Viridian Gate Online: The Artificer: A litRPG Adventure (The Imperial Initiative Book 1)

by S. R. Witt

  “I know they’re civilians,” he continued, “but he’s forced my hand with his plans. We need to be ready to do whatever’s required for success.”

  For a long moment, Aurion and Osmark stared at one another across the table. He wondered who would win if it came to a fight. She was younger and faster than he was, and at this point, her spells were more powerful than his repeater. Robert put his odds of winning the fight at 3:1 against. But he wasn’t about to let Aurion know that.

  He pinned her to her chair with his cold blue stare, tenting his fingers in front of him.

  The sorceress let out a long, exasperated sigh, then shrugged in resignation. Defeat. “Fine. You’re the boss. I don’t like it, but I understand it.”

  “Excellent. Well then, since the three of you have your marching orders, you’re all dismissed.” He shooed them away with the flick of one hand. “And remember what’s on the line,” he called after them as they left the room in an orderly rush, the sorceress trailing at the back of the pack. Osmark waited until Aurion’s robes swished through the doorway before he spoke.

  “I did miss you,” he said to Sandra. “I just hope you have better news for me than Huey, Dewey, and Louie there.” He waved at the door.

  His assistant grunted from her side of the table. “Not much. But on the plus side, Sizemore is still moving in the shadows, and I don’t think he’s gained any more allies on the board. For the record”—she cocked an eyebrow at him—“I did give you a heads-up that assassins might be headed your way. Still, I’m sorry to hear about your acquaintance.”

  “I know,” Osmark said. A cold knot of anger and sadness twisted in his gut, but he didn’t have time to deal with it at the moment. “But let’s put that all behind us—it’s not worth dwelling on. Now, I hope you’re not too tired because we’ve got a lot of work left today.”

  Sandra grinned. “I’m fine, old man. Let’s see if you can keep up with me.”

  TWENTY-TWO:

  Dungeon Dive

  Sandra tossed the spent ashes of the customized port-scroll into the weeds and clapped the soot from her hands. She wrinkled her nose at the smoky aroma lingering in the air like a cloying perfume. “It would’ve been nice if you’d made these a little less messy. Every time I use one, my hands smell like I smoked a pack of cigarettes.”

  Osmark snorted. “If you think those stink, wait until you meet Rozak. You’re going to love his pipe. And, FYI, not everything here is my doing. The Overminds do most of the heavy lifting when it comes to filling in the gaps between the broad strokes we used to design this place.”

  Sandra grinned and threw a playful punch at his shoulder. “Sorry, boss. I just figured since it was a single-use scroll directly to your restricted area that maybe you’d customized it down to the tiniest detail. Like you tend to do.”

  Osmark couldn’t suppress a chuckle at that. Sandra was right. He had a perfectionist streak that drilled all the way down to his core. If he’d had more time, Robert probably would’ve thrown a week’s worth of work at the port-scroll to make sure it delivered him in a puff of just the right colored smoke with a swelling orchestral score rising on the wind to give him a majestic entrance. Not everything in life could be perfect, though. Sometimes—as much as it irked him—settling was the only feasible option.

  With V.G.O., that axiom proved especially true.

  The tech, platform, and game had been ten years in the making when 213 Astraea appeared on the distant horizon of space, hurtling toward Earth like a runaway train. True, he’d known about the asteroid before almost anyone, thanks to his generous financial support to the Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico, but even with his foreknowledge, he’d had less than eight months to get V.G.O. up and operational. Eight measly months, when the planned release date was still over two years off.

  There were so many things he would’ve changed with enough time—first and foremost, V.G.O. wouldn’t be a fantasy world. A fantasy-based MMORPG was great for money, but it certainly wasn’t his idea of Heaven. With two or three years, he could’ve turned V.G.O. into a futuristic paradise even better than the world they’d left behind. But reprogramming the Overminds in eight months? Impossible. So, he’d done what he could. He’d made things serviceable.

