Crimson Alliance from the face of Eldgard. Impossibly, Jack has united the warring Murk Elf clans under his banner, but even with their aid, the Alliance is still badly outnumbered, and Osmark has some nasty tricks up his sleeves.

  And while the long-awaited battle unfolds, an ancient evil stirs in the heart of Viridian Gate Online—one that will change the game forever.

  James Hunter's Mailing List

  If you would like stay in the loop about the latest book releases, promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my email list: James A. Hunter Mailing List Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

  ONE_

  Ambush

  I sat crouched behind a thick shrub, the fingers of my left hand pressed into the dirt, my right hand wrapped around the shaft of my warhammer. Ready. Waiting. A leafy elm rose up on my left, just one of the hundreds of trees dotting the landscape. Towering sugar maples, with burnt orange leaves, and gnarled birch trees obscured the skyline. Those trees, bathed in the yellow glow of midmorning light, cast deep pools of shade over the cobblestone road gracefully winding through the Timberland Grove just south of New Viridia.

  It was beautiful—the kind of place you see on the cover of nature magazines—made even more so by the birds chirping contently and squirrels chittering away without a care in the world.

  “Bloody hells, Jack,” Cutter whispered from my right, nudging me with his elbow as though I might not hear him. “How much longer are we gonna wait here, eh? It’s clear they aren’t coming. Bad bloody info is what it is. Let’s just get back to Rowanheath, already. Staying this close to the capital gives me the willies. Besides, I’m sick to death of this forest. No ale. No mead. No food. No one to gamble with. No thank you, that’s what I say.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not bad intel, Cutter,” I said in a muted hush, hoping I was right. Considering how much prep work we had left to do back in Rowanheath, waiting out here on an Imperial caravan would be a tremendous pain in the neck and a huge waste of time if they didn’t show. But they’d come, I knew it in my gut. “It’ll be here,” I muttered, almost as much for me as for him. “Just be patient.” I edged a tad closer to the road, nudging aside a thick branch obscuring my view.

  He slipped closer, until his shoulder was practically pressing into mine. “Not bloody likely,” he grumbled. I glanced at him, but the only thing I could see was a hazy blur in the air marking his position. He might’ve been lazy and whiny, but his Stealth ability was through the roof—the guy was effectively invisible when he wanted to be. “This’ll be the fifth caravan we’ve raided in four days,” he continued. “If this Osmark bloke’s as smart as everyone says, then surely, he’ll wise up and change the supply routes. He’d be a moron not to.”

  “Or, perhaps,” Amara said from my left, shooting Cutter a hard-eyed scowl, “they’ll just hire better guards. Much easier. And assuming they do hire better guards, perhaps we should keep our mouths shut so as not to tip them off, yes? Just a thought, master thief.”

  Naturally, that sent Cutter to mumbling softly under his breath, just loud enough for me to catch a few words. Ungrateful, pigheaded know-it-all.

  A soft snort from my right made me grin. Forge. He, at least, had a good attitude about the demanding raid schedule.

  The creak of a wagon wheel cut through the otherwise still forest, silencing Forge’s laughter and Cutter’s grumbling in a heartbeat. I shot a glance at a green-skinned Risi—sporting heavy leathers and swirling black tribal tattoos—tucked away in the foliage across the road from me. Marack, the current leader of the Wolf’s Fangs, a group loosely aligned with the Rebellion. Very loosely. I’d seen their handiwork on a couple of occasions, and despite what they claimed, they weren’t freedom fighters. No, they were bandits, looking to capitalize on the war and line their own pockets.

  Not exactly the kind of people I liked surrounding myself with, but there were precious few raiding forces who knew the West Viridia side of the Eldgard continent the way the Wolf’s Fangs did. I tapped at my ear, then jerked a thumb toward the road. Incoming. The surly, taciturn bandit simply nodded then slipped away, vanishing into the woods without a trace or a sound. A moment later a shaggy black wolf with beady yellow eyes and oversized jaws filled with far too many teeth, materialized from the tree line. Then, in a flash, it disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Following its master.

  I shivered. Devil was far from a friendly pet, but those wolves were downright mean. Devil liked to eat. The wolves, on the other hand, seemed interested in nothing else.

  The creaking grew louder, accompanied by the clop of hooves on stone, the rustle of leather and fabric, and the soft murmur of voices. The first wagon rounded the bend, pulling into view. It was nothing special, just a clunky wooden box perched on spindly wheels and covered by a yellowing canvas tarp stretched tight over bows of wood. A driver, clad in heavy chainmail, sat on a small bench in front, flapping leather reins as a pair of chocolate draft horses plodded along, their hooves ringing against the stone.

