

### Patch 17

G. Akella

Copyright © 2017 G. Akella

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

# Prologue

Welcome to the Realm of Arkon, Krian!

There was the familiar darkness of the login screen.

ERROR 757@4#!278%$

The race selection menu popped back up.

Demon.

Every representative of this race carries within a drop of blood of the Netherworld's Overlord...

ERROR 757$%*&^

... _clad in heavy armor, they are some of the finest fighters in the Realm of Arkon. You get a 75% (max) bonus to mental magic resistance, the ability to wear heavy armor, and +2% to armor class when wearing it._

ERROR 757%#$@*)&

Demon? What demon? I was supposed to play a human! Demons hadn't even been patched in yet!

"Well, are you ready?" the detestable voice sounded in my head. "Think of this as a beta-testing gig. You've got two days. The graveyard is three hundred yards from the main gate—make it and you'll get a breather. Oh, and another thing—after three or four hundred deaths you'll turn into a slobbering retard wearing adult diapers. Don't let me down now—I'm betting on you. Good luck!" he concluded with a malicious laugh.

_What a bastard!_ was all I could think of then.

As the loading screen came on, the noises were nothing like what a starting human location should have been. Instead of the smell of milk and freshly baked bread (players selecting the human races spawned in a little village called Still Creek, next to a bakery, if memory served me right), my nostrils were assaulted with the smell of sawdust, tar and some other stench that defied categorization. To my right came the roar of a beast, the creak of a wagon and a yelp of shock and unbridled rage.

"Rrraaa!!!"

Clearly, I wasn't anywhere near Still Creek. Indeed, Still Creek didn't feature sandstone underfoot, nor wood-and-stone houses of ambiguous construction, nor a shed containing a no less ambiguous animal that sort of resembled a yak... or a sheep the size of a yak. The other thing it most certainly didn't have was the red-faced, shovel-wielding abominable organism that was running right at me. Right before death I glimpsed the NPC's level—one hundred seventy six.

A Peasant hits you for 10 damage. You die.

Before plunging into the black-and-white reality, I felt... PAIN!!! Those douchebags must have turned off the pain blocker. As a rule, games like this set the perception of pain at ten percent for regular players, who could further adjust the value in the capsule's settings. For the outright masochists, the value could be upped to twenty percent.

Attention! Your character's perception of pain is set at 100%. This could be a malfunction of your personal capsule or a game bug! Exit the game immediately and notify to the Administration! Failure to do as instructed may lead to serious injury or death. In such an event, the Realm of Arkon's Administration shall not be held liable!

Attention! You died in combat and will now be resurrected at your last bind point.

Remember, you can change your bind point with the help of a special spell. The site of your demise will display a gravestone that will contain your money, gear and inventory items. Any player who finds your corpse will be able to loot the money and the inventory items, but only you will be able to loot your equipment, including potions and elixirs placed into special belt pockets. If you don't retrieve your things within five days, they will rot beyond recovery. Finally, you can grant another player the right to pick up your stuff for you.

I looked through the options: Logout and Contact Administration were grayed out, just as I'd suspected. The zone chat was as quiet as a morgue; indeed, the zone's name spoke for itself: Demon Grounds, Eastern Wastes, Jarus Province, Ashtar Dominion, zone level 170+. Well, damn!

Resurrecting in 9... 8... 7...

Because I had yet to bind anywhere since spawning in this world, I was going to resurrect in the same spot. Before materializing I tried to get as far as possible from the shoveling cretin, who had since wandered off toward a random heap of sawdust. I didn't even dream of going for my gear, but it wasn't a big loss, what with my rags, a worn staff, few pieces of bread and a flask of water. I had to make it to the graveyard somehow—that would buy me time to consider my next steps.

When the colorful picture returned, I spun around and zipped down a foot-worn, dust-laden road away from the peasant, naked save for my loincloth. Or at least I attempted to. With an ear-piercing shriek, a woman I'd nearly run over threw down her shoulder yoke, sending half a dozen empty buckets crashing to the ground. Her hands free, she executed a proper right hook that sent me straight to my next incarnation.

Perhaps it was time to start believing in omens! I hadn't even noticed her level. Just an ordinary peasant woman—her face quite comely, almost human, with reddish skin and simple clothes.

A Peasant Woman hits you for 10 damage. You die.

Two minutes till resurrection. The gray-and-white tones made it difficult to orient myself, especially since ghost form only allowed me to see the nearest NPCs and vague structural outlines. Leaving the resurrection area wasn't an option. Neither was staying dead. The game would resurrect me every two minutes and, considering the level difference between my character and the hostile NPCs in the area, they would aggro on me from a hundred yards at the least. Theoretically, I shouldn't die from pain shock since I was getting one-shot each time. It was still painful, though! Excruciating, even. But the pain lasted only a moment, fading away with my "death."

The next several hours brought nothing new... I resurrected and died. Died and resurrected.

A Boy hits you for 10 damage. You die.

You've unlocked Toughness, a passive skill. You can now resist pain! Your pain threshold has been lowered by 1% for all incoming damage. From now on, your character's threshold equals 99%.

This skill is capped at 80%.

It was the fourth time that damned sniper sent me to be reborn. Little stone-slinging bastard!

Toughness... I'd never even heard of such a skill. It must have been unlocked by the 100% pain threshold. Ivan had mentioned before that the game did some crazy things at times. At any rate, it was hardly something that could help me here and now.

Resurrecting in 9... 8... 7...

I stopped counting time, my deaths and flashes of pain. There came a point when an inhuman, unbearable thirst took hold of me. My strength reserves were enough for a two-second acceleration, but what could two seconds do in my situation? Once I'd managed to make it to the gate, where two level 200 beefcakes with pole-axes sent me right back to the stables...

Resurrecting in 9... 8... 7...

The nightmare continued...

# Chapter 1

... _Released in 2034, Realm of Arkon remains well ahead of the competition as the world's number one massively multipayer online game. As of January 1, 2037, the game boasts 57,598,345 subscriptions._

The game's total playable territory spans over 4 million square miles, which is comparable to the Australian continent.

Offering full immersion, the game utilizes over 50,000 fourth through sixth generation AIs, governed by RP-17—a seventh-generation Sage class AI. According to the developers, the game's sensations come as close as 87% to reality.

Demon Grounds Patch Announcement:

Attention: All servers will be down on April 27 for Patch 17.

If you want to take part in the beta-testing, please submit your request directly from your account.

Many centuries ago, having lost a decisive battle to the Gods of Light, remnants of Velial's army were hastily retreating to the Infernal Fault. Desperate to hold back the united forces of light and several of Arkon's dark races, the Netherworld's Overlord sealed the entire plane of existence and cast down the souls captured in the war, subjugating them to his will. Sacrificing half of his blood and all his remaining strength for its creation, the Great Arkan shook the very bedrock of reality. When the Gods of Light tore off the infernal seals, their army was met by battle-ready legions of their former comrades. Velial and his broken forces disappeared into the bowels of the Netherworld—staying behind for the battle was pointless. The forces of Light withdrew, sealing the plane once more and dubbing it Demon Grounds. Ever since that day, legions of the risen guard the entrance to the Netherworld. The blood of races light and dark mixed with that of the evil overlord, and proximity to the Netherworld altered their appearance. Thus a new race appeared in Arkon. The Demon race.

Rage, cunning and cruelty run alongside wisdom and fearlessness. At their core, demons recognize neither light nor dark gods, nor even the Netherworld's Overlord who had abandoned them in their hour of need.

More than half of this race are humanoids who have inherited all the traits and characteristics of their ancestors. And the blood of the True Demon, coupled with proximity to the Netherworld, gave rise to certain mutations unique to their race.

Sixteen dominions in all are engaged in perpetual warfare—with each other as well as with the hellspawn crawling out of the earth's many rifts. Besides demons, the closed plane is home to huge numbers of varied creatures that used to inhabit these lands. Over time, these creatures have all mutated to varying degrees.

Get ready for 4 new classes and exciting new ways to grow and personalize your character! The patch will include 16 new raid zones, over 100 hidden quests, 18 new gear sets, over 200 epic weapons, over 400 new mobs, new pets and mounts, and much more!

Look for more information about the patch on the company's official site.

***

It all began a few years ago when, on the insistence of my little (and only) sister, I submitted my works to the studio behind the Realm of Arkon.

Roman Kozhevnikov, a 32 years old Moscow resident, divorced, no kids. An ordinary man with an ordinary childhood, after getting my Bachelor's in finance online, I took a job as head of sales at a midsized company. My hobbies included art, beer and women. I was just your average Joe.

On that momentous weekend, my little sister burst into my rented apartment like a tornado. Wrinkling her nose at the fragrance hovering in the hallway—my latest fling had just departed ten minutes prior to her arrival—she shoved into my hands bags of produce, pecked me on the cheek and, without bothering to take off her shoes, slipped into the room.

"Hey!" I yelled after the ginger beast. "Shoes off!"

"Like you ever clean this place!" Alyona shouted back from inside the room. "You should be putting your hoes to work, at least—have them vacuum once in a while. Don't leave it all up to me."

I carried the groceries into the kitchen. My sister would never visit just because—she was under constant impression that her brother was on the brink of starvation. I must have told her a thousand times to stop bringing me food, but my pleas fell on deaf ears.

"Have some decency!" I said indignantly, walking into the room. "I clean up plenty. Maybe not every day, but every other for sure..."

"Oh, sure! Dusting off a keyboard, rinsing a coffee mug, and flushing the toilet—that's real proper cleaning," she snickered, peering into the monitor while hammering away on the keyboard.

Man, her future husband was in for a fun life! If anything, it wouldn't be boring. Considering Alyona's energy, daily shakeups and eventual spoon-feeding at a mental ward was all but guaranteed.

"Don't you have Internet at home? What are you searching for? Need any help?" I asked, but my little sister simply waved me away.

"The only thing you're good for is searching for the nearest club or dating site. Don't make me go into your browsing history... Ah, there it is!" she stuck a finger in the monitor. "Have a look."

"What is it?" I asked as I walked up to her. Looking back at me from the monitor screen were two female elves, clad in suspiciously light armor as they posed triumphantly over the carcass of some mythic beast that sprouted more arrows than a porcupine had quills. "And?"

With a heavy sigh and a wry face, my little sister got up from the chair, sat me down in it instead, and began to speak—in the tone of a doctor addressing a mental patient.

"Look, big bro, you know that I love you. I want you to be happy. But instead of starting a family, all you care about is women. I want you to get your shit together and quit gawking at tits all day long." Turning my head toward the monitor, she pointed a finger at an icon that read "Careers". "These guys are looking for a location illustrator. This is your chance! Your drawings are amazing! And the Realm of Arkon..." Alyona swung her arms excitedly, "that project is already worth a hundred billion, and it's only picking up steam. If you put in even five years there, you'll be set for life."

"Hold your horses, sis. They need a professional. And I know video games about as well as a pig knows oranges. You probably need to know how to draw in 3D."

"Gosh, Roman, you can be such a dolt sometimes! Look, it says here in plain language—they want someone to create! The implementation won't be your problem at all!"

I didn't want to argue. Drawing fantasy-style scenery was indeed a hobby of mine. Sometimes, when reading a good book, I'd get absorbed and try to recreate a vision from it on paper. Only a few people knew about this hobby, however. That same day I e-mailed seven scans of my drawings to the address indicated on the site, and Alyona herself composed the e-mail. The response came three days later. And in another two weeks I was already in San Francisco...

The game's subscriber base kept growing, the world kept expanding, and my work was in hot demand. And they paid me well for it. So well that I didn't need to care about my daily bread, and could even send money to my sister back in the now-distant Moscow.

