Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 3)

by James Hunter

  That could all change in seconds, though, if I didn’t end that last Shaman.

  The only problem was the Armored Protector blocking my path, scuttling toward me with hate in its multitude of beady red eyes. But I was no beginner, no lowbie—not anymore. This thing was scary, true, but I was scary too. With a shout, I charged, using my superior movement speed to duck below a pair of thrusting jaws, then sidestep an incoming scythe-blade arm. I juked left and weaved right, twirling my hammer in a tight arc and smashing the creature across its armored face with a crack. One mandible snapped free, accompanied by a spray of neon-green blood.

  The blow didn’t knock off more than a fraction of its overall HP, but the centipede-horror staggered left from the force of the impact, giving me a small opening to do even greater damage.

  I charged again, thrusting the spike on top of my warhammer into its face, skewering it through one eye, and pushing it back with brute strength. Then, as it wriggled on the end of my hammer, fighting to break free as its many legs clawed fruitlessly at the air, I summoned a new wave of Umbra Flame and roasted the stomach-churning bug like a hotdog over a roaring campfire. It was down to nearly 50% Health when a lightning bolt of white-hot agony struck, frying my nerve endings in an instant; my Umbra Fire dwindled and died as I dropped to the floor, doubled over, clenching my stomach.

  It felt like there was a wildfire rampaging through my whole body, burning down everything in its wake. A prompt flashed:

  ∞∞∞

  Debuff Added

  Diseased: As a result of the Death-Head Mode, your body is slowly dying! You’ve been afflicted with Death Head’s Disease. Attack Damage and Spell Strength reduced by 15%; Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, until death or quest completion.

  ∞∞∞

  Excellent—as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.

  Fortunately, the pain receded almost as fast as it had hit. Unfortunately, the temporary distraction had cost me in battlefield advantage: the hideous Protector now loomed over me, its jaws yawning, its mouth ringed with nasty undulating spikes. It regarded me for a second, a clicking hiss growing in its throat, then launched a giant wad of green phlegm directly into my face. I shot one arm out, batting at the ball, but that only splattered the viscous substance along my hand and into my eyes.

  I screamed again as my right eye went black and the other blurred, making it almost impossible to see, while a sharp, biting pain worked its way through my skin. That earned me another notice:

  ∞∞∞

  Debuffs Added

  Acid Burn: You have been acid burned! 7 pts Acid Damage; duration, 25 seconds.

  Partial Blindness: Vision reduced by 79%; duration, 1 minute.

  ∞∞∞

  The agony was an enormous living thing, but I fought and flailed all the same, lashing out with my hammer in one hand and bursts of Umbra Bolt with the other, hoping—praying, really—to hit something. Anything. My hammer landed with a wet thunk, followed by a high-pitched squee as the dark shadow hanging above me retreated out of sight. Driven away for the time being, though certainly not dead. I scrambled to my feet and lurched away, but only a step. A giant set of insectile jaws immediately wrapped around my left foot and clamped down on my ankle like a vise grip.

  With a sharp tug, the creature jerked me from my feet, sending me back to the floor. Panicked, I glanced down, and even with badly blurred vision, it wasn’t hard to make out the centipedal Protector with its mouth engulfing my boot. I screamed again, this time for help, as I kicked at its face with my other foot, hoping to dislodge it.

  It was a useless effort.

  The Protector absorbed my kicks like an implacable brick wall while slowly sliding its jaws inch by inch up my leg—first to my calf, then all the way to the base of my kneecap. Spikes lined its gullet, sinking through my leather armor, kneading into my flesh as it moved. Holy crap. This thing was eating me, and even worse, my skin was burning as acid soaked through the punctures in my reinforced leather leggings. Not just eating me, then—dissolving me. And there wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t effectively swing my warhammer and I couldn’t use Umbra Flame without the risk of setting myself on fire, too.

  Still, no matter how bad it looked, I wasn’t about to call it quits. I leaned forward with a grimace and bashed at the Protector’s beady eyes with the spiked edge of my battle vambraces, activating Black Caress over and over again. Slowly chewing away at its HP while absorbing a fraction of its life in return.

