Viridian Gate Online: Darkling Siege (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 7)

by James Hunter

  It is an abomination... the key seemed to send. It should not exist. It must be unmade. Edited from existence.

  I focused on the Editor, hardening my will and resolve, channeling my desire into the key. It buzzed in my hand, just as it had when I’d used it to open the doors to this realm, seeking direction, begging me to shape reality according to my will. I focused on the shape of the warhammer: its tapered handle and heavy head, its blunt face and spiked top. I pictured the way it sang in my hand. The way it crushed armor and shattered bone. The Editor listened intently, the buzzing intensifying, a terrible heat building as light leaked out from the key, first in a trickle, then in a deluge.

  653/1,000 flashed in the corner of my eye, ten charges gone as the weapon transformed—given new shape.

  In its place was a glimmering crystal warhammer, a perfect replica of Mad God’s Fury, save for the spike at the tail end of the hammer. Where the sharpened spit of steel should’ve been was the jagged face of a skeleton key. I glanced at the countdown timer spinning merrily away—less than a minute before my Avatar ability lapsed and I shrank back down into teeny, tiny regular Jack. I severely doubted I’d be able to finish Carrera if that happened, which meant I needed to end this now. I stalked forward, and for the first time, fear and worry flashed across Carrera’s inhuman face.

  He licked his lips, tightening his grip on his massive sword.

  I unleashed my last wave of Cleansing Light, the beam blindingly bright—which was what I was counting on. Carrera threw up his arms, conjuring a formidable dome of toxic green light to guard against the attack. As soon as the shield took shape, I cut the breath attack short and dashed forward, bringing the newly formed crystal weapon down, uttering a booming roar that shook the walls of the Necropolis with my pent-up fury.

  Carrera stumbled, disoriented from my misdirection, and raised his enormous Malware sword into place, a cross block that should’ve halted my arcing blow in its tracks.

  Acting on some primal instinct—or maybe directed subconsciously by the Reality Editor—I flipped the weapon around so the skeleton key was aimed down instead of the blunt crystal face. The hammer hit with a melodic clang, the sound of a titanic gong struck, and Carrera’s sword exploded on impact, fragments and chips of black metal flying out, peppering my chest and face like shrapnel. Thankfully my thick, reptilian scales acted like chainmail, deflecting the shards of toxic steel. I drove forward, slamming the hammer down farther, burying the jagged key face directly in Carrera’s forehead, lodging it like an axe in a piece of firewood.

  Carrera stumbled, mouth going slack, eyes going hazy as something vital drained from him and his HP plunged. The key turned hammer in my hand buzzed with manic energy and a prompt appeared.

  <<<>>>

  Editing Option Enabled: Would you like to ban this player from the server? Yes/No?

  <<<>>>

  My eyes flickered over the message, growing wider as I read. Would I like to ban the player from the sever? Holy crap. I was literally holding the Ban Hammer. Well, if ever there was a person that deserved a swift boot from the game, it was Carrera. I selected Yes, which summoned one final confirmation prompt that came with a warning:

  <<<>>>

  Warning: All user data will be wiped from the Viridian Gate Achieves. Proceed? Yes/No?

  <<<>>>

  This wouldn’t just bump him from the game, this would wipe the servers of his very existence. I accepted Yes again with a thought, and as I did, the light contained within the crystal hammer rushed out. It left the weapon temporarily empty, the light shining instead through Carrera’s eyes and mouth—transforming him into some sort of ghoulish jack-o’-lantern.

  592/1,000

  I ripped the hammer back, staggering a few steps, suddenly feeling drained and exhausted to the core. I’d definitely seen better days, but then, so had Carrera. The crater I’d left in his forehead bled opalescent light, and jagged runes of electric blue energy crawled over his face and down his neck. He screamed, an otherworldly sound as he clawed at his face, but that didn’t seem to do the trick either. The lines of runic magic continued to spread, gaining ground like the plague. Deleting him.