For two whole years I worked like a dog, buying a car and a house in the suburbs. It was more than I'd ever dreamed of. I went back to Russia a few times and was even considering bringing my sister stateside when it all came crumbling down.

For the past several months or so, ominous clouds had been gathering over the company. Strange people would turn up at the office and summon employees for private conversations. The management would disappear at meetings for days on end. Rumors swirled that we were being bought out by the US government.

Our department was left alone—indeed, why bother the artists? The worst that could happen was that I'd get canned, and I didn't worry about that much, considering the project's prospects. These things normally went down was as follows: a bunch of big shots in their ivory towers would do their dance and replace some or most of the management, which hardly ever impacted us mere mortals. Our staff was multinational and, shockingly, didn't include even a single American. We even jested that, after the sale of the company, a new American faction would appear on the Arkon map, its banner featuring a hamburger and a Coke vending machine.

The joke was based on reality—you could buy both Coke and Pepsi in the game in nearly every Erantian bar, though their art looked different from the real thing. There was also cellular communication with the real world, and priced accordingly. Just because your boss lost track of time leveling his blacksmithing skill, that's no reason for the firm to go out of business. And it didn't end there—many companies and banks bent over backwards to establish in-game offices, petitioning to the authorities and bribing NPCs, buying up castles, powerleveling their employees and concocting all kinds of schemes to circumvent the RP-17 requirements and import their real names and logos into the game. The game's gold was worth roughly the same as its real-world counterpart. One gold coin—three grams in weight—cost around one hundred evergreen coins. Money could be officially transferred into and out of the game by paying the applicable taxes and fees. The limit were set at three thousand dollars per account to transfer in, with no limit to transfer out.

Each account was limited to only one character. Sick of your druid and want a warrior instead? No problem—delete the druid and play warrior all you like. Furthermore, you were not allowed to transfer real money into the game more than once, just as you weren't allowed to create a character of the opposite sex. When creating your first character, the game read your biometric parameters and stored them in the Sage's database. All of these "restrictions" could be easily bypassed by depositing money into some firm's real-world bank account: paying for consulting services regarding breeding gerbils in Antarctica, for instance, would result in gold being credited to your game account. The game and near-game world were experiencing a veritable gold rush, with people quitting their real jobs in favor of earning virtual money. The circulated amounts were astronomical. High-level clans would capture and defend areas of concentrated rare metals, where their miners toiled day and night to earn dough both virtual and real. Rangers were always on the lookout for new, undiscovered dungeons with the aim of selling any new information to various gaming communities. Many companies imported their whole businesses into the game. It was little wonder, then, that the government of the world's Foremost Democratic Power was expressing interest.

Toward the end of summer, the entire staff was taken on a company retreat aimed at promoting a corporate culture, filled with trainings on teamwork and fostering leadership. Held at a posh hotel on the coast, we were subjected to roughly five hours of brainwashing at various trainings daily; come evening, the folks would let loose and take to drunken debauchery. This went on for one whole week.

At the final party on Friday, after the brass gave their speeches and the final round of revelry began, I headed up to my room to change my shirt, whose sleeve had been smudged with some exotic sauce by a certain colleague of mine with soft lips and a C cup.

Walking past a door leading to the terrace, I heard a commotion and a woman's sobbing. Deciding to take a look and see if my help was needed, I came upon the following scene. Standing with his back to me about ten feet away was a man, holding the chin of a sobbing girl in a gown with two fingers of his left hand, and hissing lazily through clenched teeth:

"Do you realize who you're refusing, slut? On your knees, and start working off your debt." Lowering her chin, he slapped her hard across the face. "Now, bitch!"

Now, I'm far from a knight in shining armor, but I but don't like seeing women harmed. And I really, really don't like rapists. Putting my left hand on the bastard's shoulder, I spun him toward me hard enough that his chin came crashing head-on with my right fist. As he began to topple over, I sealed the deal with a left—purely on instinct. The would-be rapist collapsed to the floor. I was about to kick him in the gut for good measure (as I said, I'm far from anyone's version of a knight), but then I recognized the victim as Adam Cheney—a real asshole who also happened to be on the company's board of directors—and decided against it. That, however, turned out to be a mistake...

Cheney stirred, then scrambled up from the floor. His eyes were two pools of rage; he spat some blood on the white marble, and spoke in a tone of bitter frost.

"You're an idiot, Roman. Or rather, a dead man," he drew a finger across his throat, fixed his blazer, and was gone from the terrace.

An unpleasant course of events, to be sure, though I didn't regret my actions in the slightest. My time in this friendly country had clearly come to an end, since my employment termination was all but guaranteed. As for the dead man comment, well, we would see about that. We weren't in Africa, after all, but it would be good for me to consult with a certain someone who might have useful advice for my predicament. I turned to the girl.

"You all right?" I asked her.

Her mouth agape and big brown eyes opened wide, the girl shifted her gaze from me to the door into which Adam had disappeared with barefaced horror. Finally, seeming to arrive at a decision, she uttered:

"We have to get out of here! Can you give me a lift?"

"Meet me in front of the main entrance in twenty minutes. I'm Roman, by the way."

"I'm Jane. And, Roman... Thank you," she spoke softly.

We drove in silence for thirty minutes. I was in my thoughts, contemplating the road, while Jane was checking something in her mirror. She was a real looker, with huge eyes the color of chestnut, almost black, raven hair fashioned in a bob style, and a slender figure that even the denim pants and jacket she'd changed into couldn't ruin.

As for me, I was sulking over the fact that I really didn't want to go back to Russia. Let the nationalists curse me all they want, but I liked living here. Have you ever seen the mist envelop the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge? The feeling you get when observing the phenomenon from the bridge itself is indescribable. And then there were the Yosemite mountains with their glaciers and waterfalls, and the ancient sequoias in the Mariposa Grove! I wasn't particularly enamored with America as a country and its exorbitant ambitions, but Americans themselves were pretty decent folk.

But what could a simple graphic artist do? Even in the Realm of Arkon, a single character had incomparably more control over their fate. Perhaps that was why so many people were living their whole lives online?

"How does Cheney know you?" Jane's voice interrupted my contemplation.

"We met about a year and a half ago," I glanced at her concentrated face. "He was personally managing a project the details of which weren't disclosed to me. I designed the zone: a castle, ten or so villages, landscapes and environs. It was an unusual order—had to be a recreation zone. A lake in the middle, yachts and mansions, a woods, and the castle itself was nearly twice the standard size, clearly of the level ten variety. Cheney's assistant was all over me the whole time..." I creased my brow, trying to remember the name. "McLean, I think it was. See, there are certain rules. For example, RP-17 would never allow contemporary buildings in the game. Or making a zone that wouldn't be accessible by foot. I tried to explain these things to that shit-for-brains, but it was useless. In the end I gave up and did as instructed, then handed over the art to the designers. What should have been an easy job—an almost perfect circle twelve miles in diameter—turned into a nightmare. So much headache, you'd think I was drawing the Great Forest."

"McLean left the company seven months ago," Jane put the mirror away into her purse. "I'm scared, Roman! Very scared. Cheney is not the kind of man to forgive something like that. I don't want to work here anymore." She looked at me, alarm splashing out of her eyes. "I'm on vacation starting Monday. I'll mail in my resignation, lay low for a while and hope he forgets about me. The company is going through tough times—hopefully that will keep him busy."

"How did you end up there, anyway?"

"Because I'm an idiot! I needed some paperwork signed, and Adam hasn't been in his office for weeks, always traveling or in meetings. I finally caught him after his presentation, and he suggested we go up to his room and iron out some points of contention. When he started hitting on me, I slipped out of the room, but he caught up to me and pushed me out onto the terrace. It was stupid of me to go up to his room, wasn't it?"

I grunted. It was the eternal women's question, and if you answered it honestly, you could forget about getting any. And since I actually really liked the girl, I gave the politically correct answer: no, she wasn't at fault whatsoever, it's just that sometimes our circumstances overwhelm us.

We dropped by her place to pick up her stuff, then headed to a hotel she was planning on holing up in, unwilling to stay in her own home. Along the way she asked me to stop the car, got out and made a call to someone from a pay phone.

"My girlfriend will pick me up Sunday evening," said Jane, climbing back into the car. Then she added, "You're not going to leave a helpless woman alone, right?"

The weekend flew by. Jane ended up being a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist; we spent our days sightseeing, going to the movies and dining at cafés, and our nights making love. It wasn't love or anything of the sort—we simply had fun together. At least I thought so, even though our interactions carried a measure of tension. We made a tacit agreement not to bring up work or the incident from Friday. And it wasn't until Sunday evening, as I was loading her things into her girlfriend's Volkswagen, that she pressed herself to me and whispered:

"Promise me you'll leave this place. I have a... premonition."

I lifted her chin and kissed it, gave her a wink and said:

"Everything will be fine, darling." And then, for some reason, I added, "If anything happens, my character's name is Krian. The first two letters are my initials spelled backwards—easy to remember. Take care of yourself..."

I didn't like parting on such an uncertain note. The whole story stunk, with its lack of a beginning and an ambiguous end. Would I ever see Jane again? I had no idea. And if I did, would we remember these two days fondly and want to rekindle them?

My musings were interrupted with a phone call.

"Hey, Ivan, I was just about to call you," I said excitedly.

"Hey, Roman. There's a French café right off Market Street, I'll tell you the address... It's about fifteen minutes from where you are. Give your name at the door and they'll take you to me. Hurry, I'm already here."

"Wait, how do you—" I started to say, but suddenly there was only dial tone.

It was all super weird. Ivan knew full well that I lived in the suburbs, and it would take me at least an hour to get to Market Street. Although... I glanced at the phone in my hand. Right, we lived in a world of high technology! Fine, then, this was even better.

I met Ivan Barnes a year and a half ago—exactly five minutes after I'd pulled his kid from under the wheels of a moving vehicle. His wife Sarah had driven up to meet her husband, and their son—four-year-old Sam, a facetious little guy—ran out onto the roadway after a soccer ball. I was just leaving the office and, luckily, happened to be nearby. No one got hurt, and later that evening I was having dinner with the family at their home. I found out that my new pal was named Ivan in honor of his Russian great-grandfather who had immigrated to Canada many years ago. We would get together on many occasions since, and had even gone fishing a few times. But when the company entered its stretch of turmoil, Ivan pretty much disappeared. It had been three months since I saw him last.

Ivan held a fairly important post on Arkon's cybersecurity team, though his appearance—light skin, blond hair, high forehead—defied all my past stereotypes. Weren't representatives of his profession supposed to have an entirely unremarkable appearance? I could easily draw Ivan's portrait from memory even now. Sure, the company's cybersecurity guys weren't exactly CIA, but trust me when I say they were far from pushovers.

Following the bell's melodious ringing, a comely young woman in a conservative black skirt and white blouse walked up from the front desk. Cocking her head slightly and giving me a most welcoming look, she said:

"Is the monsieur expected?"

Naturally, having arrived on the last Parisian stagecoach, the monsieur smiled and took a look around. The café was small but cozy, with the customary French wine-colored tones...

"Yes, my name is Kozhevnikov," I said to the young woman.

"Please, follow me."

Ivan was sitting in a far corner, facing the entrance, over a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette. Upon seeing me, he rose to his feet and flashed his signature, picture-perfect American smile. For a moment, his eyes seemed warmer.

"Hey, buddy, long time no see!" he said. "How have you been?"

"Hey, Ivan!" I smiled back, answering his firm handshake. "How's Sarah and Sam?"

The young woman who had escorted me took my order of one espresso and withdrew.

"We're all right. It's you who's been having adventures," he shook his head.

We sat down. I produced a pack of Lucky Strike, put a cigarette between my lips and took a drag. As I exhaled, I asked him:

"As I understand, your phone call wasn't an accident? Or did you find out that I was nearby and decided to have some decency and finally see a friend?"

