Rogue Evolution

by James Hunter

“The Bell?” Roark asked, frowning in disbelief. “You work at a monastery? In my experience, monks don’t usually take in the...” He searched for a word that would encompass what exactly PwnrBwner was, but descriptors fell short. He settled for “...impious.”

  The Cleric stared at him for several long seconds, then snorted.

  “God, you’re a dork. Not like a church bell, dipshit. Taco Bell. It’s a restaurant.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t even matter. Point is, some carload of jackasses bombshelled me, and this happened.”

  PwnrBwner raised his gauntleted right hand, and a mystic blue tower shield burst into existence, blazing with holy light.

  “And?” Roark said, eyeing the shield.

  “And?” Pwner snapped, dismissing the magical projection. “The fuck you mean, and? It was magic. Real magic.”

  Roark shrugged. “Obviously.”

  “Well, guess what, you pirate-wad smartass? We don’t have magic back in the real world! It’s not like whatever shitty fantasy Mordor place you’re from. We’ve got science and shit, not magic shields.”

  “Wait.” Roark straightened, holding up one hand to stop the Cleric’s ranting. A thrill of excitement ran through his gut as he processed what PwnrBwner was saying. “You’re telling me that you manifested Hearthworld magick in your dimension, completely outside the boundaries of Hearthworld, and that this is not typical?”

  “Finally, you’re starting to catch up. That’s exactly what I’m saying. And this all started right after you turned me into a Greater Vassal or whatever. So, what the shit?”

  Roark cupped his chin and thought back over PwnrBwner’s claims.

  “Truthfully, I have no idea what’s happening to you or why,” he admitted. “The World Stone Pendant is what allows me to make Vassals, and it’s an enigma even to me. I stole it from the Tyrant King, and I believe it’s at least partly responsible for bringing me here to Hearthworld. But I’ve only been able to unlock a fraction of its abilities—and even those I hardly understand. Still, if this is true...”

  “What, you don’t believe me?” PwnrBwner sneered. “You think I’m lying? Or, what, that I’m crazy and I just imagined it? Because I shoulda had sticky, sixteen-flavor Mountain Dew all over me, but—”

  “No, I believe you,” Roark hurried to interrupt. “But this could change everything. If becoming a Greater Vassal allowed you to use your Cleric abilities in your realm, then perhaps it will allow me to carry my powers back into Traisbin. With the magick of Hearthworld at my disposal, I might have a genuine chance to unseat Marek.” Roark reached up and caressed the World Stone Pendant through his shirt. “No wonder he wants it back so badly.”

  “Hey, that’s great for you,” PwnrBwner said with aggressively false cheer, “but what the hell does this mean for me?”

  “I don’t know,” Roark admitted. “It’s possible you could gain all of your abilities in your home dimension.”

  The Cleric went still. Then, slowly, his jaw dropped.

  “I... am gonna be... so fucking rich!” He aimed two middle fingers at the Citadel’s ceiling. “Kiss my hairy gamer ass, Chaz! And you can eat a dick, everybody else! A ten-pound bag of them! Who’s the bitch now, huh?”

  The clatter of armor sounded at the top of the stairs, and Druz appeared, interrupting the Cleric’s sudden strange apoplectics.

  “We’ve got incoming, Dungeon Lord!” the first-floor overseer called. “Big party—all level 30 or above.”

  “Care to help?” Roark asked, shooting Pwner a sidelong glance.

  “Hell yeah,” he said, pulling his flanged mace free. “Long as I get my cut of the loot.”

  The next wave of heroes came down in a rush of plate armor and steel shields—a uniform wall of tanks, formed in a horseshoe around a core of casters and archers. Briefly, Roark considered simply heading deeper into the Citadel and letting the Hero Sieve do its job, grinding this party down by inches, but he was damned closed to level 40. Closer than he’d ever been, and he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. Besides, other than waiting for Viago and Lowen’s other lackeys to show up, he had nothing else to do.

  “What the hell is the Dungeon Lord doing on one?” a Warlock with the nameplate [Lulz_Lock] shouted, sounding panicked. “This wasn’t part of the plan! I don’t have spells prepped for this.”

  “Don’t you dare break ranks, Jared,” one of the enormous NecroKnights called over one steel-plated shoulder. “I swear to God, I’ll boot your ass from this party if you bail!”