  Carrera’s face and arms swelled up, a balloon filled to the max, his pale skin stretched too tight. He let out a final shriek, a mangled sound, then opal light ripped him apart. Enormous arms flew away, tentacles rupturing, his horned head popping as purifying light rushed out in a whoosh. I only had seconds left in my Avatar form, but that was just enough time to thrust my free hand forward, talon-tipped fingers splayed out. I tapped the last of my Avatar abilities—Pulse Shield: 2/30—summoning a wall of brilliant pearl light, twenty feet by ten in front of me.

  The necrotic green power slammed into the enormous shield of Divine Energy, hurling me up and back, rattling my curved fangs... and ultimately saving what little remained of my flagging HP. Unfortunately, I was almost fifty feet from the ground when my Avatar countdown timer lapsed and my body reverted back to its normal shape and size. My Health was below six percent, and the world wobbled around me. With Devil nowhere in sight, I triggered Shadow Stride, slipping into the twisted, muted world of the Shadowverse seconds before ploughing into the ground headfirst, like a swan dive gone horribly, horribly wrong.

  True, I couldn’t suffer damage while in the Shadowverse, but I could certainly feel pain. And landing on your head after a fifty-foot fall? A wave of blackness washed over me, stars exploding across my vision. Agony became my whole world.

  Covert Infiltrators

  SOMETIME LATER—I WASN’T sure how much—I startled awake, soft furs beneath me, a cloth camp tent above, a blanket covering me. For a long beat, nothing made sense. How had I gotten here? Where was here? Was I safe? What about Abby? Hazy images came back to me in jolts and flashes, bubbling up to the top of my mind, but the pieces didn’t seem to fit cleanly together. I could vaguely recall my battle with Carrera and using the Reality Editor, transforming it into a weapon, but how I’d managed to do it... That was still fuzzy. It had all come to me in the moment, and after that...

  All I could remember was falling. I shivered, thinking that might be a small mercy in hindsight.

  I propped myself up on my elbows with a groan and ran a hand over my chest. My armor was still in place and I could feel the hard lump of the key beneath my breastplate, though I couldn’t remember putting it back around my neck.

  “Gods above and below, I think he’s awake,” came Cutter’s voice.

  I blinked and turned. I wasn’t alone in the camp tent. There were twenty or so other people milling around beneath the heavy canvas canopy, including Amara and Otto. A handful of Inquisition Clerics in brown robes and white tabards bustled around, kneeling on muddy dirt as they tended to their patients, all sprawled out on fur mats similar to the one I was occupying. Not a command tent, then, but a triage center, meant for treating those so seriously damaged that they couldn’t naturally heal on their own.

  I scanned the other pallets, and my heart shot up into my throat as I spotted Abby.

  Her robes were in tatters, her hair charred almost down to the scalp, red welts running over her face and most of the left side of her body. Otto sat beside her, tightly clasping her uninjured hand in his calloused palm. The Risi was in better shape, but not by much. His armor was badly singed, and a deep cut ran diagonally across his face from temple to chin, narrowly missing one eye.

  “Jack,” Cutter said, hustling over to me, a tired grin on his face. “Bloody hell, but I thought we were going to lose you there for a bit.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, waving away his concern as I stood, my arms and legs stiff and aching from exhaustion. “What’s wrong with Abby?” I asked, crossing the tent in four long strides, then dropping down beside her.

  “Best I can tell,” Otto said haltingly, “she is in some sort of trauma-induced coma. Her HP is steady, but not rising the way it should, considering her Health regeneration factor. The clerics say this happens sometimes when you
suffer wounds as terrible as hers.”

  “Fire can do that,” came a matronly voice as a rather plump cleric bustled in through the tent flaps, carrying a pestle and a mortar filled with a repugnant smelling paste. “Even Firebrands are suspectable to the Flame Induced Shock debuff. It’s several steps above Flame Trauma. It causes permanent burns in Citizens and can render the victim unconscious for hours or even days depending on the extent of the damage.” She pursed her lips, eyeing me up and down. “You really shouldn’t be out of bed, you know. You’re lucky to be walking after the damage you sustained.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I replied with a grimace. “Just tell me she’s going to be okay.”