"Riddle me this, Roman, was it really necessary to punch out a Board of Directors member? Now, sure, plenty of people wanted to punch out this particular member. My guys were green with envy, watching that footage."

"Footage?" I asked with surprise.

"Can you really be so naive?" he winked at me. "The hotel is equipped with cameras all over—everything gets recorded. And a guy of Cheney's stature is nearly always under surveillance."

"So, that means—" I began to speak.

"It means nothing," Ivan interrupted me mid-sentence and fell back in his chair. "If that security footage hadn't accidentally," he emphasized the word, "landed on the desk of FBI Special Agent Foster—and I'm sure you've noticed the FBI sniffing around in Arkon's affairs—you, my friend, and the damsel you've rescued from the monster's paws, would be feeding fishes on the bottom of the bay."

I sat there, quiet and dispirited. This was indeed a jam.

"Thanks, Ivan. I didn't recognize him until it was too late." I took another drag and put the cigarette out in an ashtray. "So, what do I do now?"

"Don't thank me yet," said Ivan, completely ignoring my question. "My guys will lose your damsel somewhere along the way." He grinned and shook his head reproachfully. "Some conspirators you are! She'll be fine for the foreseeable future, and it should all blow over after a while."

"You were watching us the whole time?"

"What did you think? The FBI has the footage. They're going to want to interview you privately, by the way, so stay tuned. Anyway, on that footage Cheney is seen threatening you, and that's your get-out-of-jail-free card. If anything happens to you, that gives the FBI an upper hand on the company. Everybody gets it, which is why we were ordered to keep an eye on you. And only that."

I was finally brought my coffee. I took a sip and nearly choked from the thought that popped into my head.

"Were there also cameras in the hotel room?" I asked. "Cause we were, err..."

At first, Ivan was giving me a blank stare. Having finally understood my meaning, he burst out laughing.

"No, not in the room. But even if there were, it's not anything we haven't seen before," he assured me. "Though it wouldn't have killed you to be mindful of your neighbors as far as noise... Anyway, let's get serious. You need to understand that what I'm about to tell you transcends the bounds of even official secrecy."

I put my hands out in front and did the gesture of locking my mouth with a key and discarding it.

With a shake of the head and a sigh, Ivan asked me:

"What do you know about Arkon?"

"Only what everyone else does. It's a game world with full immersion. The world's most popular game, worth around two hundred billion. Roughly ten million daily connections, if memory serves me right."

"And yet, your own character is a measly level thirty five. Arkon is a world of possibilities. Wizards, warriors, elves and fairies. It offers the chance to become truly epic and achieve things you could only dream of in this world," Ivan peered at me with his eyes of cold gray steel, expecting a response.

I fell back in my chair and fired back without thinking:

"You know that I'm an artist, so I can spot fake from a mile away. My level thirty five warrior is there for work purposes—to roam around the different zones, check out the fruits of my labor. And when you know that it was all drawn by you... They can scream all they want about immersion and realism, but I think it's all crap. There's a disconnect between what the brain says and what the hands feel. For instance, you know the establishment near the Square of Heroes in Vaedarr, _The Black Violet_?" Ivan gave a confirming grunt, and I continued. "I was there only once. Picked up a girl for the night. And yeah, it feels good and all, but you can still sense that you're having sex with a rubber doll. Albeit an animated rubber doll. The tactile sensations aren't the same. Lilies may smell like lilies, but there's something off about them. I don't know how else to explain it. The point is," I produced another cigarette from the pack, "I think I want a normal life. To find a woman, settle down and start a family. And that's not an option in the game," I spread my arms.

"I didn't peg you for an aesthete, brother," Ivan smiled, "carping on lilies... I'll have you know that those who spend a lot of time online have a totally different perception of the world; for them, lilies are lilies. And the women are real. The analysts forecast that in another six months RP-17 will enter a whole new level of control. He's always learning, improving the degree of sensory authenticity so that even nitpickers like you wouldn't be able to tell the virtual world apart from the real one. Not that it would do you any good—there are plenty of women, but none of them can give you kids, that's just a fact. But I digress," he shrugged and creased his brow. "The truth is that things are dire."

"What the hell is going on?!" I couldn't take it anymore. "What's with all these spy games?"

"Remember the two girls from our PR division that disappeared? Monica Reed and Sarah Price?" He took out another cigarette from the pack. "Well, both of them had attended receptions at Cheney's mansion on several occasions." Ivan took a deep drag. "The cops only care so much about these things, but you know that the company can't afford to sit back. Any potential leaks must be plugged, and here you've got two employees with a level three clearance drop off the grid. When we started looking into everyone that was present at those parties, we dug up information on a project called Paradise—some kind of recreation zone in Arkon that's been placed outside the AI's control."

"But that's impossible," I objected. "Nothing can happen in Arkon without 17 knowing about it. He's a veritable demiurge—all changes to the system must be approved by him, and you can't change his settings without a shareholders' council and at least seventy five percent of votes." I looked at my frowning friend. "You read the news, don't you, Ivan? Arkon holds only forty one percent of the shares."

"I don't give a crap what's possible and what isn't." Ivan leaned forward, "Not when Hayes calls me into his office and orders me to stop digging, and then one of my guys brings me this," he slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, took something out and put it on the table, then pushed it toward me.

Resting on the table in front of me was a typical cheap video player of Chinese manufacturing, barely the size of a cigarette pack.

"What's this?" I inquired.

Ivan fell back in his chair and crossed his arms, then nodded at the player.

"Turn it on and see."

I shrugged and pressed Play.

The picture came on right away. Spread out on a table, bound with chains and whimpering pitiably was a Light Elf female—obviously a player, name Prissy, level 15, health bar in the yellow, numerous cuts on her body, wearing nothing but bra and panties. The decor abounded in blood-red tones, though only several pieces of black furniture and a huge mirror fit in the frame. Standing next to the table was a Dark Elf, level 178, name Kuwaz. He was holding an ordinary kitchen knife and standing sideways to the camera, keeping his face out of the frame.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he said with the voice of a good doctor, "we'll play a little more, and then we'll patch you right up." Cutting the bra with the knife, he tossed it aside, put his hand on the girl's left breast like he owned it, and asked, "how's this?"

Then he turned to the videographer.

"The hell are you recording for, idiot!" he screamed, his handsome face warped with rage.

"Relax, Ronnie, don't be so—" the other's voice sounded, but then the footage ended.

"Where did you get this?" I stared at Ivan. "This is... it's..."

"Exactly," he took back the player. "Does this change your tune? Is in-game torture impossible? Is rape impossible? Somehow I doubt that she'd consented to her brazier being removed. Oh, and Prissy," he held a pause, "that was the name of Sarah Price's character. She's listed as offline, but she's clearly there! You saw the footage—it's definitely Arkon, and not some Thai porn site. The button layout, health and mana bars..."

I kept a stunned silence. Torture was prohibited in the game, unless part of the game's story. A quest, for instance, might call for you to be caught and burned at the stake (the dark races sure had it made!), but in those moments all sensations of pain disappeared. But this—slashing and cutting with a knife—this was something else! There was always the option to log out and contact the administration. The offender's account would then be immediately and irreversibly banned. Removing another character's gear was likewise prohibited, including undergarments which could only be removed by mutual consent. The game was 18+, after all, and sex between any humanoid races was possible.

It was possible that the girl was a masochist in real life, that it was all orchestrated. But then why did her username match the missing employee's, and why was she listed as offline? I was thoroughly lost.

Ivan's phone rang.

"Hello?" I watched a frown come over his face as he listened. "Understood. Hanging up now," he said and put the phone away in his pocket, ruminating.

"You should leave, Roman. You've gotten yourself into a real shitstorm," Ivan declared, fished out a pen, and wrote down an address on a napkin. "We were ordered to lift surveillance off you. This is odd..." He handed me the napkin. "Go to this address. Lay low for at least three days, then call a cab and get the hell out of the state. Forget your phone here, and leave your car, too—my guys will drive it to your place later. Call me at work in a week. Now go, I've got the check. And good luck."

"Thank you," I got up and offered my hand.

He rose, enclosing my hand in his, and smacked me on the shoulder.

"Don't forget to leave your keys."

I put my bundle of car and house keys on the table, took one last glance at my friend, then turned around and headed for the exit.

Once outside, I took a look around, raised the collar of my windbreaker and, feeling like a character from a cheap detective story, hurried toward the subway. How quickly your life could change sometimes, forcing you to abandon everything—your car, house, job and coworkers—and run. Immersed in my thoughts, I missed the sudden shift in movement in a man walking towards me... A powerful blow right in the solar plexus and I doubled over in pain. There was a sting in my neck, and as I faded into darkness I heard the sound of doors opening in the van that had just pulled up behind me.

***

"How much longer, doc?" Cheney's voice filtered into my consciousness.

"Patience, boss. Look, he's coming to," another voice sounded to the right.

I opened my eyes. I felt horrendous, with my head a noisy mess, my muscles aching, and my neck feeling numb. I looked around the room: white walls, some kind of machinery droning in the corner, a computer desk with a monitor behind a row of six game capsules. I was sitting in a rigid chair in nothing but underwear, my hands cuffed behind my back. With me in the room were four people in plastic blue robes, and Cheney, sitting directly across and rubbing his hands in black gloves—was he cold or something? Standing on each side of me were two gorillas, and to my right a short balding fellow was putting an empty syringe on a cart with some kind of vials. I felt fear creeping up inside me...

"Hello, Roman," Cheney was looking at me like an old friend that he had chanced upon on the street. "Did you think I wasn't going to find you? How rude of you."

A mighty punch in the jaw knocked me over, along with the chair. My face broke the fall on a floor tile.

"Hold him still, you morons!" he barked at his henchmen.

I was quickly lifted off the floor and put back in the chair; this time, the duo held me tight.

They were going to kill me. I understood this, but was utterly helpless to stop it. A quick death with the least suffering would be best, but that just wasn't my MO. Suddenly the fear abated, replaced by hatred.

"You are a real piece of donkey shit, you know that? Even without your cocksucking toadies," I uttered, barely moving my jaw that was probably broken.

Another blow. My head jerked backwards and my mouth filled with blood. Two more followed—one to the body and another to the head—and there I was again, wiping the floor and spitting a mix of bile and blood onto the white tiles.

"I said to hold him still!" Cheney bellowed, gagging on rage.

"Boss, you're going to break his neck. You don't want that just yet, do you?" one of his bodyguards responded calmly, emphasizing the word "yet."

"You're right, Kurt, I want him alive," Adam brought the heel of his patent leather shoe hard on the wrist of my right hand. Another crack—my body felt like it was shocked with high voltage, and I gasped with unbearable pain.

"That's the hand you punched me with, scumbag!" Cheney hissed, and brought his heel down again...

I was brought to my senses by smelling salts.

"He's conscious, boss," I heard the baldie's voice. I opened my eyes.

"You think I'd let you croak so easily? Forget it, we've plenty of fun ahead," Cheney hissed at me.

"Faggot," I exhaled and spat in my tormentor's hateful mug as he bent over me. It was a pitiable attempt, but it did the job.

Cheney recoiled intuitively, wiping crimson drops off his cheek. His face morphed into a mask of bestial fury, and the very next strike of his sharp heel into my chest extinguished my consciousness yet again.

When I came to, I was back in the chair, being held on either side. My body ridden with excruciating pain, I could barely breathe. Everything was a blur.

"Doc, you promised me he wouldn't croak," Adam looked in the direction of baldie, who nodded. "All right, give that shitbag a wash," he wrinkled his nose at me, "no need to muck up the equipment."