  The first-floor’s patrol smashed into the semicircle of heroes, huge hammers denting shields, the clang of steel reverberating in the air.

  PwnrBwner leapt into the fray, calling down bolts of angry blue lightning on the spellcasters while simultaneously trading blows with a halberd-wielding Olm in a long shirt of scale mail. Surprisingly, the invading heroes held against the brutal onslaught of Trolls long enough for the casters to unleash a bevy of deadly spells. Spears of sharpened ice erupted from the floor, impaling Thursr Behemoths and Reaver Champions, while a slow-brewing green cloud churned above them, suddenly belching out a torrent of deadly acid. Fat droplets sizzled where they ate through flesh and pitted metal.

  These heroes had come with an arsenal of serious magical muscle. For once, Roark could help his troops most by casting magic, as opposed to closing ranks and trying to cut down the invaders with his raw strength.

  Mac appeared at Roark’s side, awaiting a command.

  “Wall climb!” Roark barked to the Young Turtle Dragon.

  Mac chirped and disappeared, his distorted form scampering toward the far wall.

  With a thought, Roark brought forth his Initiate’s Spell Book and flipped to the second page. He jotted down a lightning-fast level 1 Dispel Magick and cast it, banishing the frosty spears.

  However, the low-level spell did nothing to eliminate the deadly green rain pelting his troops. These mages were top-tier, then. Time to change approaches.

  Roark switched to a level 4 spell slot.

  [All Infernal creatures within a fifteen-foot radius are impervious to rain.]

  The spell took with a flash, and Roark wasted no time in triggering it.

  Though the rain continued to fall in a deadly sheet, the Trolls no longer suffered its debilitating effects. Newly protected, Roark’s forces pressed forward with fresh vigor, lips pulled back in snarls, fangs flashing, cursed swords, axes, and warhammers falling to some unheard drumbeat. To further strengthen them, Roark triggered a round of Infernal Invigoration, his Infernali Magick taking a dip as he unleashed an umbrella of claret-colored light over his forces. The Jotnar spell brought most of the Trolls’ Health bars back to nearly full health.

  Next, Roark turned his focus to the heroes’ weakest link: Lulz_Lock, the whiny, complaining human Warlock, nestled back in the folds of the human shield wall.

  As a support caster, the whiny hero was integral to the fight. Roark knew that if he could get Lulz_Lock to break, the whole formation would shatter like glass lace.

  He activated another Jotnar spell, Infernal Torment, which inflicted 1 point of damage per caster character level, per second, for a grand total of 30 seconds. At Roark’s current level 39, that was a vicious 1170 points of damage. Even better, Infernal Torment disrupted any spell that required concentration, which stopped a goodly number of the hero mages’ casts.

  Plum-colored flames burst from Lulz_Lock’s flesh, igniting his robes as the spell seared him from the inside out. The Warlock shrieked, hands batting against his body as he tried desperately to squelch the flames. The human torch’s flailing distracted his fellow casters and fighters, opening a thin line in the shield wall.

  An opening PwnrBwner boldly shoved himself into, widening the gap with shield, mace, and brilliant blue lightning strikes.

  A shimmering distortion dropped from the ceiling, landing amongst the mages and support casters in a crush of invisible scales and spiked shell.

  “Holy shit! They’re raining down from
the fucking ceiling!” an Arcanist in crudely stitched leathers cried. “We need to retreat. This wasn’t part of the plan!”

  “Hold the line, you shit weasel!” the burly NecroKnight hollered. Obviously, he was the leader of this party.

  But it was too late.

  Mac savaged the casters from the inside, and the formation came apart at the seams, each plate- and mail-clad fighter turning into an island unto themselves. Islands quickly surrounded by a sea of Troll flesh.

  A few tried to break for the stairs, but Roark was prepared for retreats. He conjured a wall of deadly red-orange flame, five feet tall, a foot thick, and burning with all the fury of a smelting forge. Pinned between the flames and the relentless press of well-trained Trolls, the heroes never stood a chance. The last of the powerful heroes fell in under a minute.

  An ascending chime rang through the room, declaring that Roark had finally hit level 40.

  [LEVEL UP!]

  [You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]

  But before Roark could pull up his stat screen and look over his newest level, a furious roar tore through the air, accompanied by a whoosh of air from the staircase.

