Berserker: A LitRPG Urban Fantasy Adventure (Apocosmos Book 1)

by Dimitrios Gkirgkiris

  Berserker

  Apocosmos Book 1

  Dimitrios Gkirgkiris

  Contents

  Exile amongst the ruins

  1. I am above

  2. Smokers outside the hospital doors

  3. Inis Mona

  4. A man with a plan

  5. I will build you a Rome

  6. Fee Ra Huri

  7. I wanna be your dog

  Incense & Iron

  Interlude I

  8. Money for nothing

  9. Highway tune

  10. Diggy diggy hole

  11. Equilibrium

  Blood of Heroes

  Interlude II

  12. Child in time

  13. Turn the page

  14. Eyes of the beast

  15. Mercenary Man

  16. Battle hymn

  17. Of doom and death

  18. Tears of the dragon

  Last man standing

  Coda

  Neverending

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  A big thank you

  LitRPG Syndicate

  LitRPG Groups

  LitRPG Group

  About the author

  Exile amongst the ruins

  Prologue

  It was a cold night outside the slave barracks, colder than it was inside the patched-up building that served as a dormitory for hundreds of working-hands and gladiators. However, the rain had stopped pouring and people of all races and genders had set up small bonfires throughout the camp. That is, those of them who had managed to survive another day in the arena.

  Once every five days, the fighting pits would claim some of them. The lucky ones. The unlucky were healed just enough to escape death and be useful to their dominus on the next fighting day. Not enough to be saved from the aching though—pains so terrible that they would bring them in and out of consciousness. Not enough to spare anyone from a night filled with screams of agony as their wounds festered. And certainly not enough to ignore the smell of burnt flesh under hot steel as the gashes left by the monsters they had fought were cauterized.

  One would have expected the dampness in the air to cleanse the foul odors. That is, if one had never been enslaved in the ludus, on the outskirts of the nine hells. Humidity only made the sourness of sweat more pungent. The smell of iron slowly faded as the blood of the victims of today’s massacre washed away, but this strange combination of odors somehow formed a pattern of its own. Perhaps the stink of despair. The aroma of slavery.

  A dozen warriors argued in hushed voices around a crackling bonfire, their words unintelligible between the pained moans around them. Around them, the last raindrops slid slowly off the leaves of the thick trees surrounding the camp, tapping down onto the tin roof of their dormitories. The fire danced between the charred logs it devoured. Its flames were oblivious to the pain and suffering surrounding it, unaware of the sinister words exchanged between each of its cracklings. For the words promised only death and violence.

  “This is a piss-pot of an idea, Yalfrigg,” a lean elf said as he outstretched his hands to the fire, “and you know it. We all remember what happened last time we stood up against our dominus.”

  The elf was wearing black leather gloves, the fingers of the left cut down to account for his missing fingertips. His long greasy black hair was caught in a bun, allowing his squinting black eyes to shoot daggers at a dwarf who was sitting on the other side of the fire.

  “Aye,” the stout gray-bearded dwarf said. “I do fuckin’ remember, Neleth. They butchered us. They boiled us and they skinned us. They took my brother.”

  The sound of leather rubbing against leather cut through the distant screams of pain as the dwarf clenched his gloved hand, his tattooed muscles flexing and glistening under the soft light of the fire. The doctore was never a man of many words, but this conversation could not be swept aside by a swing of the powerful greatsword hanging on his back.

  The muscular dwarf removed his gloves and stood up. The way the dancing light of the fire illuminated him from below made his tattooed face look even scarier. This was someone who inspired respect through fear. A trainer and a king among slaves.

  “Never before have we been so many,” said another figure, who was completely enveloped in a dark-brown oversized coat. The majority of people sitting around the fire were now nodding. “The dominus is getting lax.”

  “Yeh, the fucker is giving around top-tier equipment as if it’s candy,” said a battle-scarred orc towering over everyone even though she was sitting on the short stump of a tree. “But we’re still not enough to take them on. And we can’t break out of the barrier keeping us here.”

  “Not yet,” the dwarf continued. “First we need to reclaim our brothers and sisters and attack as one strong fist. Nobody wants to see their friends and family serve masters like fucking zombies.”

  “Reclaiming them is difficult enough,” the elf retorted. “Doing so in secret is impossible.”

  “There we go again with the nay-saying and the bitching,” the orc said, but only got a flick of the elf’s wrist in reply. “The man obviously has a plan and he’ll reveal it when the time’s ready.”

  “I need you to keep the people of your squadrons tight as a dying man’s jaws,” Yalfrigg said, and threw another log on the flames. “We’re constantly getting more recruits. Stronger ones, like him.” He pointed his thick index finger at a man in his mid-thirties who was leaning forward while seated on a wooden stool.

  The human stared at the dancing flames, his piercing blue eyes unmoving. A scar ran straight from his left ear down the side of his neck, where it slipped under his leather vest. The sides of his head were shaven, but the dark-blond hair on top was tied at the back of his head. Both the white cloth covering his armor and his thick beard were stained with blood from his battle.

