Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  “Good to hear. Thank you.” He grabbed a cheese and bacon scone and stepped toward the furtherest station for some privacy, Gabrielle just behind with a caramel slice. It looked like everyone had already sorted themselves. Rowan was indeed late, fashionably. He did not mind. Savory delight piled into his stomach while less ten faces looked in their direction. No one recognized Gabrielle; their channel was still tiny after all.

  Their conversations were what one would expect.

  “By the way, my guild Light’s Justice is recruiting. We welcome basically everyone, but we have a hardcore focus. World-firsts on everything!”

  “I hope pain is tuned down enough. I have a low threshold.”

  “I think we should go with The Thief. It says it has a high potential for gold-making.”

  “Ugh, shucks. I didn’t get a legendary.”

  “If anyone gets a good legendary, I’m willing to pay good credits to be the tag-along.”

  “Is real-money trading even allowed?”

  A Synaptic employee in a blazer T-shirt combo answered that one: “We found through market research that up to a third of players may potentially engage in such activity, so we ultimately decided to allow real-money trading through in-game adventurer-only credit markets and third-party dealers, but I must stress that any bug abuse or attempts at automating the game through the home headsets are violations of the terms of service. I most also stress that most items can also be both destroyed or stolen or both. Synaptic Entertainment will take no responsibility for lost assets, as per the terms of service.”

  Fair enough. Ultra-realism.

  Gabrielle said, “We could make some money with that.”

  “Maybe some pocket change.” Rowan past attempts at real-money trading in other games hadn’t been fruitful.

  Then a guy yelled, “Someone from Australia got a legendary fate!”

  Rowan shrugged, tempted to crack a comment about kangaroos. It was bound to happen. Millions around the world were ready for this launch. The limited immersion VR helmets had long shipped, a pair sitting in Gabrielle’s closet.

  “Kay, enough pigging out,” she chirped and roughly pushed in front of him.

  The remaining bite of his scone was nearly knocked from his fingers, but he let it slide.

  She swiped her access card and donned the head gear, and in seconds, the hologram shifted from a twinkling constellation to three crystals. Her posture immediately wilted with her typical dramatic flair. No legendary fates—as expected. She waved away the hologram and pulled off the gear before he could even get a good look. One was The Noble, and the other had polished silver artwork.

  He asked, “What was that silver one?”

  “Nothing good. Your turn.” A sigh wafted from her lips. She leaned to his ear, added in a whisper, “None of my baking for a month if ya don’t get a legendary.”

  His stomach shriveled. “Don’t be like that,” he whispered back, then stepped forth.

  Momentary hesitation held back his wrist. His heart was thumping. Nevertheless, a forceful jerk of his bicep swiped the access card. The room throbbed with his quickening pulse, and the chatter quieted in his ears.

  Please be amazing. Be legendary.

  This was it. His fate. He did not know where this sudden rush of emotion was rising from, but having his entire psyche and deepest desires judged by a hyper-intelligent AI was more than daunting, invasive even. His personality type and life experiences were taken into account during its decision making. He sucked in a deep breath and placed the wireless tiara on his forehead.

  The crystals faded in, labels beneath each. The Exile. The Assailant.

  A wave of hot adrenaline swept his body.

  Demonborn. Legendary fate.

  2

  It couldn’t be, but there it floated midair: Demonborn.

  A mix of ecstasy and chilly disbelief pumped in Rowan’s blood. Inside that crystal, a chalky skull with two forward-curved horns grinned at him, teeth sharpened to points, fiery spheres for eyes. The art was tripe, but still goosebumps run up his side and down his back. He read its description.

  Demonborn [1 Tag-along]

  Pain and tribulation await all those who seek to embrace the unrivaled powers of Hell.

  And an asterisk twinkled at the crystal's apex

  *This fate may significantly increase the starting difficulty of your adventure. Psychological distress may occur. Proceed at your own risk.

  Neither of the other two fates had a warning. And neither promised unrivaled power. Perhaps an exaggeration there? The devs had assured the AI balanced the game well.