  But it just kept moving. Eating. Another chomp brought the Protector’s mouth up past my knee, all the way to mid-thigh—

  If I didn’t do something soon, it was going to saw through my leg entirely and then I’d be done for. The flashing blade of a battle-axe saved me the trouble, though. One second I was struggling against the Protector, beating at it with my spiked gauntlet. The next, the pressure around my leg slacked and vanished as a gore-soaked Forge appeared, his weapon planted firmly into the base of the Protector’s neck. I let out a shuddering sigh—I’d never been more happy to see someone in my entire life. With the immediate danger past, I turned my bleary gaze on the tunnel, expecting to see more Larvae flooding toward us.

  But there were none. The insect horde lay dead. All of them smashed, hacked, or burned into little pieces.

  “Forge? Jack?” Abby called out. “You guys okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re alright,” Forge replied with a holler. “This nasty sumbitch just about took off one of Jack’s legs, but I think he’ll recover.” He grinned, shot me a wink, then dropped to a knee and helped me wriggle the Protector’s mouth and gullet free from my leg. “Seriously, though, you okay, Boss?” he asked me in a whisper, eyeing the multitude of lacerations and the green acid staining my trousers.

  “I’ve been better, but I’ll live,” I replied, extending him a hand.

  He stood and pulled me to my feet with a heave, a giant grin breaking out across the sharp angles of his face. “Hell yeah, Jack. Get some.”

  The rest of the party was busy rummaging through the corpses, which dropped some serious loot. No shoddy beginners’ gear, slated for the scrap heap. Nope. Not in this dungeon. Each bug carried rare chitin, a handful of coins—silver or gold, never copper—and usually at least one item. A gleaming dagger with a +2 Dexterity boost here, a Belt of Troll Might with a +3 Strength bonus there. None of it was rare, but all of it would either fetch a decent price with the Merchants or go right into the faction vault.

  Our influx of new members never ceased, and getting quality gear for lowbies was always an issue.

  It took another five minutes to finish looting the bodies, which gave me time to tell the rest of the party about the Diseased debuff, then we headed on, ever deeper into the warren of passages. Thirty minutes—and a small army worth of Sand Wyrm Larvae, Boar-Beetles, Scarab Shamans, and Armored Protectors—later, we reached an ancient stone doorway set into the yellowing skull of a long-dead dragon.

  Directly in the center of the door, surrounded by a ring of electric-green runes pulsing with eerie life, was a handprint. I’d seen something like this once before, during my raid on Gentleman Georgie’s underground laboratory. This door was a port-hub: a custom transport artifact that allowed a dungeon’s final room to be perfectly tailored to unique players and quests. Port-hubs made it possible for an infinite number of potential “Boss Rooms” to exist at the end of any particular location. And from what little I’d found about them on the game wikis, they were rare and only used for most challenging or unique quest lines.

  With a gulp, I pushed my hand against the palm print carved into the stone.

  Heat exploded beneath my skin as a flare of iridescent light enveloped me and the world spun and vanished, replaced by a chaotic swirl of color and a beating wind.

  TWENTY-THREE:

  Sky Maiden’s Tale

  The quiet hum of thoughtful chanting resonated in the air as my feet touched down on rough stone. It was
a sweet melodic sound, which reminded me more of a Buddhist temple than the stronghold of a bloodthirsty cult ready and waiting to summon a murder-demon. Smells came next: sandalwood smoke—a hint of vanilla sweetness dancing with a musky cedar—and the pungent aroma of freshly turned earth and smoldering campfire logs. I kept my eyes shut tight, waiting for the wave of vertigo to pass as I wobbled drunkenly.

  After a few deep breaths, the nausea faded, the room stopped spinning, and I could finally open my eyes.

  I stole a quick look left and right, double-checking to make sure the rest of the party had made it through in one piece. A quick head count put me at ease. We’d all made the jump, though everyone—except Forge and Nikko—seemed to be reeling from the effects of the port skip. “Everyone okay?” I asked in a harsh whisper, receiving a muted round of yeses and a few thumbs-ups in reply.