"Oh, and speaking of faggots," Cheney stuck a finger at me, "I like your thought process. I'm thinking of two ogres in a location you know real well; I bet they'll really like you. But that's later. For now, we've got an obstacle course scheduled," Adam took off his blood-spattered robe and gloves, and tossed everything into a trash can by the door.

"Do as I said, and clean up in here," he looked back at me. "Happy gaming, Roman," he spat through clenched teeth and left the room.

In the silence that followed, I was put into a chair and given several injections of some unknown substance. After removing the handcuffs, they dragged me to one of the game capsules. I didn't try to resist—not that I could do much in my naked and battered condition against two guys who were both nearly twice my size. As the helmet clamps locked in place, the system recognized me, triggering the loading of the OS. As soon as the system loaded, the game app was launched, and a moment later I was at the race selection screen.

Race selection menu.

Human.

Proud and resilient, the human race has managed to win themselves a place under the Arkon sun. Powerful mages and invincible knights have earned the right to carry the celebrated banners of their ancestors into the future. Playing for the human race opens up a world of possibilities to develop your character. You can join either side in the never-ending fight between the forces of light and darkness. The human kingdom of Erantia is situated in the northwestern section of the inhabited continent of Karn. To the east, Erantia shares their border with the Orcs. To the south sprawls the Great Forest, populated by Light and Dark Elves. To the southeast stretch the Kraet Peaks—home to Dwarves and Drow. Their starting city—Vaedarr, city of the Seven Winds—is located at a crossing of major trade routes, at the center of lands populated primarily by humans. Are you sure you want to select this race?

Was I sure? Well, it was certainly nice to be asked—not that I had much choice in the matter. But at least I wasn't an elf or a dwarf. Why anyone would willingly play those square-shaped bearded creatures, I would never understand. Of course, I couldn't care less which race my tormentors would select for me, but I was trying to think rationally, if only to keep myself from falling to complete despair.

Confirmed!

Having waged war on either side of power, the glorious human ancestors have bequeathed to their descendants a high resistance to both dark and light magic, as well as excellent swordsmanship. Racial bonuses: +1% to light magic resistance per level, +1% to dark magic resistance per level, +2% to physical damage with swords.

Drow, for instance, were born with maximum resistance to dark magic, a bonus of one percent per level to water resistance, plus two percent to damage with daggers and to stealth. Drow were the best rogues in the game. The most delectable bonuses were enjoyed by dwarves, since the administration bent over backwards to try and draw players to select this race.

In theory, if I were to reach level 75, my resistance to dark and light magic would be maxed. Raising those stats higher still would only be possible with talents, equipment or by completing secret quests. Raising resistance to any element over 95% was virtually impossible. Ksenjhuan, the leader of Azure Dragons—the game's most powerful clan—only managed to bring four out of eight resistances past 80%. And if memory served me right, she was level 234. The whole clan's average level was around 160... Typical Korean grinders.

In the meantime, the page on the screen had changed.

Select your class.

Sorcerer.

The realm of Arkon abounds with oceans of power, and sorcerers dedicate their lives to learning to command them. At level 10, the Sorcerer must choose an area of specialization:

Mage. Take control of the elements and deal tremendous amounts of damage in bursts. Initial relationship to light and dark forces: dark—neutral; light—neutral.

Necromancer. Raise an army of the dead, cast curses upon your enemies, and summon creatures from other planes to fight on your behalf. Initial relationship to light and dark forces: dark—neutral; light—unfriendly.

Priest. Attack your enemies using light and mental magic, heal other players and creatures of Arkon, and take control of powerful enemies. Initial relationship to light and dark forces: dark—unfriendly; light—neutral.

Attention! Despite their incredible powers, mages, priests and necromancers are extremely vulnerable in battle. For this reason, these classes are recommended only for experienced players. Class bonuses: +1 to intellect and +1 to spirit per level.

Bastards! I always hated this class. I would always choose either warrior or hunter—sorcerers were always a pain!

What nonsense! What did it matter which class I was being forced to play when my actual body was mangled and stuffed into a capsule?

Confirmed!

You received class bonuses: +1 to intellect and +1 to spirit per level.

Next page.

Welcome to base stats allocation menu!

You have 20 points to allocate for base stats!

The administration would like to warn you that no changes are possible after the character is created!

The stats allocation page.

Agility: increases your chances to dodge enemy attacks, to hit critically in both melee and ranged attacks, reduces damage from falling, and boosts movement speed. 50 agility = 1 to movement speed.

Strength: increases armor class and attack power of equipped weapons. Strength also determines the weight your character can carry.

Constitution: determines the amount of damage your character can sustain before dying. 1 constitution = 10 hit points.

Vigor: the player's reserve of energy, which is consumed by any physical action (attack, block, parry, acceleration). 1 vigor = 10 energy.

Spirit: hastens the regeneration of vigor, hit points and mana.

Intellect: boosts the power of magic attacks, the chance to hit critically with a spell, and your character's mana pool. 1 intellect = 10 mana.

The logical thing to do would be to add three-four points to strength, one to agility and spirit, five to constitution, and the rest to intellect. Unfortunately, I was no more than a bystander in this process of creation of my character. The numbers on the screen changed.

Really now, expecting anything different would have been silly at best.

Agility: 10.

The most useless stat was maxed out to start. From what I remembered, you couldn't put more than 10 points into one stat during creation. But hey, at least now I should be getting plenty of crits. Oh, and nobody would dare try to outdodge me! I was determined to look for positives in my hopeless circumstances.

Strength: 6.

Another stat that was virtually useless for a caster. On the bright side, I shouldn't have any issues with weight allowance in the two days I probably had left.

Constitution: 1.

Vigor: 1.

Spirit: 1.

Intellect: 1.

That made sense. You couldn't begin the game with zero in any stat—the minimum possible value was one.

Accept new stats?

Brittle and stupid, but strong and agile. Quite a combination to start a sorcerer's life with. The worst imaginable combination, in fact.

Confirmed.

Congratulations! Welcome to your character's visualization menu! This is where you can customize your appearance.

Needless to say, my level 35 warrior had been deleted. The avatar remained, however—probably to save time, since name and looks didn't affect anything significant. As such, I had retained my former name and appearance.

Your selection is confirmed. Welcome to the Realm of Arkon, Krian!

There was the familiar darkness of the login screen.

ERROR 757@4#!278%$

The race selection menu popped back up.

Demon.

# Chapter 2

I finally made it out of that damned village at night, after its inhabitants had crawled into their houses. How I had kept my sanity thus far, I would never know. Evidently, it was the hatred seething on the inside that had sustained me. Time after time I would resurrect and rush toward the gate, cursing the scumbag that had deemed himself master of the world. Vivid images of me ripping his throat with my teeth flooded my mind, and I felt better. Until eventually there came a moment when I materialized outside the stables all alone.

There was still light in their homes, and the inn was bustling with the loud voices of hammered villagers. I picked up my things, downed a liter of water from my flask and started toward the gate, looking around warily as I went.

Stopping at a safe distance, which I'd already calculated down to the last inch, I took to watching the two sentries outside the gate, clearly bored to death. Every so often they would take a swig from some container and exchange a few words. I wasn't eavesdropping—I was simply waiting for an opportunity to escape.

With my stats, there was no way I could climb the ten-foot palisade ringing the village, nor was it placed there to be climbed by random noobs. Wandering off in search of a ladder would increase my chances of stumbling into some peasant or getting made by a sentry in one of the three guard towers around the village's perimeter. The fourth tower stood to the right of the gate, empty. Such was this small but fairly fortified village called Lamorna.

One of the sentries started in the direction of the inn, ostensibly for another round of booze; at the same time, the other turned and went to close the gate. I wasted no time and ran. As I was passing through the gate, the sentry saw me and bellowed some obscenity, but at that moment I hit sprint and made my way out into the open space.

I saw the graveyard right away, and rushed toward it without thinking, confident that nobody in heavy armor would be able to catch me. Quickly binding to the resurrection spot, I collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.

The monstrous fatigue of the past day took its toll, as I passed out on the warm ground, next to the gravestone.

I had to admit it—the full immersion element of the game was something incredible! You could spend hours listening to a seasoned sailor recount his tales of adventure, read books penned by the great explorers, listen to interviews of celebrated mountain-climbers. Some would only see the vivid sequence of these characters' experiences, the hurdles and adversities they overcame, and empathize with them, but others would go further and picture themselves in their shoes. But the data was clear: when it came to their own adventure, ninety nine people out of a hundred never ventured beyond a picnic with friends in the country.

And perhaps that was a good thing.

But those who nonetheless dared to embark on a path of adventure quickly sobered up to the fact that sea sickness was more than just two words in a book; actually writhing on the floor in your own vomit, the words suddenly acquired a whole new meaning. Feet covered with bloody blisters, the rainy nights in damp woods, the aches of a long road, the nauseating stench of horse sweat—these and many other pleasantries awaited them on their journey. It was one thing to know, and quite another to actually feel it on your own skin.

Those who played games with full immersion never left their comfort zone. You skipped the sicknesses and the blisters; hell, you didn't even need to feed, unsaddle or wash horses, simply dispatching a mount when it wasn't needed and summoning it back already clean and fed. The last thing on your mind was what the horse had eaten or what shampoo it had used.

Upon awakening fifteen minutes ago, I'd munched on a cracker and washed it down with water, and was now sitting on the ground, leaning against a warm boulder, silently surveying my environment—the only comparison that came to mind was an African savanna in dry season. As far as the eye could see sprawled a slightly hilly plain—vacant stretches of yellow-brown grass alternated with copses and dense shrubbery. A little over a mile to the west lay a small mountain formation and a tall hill, the road to it covered with the same withered grass. Herds of animals grazed there—barely visible at this distance, there was no way to make out the species.

Somehow the landscape was at odds with the zone's name—Demon Grounds. Where were the erupting volcanoes? The cracks in the ground that stretched for miles, with molten lava splashing out? Where was the ash raining down from the crimson skies? The developers must know better, I supposed.

I had absolutely no desire to go anywhere or do anything. Nor did I have the opportunity to. About sixty feet away I glimpsed a non-aggressive critter that resembled a beaver with a pig's snout stirring in the grass. The sign above it read: level 16 Gopher. Damn! In this zone, even a mouse would kill me with one bite. How much time did I have left here—five, six hours? It appeared that I'd slept almost a full day. With another mental wish for Cheney and his jackals to rot in hell, I tried not to think about my future. Looking for a distraction, I opened my character menu.

Sorcerer Krian, level 1.

Race: human [demon].

Agility: 10.

Strength: 6.

Constitution: 1.

Vigor: 1.

Spirit: 1.

Intellect: 1.

HP: 10.

Energy: 10.

Mana: 10.

Armor: 20.

Magic resistances: none against water, none against air, none against earth, none against fire, 75% against mental, 1% against dark, none against nature, 1% against light.

Passive skills. Toughness: 31%.

Bonus to physical damage with swords: +2%.

Bonus to heavy armor: +2%.

Relations with other races: Humans—hostile, Elves—hostile, Orcs—hostile, Dark Elves—hostile, Dwarves—hostile, Drow—hostile, Demons—hostile.

I chuckled. Being both human and demon at once, I enjoyed the negative reputations of both.

Were my character simply human, I would have neutral relations with elves and dwarves, and hostile relations with dark elves, drow and orcs. I had no idea about demons, since their race hadn't been patched in yet. I was the first among demon players, even if I wasn't really a demon at all.

It didn't escape my attention that one of my passive skills was definitely overpowered. In fact, under normal circumstances, any caster would sell their soul to the devil to be able to wear heavy armor. Only it didn't matter much to me. I had no heavy armor to wear—my robe, trousers, boots and novice's belt would hardly qualify. The filthy rags that passed for gear, totaling 20 armor, my novice's staff with 5-9 damage that looked a rake shaft, two crackers and a quarter-full water flask in my bag—these were all my worldly possessions.

