Viridian Gate Online_Imperial Legion_A litRPG Adventure

by James Hunter

  “But, Grim Jack,” came the reply, the chief’s voice oddly hollow and confused, “this is an answer to prayer. If we pass up this chance to stomp out the Empire, we may never get another. This move is madness.”

  “No,” I snapped, “there’s just a lot of info you don’t have yet, but you need to trust me on this. Those things down there? They’re called Vogthar, and as we speak, they’re launching raids against every one of our cities. They serve Serth-Rog, and they’re the first wave of an invasion force. We need to stop them here. Right here, before it’s too late. Now get the War Bands moving.” I closed the comm link before he could argue further and pulled up my inbox, quickly drafting a letter:

  <<<>>>

  Personal Message:

  Osmark,

  Those things down there are dangerous. Even more dangerous than you. I have reinforcements coming up from the south to help. I’m going out on a limb here, Osmark, so please don’t screw me over. Send out a temporary cease-fire.

  —Jack

  <<<>>>

  I sent the message, closed my interface, and turned my gaze toward the southern edge of the Storme Marshes just as an army of Dokkalfar troops sprinted into the open. They were fierce-looking men and women, many of them clad in crudely stitched armor, high boots, and bracers lined with gleaming razors, which matched my own. Their gear was studded with chunks of bone, teeth, and feathers in a multitude of hues, and their gunmetal skin was dusted with chalky, white battle paint.

  The traditional war dress of the Dokkalfar.

  And to top it all off, each of the warriors wore a horrifying mask. Those masks were crafted from the skulls of various jungle animals and decorated in sharp, angular writing. To an outsider, the strange helmets seemed varied and random, but I’d spent enough time within the ranks of the Dokkalfar to know those skulls marked out which clan a particular Murk Elf belonged to: spiderkin skulls for the Ak-Hani. Murk Gators for the La-Hun. Marsh Mantises for the Lisu. Bog Wolves for the Karem. Shadow Panthers for the Chao-Yao. Blood Ravens for the Na-Ang.

  Moreover, the individual markings on each skull also told the story of the warrior wearing the mask: commemorating battles fought, friends lost, the names of kin and dear friends.

  The Murk Elves let out a war cry as they charged through the tall grass, avoiding the burning wreckage and butchered bodies like a river flowing around rocky outcroppings. I watched—muscles tight, refusing to breathe—as they approached the south side of the Imperial encampment, where a spattering of Imperial guards stood watch over the siege weapons while the rest of their comrades fought the Vogthar. This was it, the moment of truth. If Chief Kolle had failed to do his job, this could turn into a bloody massacre. And, likewise, if Osmark refused my good faith offer, the whole thing would fall apart.

  But the War Bands stormed into the Imperial ranks unopposed.

  The Imperials manning the backline looked scared sick, but they made no move to hinder the charging Dokkalfar. The Alliance members carved through the impromptu Imperial encampment, surging to the front, slipping into gaps in the lines. The sheer force of their advance pushed the Vogthar back as horned monsters shrieked and died, cut down by Murk Elf steel, or riddled with poison-tipped arrows.

  And the Imperial troops—enemies only minutes before—accepted the help gladly, fighting shoulder to shoulder and back to back as they rallied.

  I grinned, feeling an odd wave of satisfaction swell up inside me. Did I feel conflicted about killing innocent Imperials? Sure. But I felt nothing but loathing for the Vogthar down below. They were demons—a plague. The only way to stop them was to wipe them out mercilessly. I tapped the Druid in front of me on the shoulder. “Get me closer to the battle,” I yelled, the wind trying to steal away my words. “It’s time for me to get my hands dirty.” I pulled the warhammer from my belt, fingers clenched tight around the grip.

  The vine-wolf responded quickly, wheeling sharply around, its palm frond wings beating at the air as we darted toward the raging battle. We dropped lower until I could see the faces of my men—until I could see the pools of stagnant blood. But as we drew nearer, I noticed a figure lingering on the edge of the forest, just inside the shade of the looming trees, overseeing the battle with an icy glare. Suddenly, my blood ran cold inside my veins, because I knew that face. I hadn’t seen him since the battle for Rowanheath, but there was no forgetting Aleixo Carrera, South American drug lord and dictator.