  I gave everyone a few more seconds to recover before trudging on down a narrow hallway fashioned to resemble the bone-lined throat of a great dragon. The hallway dipped and turned, but eventually terminated at a cavernous room with a dragon’s spinal column running down the center of the ceiling, just like in the vision I’d received back at the Dark Conclave. The walls were fashioned from intricately carved sandstone, but support beams also dotted the walls at regular intervals, built from curved rib bones as thick as telephone poles. Dragon bones.

  I was struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu as I surveyed the room: there was a small library off to the left and glass-fronted cases marching off in a line on the right. My gaze lingered on those cases—more specifically on the wide array of rune-worked weapons and trinkets on display. Good, good loot. The wooden benches, more like traditional church pews than anything else, filled most of the hall, but this time, those benches were filled with cultists. Most were Accipiter—though, surprisingly, there were a few Wodes and even a pair of burly Dwarves—and all were decked out in tight-fitting brown leather armor studded with spiky ridges of yellow bone and plates of red, overlapping scales.

  Wow. Honest-to-goodness Dragon Armor. Now, I was content with my Night-Blessed Armor—it was perfectly tailored for a Shadowmancer and had served me well—but I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that gear. Worst-case scenario, I could break the weapons and armor down using our new Salvage faction ability, then hopefully use the dragon bones and scales to upgrade my current items. I could dream, anyway.

  I pushed the greedy thoughts away as the chanting stopped and the high priestess, standing at the front of the chamber, fell silent. She was an Accipiter—the great golden wings protruding from her back were a dead giveaway—with coppery skin, a sheet of raven hair, and dark, thoughtful eyes. Unlike the rest of the cultists present, she wore flowing robes of metallic green decorated with elaborate designs woven from golden thread; most importantly, around her waist sat the Jade Lord’s Belt. She regarded our party serenely from behind a wooden pulpit carved and sculpted to resemble a sinuous dragon.

  I steeled myself, ready for the fighting to begin in earnest.

  I was quite surprised when the Priestess broke out in a wide smile, her teeth brilliantly white against her dark skin. “It’s been a long time since we had visitors to our Citadel,” she said, her voice rich and inviting. “So long as you come with peace in your hearts, you are welcome in this place.”

  That, now, was unexpected.

  I reached up and pushed back my hood, revealing the Crown of the Jade Lord. “We’re just here for the belt,” I said, stowing my warhammer and raising my hands skyward, trying to placate her, though I couldn’t help but eye the length of scale-covered leather wrapped around her waist. “Once we have that, we’ll be on our way. No muss, no fuss. No one needs to die.”

  A round of angry mutters broke out among the assembled disciples.

  Several of them shot to their feet, glowering at us as they reached for short swords or curved bows. The Priestess, though, simply quirked an eyebrow and raised one hand, stilling the mob in an instant. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. We are a peaceful order, dedicated to the teachings of the Wise Sky Maiden, Arzokh. We care for the sick, minister to the poor, and care for the orphans and widows among Ankara’s population. But guarding the Ancient Artifacts of Arzokh, including this belt, is part of our sacred duty. We will not falter. If you wish to depart our Citadel without a battle, you will be leaving empty-handed.”

  Abby slipped up next to me, pressing her body in close. “Jack, something’s wrong here—none of this is adding up in my head. I mean, this is supposed to be a demonic Dragon cult.” She paused and glanced at me, confusion evident on her face. “But these people don’t look bloodthirsty or murderous, not even a little.”

  The high priestess responded with a laugh, cold and cynical, clearly hearing the comments meant for me. “Well,” she said, spreading her hands, “there are certainly some who believe us to be monsters. The Sky Maiden, after all, is the villain in most stories.” She paused and canted her head, carefully eyeing Amara and me. “Based on appearances alone, I’m assuming you received your information from the Dark Conclave?” It was part question, part statement.

  I nodded, feeling more unsure of myself by the minute.

  “Do not listen to her,” Amara snapped, shouldering her way past the others, a deadly glare on her face. “They worship the Sky Maiden. They are liars and murderers, this is a thing known by all. Those who follow the Sky Maiden are well versed in trickery. Do not let them deceive you, Grim Jack.”