When the sun had nearly set beyond the mountain range, a rider came galloping out from behind a hill and, spurring his horse, guided it in the direction of the blasted village directly behind me. A moment later five mobs—seemingly in the canine family, though nearly the size of his horse—were already hot on his trail. Quite a frightening sight if you didn't know it was all virtual. It was all over in about twenty seconds—the pack leader caught up to the horse and lunged at its throat, toppling the mount along with its human rider, or rather demon since there couldn't have been any humans in this zone. Shivers ran down my spine as the horse roared in agony and the rider wailed as he was devoured alive. The beasts ate in silence, finishing their meal in less than five minutes. Once they were done, as they were leaving the site of their late dinner, one of them glanced in my direction, its eyes a pair of crimson flares in the moonlight. The pups made a menacing sight, somehow resembling Dobermans. I couldn't make out their name and level from here, but I was willing to bet it was in the high hundreds.

Suddenly the skies grew dark and the ground shook, then dozens of branchy bolts of lightning sundered the gathering dusk. The sentries at the gate grabbed their pole-axes leaning against the palisade, and looked up anxiously at the sky. The earth shifted under my feet, tossing me into the air with such power that I fell back down totally disoriented. There was a crash coming from the village, followed by screams. The palisade bent in half, and one of the gate doors collapsed to the ground. In the west, an electric discharge of titanic proportions hit the peak of the highest mountain, splintering off huge chunks of rock.

The picture faded.

That was it—my time had come to an end. I felt a chill come over with me, thinking of what lay ahead. Seconds passed, but nothing was happening. A software malfunction, perhaps? Suddenly I felt a shock, as if hit by electric current. I twitched with pain and must have lost consciousness.

I came to in the same spot as before—on the ground next to the gravestone, my staff lying nearby. I sat up, mechanically dusting off my soiled sleeve, and stared at the stream of system messages.

Attention all players! The latest system patch 17 is now live in the Realm of Arkon!

New planes and game zones have been added to the game: Divine Planes, Gray Frontier, Netherworld, Demon Grounds, Lemuria and Pangea.

New gods have entered this world, and with them new species of creatures, animals and plans. Explore the new frontier to find new secret quests, artifacts, epic items and gear sets, as well as rare resources.

New active and passive skills have also been added, including new professions...

The players' sensations have been improved to total, 100% immersion. Some can be reduced by raising certain skills. For instance, pain sensitivity can be reduced to 20% by leveling the Toughness skill...

Changes to game mechanics:

... _The system of reputation accrual has been revised, but the reputation values already achieved with various factions and societies, races and gods have been preserved..._

... _All active and passive skills have been reset to allow every player to allocate their skill points strategically..._

... _Unique and hidden skills and abilities achieved during gameplay have been preserved and left unchanged..._

... _The dynamics of death have been revised. Now, players will resurrect at their bind point after 6 hours. The time it takes for player corpses to rot has been increased from 5 days to 15..._

... _The perception of the world among NPCs has been heightened._

A death penalty of 20% of a player's levels has been instituted, though the player will not fall below level 13. Furthermore, all passive and active skills and defenses will remain on the previous level, while the player's top stat will be reduced by 3 for each level lost. The player can recover the lost stat points by regaining the previous level, but a new talent point will only be gained upon reaching a previously unattained level. If killed by another player, prior to resurrection the deceased can change their bind point to any previous bind point...

... _Due to planar rifts from the Netherworld and the Gray Frontier, permanent portals between capital cities no longer function properly. All game characters on the Karn Continent have been sent back to their factions' starting cities..._

... _From here on, communication in the game is limited to mail. Mail correspondence between members of non-hostile races is only possible after a permanent portal between the capital cities has been established..._

To help in completing group quests, when players join a party or a raid, the voices of raid leaders, officers and party leaders are magically amplified. The leaders are also granted the ability to communicate mentally...

... _To create a teleportation portal, players are required to visit the same place again..._

... _Players can still call each other by phone..._

... _Invite their friends and acquaintances into the game..._

... _The Wikipedia button on the display has been renamed "Chronicles," and its information is constantly being updated..._

... _The game forum has been shut down..._

... _The Logout and Contact the Administration buttons have been removed from the options menu as unnecessary._

RP-17 Sage wishes you happy gaming.

I stared in stupor at the creeping lines of information, struggling to decide if it was me who'd lost his sanity or RP-17, an AI?

What lunacy was this? Divine planes, Lemuria... Had the devs lost their goddamned minds? I checked the options—Logout and Contact the Administration were indeed gone from the menu. How was this possible? There was a mention of using the phone... I opened the phone call option and nearly squealed with joy—it was working! Only, damn, I had not a penny on me, or rather not a gold coin. I realized immediately what an idiot I was—911 was always free. I had to seize this unexpected chance. The call would be placed from my physical cell phone, even if it was turned off. I only hoped those twats didn't toss it somewhere along the way.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency?" asked a woman's voice with concern—how did they pull off this concern day in and day out? At any rate, to me, her voice was a divine revelation. I launched into describing my situation as succinctly as possible.

"The call has been traced, a patrol car will be on location in about four minutes. Please remain on the line." Easy listening music began playing in the virtual phone.

I got up off the ground and stretched, letting the breeze brush my face. _You're done, Cheney, you ass!_ I thought to myself. Then I got comfortable, put my noob staff on my knees, and set to watching the earthquake-shaken village, its residents swarming like ants on a disturbed ant hill. Two sentries and five more men that had run up to help were desperately trying to put the gate door back in place, shouting and swearing all the while.

Perhaps now I wouldn't even need to quit my job. And I wouldn't need to hide any longer. What was happening with me in real life? A broken jaw, a concussion? At least I was alive—that mattered above all else.

It had been half an hour—what was taking them so long! They should have no trouble recognizing my maimed carcass with all the equipment the cops had nowadays. No need to look for documents—simply point a small device at the person, and a global computer immediately spits out all their info. Naturally, some people were frothing at the mouth about the country becoming a police state, but for many ordinary citizens the trade-off was worth their peace of mind.

I kept waiting. The demons had already put the gate back together and had moved on to the palisade. An enormous moon had crawled out onto the sky amid the faintly glimmering stars, and it got a bit chilly. Finally, the hold music stopped.

"Captain Greg Ward, San Fransisco police," spoke a tense male voice. "Introduce yourself."

"Roman Kozhevnikov," I had already given my name to the operator. "What is going on? When will my body be recovered?"

"You claim that Adam Walker Cheney's people abducted you in the neighborhood of Market Street," the cop ignored my questions, "delivered you to an unknown place where Cheney beat you, allegedly breaking your jaw. Then, you were placed in a game capsule linked to the Realm of Arkon. Do I have that right?"

"Yes! Now, tell me what's happening! Did you find me?" I yelled into the virtual phone.

"Currently we have six police squads in Mr. Cheney's country estate, as well as twelve ambulances," the officer's voice sounded weary. "In the basement, we have found fifty four dead bodies in game capsules: Cheney himself, his three bodyguards, and fifty more people, out of which so far thirty nine have been identified. One of the identified bodies is one Roman Kozhevnikov, citizen of the Russian Federation, born in 2006."

"Are you saying that I'm dead?" I muttered, dumbstruck. "But I... I'm talking to you right now!"

"I'm not saying anything, but we do have hundreds of similar cases in the Bay area alone, and thousands nationwide. Leave your contact information with the operator, and we'll be in touch. And now you must excuse me, I need to get back to work."

Easy listening music came back on, and I hung up. _What friggin' contact information? Lamorna Village, Eastern Wastes, Jarus Province, Ashtar Dominion that's in Demon Grounds. Look for me by a gravestone at a local cemetery. You can't miss me—there are six stones in all. And, oh, I'm dead. So, you know, no rush. Talk soon!_ I took a deep breath. Cheney did mention that people had lost their minds from dying so much, so maybe... I pinched myself. It hurt! The multiplication table popped into my head.

_How do you test if you've lost your marbles? If a horse tells you that you're crazy, then surely you are,_ I remember the old gag. _There was a horse around not too long ago, but it was eaten by a pack of dog-like beasts. I could always ask the demons repairing that palisade over there._ Recognizing the idiocy of my predicament, I couldn't hold back a smile. _That settles it. A crazy person wouldn't be contemplating his madness._

And then it hit me: _I'm dead! But that's... that's..._ I began to shake from the implications. Then I sat still for about five minutes, staring at a crack on a nearby monument, completely oblivious to my surroundings, but eventually reason prevailed. _Stop!_ I yelled at myself. _I'm having thoughts, so I must be alive. And I don't give a damn that this is a game, and not real life. I was just speaking to a cop, and, last I checked, corpses are not speech capable. Although, in a video game, some are... Wait, what the hell am I saying! Calm down, breathe! Everything's fine. I'm not a loon and I'm not a corpse. This must all be some kind of misunderstanding. Somehow I've been imported into the game, so let's roll with it._

_So, what have we got?_ I opened my character's window. _No changes from before... Wait, what about immortality? I'm immortal now!_ the realization washed over me, and I froze still, trying to digest it. _I'll figure that part out later. What else? My relations with all of Arkon's factions is hostile; their NPCs would kill me on sight. There are no players here, no quest-givers, and I cannot level on these mobs. Well, I can technically, but not in this zone._ There didn't appear to be a solution. How many miles was it to the closest starting zone? Two hundred? Five? I would need to run from graveyard to graveyard, dying hundreds of times along the way.

The hatred that filled me for Cheney at that moment seemed almost capable of materializing in physical form.

That shithead! Lousy bastard! If not for RP-17, I'd be dying again, or worse. If only you were here, Cheney, you scum! But I'm going to live, you'll see! I will survive! And when I get out of here, I'm going to find you and your cronies and rip out your throats! After all, I know how to find you...

I forced myself to calm down. What did I know about reputation? Some of the game's social and military communities were a faction unto themselves, irrespective of race. Traders' and mages' guilds, knight orders, mercenary squads and various brotherhoods. As a rule, everybody started off neutral with them, unless, of course, your character's race or class was specifically targeted by this particular foundation. A dark mage visiting a Temple of Myrt—a light deity of the human race—would be a fool to expect a warm welcome. Demons looked to have their own social order, so, on the face of it, not all was lost.

There was no use continuing to hang around gravestones—I had to start doing something. Ah! The rider devoured by the dogs earlier—the remains were some seven hundred yards from here. Looking through them, I might avail myself of something useful.

I made it to the remains of the rider and his horse without incident. Lasting at least a quarter mile, the road was narrow but even, and I came across no aggressive animals. Only the familiar gophers were around, casting glances of contemplative loathing at the ragged human plodding down the road.

Still a dozen yards away, I could already smell blood, and when I saw what had remained of the rider and his horse, my stomach nearly turned inside out. Chunks of meat, bones with teeth markings, scraps of fur, entrails and some other matter scattered across a radius of ten or so yards. And all that was punctuated by the most revolting stench of wet fur. _No complains on the realism front_ , I thought to myself.

I had never experienced anything like it before. I was far from a hardcore gamer—my level thirty five had been achieved in three days when I and three other coworkers were powerleveled across several noob locations. On my own, I had only reached level ten in Still Creek. In fact, my last quest was about a horse that had wandered off and had ultimately been killed by wolves. I had to locate the dead horse, remove its harness and deliver it to the local groom. The groom then gave the quest to exterminate the wolves. Compared to what I was seeing now, that horse might as well have been borrowed from a G-rated movie: carcass lying neatly next to a pool of blood, the animal's entire front side virtually untouched, and no smell to speak of. But this... Struggling to hold back nausea, I touched what had remained of the demon.