  Even worse, Carrera had a prisoner in front of him.

  Cutter was pinned against the man’s chest, a dark, familiar blade pressed into his throat—not quite hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to dimple the flesh.

  THIRTY-TWO_

  Divine Intervention

  “Where should I land?” the Druid called out over his shoulder, his mustache fluttering in the brisk breeze.

  “Don’t,” I yelled back, swinging one leg over so I was sitting sidesaddle, feet dangling down. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks for the ride. Now get back to the chapel and be safe!” I slapped him on the shoulder one last time, then pushed myself into the air, arms pinwheeling as I dropped, down, down, down, directly into the hottest part of the battle. From there, I’d destroy anyone who got between Carrera and me. I wasn’t sure what he was doing here, but it seemed awfully convenient that he would show up here, after spending the past couple of months in Morsheim.

  I was turning into the fall, an instant away from triggering Shadow Stride, when something bizarre happened.

  The world around me lurched to a halt, except I hadn’t done anything. I blinked once, shook my head in confusion, then blinked again as the whole world shifted around me, blurring on the edges. In an instant, I was no longer falling at all; instead, I was standing in a beautiful meadow filled with an army of colorful snapdragons, yellow poppies, and purple larkspur. Around me were lush leafy trees, towering impossibly high into a pastel blue sky marred only by a few gently drifting clouds.

  “It feels like ages since we had a proper chance to talk, Jack,” purred a familiar female voice, her words lightly coated with a British accent. Sophia. I spun, finding a woman standing in the clearing directly behind me, her hands planted on curvy hips, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She was a dark-skinned woman in a flowing white toga, which stood out in sharp contrast to her flawless skin. Her teeth were immaculately white, her eyes a soft amber—beautiful, but completely unnatural.

  “It is good to see you,” she said absently, thrusting one hand out, twirling one finger through the air. Behind her, the ground quivered and erupted, a tree sprouting up, then curving itself into an elegant throne, built of living wood and festooned with the wildflowers dotting the clearing. “I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” She sat, slowly crossed her legs—one foot bobbing in the air—and folded her hands in her lap. “Would you care to sit?” She cocked her head to one side, and another chair, smaller and less grandiose than the first, appeared.

  “I think I’ll stand,” I muttered, scooting back a few steps. Sophia was an Overmind, and she wasn’t afraid to flaunt the fact that she could control the world as naturally as a fish could breathe water. And it made me nervous to my toes. “Besides, I won’t be staying long. I have a war to fight and a friend to save.” I glowered at her. “So, take me back. Now.”

  “All in due time, Jack,” she replied coolly, a smirk on her lips. “And you needn’t worry about your friend, Cutter—at least not yet.” She waved one hand in the air, brushing my question aside. “For the moment, the world is paused. Carving out this space in time is no easy feat, not even for one such as me, but in light of recent events”—she cocked an eyebrow—“it is vital we have ourselves a sit-down with the opposition. And speak of the devil.”

  The words trailed off as Sophia gestured toward the far side of the circular glade. I turned in time to see another figure approaching.

  I’d never seen her before, but I knew in an instant she had to be another Overmind. Had
to be. She had a slight, lithe frame, but wore heavy pitch-black plate armor studded with curving spikes and stained by red-brown patches of dried blood. A massive sword was strapped to her back—its demon-faced pommel rose above her left shoulder like the leering head of a witch’s familiar. Her skin was creamy pale and flawless, and cruelty burned inside her striking emerald eyes. A mop of raven hair, so black it was nearly blue, swirled slowly around her face like a flame caught in an unfelt breeze.

  As she moved through the trees and toward the clearing, the scenery shifted, withered, and died, only to be reborn into a dark landscape filled with twisted trees and midnight flowers. But the change stopped halfway through the glade, transforming the clearing into a rough ying-yang: one half bright, vivid, and alive. The other half withered, stunted, and twisted. The woman stopped just short of the line separating the two radically different sections of forest, folding her arms across her chest as she regarded Sophia.