  Thin fingers waved in front of his eyes. “Did ya hear me?” Gabrielle whispered with too much excitement bubbling.

  He let out the breath he was holding. His pulse slowed. The surrounding voices picked back up, but he kept staring at the skull. Its menacing bone structure was rather aesthetic—and brightly lit. He shuffled closer to the hologram and angled leftward to block view. Best to not cause a scene. It didn’t look as though anyone had taken notice; they were preoccupied with news coming in from around the globe, and the food.

  “Let’s keep a low profile for now, and I was having a zoned-out moment.”

  “Thought so.” She nudged his elbow. “Looks like we’re going on a special adventure.” Her tone was smug.

  Queasy irrationality won over his tongue: “I don’t know. Look at the warning.”

  “Cus I’m a girl?”

  Not this again. “No, cus you’re short.” And what if this game put her in a mental hospital? She’d be Gabby-the-vegetable.

  “Hmph.” Her tongue poked out for a trice. “It says small chance, and I have to make sure you don’t go insane on me. I can see you’ve already made your decision.” True that. “Also, I can logout any time if it gets too intense. Same goes for you.” And that.

  But… He wasn’t sure.

  Her lips puckered. “Are ya seriously going to send me away? It’s been team Row and Gabby in every game we’ve played.”

  That too, but still a risk regardless. “It doesn’t even say where we start or the pros and cons. How about The Exile. It hints we can build up our own village without much trouble. We can get a following among the playerbase easily with that. Think about it.”

  “Nope. I like the mystery.” She grinned jovially. “This will be the adventure of the year!”

  Of course, she did. She would rationalize any reason now that her mind was set. For those sweet, sweet Mytube subscribers. But out of all the legendary fates, it had to be one of the dangerous ones designed for the most hardcore thrill-seeking players, which he reasonably was, and so was she—to a lesser extent. He fixed his posture and massaged his temples. Ideas churned. A safer route paved itself; everyone had two free character slots.

  Yes, a trial run could be for the best. Synaptic had divulged few details on the game world, the leveling process most importantly. “Still, I think we should take it safe.”

  “Safe, eh?” Her eyes narrowed by millimeters, and he knew that look all too well. She was going to do something. She sucked in a big breath. “Demonborn! I want it!” she shouted too loudly, her voice echoing. “Legendary Demonborn! I said I want it! Why don’t I have it?!”

  That did it. Heads spun and snapped to her in a heartbeat. Electricity arced up Rowan’s neck, but he could deal with her shit easily. He gently tugged off the headset, the hologram dissipating before anyone saw the damning crystals. Easy dodge.

  He spread his open palms. “Unlucky! It was a one in two thousand chance after all.” A fake smile curled his lips as he looked at the approaching few players and that Synaptic employee. More half-lies slithered down his tongue unhindered: “Hey man, is it possible to have a do-over? My wife here really wanted a legendary fate for her MyTube channel, but unfortunately…” Rowan shrugged.

  “Mmmmm.” The guy reluctantly shook his head. “It’s not something we can do, but you can trade fates, remember, though I doubt anyone would part with a Demo
nborn.” He whistled as though he knew something.

  Gabrielle perked even straighter. “Ya know what the fate is about?”

  The gathering crowd was also eager, faces lighting up with intense interest. Truly, in this open-world multiplayer game, knowledge was power. The employee said, “Well, between all of you and me, let’s just say whomever receives that one is in for one heck of a journey. I heard from one of the game designers it’s one of those farmhand to legend adventures.” He smiled wryly with a peculiar twinkle in his eye.

  Gabrielle blurted, “Huh? Farmhand?”

  A nod. “Farmhand born with the powers of Hell sealed deep within. An epic tale for the ages.”

  A tall guy with curly dark hair said, “Way too cliche for my taste.”

  His nerdy-looking buddy with glasses added, “I like cliche. There’s a reason cliches are cliches in the first place.”

  A good point, but Rowan couldn’t care less. This morsel of knowledge changed things—changed for mayhaps the better. The Fate description was without doubt exaggerating. Unrivaled power and intense psychological distress? That sounded like a lawsuit and disaster of a game waiting to happen, surely.