  The middle-aged berserker had a completely different disposition to the one he’d demonstrated when he frenziedly carved down and slaughtered two demons—one for each of his swords—in the arena only an hour ago. His face looked serene, focused even. He looked like no hell would get to him, and this place was as close to any of the hells as one could get without actually stepping foot in them.

  “Who the fuck is this new guy anyway?” asked Neleth, ever-suspicious. “What’s a high-level human doing here? You’re a fool for trusting him, old man.”

  “Stand up and say that to my face, boy,” the dwarf said without raising the tone of his voice in the slightest. “See how that dagger of yours will fare against me.”

  The elf didn’t reply but didn’t move his eyes away from his doctore. Seeing how the human wasn’t reacting in any way to what he was saying, he was going to have to get his answer from Yalfrigg.

  “I know he hasn’t been planted by our dominus,” the dwarf replied, “because I know exactly why he’s here. He despises him as much as we do. And you all saw him fight. He hates demons more than anyone.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself, human?” the orc asked. “How do we know you weren’t sent here by our dominus to spy on us? Who are you?”

  The man did not immediately respond, but just as the orc was becoming frustrated at his silence, he sighed and looked at her for the first time.

  “I am a killer,” the man said quietly and returned his eyes onto the fire. “I have slain demons and dragons. I’ve killed more than my share. I’ve played the role of the judge and the executioner far too many times. I have made orphans and widows. Decapitated the living ones with no more hesitation that I did
swarms of undead.”

  The elf sitting next to the man now shifted in his chair uncomfortably. The man’s soft voice was in stark contrast to his appearance, but not to his eyes. His eyes looked tired. Tired of the futility of everything. Tired of fighting.

  “I have cried in pain and retched at the sight of a person’s innards,” he continued. “I’ve run in fear and lived to fight another day. I watched a woman sacrifice herself so that I could live and turned my back to her. I’ve made friends but even more enemies. The friends, I betrayed. The enemies, I’ve killed. But the enemies I made just before I was brought here are not yet dead, and I will not rest until I feel their blood on my face.”

  “You still haven’t told us why you came here,” the orc said. “Not even your name.”

  “My name is Alexander Rage,” he replied. “Or at least that’s the name I go by. Berserker. Dragonsbane. Battleforged. Traitor. I come from what some of you call the prime plane, or Midgard, or Di. And this is the story of how I came to this hellhole willingly.”

  1

  I am above

  “The next big update will be released on the Friday two weeks after tomorrow,” our department lead told us. “This is our final sprint, people. Literally!”

  I rolled my eyes at what he considered humor, while a few of the brown-nosers chuckled at their boss’s incredible joke.

  “We are the number one company in CCGs and MMORPGs across PCs and consoles,” the corporate hipster continued. “This update will push our latest Collectible Card Game to the top. But we can’t do it unless every single one of us puts their one thousand percent into it these next two weeks.”

  Every single one of us? I bet the fucker actually believed he worked as much as we did. Of course, in reality he would spend his weekend in the Hamptons, socializing his way to his next promotion while we ate pre-cooked meals from the deli downstairs before crawling back to our apartments for four hours of sleep.

  “I know this is going to be a tough couple of weeks, but I believe in us. So let’s do it everyone!” He finished his small informal speech with a clap of his hands.

  Quite early in my time with Hot N Spicy Digital, I had realized how easy it was to rank people based on their kiss-assness. That is, how much of a bootlicker each person was. There were other criteria like nodding when your supervisor explained their “vision” for the company’s future, but the ranks became clear when a person higher up on the corporate ladder said something that could be considered even remotely inspiring and you saw how fast said bootlickers started clapping with enthusiasm.

  Sure enough, the three developers who’d spent the least amount of time actually developing and the most time answering emails and CCing people in on their status-update emails were the first ones to join the corporate kumbaya. I clapped with mocking enthusiasm as I shot a look at Leo, perhaps my only friend in this miserable place.

  Leonardo DiFiore was a thirty-two-year-old stick of a man that was nothing like the stereotyped Italian-American mafiosos or fuckboys that were the only kinds ever shown on TV. His short hair looked messy in a way that could have been deliberately styled, and his brown eyes were magnified by the thick glasses he wore. He was, as always wearing dark neutral clothes that would never attract a second look. Though now that I thought about it, his accent was definitely heavily influenced by his family, and he had never told me what kind of business they were in. Maybe he was a nerdy mafioso?

  Both of his parents had moved to the US when they were young, so he was born and raised in Little Italy. He’d grown up in New York and you could tell by the way he carried himself with an air of quiet confidence. That is, when his parents weren’t around. The few times we’d bumped into his mother or father, he’d turned into a clumsy anxious mess, even though they both seemed like lovely people.

  Leo clapped even harder now, following each of the sounds escaping my hands with a louder, more sarcastic clap of his own.

  Beat me at sarcasm? I drink a bottle full of sarcasm for breakfast every day.