  Maybe there were a few hiccups. Maybe he’d made some shady deals. Maybe the Overminds were still undertested.

  But the game worked.

  That was the important thing to cling to.

  “Let’s get inside, and see what goodies are waiting for us,” Osmark said, heading toward the half-hidden door in the side of the hill ahead of them. He had a vague sense of what he might stumble across, but it was impossible to say since so much of the programming rested with the Overminds. But whatever was in there would be good. Very, very good. Honestly, he felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Assuming, of course, that the presents under the tree were guarded by monsters who wanted to kill him and eat his guts.

  The entrance was an ancient steel door covered in rusted gears, clogged by winding vines and bent saplings. Years of neglect had corroded the hinges into fine red dust, leaving the barrier cocked ajar to reveal the yawning darkness beyond. A tag appeared briefly over the door before vanishing in a flash: [Artifactory]. Osmark let out a long, low whistle, dry washing his hands in anticipation.

  He turned to Sandra and asked, “Did you bring any torches?”

  “I haven’t even been back a whole day, and you’re already forgetting everything,” she said with a friendly grin, which took the sting from the words. “No torches, but something a little bit better.”

  She deftly plucked a thin metal cylinder from a sleeve stitched into the armor covering her left thigh. She twirled the rod between her fingers in an impressive display of manual dexterity, then brought it to a sudden stop balanced on the tip of her index finger. “Ignir,” she hissed, and a brilliant white light burst from the rod’s surface.

  “Nice trick,” Osmark said, admiring the item. It cast a steady glow that illuminated a circle roughly twenty feet in diameter.

  “It has an even better one,” Sandra said and whispered, “Guron.”

  The rod floated off her finger, drifted about five feet ahead of them, and hovered in the air at Sandra’s eye level. She took a step forward, and the rod floated away, keeping a constant distance from her position. “Neat, right?”

  Osmark had to admit it was cool. While he loved his repeater, and found the Artificer’s goggles extremely useful, neither of those items had the same utility as the simple magical flashlight. “Where can I get one of those?”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. “You can buy one in just about any city if you know where to look. Or, Mr. Artificer, you could build one.”

  Robert grunted and then stepped past the glowing rod to grab the edge of the door. “Let’s get in here and get some loot. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find one of my very own.”

  He struggled with the heavy metal door, but it didn’t budge. He just wasn’t strong enough to push it aside. “A hand?” he asked, suppressing the surge of frustration welling up inside him.

  Sandra strode past him and rested her back against the hill next to the door, then lifted her right leg and wedged her boot against it. “On three,” she said and began counting down.

  When she hit one, Osmark threw his body weight against the door, straining with his legs and arms, giving it every ounce of effort he had to offer. It creaked, shifted, and groaned, then crashed open, slamming against the wall with a dull thud. A trio of bats, alarmed by the sudden flood of daylight washing over their lair, burst from the opening. They screeched at Osmark as they passed, a warning and a rebuke, then they were gone, vanishing into the forest surrounding the buried dungeon.

  “I guess you’re not the only crabby one today,” Sandra said, absently waving away a swirl of dust disturbed by the door. Before Osmark could respond, she turned away and descended the worn stairs leading into the earth.

  The floating rod lit the passageway well enough, b
ut Osmark still had to watch his step. Centuries of rainwater and grasping roots had weathered the steps and left their leading edges dangerously rounded. A slick layer of mildew and hidden pockets of moss made the footing even more treacherous. “Watch your step,” he called out, but Sandra wasn’t listening.

  As a Stalker Class—a combination of Rogue and Ranger—she was far more dexterous than Robert and took the steps two at a time without faltering. She lingered at the bottom of the staircase, waiting, tapping her toes as he cautiously picked his way down to join her. “You’re dumping all your Stat points into Intelligence, aren’t you?” she asked without preamble.

  Osmark felt a faint blush creep onto his cheeks. “Not all of them.”

  Sandra shrugged. “It would suck if you didn’t put anything into Vitality, then died because you were running around with the Health of an asthmatic newbie.”