A ringing sound signaled the falling of coins in my bag. Whoa—1 gold, 4 silver and 25 copper. Also, two sealed letters, a chained badge, and a cloak. What did we have here... I focused my eyes on the badge and nearly squealed with joy.

Courier's Chest Badge.

Unusual item.

Raises the negative attitude of all sentient races in Demon Grounds to unfriendly. Any positive reputation held with representatives of sentient races remains unchanged.

Always warring at one another, dominions resort to using special messengers to carry out postal correspondence. These couriers can be recognized by a special badge worn on their chests, and attacking them unprovoked in Demon Grounds is strictly forbidden.

A typical metallic circle three inches in diameter without any special attributes, a glyph inscribed along the side and somebody's strange face at the center, but for me this piece of metal trumped any epic artifact! It must have been the governing AI giving me a way out of a dead-end situation. After all, everything in the Realm of Arkon was done for the players, or at least for their money. I wasted no time putting the chain on my neck. The badge locked into the amulet slot, which had been empty until now (and would probably have remained empty for the foreseeable future).

Spring Whisperer's Cloak of Haste

Cloth

Durability: 163/200

Unusual item.

Minimum level to equip: 190.

Armor: 520.

+80 to agility.

+60 to constitution.

+50 to stamina.

Weight: 5 lbs.

Not a bad cloak for a melee-specced druid, rogue or ranged dps. In truth, it wasn't anything special, and wouldn't fetch more than a few gold at the auction house. Like in many other games, items in Arkon fell into a range of classes: from plain items to artifacts. There were also sets that comprised several items of the same type, all unusual or above, from two to eight pieces per set. Combining several or more pieces resulted in decent set bonuses to their owner. I put the cloak away in my bag and reached for the larger letter.

You've accessed the quest: Special Delivery.

Quest type: normal.

Deliver the letter of Ar-Iraz, the prince of Jarus Province, to Nittal and hand it to Lady Janam the Beautiful, second wife of Astarot, the lord of Ashtar Dominion.

Reward: 5 gold, experience.

I accepted, naturally.

I took the letter in my hands warily. It was a scroll of fine leather, inscribed from top to bottom with strange symbols and sealed with red wax, the symbols flashing scarlet periodically. Thankfully, I was never the curious type, and especially not at this level. Besides, reading other people's mail was a clear sign of bad manners.

The other letter was a bit more plain:

You've accessed the quest: Sales Report.

Quest type: normal.

Deliver a sales report from Jarus Province to Nittal and hand it to Venerable Yldiz, head of the traders' guild of Ashtar Dominion.

Reward: 2 gold, experience.

The human mood is a strange thing indeed. It hadn't been twenty minutes since I wanted to howl at the moon from despair, and now I smiled up at it like an old girlfriend. Who was I twenty minutes ago? A pauper without a penny to my name, without a home or occupation, hated by everybody around save for perhaps those gophers. But now I had things to do, quests to complete. I only needed to find out the location of Nittal, which, seeing as the lord lived there, was probably the dominion's capital city.

I got on the road and headed toward Lamorna. Bit by bit, a plan was taking shape in my head. All of Arkon's kingdoms had similar layouts. For example, in the human kingdom of Erantia, the capital—the humans' starting city—was situated roughly in the center. Abutting the capital were the royal lands—zones ranging from early levels to low 50s. Beyond the royal lands stretched the Great Princedoms, its zones offering content from roughly level 30 through 180s. Further still lay the Borderlands, designed for players levels 150 through 250, brimming with fortresses, wild tribes, lawless gangs and no large cities to speak of.

To the south Erantia adjoined the Great Forest—home of light and dark elves; to the southwest loomed the Kraet Peaks, populated by dwarves and drow; and to the east stretched the steppe, inhabited by orcs. The kingdoms' borders were not strictly defined, which led to frequent conflicts between warring races. That fact, however, hardly precluded dark elves, drow and orcs from traveling throughout Vaedarr and taking up service with its human rulers.

The realm employed a sophisticated system of reputations, ranks and titles. In theory, any player could become the king of Erantia, but the reality was much closer to the real world. Taking an honest look around, what chances did a regular person have of becoming president? Or governor? Truly powerful clans built their castles on vacant territories and entered into vassalages and alliances. You could build a castle for free and without anyone's permission in the unclaimed lands abutting Erantia to the southeast, which, as the rumor had it, contained the Shadow Empire of Darkaan. But there hadn't been any volunteers to build a castle in places teeming with hostile NPCs and 200+ level monsters. To my knowledge, at least.

Demon Grounds were probably planned similarly, which meant I had to make it to the capital and start my path from there. My "unfriendly" reputation would make most of the quests unavailable to me, but I should be able to make do just fine with what was left. Besides, reputation was a flexible thing that could be changed. The one glaring disadvantage was that I was alone. A tank and a healer in one. I didn't even have anyone to talk to—NPCs didn't really count. Among my few available resources was the game wiki, which had virtually zero information on Demon Grounds or its capital. There was no one to reach out to—the zone chat was unavailable. Mail service with the other planes hadn't yet been established, and I didn't have any local contacts.

Then I remembered that I had money and could call my sister! I dialed her number, but for some reason she wouldn't pick up. Could she be sleeping? But it should be daytime in Moscow. Weird. I stopped and considered whom else to call.

"Who are you and what are you doing here, o human with a demon's soul?" a deep, imperious voice sounded behind me, catching me off-guard. Startled, I spun around... And my jaw nearly hit the ground.

Standing before me was a ghost with a level of 516... 516!!! In life, the stranger had been human—above average height and roughly fifty years of age, with strong-willed features, a neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair bound at the forehead with an ornate band. His piercing gaze regarded me as though I were a fly that had had the rotten luck of landing in his soup. "Ghost of Archmage Altus"—read the legend above his head. Level 516! The baddest raid boss killed by the Azure Dragons wasn't higher than 350! My eyes bulging, I stared at this NPC that had showed up out of nowhere, thinking frantically of what to answer him...

"Are you deaf?" the mage cocked his head, as if eavesdropping on my deliberations.

"No, not deaf," I sighed. "I don't know how I ended up here. I was born in Vaedarr," I wasn't going to traumatize the NPC with my tales of skyscrapers and airplanes, "fell asleep by some kind of temple, and woke up here. The gods must have chosen me to carry out some mission yet unbeknown to me," I concluded with a glorious fib.

"What year is it, and who governs in Vaedarr?" the mage continued his questions.

"Year 1376 from the last Chaos War," I quickly looked up the answer in the wiki. "And Rayan I Erast, dubbed 'the Wise,' is the ruler."

Archmage Altus fell in thought for a moment, then made a casual gesture and two chairs materialized out of thin air. He took a seat on one, putting the staff, which he had been holding in his right hand, on his knees.

"Sit and tell me what the temple at which you fell asleep looked like." He frowned. "And what are these rags you're wearing? Are you a beggar?"

"I am a mage!" I declared, trying to instill my voice with confidence. Noticing Altus' look of irony and amusement, I corrected myself, "Well, um, I intend on becoming one."

"How the times have changed," the archmage shook his head despondently. "Used to be that the gift would only awaken among the noble, but now..." he sighed heavily. "So, about the temple?"

The two of us made a quite a comical sight—a human and a ghost, sitting in the middle of a road at night, a quarter mile from the closed gate of a demon village, engaged in a calm conversation.

"I'm not sure, it was nighttime," I was scanning the information on gods, out of which only Myrt was known to me. "It might have been Setara or Loaetia," I added, finally pulling up the list of Arkon's pantheon.

Your reputation with Archmage Altus of Erantia has increased! Archmage Altus is neutral to you.

The bar above the NPC's head changed color from pale red to yellow.

"Setara, you say," said the archmage contemplatively, "perhaps it was her who sent you—to put an end to my three-hundred-year-old solitude."

In this scenario, I was supposed to be offered a quest...

"How may I be of service?" I spoke the standard phrase for such a situation.

He sighed and gave me an intent look, whereupon he seemed to have reached a decision.

You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls.

Quest type: hidden, chain.

Help Archmage Altus perform his final duty to his people.

You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls, Part I.

Quest type: hidden.

Listen to Archmage Altus' story.

Reward: experience.

Hidden quests were highly coveted by all players. Acquiring one was only possible by being in the right place at the right time, and after fulfilling a heap of conditions to boot. In one example, a player from South Korea spent a whole month pummeling a mannequin. The sheer stubbornness must have had its effect, as the governing AI eventually took mercy on the poor bastard, whom his fellows Koreans were already beginning to perceive as an NPC, and offered him a secret quest for some unique profession.

I accepted the quest, looked at the archmage sitting across from me, and was transfixed by his gaze...

***

The royal palace—Vaedarr's chief structure—was built by the renowned Vel'cato during the reign of Erast the Great, who had used both sword and coin to unite the eight Great Princedoms under his banners. The palace's beauty was staggering, its tiniest detail materialized with the utmost love by the architect. Time appeared to stand still, and you could hardly resist the illusion that the warrior by the wall could step down off his pedestal, square his shoulders, shaking off the weight of fifteen centuries, and finally breathe in a chestful of air. It was here, at a graduation ball two hundred sixty years ago, that the master of flame, still young at the time, had met his Elsa.

Archmage Kyam Altus, Grandmaster of the four elements and one of Arkon's mightiest mages, chased away the somber memories. He looked around the small hall of the Royal Council, and the rulers of Erantia that had gathered there around an oval table. All were waiting for the king, and each was doing their own thing in the meantime. There was Count Calle, the commander of the Royal Guard, sitting right across and explaining something quietly to a portly bald fellow with the face of a street vendor. The latter's harmless appearance belied his station—a dirty trick played by fate, for the name of Count Gel'ta, head of the Secret Chancellery, was whispered by humans and other races residing in Erantia exclusively in hushed tones and with great trepidation. Sitting to the left of the throne, the head of treasury was writing something into his notepad; the first minister was listening to Archmage Stavus, nodding his agreement periodically, and only the fighters—Duke Grasse and an unfamiliar colonel—were sitting quietly.

He and Lars were clearly out of place. Altus had long retired from public life, and his friend, Champion of the Order of the Red Flame—a mercenary troop for all intents and purposes—were not among the royal advisers. And they wouldn't be here if not for what had happened...

"Lars, do you think it's some lord colluding with Darkaan? Or is this an independent initiative by one of the Covens? The dark emanations and astral traces left in the ransacked villages is clear evidence of necromantic activity, but the survivors speak of demons," Altus nodded at the papers. They hadn't had time to speak before the council assembled, as the archmage rushed here from the Great Forest in response to the highest appeal (not even the king could flat out summon him). Lars had been busy preparing the operation—working out the details with his Foxes, as the order's knights were unofficially called.

"Do me a favor and drop the emanations talk. It's enough to make my head swell, and I need it to eat," Lars looked up from his pile of papers. "On a serious note, I really don't care who's involved. Our job is to penetrate the portal blocked by those sanctimonious fools, destroy the scumbag who's causing all this shenanigans, and get the folks out of there. As to whether demons are involved or necromancers," he petted the hilt of his precious sword, "the Silver Tear doesn't care any more than I do."

"Quit acting like a dimwitted jarhead," Altus frowned. "Nobody knows what we're dealing with here. I get that two million is a fair price for the risk, but I propose we at least throw some ideas around. Especially since, as you well know, building a portal from the demons to us cannot be done without divine intervention."

"Fine, let's brainstorm," the master sighed. "We can probably rule out Ahriman—I doubt that a high mage would get mixed up with the dark ones. He's more likely to rip out the heart of any lord who did. They'll sooner come to terms with the Untainted."

"Then Untainted, then," Altus smile at the mental image of Father Sebastian whiling away an evening over a bottle of Arto with some demon overlord.