  Wheeling around, Roark stared in shock as an angelic figure with russet feathers and an enormous flaming battle-axe appeared in the stairwell.

  Viago. And the winged bastard wasn’t alone. Druz—caught flat-footed in the middle of looting a corpse—tried to cry out a warning, but Viago’s axe chopped the first-floor overseer’s head off with a single swing. She dropped where she stood.

  The winged berserker shifted left, agile as a hunting falcon, and shoulder-checked PwnrBwner out of the way with careless ease, hurling the Cleric back against the wall.

  Behind the bulky Viago came a trio of Heralds, all bearing magick weapons, haughty satisfaction etched into their features.

  Even in his surprise, Roark had to admit that the ploy was rather clever. They’d used the Hero raid as a smoke screen, waiting until the Trolls had conquered and let their guards down before launching their own assault.

  Viago didn’t have the mental capacity to come up with such a plan on his own, however. The whole gambit smacked of Lowen.

  “Everyone back!” Roark shouted at his troops. He flexed his wings and charged forward, conjuring his Initiate’s Spell Book. He hurled a skull-sized ball of fire at the incoming Heralds.

  The Heralds moved in practiced coordination, fanning out, golden hands raised, all pointed squarely at Roark.

  “Do your worst!” Roark taunted, raising his hand for another attack.

  “Not getting out of this one, trash,” Viago hissed, golden energy building in his palms.

  Roark conjured another simple Absorption Spell, knowing it would do little good against the sheer power a level 99 could unleash. He gritted his teeth and braced himself. This was going to hurt. At least he would have his chance to see whether the new Curse Chain worked.

  All four Heralds unleashed a wall of blinding power, more brilliant than the sun at noonday. The room disappeared in eye-searing light, unbearable to look at.

  Roark pressed his eyes shut tight, body tensing as he waited to be enveloped in pain and burning agony. But after a few seconds, he cracked his lids and let out a slow exhale. The light was gone and so, too, were the Heralds.

  Most of them, anyway. One—a tawny female—lay dead, her golden skin boiled clean off the muscle beneath, trails of smoke drifting up from her ruined remains. Golden bones glimmered through the ash. Of the other three, however, there was no sign at all.

  “What. The fuck. Just happened?” Pwner asked, climbing to his feet with a cough. “Where’d those chode muncher Heralds go?”

  “The Star Iron Hills,” Roark replied. He’d dispatched Kaz with the newest destination plate as soon as he’d finished perfecting the inscription. “I don’t think they’ll be bothering us again for a while yet.”

  He grinned, recalling the craggy, sheer cliff faces nearly five hours away from the Citadel by foot. Those hills, really more mountains than their name suggested, were home to the vicious Rock Wyverns, venomous creatures that would pose a threat to anything foolish enough to stumble into their nests. Roark and Kaz had traveled there once to help Zyra acquire a rare quest ingredient, and every time he thought about the trip, he shuddered.

  Even with portal magick and wings, it would take Viago and his allies a few hours to get back to the Citadel, and that was assuming they survived once the Elder Rock Wyverns began attacking.

  It wouldn’t keep Lowen and his Heralds out forever, but it would buy Roark a little more time to shore up his defenses and level his own abilities, or “git gud” as PwnrBwner often said.

  “Whatever,” the High Combat Cleric said, heading for the dead Herald’s golden bones. “Since none of you Trolls can use Divine weapons and armor, I’ll just take that aligned loot off your hands, then.” He picked through her gear, mumbling, “Aw, yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Come to papa.”

  Roark rolled his eyes, then opened his grimoire to his character page. Amazingly, it appeared that he hadn’t just leveled up, he’d unlocked a new World Stone Pendant ability.

  Somewhere beyond the pages of the book, Roark heard PwnrBwner’s armor clank.

  “All right, dickbreath, I’m gonna hit up Avery City and sell off some of this shit. Maybe check in with that dweeb Randy and see if any weird shit has happened to him since you hoodooed us. Smell ya later, loser.”

  As the rip of a portal scroll sounded, Roark gave an absent wave, unable to take his eyes from the words emblazoned on the page. They burned like a torch in his mind: Transmute Flesh.

  Just what in the seven hells did that mean?