  “I’m not—” Osmark said, but Sandra was already moving deeper into the restricted area.

  She had a point, he couldn’t deny that, but the perfectionist in him didn’t want to squander even a single point that didn’t boost his most important stat if he could avoid it. Sure, having a little more Strength now might be nice, but it would likely cost him hours of grinding later on to make up the difference—doing it right the first time was the best choice.

  Sometimes, Robert wished people thought more like he did so he wouldn’t have to explain every decision he made. Life would certainly be simpler that way.

  A few yards from the stone steps, the tunnel changed dramatically. The floor, walls, and ceiling morphed into seamless metal covered in a tangle of thick pipes running the length of the corridor. Smaller conduits threaded their way through the larger pipes to form a confusing labyrinth of steel tubes, copper gauges, and iron rivets.

  The air was thick with heat and humidity as well as the rumbling and gurgling of steam rushing through the metal pipes around them. Thick glass globes flickered with jolts of pale blue light, reminding Osmark of primitive light bulbs attached to a failing power source. He idly wondered what this place would’ve looked like in its full glory, then paused and shook his head at his foolishness. This place had no past. It had never been in its full glory because it had been designed as a decrepit dungeon for Robert to plunder.

  Sometimes, it was too easy to forget this was all a grand illusion—a trick Robert himself had designed.

  He paused mid-stride, catching a glint of gold on the floor nearby. A single, fat coin lay on the ground near the wall. He bent over and picked it up. The breath caught in his chest as he examined his find in the flickering illumination from overhead. A carefully worked cog was stamped into the metal, and running along the outer edge, in thick bold lettering, he saw the words Brand-Forged.

  Incredible.

  Suddenly, his knees felt weak and his head felt light and butterflies fluttered manically in his gut. If this place really was Brand-Forged, it changed everything. Not only would he get a massive experience boost and a Faction Seal, it was likely he’d also find a Mechanical Artificer’s Guidebook somewhere in these halls. Which meant, instead of scouring all of Eldgard for the next month, he’d be able to acquire his specialty kit in record time and move on to the more important matters: like eliminating Sizemore and conquering an empire.

  He slipped the coin into his pocket—a token of good luck—as he pressed on, nearly exploding with excitement. This wasn’t just Christmas morning, not any more. No, it was Christmas, Easter, his birthday, and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one. He picked up his pace, eager to share his finding with Sandra, but the words died on his lips as the tunnel opened into an oval chamber with a glowing orb the size of a wrecking ball sunk into its center. Three figures stood around the orb, and all turned to face Osmark as he and Sandra entered the room.

  “Who goes there?” the first of the adventurers asked as she stepped into the day-bright glow of Sandra’s magical flashlight. She was tall and slender, with a pair of elegant wings covered with sleek brown feathers sprouting from her shoulders. Her crimson robes flowed down her voluptuous form like water, and their vibrant color exactly matched her flashing eyes.

  Osmark raised his right hand and answered her challenge. “I’m Robert Osmark, and I command you by my seal and my sign.”

  On cue, a burning sigil appeared on the palm of his hand. The Accipiter stepped forward, crimson eyes narrowed as she examined Robert’s hand; simultaneously, Sandra moved into striking range, palm resting on the hilt of a curved blade at her hip. The two women exchanged dangerous glances, and Robert tensed.

  A pale blue light flashed across the Accipiter’s eyes, and she nodded. “You are who you claim, and we are glad to be of service.”

  She pressed one long-nailed thumb against her chest and said, “I’m Eldred, the Fell Summoner.”

  A burly dwarf stepped away from the glowing orb and hefted a massive hammer in both hands. “And I’m Karzic, the Soul Chanter.”

  Finally, an enormous Risi with a head covered in more scars than hair stepped forward. He rested his gauntleted hands on the hilts of the iron kanabo dangling from hooks on his belt. The triangular spikes set into the clubs looked sharp and heavy enough to tear through metal armor like a can opener. He stepped up to Osmark and thrust his enormous gauntlet-covered fist forward in a gesture that was more challenge than a greeting. “And I am Targ, Bonecrusher.”