  Rowan’s decision was made: this was his fate. He subtly winked at Gabrielle and shared a knowing look, almost able to read each other’s thoughts. Of course, she was still interested in Demonborn, adventurous as always.

  A redhead girl further back said, “Sounds lame.” Several guys nodded at her, murmuring. “I hope the other legendary fates aren’t anything like that!” A hand on her hip.

  “I agree,” someone said.

  “Yeah, same. I’ve played enough farmboy games.”

  A thin guy said, “Well, that’s a big no from me. We’re sticking to The Thief.”

  “Why would you have the AI design something like that for a legendary fate?” asked the super-fit guy who had been recruiting for Light’s Justice.

  The Synaptic employee chuckled, holding up palms. “Hey, I’m just a messenger. Who knows what kind of spices AI has sprinkles onto it.” He glanced at Gabrielle and Rowan. “Community Manager Tom Watson by the way.” He abruptly cleared his throat, then spoke in an authoritative voice, “Alright, everyone! Servers are up in ten minutes! Your room numbers are printed on your access cards. You should’ve received directions by email. Any questions?”

  Gabrielle’s hand shot up. “Yup! Can I take a platter of those bacon scones for later? Rowan here sure gets grouchy when hungry. Hehehe.”

  A handful of people laughed, and Tom smiled warmly. “Sure, but make sure to keep crumbs out of your extended-immersion pods. They run more efficiently when clean.”

  “Kay!”

  A man perhaps in his forties in a suit and tie spoke into a microphone. CEO Darius Roth. His voice was warm and brimming with excitement: “Ladies and gentlemen! In moments, you will embark on adventurer of a lifetime, and I humbly offer you one piece of advise: Sortis is a world of countless frightening dangers and unpredictable magic at the mercy of demanding gods, which do exist, and to survive in this world, you will need to adapt to different ways of life, different cultures and customs, some welcoming, others hostile, and few that are backwardly offending compared to our ways on Earth.

  “It is up to you, as divine adventurers from another world, to decide how you wish to cultivate fertile lands, shape uninhabitable barrens, and influence native societies for the better to your collective visions. However, let me emphasize that actions have consequences on Sortis. There are no do-overs. There will be no sever wipes or rollbacks. If you find yourself strung-up in prison, trapped deep underground, or lost in a pocket dimension…” Darius smiled wryly. “Then you have my moral support—or additional character slots at a price of ten credits a pop.”

  A round of laughter filtered through the crowd, but Rowan was trying keep impatience off his face. None of this information was new or helpful. Darius was playing it up for journalists present, simple as that. He was doing his job, doing it well.

  The next minutes fly away with Rowan’s limbs on autopilot while his brain evaluated optimal first steps as Demonborn farmhands. Farms were one of the easier starting locations in the medieval high-fantasy world. Naturally a good food source in a spacious flat area, renewable water and at least some other natural resources were of plenty. Hopefully close to metal-rich stony land; that’d be optimal for settlement-building.

  We can violently take over whatever location I spawn into with our demonic powers eventually. That’d sure make for a bang. We can be world baddies or something. Lots of views for—

  Gabrielle cut his schemings short with a hard tap on his nose. Her pinky finger was out, pointing back down the corridor. “Our room is back there.”

  He huffed a breath. “My bad.”

  “Heh. Making plans without me yet again, weren’t ya?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Gonna share?”

  “Typical farmlands start. Thinking maybe we could roleplay as bad guys or something once we get some followers and a settlement up and running.”

  She giggled. “Okay, mister unobservant dark lord.”

  “Quiet, you.” Rowan patted the small of her back and followed into a grayish-white room spartan quality at best, no windows but plenty of air-conditioning via heatpump. A camera blinked red in the corner, and in place of beds laid two glossy white pods. The glass lids opened with soft hisses as Gabrielle approached tippy-toed, revealing greenish-blue gel beds. Exhaust fans blew warm air against Rowan’s legs.