  The cleric scrutinized me for a few long seconds more, then nodded, apparently satisfied by whatever she saw. “Aye. I’ll be able to set her straight. Had to scrounge up the right ingredients, but I have ’em now.” She nodded toward the bowl in her hands. “Just give me some time and space to work.”

  I nodded and backed away, watching anxiously as the woman ground the paste, churning it into a smooth gray mix that smelled faintly of rotten eggs.

  “What happened in the tower?” I asked Otto, who still clenched Abby’s hand as though he intended to hold onto it forever. It was an oddly tender gesture that didn’t fit well with what I knew about the Risi warrior. But then, I knew he and Abby were close, even if he was stony-faced with the rest of the world.

  “She saved us. All of us,” he replied stoically. “Carrera came out of nowhere and hit us like a battle-axe blade to the chest. Raginolf was in the Engineering seat, and when the tower fell, it knock him out cold.” He jerked his head toward another pallet, this one with a squat form sheltered beneath the blankets, snoring softly. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, except the boilers ruptured on both level two and seven, and without Raginolf at the helm to mitigate the damage, the fires burned quickly and spread through the other decks.

  “I worked the weapons systems, holding off Carrera with the shield, while Abby scrambled below decks to directly douse the flames so everyone else could get clear of the rig. If not for her, we all would’ve burned alive.” He faltered and glanced down, absently running his thumb along the back of her hand. “Eventually, I lost her on comms, which I knew was a bad sign. There was no salvaging the rig at that point, and since you’d showed up, I grabbed the Dwarf and headed below deck looking for her. Found her like this. All burned up, but alive.”

  “The heat got into her lungs,” the cleric said, before clicking her tongue. “Flame inhalation can sear the throat and broil the airways.” She finished spreading an even coat of paste over the glossy red burn wounds. “Few people come back from that. It was her Firebrand resistances that saved her, I’d wager. That, and you dragging her out when you did,” she said, shooting Otto a glance. She set the bowl aside. Already Abby was stirring on the pallet, writhing and whimpering.

  “Hush, dearie,” the cleric said, smoothing what remained of Abby’s hair back from her forehead. “We’re almost better. Just drink this now and you’ll be right as a new day.” She pressed a vial to Abby’s charred lips, forcing her head back.

  “Screw me sideways,” she moaned when she’d finally finished off the last of the drink. “Why does everything hurt so bad? Next time I set someone on fire, I’m going to remember this feeling. ’Cause this suuuuuucks.” With a twisted grimace she pulled her hand free from Otto’s and sat up.

  “Glad to see you’re with us, Ms. Hollander,” Osmark said, pushing through the tent flaps with Sandra in tow. “I would wish you a swift recovery, but I’m afraid that is going to have to wait. We have some rather pressing matters to attend to, and the sooner the better, considering we have respawn time to take into account.”

  “Good to see you too, asshole,” Abby grumbled, climbing to unsteady feet, then limping over to stand beside me, slinging one arm around my shoulders for support. She leaned into me. “Thanks for coming to get me, Jack.” She leaned over and pecked my cheek.

  “Hey, I’m always in your corner,” I said with a wink. “I’m just glad Otto was there for you when I couldn’t be.”

  “Me too,” Abby said, shooting the Risi a soft smile. “He’s a good friend.”

  “Although this is all very touching,” Osmark said coolly, “we are wasting time. Clerics, please clear the tent.”

  “Oh no,” the plump nurse who’d tended Abby said, planting hands on her hips and rounding on the Artificer. “I can appreciate that you’re all busy people, but you commandeered my triage tent, not the other way around.” She stalked forward and jammed a finger into his chest. Emperor or not, she was taking zero crap from him. “I have patients to care for, and I take my job very seriously.”

  Osmark scowled at her—he wasn’t a man used to hearing the word no—but finally he grunted and threw up his hands in resignation.

  “Refreshing as always to see you, Katona,” he said from behind a false smile. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter much at this point. I’m happy to report that we have over sixty percent of the Necropolis firmly in Eldgardian hands, and we are continuing to hold the wall, despite several major pushes from the Darklings. After consulting with our generals, the consensus is that the fighting will likely continue unabated well into the early evening, but we should be poised to move on Skálaholt within nine hours. I’ve already dispatched our lookalike doppelgangers, so hopefully Thanatos won’t see us coming until it’s too late.”