  I rolled my tongue and produced a high-pitched whistle that caught Justin, our department lead, by surprise.

  “Yeah!” he shouted, and raised his hand for a high-five.

  “Yeah!” I shouted in reply, and slapped his hand with force.

  You ignorant fuck.

  Once the meeting had finished and the enthusiasm of the IT frat-boys had quietened down, I walked back to my desk where Louie, my four-year-old corgi, was waiting for me. When I stroked his back, he opened his eyes and pulled his ears back, then did his afternoon downward-dog yoga pose. He let out a little yelp of excitement as I put my laptop into my leather messenger bag, a sign that another gruesome day in the life of a game developer was over.

  Being a senior developer wasn’t all bad. There were plenty of things worse than working on the backend of games. Even the thought of working front-end made my skin itch. Of course, I could have become a team lead, but I wasn’t one to lead people. Maybe I used to be, but not anymore. Leo was just much better suited to the job. I’d never be able to stand the constant bitching of the “just-graduated” and “I-have-the-best-idea-ever” junior devs.

  I put Louie on his leash and walked to the exit, knowing full well that the next time I came into the office, I’d better bring a pillow and a blanket. Fridays close to big updates on our games always ended up stretching into Saturdays and Sundays.

  “Alex,” Leo called, just as I was about to leave. “We’re running a one-shot in Exandria tonight and I know you love the Mercer’s world. What do you say? Pizza and D&D?”

  “Nah, man. Not in the mood tonight,” I replied. Leo was always trying to make me more social, but I knew he had a kind heart so it never really bothered me. It also wouldn’t make me change my mind. “Have fun though.”

  “Oh, I see how it is,” he said. “You got some special plans for your 35th and I’m not invited?”

  I rolled my eyes and waved him goodbye.

  “Will you stream later tonight, though?” he shouted as the office door was closing behind me.

  “Yep!” I replied loudly, and Louie barked in agreement.

  People often praised New York City and its beauty during the summer months. Songs like “Summer in the city” seemed to be favorited and shared pretty widely through social media at this time of year. But walking toward my apartment in Williamsburg, inhaling the fumes from the traffic jams and sweating with the extreme humidity of July, all I could hear was Final Fantasy XV’s “Hellfire” track. Come to think of it, I hadn’t listened to that soundtrack for quite some time. As I stopped for Louie to relieve himself on a fire hydrant, I put on “Apocalypsis Noctis” on my headphones and tried to mentally travel to that world. I barely managed to contain the urge to swing my hands around like an orchestra conductor as we continued walking through Brooklyn.

  My stomach made the all-too-familiar groan to “stop neglecting it” and, seeing as today was my cheat day, I decided to make a slight detour and stop by Cheeseboat to buy my and Louie’s favorite dinner. I was happy to see that it wasn’t particularly busy, so I tied Louie to one of the heavy wooden benches outside and entered the restaurant. I quickly gave my order for one “El Chupacabra Cheeseboat” and told the waiter I’d be waiting for it outside.

  I stepped out and sat down on the bench next to Louie. Since I wasn’t going to visit the gym today, I thought I should at least vent out some pent-up energy through my music selection, so I put on Amon Amarth’s “Twilight of the Thunder God” and proceeded to pet Louie while keeping an eye out for the waiter.

  A few seconds later, I saw a group of five men in corporate suits crossing the street and approaching the restaurant. They reeked of the superiority that comes with high-salary white-collar professions. I bet they were into finance or something of the sort. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, laughing loudly as if the world belonged to them, crossing the street at their own pace and flipping a taxi driver who honked at them—typical boys who got too rich too q
uick. Not giving a shit about the world as long as their noses were full of cocaine and they had a new visitor in their bed each night.

  Louie yelped as one of them stepped on his tail while I was scratching him under his chin.

  “Leash your bitch!” I heard the same man say as I removed my headphones and launched myself up.

  The men just ignored me as they entered the restaurant, as if nothing had happened.

  “Who’re you calling a bitch, bitch?” I almost shouted, feeling my fingernails digging in my palms.

  This was supposed to be another boring day, but you fuckers had to ruin it.

  “What did you call me?” the man said, a sickening smirk on his face.

  I’ll wipe that smile off your face, you bastard. Just keep at it.

  “Are you deaf, bitch?” I asked, as I sidestepped to keep a safe distance from Louie who was still tied up.

  The man walked toward me almost casually. I could see he was going to push me.

  You hurt my dog, you bastard. We’re way past pushing each other.

  My right fist landed straight on his nose. At the moment of the impact, I felt two cracks. One was my pinkie finger popping. The other was his nose breaking. When I pulled it back, my fist was red with blood, though not mine. The man’s nose was bleeding, creating a small dribbling fountain as he fell back, unconscious.

  One of his friends rushed to pick him up while another simply stared, his eyes wide open in surprise at how easily his pal was knocked out. Logic told me to drop my fists and let this end here, but I had an uncontrollable urge to see that they all learned their lesson on the ground. One by one.