"However, should some lord or prince secure the support of anyone from the Great Essence... If I had to guess, I'd say one of them has colluded with the Twice Cursed."

King Ritar III Erast entered the Council hall at a brisk pace. Puckering his brow at the servant shouting out his arrival, he waved to the nobles as they leaped to their feet, bidding them to keep sitting, then went and took his own seat.

"You may proceed, earl," the king looked at his first minister. "But be brief, we're short for time."

Duke Galean opened the red folder on the table in front of him.

"In the past month there have been four attacks on villages in Borderlands. The nature of these raids is nearly identical. The attackers are presumably demons. Those who resist are butchered, the rest are abducted through a portal. Four peasant eyewitnesses claim that the attacking force is roughly one thousand strong." The minister took a sip of water from the glass before him. "On the portal site the crown mages have discovered trace emanations of dark magic—"

The king slammed his palm on the table:

"We are just beginning to recover from the war with the orcs. Squash those scum on the other side. The hermit has predicted the time and place of the next attack. This is great fortune, for he is unlikely to speak with my messenger again."

"My guys and Monsieur Altus' forty aces are ready," Lars said. "As long as the mages hold the portal on this end."

"Perhaps you could use more fighters?" the king asked. "Two and a half hundred sounds small to me!"

Lars shook his head.

"Monsieur Altus' mages can cover no more than two hundred at maximum effectiveness—any extras would only get in the way. Three years ago we destroyed Saart Dak with precisely these forces."

"Well, you will have six hours," the king looked expectantly at the realm's foremost mage. Upon getting his nod, he continued, "You will be accompanied by fifteen hundred swordsmen, reinforced by Colonel Morris' archers, and five hundred Silverwings under Calle's command. This is to ensure that the invading force in our lands is destroyed in its entirety." The colonel and the guard commander nodded in unison. "We will open twenty portals in three hours in Livedum. Colonel Morris will lead the assault. That's it for the Council, gentlemen. Time is of the essence."

Three miles from the city, on a training ground in Livedum that was the mages' favorite for honing their skills, the troops were immersed in pre-battle hustle. Putting their squads in formations, lieutenants scorched the air with obscenities, as staff officers scurried to and fro. Off to the side stood Silverwings—the finest cavalry in the realm, having yet to taste defeat, their armor shimmering silver. They were making minor adjustments, cool as cucumbers.

"Monsieur, champion. Greetings," Saverus, Kyam's right hand, walked up confidently to Altus and Lars. "We're ready to move out. The first four squads of eight will go with Champion Lars' troops, each covering fifty soldiers. I will be with you, monsieur, as part of Raena's eight," Lars shook his hand and started toward his fighters—to listen to reports and issue final orders.

"Another hot mess, why am I not surprised..." said Altus, for a moment the quintessential grumpy old man, when he and Saverus walked up to their assigned squads of eight. Seeing the brass, the commanders and their subordinates jumped up to their feet and, hastily fixing their mantles, tried taking up some semblance of a formation.

"Saverus, when are you going to teach these nitwits discipline?" the archmage groused in his typical fashion.

Saverus showed his subordinates a fist, and they responded with the customary fear and zeal on their faces. _Nothing changes,_ Altus chuckled, surveying his students: the ever-dolorous Gerat, the beautiful Alsa, the twins, Gable and Ronan, the cold and contemplative Raena—once green academy graduates, now hardened battle mages.

"Nobody knows where the portal will lead us, so we had better be ready for anything. As always, we'll be coordinating everything with the Foxes. Maximum focus should be placed on protection from dark magic." Altus looked around everyone's faces sternly. "Do you even understand why we've been selected for this?"

"Because we're the best," Alsa replied vibrantly and without a second thought.

"And the most humble," Gerat looked at her sideways. "Will you be coming with us, monsieur?" he asked right away.

"Yes, I'm with you," he watched their faces light up. "And we were selected because, despite all your tomfoolery, we have the highest coefficient of defense and area of coverage when collaborating with battle groups. Well, that and," he looked and Alsa and smiled, "we really are the best."

"Monsieur Altus!" Colonel Morris addressed Kyam. Standing next to him were ten strangers, six of which wore distinct gray robes—the Untainted. Lars and his officers had approached as well. "We start in half an hour. You, the count's troops and Captain Arx's fifteen hundred," the colonel pointed at one of the people present, "will take the six furthest portals that we'll open here," he gestured toward the groups of mages bustling at a distance. "After the portal is captured, it is your job, Arx, to hold it and make sure not a cockroach escapes. As for you, Norris," he turned to one of the Untainted, "you know what to do. The Silverwings and I will cut the enemy off and destroy them. Good luck, gentlemen. See you after the operation."

They were late. The village was already burning, the gate was broken, and the palisade was breached in two places. Captives were streaming from the gate, prodded by the invaders toward the portal roughly three hundred yards away, glimmering red with black streaks. But the demons—for they were indeed the invaders—were likewise caught off-guard by the torrent of humans pouring out of twenty simultaneously opened portals and quickly getting into battle formations. Their defense corps—roughly six hundred redskins—was still turning toward the new threat, the demons hurrying into formation, when the first arrows began to pepper their ranks.

"Three hundred eighty yards to the goal, twenty six mages, around fifty soldiers, two giants and six gods know what," Saverus' dry voice sounded in the archmage's head.

"Elders, most likely. They can remain in combat form for a long time," said Altus. "Let's take a look."

In an instant, he teleported six hundred feet toward the red portal. Wasting no time, he struck at it with Icy Fan, then followed it up with Windfist.

The enormously powerful combo literally swept away the enemy soldiers and mages; one of the giants toppled onto the grass, his head severed by icy blades.

"Dang, grandpa got skills!" a young voice exclaimed in appreciation, as one of the Foxes was running up behind him. Altus only grunted in response. Whoever had started this, they were going to get their due when all was said and done!

Four hundred yards to the left, the Silverwings had already broken through the enemy ranks and were now trampling the demons into the ground. A massacre was ensuing. Prisoners yelled as they scattered; the elders were retreating, shielding themselves by magic shields. Dodging a massive club, Lars effortlessly chopped off the leg of another giant, and the Foxes following behind instantly finished him off.

"The portal is under control! You have six hours, no more!" one of the Untainted shouted to Altus. Kyam nodded and turned to Saverus.

"Report, but quickly," he demanded.

"Everyone's fine. Urkis got hit in the head, but he's all healed up now. There was a powerful caster among them," Saverus motioned toward the corpses. "No casualties among the Foxes either..."

"Except Champion Lars nearly paid a visit to the demons in the heat of battle," Raena remarked snidely.

"I heard that," said Lars as he walked up, smiling at the woman. "We're starting in five."

The first thing that Altus sensed after appearing in the palace yard, surrounded by gray walls, were dreadful emanations of death and a sickly sweet scent of freshly spilled blood percolating from above. He focused all his energy on the shields, covering those who were following behind, then struck at all the mantle-clad demons around him with the same Icy Fan, breaking and ripping their bodies to shreds. He sighted the portal keeper a moment later, as a ten-foot monster with a tail and curved horns atop a triangular snout appeared in view. The demon had apparently been trying to nix the teleportation spell, but its efforts were futile against the Untainted's magic. It took four blows to overwhelm the elder's shields, leaving its mangled body, skewered by an icy arrow, staring up at the crimson skies.

As each squad of fifty came out of the portal, covered by mages, it immediately engaged the demons, who were all around and boasted superior numbers. A gong reverberated frantically over the citadel. Running out from behind structures and the donjon, built in the shape of a massive pyramid, were men and women, wielding weapons and transforming into combat form on the run—at once a terrible and breathtaking sight.

But there was a reason Foxes were regarded as the finest mercenaries in the north, and they surpassed the defenders in just about every way. Shielded by magic, buffed to the max with defense and attack potions, they were tearing through the opposition.

"What in the seven hells is happening here, Kyam?" Lars' voice sounded in his head.

"Some kind of ritual at the top of the pyramid. Based on a sacrifice, but I can't sense any more."

Suddenly Altus felt an emission of enormous power nearby.

"Lars, looks like we've got company!"

In the middle of the inner courtyard, accompanied by a deafening din, a twelve-foot-tall demon emerged out of a cloud of smoke, alongside two slightly smaller companions. A shock wave knocked back everybody within a ten-yard radius. The demon raised its paws, bulging with muscles, and roared, releasing a barrage of fire all around. Its minions, in the meantime, had pounced on the disoriented Foxes and the archmage's troops. Human cries erupted as the flames consumed their bodies, the power of the element having overwhelmed certain shields. The demon charged a group of stunned warriors and literally ripped three of them to shreds with its paws and tail, which resembled a scorpion's stinger. But at that very moment, right into its side plunged the Silver Tear! Lars, who held the same rank among the realm's warriors as the archmage among the mages, had recovered instantly. Evading the counter strike, he bashed the monster with his shield, stunning it, and struck again with the Tear, aiming at the ligaments. The blade of his sword left a deep cut on the right leg, to which the demon roared and knocked the warrior back five yards with a powerful blow.

"Squads one and two, get on his minions! Three and four, finish off the rest, then switch to the main one! Focus heals on the champion!" the din of the battle was drowned out momentarily by the voice of Lars' assistant, Knight-Commander Kan Shyom.

The defense and regeneration of the lord and elder demons that had appeared with him was astounding. Spells of all the elements merely glanced off their hides, with only the champion's sword leaving deep cuts, which then skinned over almost instantly. Altus viewed the battle with Truesight and immediately cursed himself for his stupidity. Braids overflowing with energy were drawing from the top of the pyramid to the demons.

"Raena, get your squad and follow me, quickly!" The archmage teleported to the upper steps of the pyramid.

The smell of fresh blood and death stupefied the mages. The sight unfolding before their eyes was truly terrifying. The donjon was built in the form of a pyramid with its top sliced off, and the upper platform was strewn with hundreds of bodies (if those could even be referred to as bodies). A hexagram at the platform's center was drawn into a gigantic hexagon, each side at least ten yards long, its corners bursting with gray, blood-spattered shapes weaving and twisting in some kind of a mad dance. Thick braids of power emanating from them reconvened at a small cubic altar at the center of the drawing. Hoisted on the altar was a golden chalice, gushing torrents of power downward, toward the overlord and his minions.

Gorhies—vile creatures with puckered simian faces and gray hairless bodies—around fifty in all, lounged in pools of blood all around, woozy from the feast.

"The disavowed," Raena hissed to his side. "What do we do, monsieur?"

"You handle the gorhies," he motioned at the beasts, who had already spotted them and were leaping back to their feet. "I'll deal with the altar."

Altus knew that attacking necromancers was futile; like the demons below, they were invulnerable for the time being. But the altar with the chalice... The archmage amplified Truesight to the limit and looked closer. If the altar still overflowed with dark magic, the chalice had to be an enormous hollow in Truesight, inside which raged forces of all the elements, at the center of which glimmered a spark... _Holy Myrt!_ the archmage exclaimed mentally. _That's primordial chaos! How did they... And what artifact do they intend to create?_

_All right, calm down,_ he snapped at himself, bringing his thoughts in order. _They're pumping energy into the chalice, and tossing a portion of it below._ It wasn't long before it would fill completely. Were he to meddle by destroying the altar, he would throw off the fragile balance of the ritual, and not a stone would remain of the entire stronghold. However...

The archmage paid no attention to his surroundings, his hearing only sporadically registering the wailing and wheezing of gorhies being massacred by Raena's eight. His team was going to be fine, so he decided to put an end to the necromantic ritual. The scientist in him shouted that whatever it was that had compelled the lord to make a deal with the disavowed—abominations who worshiped only Vill and Syrat, cursed by even the majority of the dark gods—had to be extraordinarily valuable indeed.