  The Priestess pursed her lips into a thin, thoughtful line as she stared at Amara. “Yes, the Dokkalfar despise the Sky Maiden most of all, and us by proxy. But, you have only heard one side of the story—their side.” She swept a hand toward Amara. “Perhaps we will part ways as enemies, but before it comes to that, I would implore you to at least hear our side of things.” She faltered and neatly folded her hands behind her back. “What harm could it do?”

  Abby’s hand wrapped around my bicep, fingers digging in—let’s think through this.

  “Give us a moment,” I replied, holding up a finger. “We just need to talk this out.” With a thought, I commanded Nikko to monitor the cultists—it was possible this was all some elaborate ruse—while our group formed into a tight little huddle.

  “I do not like this, Grim Jack,” Amara said flatly, arms folded across her chest, hips cocked to one side. “We cannot leave without the belt, so what does it matter what lies they have to spout? It is a waste of time, and I do not wish to hear false accusations leveled against my clansfolk. It is a disgrace. Let us do what we’ve come to do and move on.”

  “I don’t know,” Abby said, brow knit in concentration, a frown lingering on her lips. “This isn’t nearly as straightforward as I was expecting. You’re right, Amara, we can’t leave without the belt, but this whole situation makes me feel uneasy. Seriously, look at those people. Really look at them. They’re not just generic dungeon monsters looking to murder and loot. They’re do-gooding monks who want to talk, for Pete’s sake—”

  “Yes, that’s what they want you to believe,” Amara interjected, “but words are just words, Abby. Besides, they worship the demonic creature responsible for massacring my ancestors and destroying the Nangkri Dynasty. Those actions alone speak far more loudly than anything else they could ever say or do. In my eyes, they stand condemned already. Let us kill them and wash our hands of this place.”

  “What do the rest of you think?” I asked, before stealing a short peek over one shoulder. The cultists were still sitting, the Priestess watching us with a mix of fear and curiosity on her face.

  “I gotta go with Abby,” Forge grunted with a nod of his blocky head. “More intel is never a bad thing in my opinion. ’Sides, these people seem alright. I mean that lady from the Affka den vouched for ’em, and I got a good feeling ’bout her. Sure, she’s a drug dealer, but she seemed like an honest drug dealer. And, honestly, I’m not sure how I’d feel about killing these people. I mean, I’ll do what we gotta do—the mis
sion’s the mission—but if there’s a less awful way to go about it, I’d be open.”

  “As much as it pains me to say it,” Cutter said, his hands absently fidgeting at the blades stowed in his belt, “I agree with Amara. Think about it, Jack. In order to unite the Storme Marshes, we need that belt. Period. End of the bloody story. Nothing this lady”—he hooked a thumb toward the Priestess—“says will change the quest. Likely it’ll only make doing our job more difficult. Sometimes, the best thing to do is keep your head down and do the job in front of you. Gentleman Georgie taught me that when he first took me under his wing. But, I’ll back your play, whatever you decide.”

  “Vlad?” I asked.

  He frowned, shrugged, and wagged his head from side to side in indecision. “It is a hard call, but we Russians have a saying—wisdom is born, stupidity is learned. Knowing more is better, I think.” Amara glowered at him like he’d just slapped her across the mouth, but Vlad patently ignored her, unmoved by her cutting looks. Vlad didn’t really care much about what other people thought of him, a trait I admired.

  I nodded and turned back toward the Priestess. “Okay. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll at least hear you out.” I thrust one hand out and recalled Nikko to the Shadowverse—a small sign of good faith.

  “Very wise.” She dipped her head. “Nasim, take over for me,” she instructed a younger man with a thin build and a thick mustache. “As for you, honored guests, please follow me.” She turned on a heel and glided toward the wall of bookcases. She halted in front of a hulking case loaded down with leather tomes and a sprinkling of antique knickknacks—bits of bone, small golden figures, a few candleholders. For a moment she just stood there, scanning the titles, until she eventually slid one book free and stepped away as the wooden shelf swung outward on silent hinges, revealing an earthen passage gouged into the wall.