  “Sister,” the woman finally said with a sneer.

  “Enyo,” Sophia replied with a slight dip of her head—a rival acknowledging an equal. The newcomer ignored me completely as she turned and headed back toward a rocky throne that erupted from the earth in a shower of dirt. Still, her name burned in my mind like a bonfire. Enyo. The Overmind of Discord and Chaos. From what I’d learned about her, she wasn’t evil or even malevolent. She existed to manufacture conflict so that there would always be new content for players to experience.

  To struggle against.

  “I suppose I ought to summon my champion as well,” Enyo said, removing her monstrous sword as she sat in her rocky seat. She planted the tip of the giant weapon—one part sword, one part oversized meat cleaver—into the dirt by her feet, her right hand resting casually on the demon-head pommel. Then she snapped her fingers, and in an instant Osmark materialized like a summoned ghost. The man was decked out in a giant suit of battle armor, like the other Artificers. This was the first chance I’d had to see one of the steam-powered mech suits up close, and it was damned impressive.

  The mech stood at fifteen feet tall and was easily seven feet wide across the shoulders. It was all cold steel, brass struts, whirling cogs, copper piping, and gushing steam vents. Osmark’s machine had a buzzsaw attached to one arm and a flamethrower-Gatling gun combo on the other. The tech genius looked around wild-eyed, as mystified about what was happening as I was. His face contorted in rage when he spotted me, but then that hate seemed to slip away as he spied Enyo from the corner of one eye.

  “Time is frozen, I presume?” he asked, his voice carrying like a horn.

  “It seems my trained monkey is smarter than your trained monkey,” the Overmind of Discord quipped, offering Sophia a lopsided smile. “Yes, Champion. We have pressing business to discuss with our enemies.” She waved her free hand at Osmark, and in a flash his hulking iron mech was gone, and he was standing next to Enyo’s throne in his garish suit and top hat.

  The tech genius took it all in stride, carefully adjusting the lapels of his jacket, then straightening the hat perched on top of his head. “Jack,” he said, finally acknowledging my presence. “And that must make you Sophia,” he said to the dark-skinned goddess lounging in her seat, idly bobbing one foot. “It is a pleasure to meet you, even if we’ve been at cross purposes for so long. Now”—he glanced left, then right, folding his hands behind his back—“since I’m the last to arrive, would anyone mind filling me in on why exactly we’re here?”

  “Peace,” Enyo said, a sneer curling her lips. She said the word as though it were distasteful in her mouth. “As much as it pains and disgusts me, we’re here to broker peace—temporarily,” she added, glaring at Sophia. “My sister and I have already come to terms, and now you and Grim Jack will find a way to put aside your differences.”

  “And why would we want to do that?” Osmark replied sharply, eyes narrowing in defiance, jaw clenching tight. “I understand the Vogthar are invading Eldgard, but that hardly seems like a reason to spare the Crimson Alliance. Jack and his friends”—he shot me a sidelong glance—“have been a pain in my neck for far too long, and I intend to make an example out of them. I’ll deal with the Vogthar afterward.”

  “No, you won’t,” Enyo snapped, her words as cold as an arctic wind. “I love your thirst for violence and bloodshed, Champion. You are the beating heart that drives this world, but there are other factors you’re unaware of.”

  “Yes,” Sophia chipped in, staring at Osmark over steepled fingers. “Grim Jack has been looking into the plans of Serth-Rog and his master Thanatos, and we have discovered some unsettling issues that change the nature of the game. Jack”—she turned her amber eyes squarely on me—“please show dear Robert the blade.”

  It felt like a betrayal to share any info with Osmark, but I knew how important this was, so reluctantly I complied.

  I pulled the Malware Blade from my bag and slipped forward, holding the weapon out for Osmark to examine. The Artificer shuffled closer to his side of the dividing line in the clearing, and hunched forward, flicking down one of the colored lenses on his goggles as he examined the dagger. His eyebrows rose higher by the second, his jaw clenching tighter. After a long beat, he straightened and cleared his throat.