  Retribution

  SCOTT BAYANI STEPPED out of the portal onto the colorful mosaic tiles of the Avery City fountain court. Brilliant sunlight and the sound of splashing water and people laughing and talking washed over him all at once. He smiled and breathed in the sweet aboveground air, glad to be firmly back in his element. Dungeons were great, sure, but this was where he belonged, surrounded by gamers who could appreciate a decent player when they saw him. All around him, losers were running out of portals with a sliver of HP left, while ballers swaggered out over-encumbered with all the badass loot they’d taken. Some dude was dragging what looked like a mutated narwhal through one portal.

  SSDD—same shit different day. Every city’s portal center was the same, all day long.

  Scott pointed himself toward the marketplace and got a move on. He wanted to get through the bottleneck at the edge of the fountain court before the dillweed with the narwhal blocked traffic. Only a stupid newb would haul around a mob like that instead of just harvesting it. Scott had shit to do, and he didn’t have time to stand around waiting for a porpoise to squeeze through a crowd.

  Basically, all he needed to do was sell the awesome extra gear that had started rolling in since he’d teamed up with the Griefer, but that was going to take some time. He had six game-breakers in his Inventory, another twenty Unique weapons and armor, and a bunch of rando one-off spell scrolls and shit he would never use. The NPC merchant gold limits in Hearthworld were better than in a lot of games, but he was still going to have to spread his sales out across most of Avery City to offload it all. Shit, he might even need to port over to the Darkhaven Marketplace.

  He could’ve sold it all in the Troll Marketplace. Probably all in one spot. Either mobs didn’t fall under the NPC’s economy-stabilizing rules or Roark had come up with some magic cheat to let his merchants hoard as much gold as they wanted, because even lame-o places like the herbalist shop and the street food vendors were rolling in dough.

  Thing was, Scott didn’t trust the Troll Marketplace.

  The thought of making friends with mobs, then hunting them down in quests and shit was... Well, it made him feel weird. Almost queasy or something.

  Then again, it could’ve just been that Nachos Bell Grande he’d grabbed on his way out of work. He wouldn’t put it past Chaz
to Ex-Lax him after that shift.

  Fucking Chaz.

  Scott shook his head. Screw Chaz and screw the Bell.

  That IRL shit couldn’t touch him in Hearthworld.

  Here he was PwnrBwner—a fact displayed for all the world to see, thanks to the tag floating over his head in thin white letters. Here he was an OG, a shot-caller, and such a badass that he wasn’t just killing game monsters, he was helping save a whole other alien world. One he hadn’t even seen. And since the Griefer was ass-ugly, chances were high that the alien chicks from his world were going to be way too geek-faced for Scott. Which meant he was doing all this out of pure charity. They should build him a monument. Or at least pay him in IRL gold. He’d have to talk to the Griefer about that. A shit ton of gold pirate doubloons would help him leave the Bell in the rearview mirror.

  The smell of hops and roasting meat intensified, making his mouth water as he shouldered his way into the bustling marketplace. Classic devs, cranking up the smells to make sure the players would shell out their hard-earned cash in the local pubs and taverns. It was a secondary source of revenue for Hearthworld, since players who sucked could just buy gold for their characters, and let’s face it, you weren’t going to not get in-game hammered after a hard day of grinding.

  Scott was going to partake himself, once he dumped this extra gear on somebody. Of course, he wasn’t going to have to buy himself gold like a loser, he was going to have plenty of free-range yellow stuff in his account after he got done in the marketplace. He stretched up onto his toes, looking down the row of janky booths. Usually he traded with that elf with the big teeth who never shut up, but the elf merchant had gone over to the Troll side and set up permanent shop in the Cruel Citadel. It was a pain in the ass for Scott, but he couldn’t blame elf dude for following that sweet, sweet money.

  With a shrug, Scott headed for the closest armor vendor. Might as well just sell down the line until he was empty.

  “Hey.” Scott shoved his way up to the armorer’s table and tossed down a Peerless Helm of the Cursed Rampaging Behemoth. Its Two-handed bonus was stupid good, and Roark had thrown a Strength multiplier on it along with a post-mortem curse that would blow up anybody who tried to loot it from your corpse. Hilarious. But Scott’s cleric main was all about One-handed weapons, so the helmet had to go. “What’ll you give me for this?”