  Touch-screen displays waited for login details. Rowan keyed his in and briefly eyed through the player control panel. His three new fates waited at the top, and before he could, Gabrielle tapped The Demonborn, selected herself from his friend list as the tag-along, and hit confirm.

  “How eager,” he mumbled.

  She blew a raspberry at him. “No second thoughts!”

  “Hmph. So little faith in your master.” He took off his shoes, then shuffled on and laid back.

  The gel was comfortable enough, firm yet conforming to his body, not too cold, not too warm. More than comfortable, really. This was a perfect bed ten times better than the janky thing back in the apartment. The price of this stay was more than worth it.

  On the ceiling activated a high-definition screen. A balding man in his fifties sporting rimless spectacles presented a mouthful of unnaturally straight white teeth, the smile not rising above his cheeks. “Hello everyone.” His voice was smooth as though a snake could speak. “I’m Doctor Vincent Roth. I will be overseeing everyone in this facility during extended immersion. Period IVs will be administered by my nurses… or myself, but that will be extraordinarily unlikely; however, as per protocol, I am required to inform you that Synaptic Entertainment is not liable for…” He chuckled. “Well, anything, really. Please relax and close your eyes. Sortis Online will commence on the count of three. Please remember time is compressed; one day on Earth is two days on Sortis. Many tend to forget.”

  Rowan did as asked and simply breathed. In through the nose, out through the nose.

  “One.”

  Breathe in.

  “Two.”

  Breathe out.

  “Three.”

  Gabrielle chirped, “Good luck, Row.”

  Then… nothing. He was hanging in absolute darkness. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt, like being a disembodied spirit in a weightless dimension free from the discomforts of flesh and bone. He was a spirit made of ones and zeros, inside virtual reality now, a new artificial reality bound by different rules of nature.

  Magic.

  Oh, how he had dreamed of wielding otherworldly powers. What was it like to shoot fire from the tips of one’s finger? To have command over the periodic elements. In his excitement, his phantom body heated in an indescribable way.

  He had a body! Fingers, toes, ears, and working blinking eyelids indistinguishable from his real flesh.

  A cough wheezed up his throat. A wave of muted pain struc
k his nerves, hot bands throbbing from deep within his belly but contrasted wildly by freezing stone pushing up against his side. Frigid, pungent air rushed into his airways. He could smell! He could touch and taste! Blood in his mouth, he spat into the darkness. A few straight-edged shapes registered here and there, his senses much sharper. He reached out with his arm, and his fingers brushed against coarse, rusted iron that he could feel in far greater detail than in the real world.

  Bars.

  He was in a cell, chains around his ankles.

  A hole of dread sank into his guts. He was no farmhand. Tom was wrong… or had lied. Incompetent bastard.

  3

  Rowan pulled up to his bare feet, gulped through the pain, and checked on Gabrielle before anything else. “Gabby,” he said through the bars at just above a whisper, apprehensive to catch negative attention in whatever this place was. A jail? His eyes could pierce into the darkness by less than a foot in any direction. Thick oily textures permeated the air, which he couldn’t smell or feel by hand—magic.

  “Gabby,” he said again out loud.

  At the top-right of the game interface, ten seconds of the system clock blinked away.

  Did she bail? Rowan looked at the logout button.

  Then her garbled reply came from the left: “I’m here. I scraped my knee really bad. Owiee.”

  Thank goodness. His body unclenched.

  “It hurts,” she said.

  Perhaps a joke to ease the situation: “What about the rest of your body? Are you still cute and petite?”

  “I’m fat!”

  An farcical jolt whipped up his virtual body. “What?”

  “Just kiddin’. Feels exactly like my real life body, but my back ribs also hurt. I have cut wounds.”

  “Shit, are you bleeding a lot?”

  “A bit.”

  “Alright just keep still, we’ll figure something out. I’ll get you some health potions. I’ll figure it out. Relax.” He was pretty sure those existed.

  She weakly laughed. “Row, I’m not that delicate here. My health bar is already trickling back up.” Her voice didn’t echo, he noticed.