  “Great,” Abby replied, “so now all that’s left to do is kill ourselves. Perfect. So glad you guys brought me back to consciousness to do this.”

  “Best that you know the plan,” Osmark said. “Now, if there are no further objections, the Hexblades?”

  I sure wasn’t looking forward to this part. Not one little bit.

  Begrudgingly, I pulled the toxic weapon from my inventory. Just touching it made my skin crawl as though I were running my fingers through a pool of sludge. The blade was rancid, and I couldn’t wait to be rid of it. I traced my thumb over the demonic face so meticulously etched into the hilt, before pulling up the item description.

  I read it, hopefully for the very last time.

  <<<>>>

  Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog

  Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger

  Class: Unique, One-handed

  Base Damage: 25

  Primary Effects:

  +10 to Strength

  +10 to Dexterity

  +100 pts Cold damage

  +5% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing

  Unique Usable Effect:

  Soul Sacrifice: Activate Soul Sacrifice when an enemy is at Critical Health to suck the soul from their body and send it to the Frozen Realm of Morsheim. (Charge: 1) Note: Using Soul Sacrifice will permanently destroy this weapon!

  Note: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice causes the player to permanently lose 5 points of Spirit!

  Note: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice activates the Entwined Fate debuff, causing the player to die when the victim dies, and respawn in their normal location!

  Note: Any player killed using Soul Sacrifice will become a Spectral Revenant; their respawn point will be changed to Skálaholt, capital of Morsheim, unless they can find a way to return to the land of the living!

  The Black Blade of Serth-Rog is granted only to the darkest, most bloodthirsty servants of Serth-Rog: the Black Priests of the Hexblade. It is a wicked artifact, forged from the essence of the Dark Lord Himself ...

  <<<>>>

  As loathsome as these weapons were, they were also our ticket past the mystic dome wrapped around Skálaholt like an eggshell. Activating it wasn’t liable to be a walk in the park, but it was necessary.

  I closed out of the description and shut my player interface. The rest of the crew had their own Hexblades out and were standing around in a circle, stony faced and serious. Osmark, Sandra, Cutter, Abby. I was the final piece in this jigsaw puzzle. I joined them with a sigh. Odd
ly, I felt like Zendu and the other Lorekeepers, circling up in preparation to take their own lives for a cause greater than themselves.

  “Does everyone have the nerve to do this?” Osmark asked, quirking an eyebrow as he hefted his blade and pressed the tip against his own throat. “If not, I’m sure we can find a proxy to do the dirty work for you. Though it will mean a respawn for them as well.”

  “I’ve slit plenty of throats before,” Cutter replied, raising his own blade. “And I’ve nearly killed myself a thousand times to boot—and that was by accident. I reckon I can manage, especially if I actively try. Now, if you’re done bumping your lips, I say we do this, eh?”

  “See you on the other side, Jack,” Abby said, taking my free hand in hers.

  “Be safe,” I replied, knowing exactly how idiotic that sounded considering we were all about to commit seppuku. But as I’d reminded myself so often over the past few weeks, sometimes there really was no winning. With a grunt, I flexed and drove the blade into the side of my throat, triggering Savage Blow, Crush Armor, Champion’s Strike, and Soul Sacrifice all at once, ensuring I did the job properly. The blade slipped home, and my legs promptly buckled beneath me as warm liquid rushed down my neck, drenching my armor and covering my hand in a sheen of red.

  Critical Hit!

  I flopped onto my back, the world reeling as a combat notice popped up, swimming drunkenly in the corner of my eye:

  <<<>>>

  Debuffs Added:

  Entwined Fate: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—your life has been tied to ¥ ERROR_INVALID_FUNCTION. ±đȠ ERROR_SUCCESS! Y0π H®v3 DIED! Your respawn location has been auto-assigned to: Skálaholt!

  Spiritual Karma: You have used the Hexblade and activated the Soul Sacrifice ability—you have permanently lost (5) points of Spirit!