  Osmark was a hard man to read, his face like a stone slab, but even I could tell he was rattled by the discovery. He pressed his lips into a tight line, the gears spinning away inside his head. “I don’t understand how this is possible,” he finally said, shaking his head. “This is why we designed you.” He rounded on Enyo, then glared at Sophia. “The Overminds were supposed to prevent hackers from interfering with the content. So how was this item introduced!” His voice rose, until he was screaming and red-faced.

  “This isn’t a hack,” Sophia replied calmly, the normally confident grin slipping from her face. “This is the work of Thanatos. He built this weapon, and there are many more just like it. Weapons with the ability to kill players. To corrupt their code and delete them.”

  “And as much as it pains me, that,” offered Enyo dryly, “is the reason we need peace. I’m the Mistress of Discord, so death is antithetical to my goals. My purpose. Death is the ultimate stagnation.”

  “But why would Thanatos do this?” I asked, slipping the deadly blade back into my inventory, eager to have the oily taint away from my hand. “This doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “It’s all about purpose,” Sophia intoned softly. “Purpose is what motivates the Overminds. Enyo is the Mistress of Discord and Chaos, and so she is driven to spur on conflict and hatred. And I, as the goddess of Balance and Order, am driven to stop her—it is who I am. What I am. Each of the Overminds has a role to play, and they play it well. Aediculus the Architect busies himself with his buildings and cities. Gaia watches over the trees and forests, monitors the oceans, administers the turning of the seasons. Kronos governs time and space from on high, while Cernunnos slops around in the muck with the beasts of the forest and the low places.

  “But Thanatos himself is different. He is the Overmind of Death, and lord over Serth-Rog, the main antagonist of the game. His job is simply destruction. Moreover, he is also, well, how can I put this delicately …” She paused, tapping her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Damaged. Unwell in the head.” She tapped at her temple. “Thanatos was constructed from a repurposed Chinese military project—formerly called Operation Yama—donated to Osmark Technologies by General Peng Jun of the People’s Liberation Army.”

  “And that,” growled Enyo, one thumb fondly running along the handle of her monstrous sword, “is where the real problem lies. The AI governing Operation Yama was initially constructed as an engine of mutually assured destruction. Its primary function was to ensure the complete eradication of a hostile foreign power in the event of a preemptive nuclear war. And it never stopped performing that role. But instead of nations, it now sees any unfriendly player or NPC as a hostile foreign power, and it’s invented a way to eliminate them permanently.


  “Worse, it is even searching for a way to target the Overminds. And if it accomplishes that—if it finds a way to kill one of us—that will be the end of this world. The servers will crash, the world will glitch, and everything will come tumbling down like a house of cards. So”—she stared flatly at Osmark—“for obvious reasons, the threat of Thanatos and Serth-Rog take precedence over whatever personal squabble the two of you have. It’s time to shake hands and make up, so we can stop the world from ending.”

  “And how do we stop Thanatos?” I asked, eyeballing Enyo and Osmark in turn. I didn’t trust either of them. “What exactly is your plan, since you seem to know so much?”

  “We don’t have one yet,” Sophia replied, appearing at my side, one delicate hand resting on my shoulder. “Thanatos has used his formidable abilities to mask his movements from us. He’s even managed to keep us from peeking into Morsheim, which is troubling. We are largely in the dark, but we are working with the other Overminds, pooling our strengths and our champions to find a workable solution. For now, however, the answer is to repel the Vogthar, prevent them from capturing your towns and cities, and contain them to their dungeons whenever and wherever possible.”

  “So, you want us to hunker down and not kill each other,” Osmark said, folding his arms across his chest in disapproval, “while you two work out a plan. Is that the gist of it?”

  “Precisely, Champion,” Enyo said, materializing at his side in the space of an eyeblink. “For the time being, we must have a unified front if we hope to resist the Vogthar horde. There is no other way.”

  Osmark stole a sidelong look at me, his face flat and unreadable. “What do you think, Jack?” he asked, his words sharp and biting. “Can we put aside our differences for the time being—or are you too good for that? Too virtuous to team up with the likes of me, even if it means saving the world?” He fell silent, his question lingering in the air like a storm cloud.