  Though the wagon was relatively plain, I knew in an instant this was it. The Imperial Brand—an eagle clutching a lightning bolt—made that abundantly clear. A pair of stern-looking NPC [Legionnaires] flanked the wagon, marching along in lockstep, hands resting on razor-sharp swords. They were stony-faced men, wearing crested ce
nturion helmets and segmented lorica armor covered by white surcoats, likewise decorated with the Imperial Brand. I raised a closed fist, hold, and waited as the cart rolled past us and a second one came into view.

  Imperial caravans usually came in groups of four wagons, so splitting the convoy at the blind in the road was the best option.

  The next wagon in line was much like the first—same plain wood, same canvas, a nearly identical dour-faced driver, and Imperial guards—but the group of mercenaries trailing behind the wagon was a whole different story. That was new. There were ten of them, none wearing standard uniforms, all boasting a host of different armor and weapon types. I eyed them as they scanned the woods, and realized these weren’t hired sellswords at all. The Imperials hired out Mercs from Harrowick on occasion, but these were players—and high-level ones from the look of their gear.

  I glanced over one shoulder and saw Amara staring at Cutter with a cocked eyebrow, I told you so written all over her face. If this weren’t so serious, I’d have laughed.

  I turned back, muscles tensing, sweat beading on my brow as I prepared to move. The front edge of the next wagon in line flashed into view, and I thrust my free hand up, unleashing a violet Umbra Bolt, which streaked through the air like a cruise missile. Instantly, the Legionnaires and their new guards were crying out warnings as they drew weapons and braced for an attack. But they didn’t stand much of a chance, not unless there were a lot more guards tagging along at the rear of the caravan.

  Aside from my immediate team—Cutter, Amara, and Forge—there were twenty-five elite Murk Elf Rangers spread out through the trees, and another twenty-five members of the Wolf’s Fangs, not counting their pets. Plus, Devil loitered in the trees a hundred feet away, ready to burn any Imperials that tried to retreat for New Viridia.

  I whipped one hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog beneath the heavily armed players sandwiched between the wagons. The cobblestone ground faded and disappeared as inky black tendrils erupted from the earth, flailing wildly in the air, wrapping around arms, legs, and torsos with equal ease. One female Accipiter in light brown armor shot into the air, her wings beating down, kicking up swirls of dust and avoiding the grasping tendrils of shadow power by inches.

  Not that it mattered.

  Three simian forms—two as large as chimpanzees, the third, Nikko, nearly as big as a gorilla—burst from the trees on giant outstretched raven’s wings, sacking her like a trio of linebackers. Down the Accipiter fell, the deadly Void Watcher Apes clinging to her. In the same instant, I cast my deadly AoE spell, Plague Burst. My left hand flashed through the air in a complex series of gestures: flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as raw power trickled into my palm.

  The spell had a ten-second cast time, so for the moment, there was nothing I could do but wait and watch.

  Forge and Amara shot out from the tree cover next to me, dashing toward the nearest set of Legionnaires. Amara vaulted high into the air, conjuring a spectral bow of jade light from thin air and spraying the guards with summoned arrows that cut into their HP like a hot knife through butter.

  Forge shoulder-checked a stunned guard out of his way, then laid into the wagon itself, his meaty double-bladed axe cleaving through wood, destroying one of the wheels and shattering the axle. No way was that wagon going anywhere. More rebels were pouring from the trees every second—Murk Elf Hunters in their terrifying bone masks, leather-clad Wodes, and hulking Risi. The ring of steel on steel and the cries of battle carried over the forest, silencing all the formerly chirping birds and chattering squirrels.

  Finally, I completed the complicated hand motions, and a rancid yellow fog bled from the air like an infected wound, swirling around the trapped players pinned down between the two wagons. Choking screams filled the air as the toxic mist clawed at exposed flesh and burrowed into open mouths. The Umbra Bog and Plague Burst combo was deadly, and had served me exceptionally well over the past several weeks. A Dawn Elf in elegant blue robes toppled, her eyes bulging in their sockets as she died. One down, more to follow.

  But then—before the plague could claim more victims—a burst of golden light exploded from the center of the assembled warriors as a clarion prayer rose in the air like the chiming of a bell.

  A Dispel Magic spell.

  Standing in the middle of the group was a woman clad in shining plate mail, wielding a jewel-studded scepter. Yep, they had a Cleric of Light with them. Perfect.

  The golden blaze, emanating from the Cleric, burned through the yellow plague cloud like sunlight through the morning fog. But just as Umbra Bog started to fade, the chant ceased, abruptly cut short as Cutter appeared from the shadows and ran a black blade across the Cleric’s throat, earning a Critical Hit and ending the prayer before it could undo all of my hard work. The Cleric was wounded, but not dead; Cutter’s second blade darted out, sinking into her kidney all the way to the hilt.