  Osmark wasn’t sure if the Risi was announcing his class kit or just making a statement of fact. Either way, he looked more than capable of crushing just about anything he wanted.

  Robert appraised the mercenaries, and a surge of relief washed through him. These were his NPCs, specially designed to help him grind his way through this dungeon, defeat the Boss, and claim his Faction Seal. He’d wondered what form they would take, and how competent they’d be, and these three surpassed his wildest dreams. They had a well-balanced party with two DPS members, a thief, a cleric, and a warrior. If Robert played his cards right, this was going to be a walk in the park.

  “Well, then, I suppose it’s time to get this expedition underway.” Robert nodded toward Sandra. “This is our stalker. She’ll lead the way and make sure we don’t stumble into any unpleasant traps.”

  Sandra nudged him with an elbow as she passed, and muttered, “Gee, thanks, I’ll do all the hard work.”

  Osmark was surprised to find that Sandra’s sarcastic tone was far more comforting than annoying, even after all he’d been through. It was good to know that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Sandra was different here—stronger and more confident—but she was still the same person underneath the physical changes and black armor.

  Robert needed that stability, now more than ever.

  The NPC mercenaries said nothing as they followed Sandra, and Osmark kept his thoughts to himself as he brought up the rear. He didn’t want to distract Sandra from the important task of making sure they didn’t wander into some instant death security system, and the quiet gave him time to examine his surroundings more thoroughly.

  Whatever else the Brand-Forged had been, they were heavily invested in the use of steam. Scalding jets of the stuff emerged from pressure valves overhead, pipes shook all around Robert, and he wondered how many centuries it had been since someone gave this place a safety inspection. If one of the hundreds of pressurized pipes surrounding them burst …

  Robert shook his head. That was the last thing he needed to be thinking about. He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts of doom, gloom, and sudden mechanical failure that he only noticed Sandra had stopped when he bumped into Targ’s massive back.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, trying to peer around the Bonecrusher’s muscular form. Before Robert could see anything, though, the lights went out, and an enormous hand clamped over his mouth.

  TWENTY-THREE:

  Scavlings

  Osmark struggled against the hand on his mouth, trying to push it away, but the calloused palm refused to budge. Hot breath washed
over his face as a gruff voice rumbled in his left ear. “Your stalker spotted some nasties up ahead. Stay. I’ll kill whatever it is.” With that, the hand vanished, and Robert was alone in the dark.

  Soft footfalls approached on either side of him, and he realized his mercenaries were taking their job very seriously. Good. Eldred and Karzic were close enough to defend him if needed, but not so close as to intrude on his personal space. He was grateful for their professionalism and support, but he didn’t like the idea of Sandra being out there with no one but the Risi at her back. Targ looked impressive, but Osmark had no idea how he stood up in a fight. He’d known lots of men in his life who were tough as nails on the surface but had guts of marshmallow fluff.

  A metallic tapping echoed down the hallway in regular, rapid bursts. Tick tick tick. Silence. Tick tick tick.

  The noises were faint at first but grew louder with each repetition. Osmark heard one series of ticks answered by another, which in turn was answered by two more. One of the tickers was close, while the others were more distant. Still, they were closing in from all directions, and there were a lot of them.

  Osmark listened to the pattern of the sounds, the way they came first from his left, then his right, then from dead ahead. The ticking repeated, over and over, minutely changing direction as the tickers drew ever nearer.

  Robert realized what was happening, and a spike of adrenaline set his heart into overdrive.

  “Light,” he hissed, hoping he was loud enough for Sandra to hear him, but not so loud he’d attract the attention of the tickers. “We need the light. Whatever’s making the noise hunts by sound.”

  Eldred’s voice slithered into his right ear. “Silence,” she said, her mouth so close to Osmark’s cheek he felt the heat of her lips brushing against his skin. “Targ knows what he’s doing. Let him work.”