  I winced, knowing just how bad that had to hurt.

  The Cleric dropped to her knees, a grimace of pain contorting her face. Cutter pulled the knife free with a flick of his wrist and slammed it into the side of her throat, putting her down for good. She toppled forward, bleeding out, eyes already glazing over in death.

  Cutter, though, was already moving on, hurling a fan of smoky conjured blades at a nearby Stormsinger in emerald robes trimmed in gold. The blades sliced deep, silencing a deadly spell before it could leave the man’s lips. The Umbra Bog still had about twenty seconds left before it disappeared, and I didn’t want to waste another moment, so I triggered Shadow Stride with an effort of will. The world around me shuddered and faltered as color faded and monochromatic light, occasionally interrupted by swirls of bright purple, exploded around me.

  I grinned, appreciating the quiet of the Shadowverse.

  I stood and slipped through the bushes with ease, ambling toward the group, going slowly since I had nearly a minute before my time in this place would lapse. I eyed the rest of the battle, which was unfolding nicely. My Void Watcher chimps were brutalizing the poor Accipiter woman, their claws gouging down deep while their blunt teeth tore at vulnerable flesh. Amara was frozen mid-lunge, a summoned spear of black ebony thrust out, impaling a Legionnaire guard right through his heart.

  I felt a twinge of guilt about that. Killing NPCs was unavoidable, but I tried not to do it whenever possible. Pwning a fellow traveler was one thing since we’d respawn in eight hours, but NPCs weren’t so fortunate. Their deaths were final. But sometimes their deaths were also unavoidable.

  I walked directly through Forge, who was frozen in place by the lead wagon, and stepped into the crowd of paid guards, searching for a good mark.

  All these players looked tough, of course, but a bunch of them were standard brawlers and fighters, easy to take care of with spells and ranged attacks. They had two, however, who looked like support classes or maybe glass-cannon casters, and those types could be dangerous. I eyeballed each in turn.

  The first wore baggy trousers and soft-soled shoes but no shirt or body armor. His head was shaved, save for a small black top-knot, and his chest and arms were covered in brand-like tattoos, burned directly into his skin. The second wore plain brown robes and carried a rune-covered staff, which glowed with a spectral light. I had no idea what class tattoo-guy was—probably a monk by the look of his gear and topknot—but the other looked like a straight healer.

  That was my mark.

  I slipped up behind him, dropped into a low crouch, activating Stealth, and raised my warhammer. I breathed in deeply, watching the countdown timer in the corner of my vision twirl away, then stepped from the Shadowverse. Motion and sound crashed down all around me as the world resumed its usual ebb and flow, but for the poor Cleric in front of me, it was game over. I swung my warhammer with all my strength, triggering Savage Blow just before the blunt head smashed into the back of the healer’s unarmored skull.

  A sickening crack rang through the air, and the Cleric folded like a bad hand
of cards. Critical Hit. The player was dead before he even hit the ground. With my high level, killer gear, Backstab multiplier, and Savage Blow skill, few people could withstand an attack like that.

  I spun, darting toward the tattooed man, but as I turned a wrecking ball of raw force smashed into my chest, lifting me from my feet and batting me into the trees lining the road. I slammed into a thick oak and slid onto my butt, coughing and wheezing as I struggled upright. Wow, I hadn’t been ready for that. The attack had chopped off a sixth of my HP in a single hit; I was lucky not to get slammed with a debuff.

  My Umbra Bog had finally expired, and the remaining PCs were storming off; one pair confronted Forge, lashing out with huge swords, while another two charged Amara—an act they’d soon regret, I had no doubt. A few more turned on Cutter, trying to pin the agile thief down with little success.

  But tattoo-man? He was coming straight for me.

  TWO_

  Supplies

  I scrambled to my feet and thrust one hand forward, conjuring a column of purple shadow flame as thick as a telephone pole. But the tattooed monk just kept walking toward me. Instead of trying to evade like a normal, rational person, his fingers flashed out, tapping a small tattoo on his chest. The brand fizzled, flared, and disappeared as a massive wall of orange light erupted in front of him. The purple flames splashed uselessly over the spell barrier, then rebounded back toward me.

  In a blink, shadow flames washed over me, singeing my eyebrows, burning my skin, and knocking off another sixth of my life points.

  I stumbled back a step, abruptly cutting off the spell, letting the flames gutter and die as I fished a Health-Regen potion from my belt. I popped the cork with my thumb and downed the drink in one long pull, before tossing it aside. The tattooed warrior’s shield flickered and disappeared, but he was already tapping another black mark—this one adorning the inside of his forearm. Another flash and the brand vanished as the warrior threw out one hand, unleashing a barrage of golden, summoned arrows.