He was capable of working with all sorts of dark magic, but death energy was his favorite. His mind focused, the archmage drew from the billowing power around him, and poured a generous portion of it into the chalice. A loathsome feeling overwhelmed him, and Altus dropped to his knees, retching his guts out. Just then came a soft clapping sound to the right of the altar.

"Monsieur, monsieur Altus," Raena was shaking him by the shoulder.

The archmage shook his head, his body awash in the cool of cleansing magic. He struggled to his feet.

"I'm all right, girl," he wheezed. "Did I miss something?"

"We..." the sorceress flushed, "I know we were supposed to capture one of those alive," she cast a vicious glance in the direction of the dead necromancers. "But after seeing all this..."

"It's all right," he gave her a reassuring smile. "Go on down and help the others, I'll linger here a moment," he nodded and started toward the alter, his feet sticking to the slabs awash in human and gorh blood.

Resting in the chalice was a ring, black as coal, with a large emerald that shimmered slightly from the power that was spilling out of it. The stronghold shuddered suddenly; wasting no time, the mage produced a case of truesilver, shook the ring into it and closed it shut. He then threw the chalice into his bag and hurried downstairs.

Lars was supine, his right arm outstretched at his side and his helm lying nearby. The warrior's blue eyes were looking up at the crimson sky. It seemed as if any second now he would get up and give a familiar wink at Raena—her cheeks glistening from streaking tears, her slacked jaw covered by her hand—then bark at the warriors and mages crowding him to fall in... If not for the ghastly, molten wound on his chest... Some ten feet away lay his finest and final trophy—the twelve-foot carcass of the lord, its eye socket filled to the hilt by the Silver Tear.

Kan Shyom's voice brought the archmage back to reality.

"Towards the end, the beast went berserk, and we lost a lot of men," he stopped short. "I don't know how the champion managed to do it, but if it weren't for him, none of us would be alive now." The knight sighed. "It was a worthy death," the commander said quietly, looking down. "Here," he offered Altus a signet ring with an elaborate token of flame. "No one can wear it until the Order's council—you should hold on to it until then."

The archmage took the signet ring carefully and put it away in his bag.

"Gather all the dead. Kan, I will lead the ritual."

"Consider it done," the knight raised his eyes at Altus. "And another thing..." he hemmed and hawed, and finally said, "you should take the Tear. It was very precious to him, and I'm sure he would have wanted his friend to have it." The commander spun around, military like, and left to give out orders.

"We've lost seventeen," said Saverus, walking up to the archmage from the side; the news caused his heart to shrink even further with pain, "the Foxes are down to a hundred at the most."

"How! Who?" the archmage exclaimed.

"The twins and their squad, and Alsa. She covered the champion at the last moment, but..." Saverus gave a heavy sigh. "That beast," he glanced bitterly at the vanquished demon, "its rage was beyond anything we could imagine."

"How much time do we have?" Altus asked his deputy. There would be time to grieve, but now they needed to complete this raid, in which they had already suffered more casualties than in the previous fifty years combined. The damned plan with those damned beasts!

"It took us an hour and a half, monsieur, and we've got at least four more. There are no surviving enemies. It is strange that we haven't encountered a single child, worker or servant at the citadel, but only warriors and mages. It also smells of Death," he looked up at the pyramid. "Raena told me what happened there... It's like this castle was visited by one of the twice cursed.

Continuing their conversation, they walked up to the lord's body. In one smooth motion, Altus pulled the sword from its eye-socket, and shuddered from a powerful mental blow. The Tear looked nothing like itself, as tongues of dark mist streamed down the silvery blade with crimson glyphwork. The mage whispered a few words, and the mist was gone.

"What's with it?" Saverus motioned at the sword.

"We'll figure that out later," the archmage responded grimly. "I would guess that the weapon has consumed that thing's soul," Altus pointed the blade at the lord's corpse, then sighed. "I'd told Lars there was something wicked about that barrow... What now?" He gave his deputy a weary look.

"We've located the vault. Haven't touched anything yet, we'll wait till after the ritual," Saverus looked up at the sky. "I don't like it here. Our business shouldn't take more than a few hours."

Then there was flame—the Red Flame—elevating their fallen brothers-in-arms to the gods of light, to the solemn song of the Foxes drumming on their shields. The mages stood to the side gloomily.

As Altus watched the flames, he contemplated whether it was time to retire. The rector of the Magic Academy in Rovendum—his good friend and former classmate—had long been tempting him with ample promises: a cushy job as his deputy and several labs for research. He also thought about how much he was going to miss Lars, this being his second irreplaceable loss in the past fifty years. His woeful thoughts darted from the twins, Ronan and Gable, to the red-haired beauty Alsa, his finest analyst and caster.

When the flames died down, leaving not a single grain of ash on the slabs, the archmage stepped forward and said:

"We've got two hours, no more," he amplified his voice with magic, "to turn this whole castle inside out. Standard procedure—we take anything that's valuable, then destroy the fortress and leave. Let's move."

At that very moment, a series of powerful tremors shook the castle. The red portal window to the lands of humans rattled shut, and the tower over the gate exploded as several fireballs crashed into it, splashing rock fragments all around. There came another series of quakes, causing the wall to the right of the main gate to sink, then collapse, kicking up a cloud of dust. Bewildered, the mages hurriedly put up their shields, as the first screams of the wounded filled the air.

"Helms! Helms! Quickly, you sons of bitches! Battle formation!" Kan Shyom's shout drowned out the moans of the wounded and cries of surprise. "Healers, in the back!"

The Foxes rushed to get back in battle formations.

The gate shuddered from a mighty blow, but stayed intact. Three more blobs of fire flew over the walls and crashed into the donjon's masonry, splashing red-hot splinters and flooding the gray stone with liquid fire.

As the dust settled, the stunned humans saw a veritable army of demons advancing on the castle: four squares of heavy infantry under black banner, heavy cavalry on bipedal lizards on the right flank, six colossal creatures resembling steppe rhinos (if rhinos could be blown up five times in size and covered with a turtle shell), and sixteen tall figures marching in between the infantry squares.

"Worms! How dare you crawl onto my lands!" a menacing roar sounded in Altus' head, with tangible threads of horror amplifying the mental message. The faces of warriors standing behind him twisted in fear, and many began collapsing to the ground.

"Mental shields to the max!" he shouted, adding Barbs of Reason to Mental Canopy that was already enveloping the humans.

"What's happening? What is that?" Kan Shyom yelled, running up to him. He hadn't yet recovered from the mental blow, wincing at every explosion.

"That's Ahriman, the overlord. That blue circle with the pentagram in the center on the banners is his symbol. And those," Altus motioned at the figures of demons unleashing firebals at the fortress, "are the Throne Attendants. And judging by the distance and potency of their attacks, they're every bit as good as I am," he declared darkly.

"Monsieur, we won't hold out long," Saverus' voice sounded overly calm. "We can't feed both mental and elemental shields at this rate; people will start passing out in ten minutes, tops."

Cool and collected on the outside, inside Altus was scrambling for a solution. The portal was destroyed, so retreat wasn't an option. Stay and fight? The option was too ludicrous to even consider. The demons were about half a mile away; even if the cavalry were to lead an assault through the breach, they had maybe ten-fifteen minutes to work with.

"This will be a glorious battle..." Kan scowled.

"There will be no battle. Quick, get everyone into the vault." Consummate officer that he was, Kan Shyom simply nodded and hurried to carry out the order.

"What are you thinking?" shouted Saverus and Raena, running up to the archmage, as the junior officers were ushering the Foxes and Altus' people to the donjon's gate. The last several minutes were clearly hard on the two: the master of two elements was limping on his left foot, his mantle soiled with dark blots in several places, and the blue-brown pattern on it—the image of water and earth—had grown dim; the sorcesses' hair was disheveled, with blood oozing from a deep scratch on her forehead.

"I will lock you in the vault with Oblivion, the Seal of Bel," Altus winced from a nearby explosion. "I will leave and return later, and we'll figure out what to do next."

"Where did you get the seal of the God of Thieves?" the master marveled, adjusting his sling with the staff on the go.

"Doesn't matter—the important thing is that I do," Altus glanced at Raena, her face full of resolve, and preempted her protest. "No! I will go alone. I'm sorry, icicle, but you would only get in the way." The young woman kept a glum silence.

The castle's great vault was shaped like a triangle. Racks of weapons and armor, food supplies, crates and barrels and rolls of materials, and components of two disassembled ballistas by the far wall.

"Warriors," the archmage called attention to himself, standing in the vault's doorway. He waited until all the voices died down and all eyes turned to him, then continued. "I will cast Oblivion on everybody here and seal the doors with the Seal of Bel. No one—not demons, not even gods—will be able to see through the seal of the God of Thieves. The seal can only be applied from the outside, so I will have to leave you. I will return when the demons withdraw from the castle and lift the spell. Even if the overlord's troops raze this whole castle to the ground, you will not be harmed." Altus turned to the commander. "I will cast the spell on the Champion of the Order's signet ring. Here," he handed Kan Shyom Lars' sword and a jewelry case of truesilver, wrapped in runecloth. "You'll give it back to me when I return. Or..." the archmage locked eyes with the knight, "to whoever comes in my stead."

"Farewell," Altus stepped toward the doors, turned around, eyeing a morose Kan, pensive Saverus and weeping Raena, and activated Oblivion. Casting a brief glance at the bodies settling on the slabs, Altus walked out of the vault, slamming shut the massive metal doors, brought the Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's signet to the crack between the doors and whispered several long phrases in a strange hissing tongue. A cool air washed over his face, as intricate weavings ran along the edges of the doors, closely resembling cobweb patterns of frost spiders. The archmage pocketed the signet ring, now radiating a small amount of heat, and rushed toward the exit.

By the time Altus reached the open doors of the donjon, the lizard riders were already entering the fortress. He struck a quick combo of Icy Fan and Chain Lightning, and followed up by raising the rock shards littering the courtyard into the air and hurling them at the already thinning throng of riders. He considered the results of his efforts momentarily, noting with satisfaction that roughly twenty attackers, along with their dreadful mounts, were now lying motionless in the courtyard or blocking the breach in the wall. Easily repelling a pair of ice spears, the archmage slipped behind the wall and fled from the citadel via a random portal, covering his tracks with a dozen decoys.

***

Archmage Altus was standing in the middle of a small canyon, looking up at the clouds above crawling quaintly in the sky, a light breeze tousling his gray hair. He was tired. There was no sense in running any longer. He wasn't going to escape his pursuers, not in their own lands. It had been twelve portals jumps—all of them futile, one giant waste of effort.

A depression with smooth walls along the edges, and boulders clustered along the bottom. The slopes were lined with reddish limestone, underlying isles of shrubbery and trees that resembled pines. A small waterfalls splashed nearby. A lovely, picturesque place to make one's last stand. Altus threw out several more decoy traps, and proceeded to wait.

_Not at all like Erantia, which is so far, far away now,_ he thought wistfully, looking up at the sky. Gods! Why did it have to happen this way? He wasn't afraid of death, but his team... How would they make it without him? He had never asked the gods for anything, deeming it unbecoming to distract higher beings from their work—unfathomable to mortal beings—with empty requests. There had been several instances throughout his life when he'd carried out some deity's will (and had been rewarded for it), but he had never asked for anything himself. But now, for the first time in his long life, he was begging for the chance to save his people and the knights of the Red Flame. As for him, he was sure that SHE was waiting for him—in a place that was destined for him—she could wait a little longer while he did his duty to the end.

Memories flooded his mind, a mighty torrent sweeping him away—two hundred sixty years back in time...

He stood apart from the buzzing crowd, cupping a glass of Kjenian Tear, gazing out of a huge arched window at the billowing steam. The royal graduation ball was in full swing in all its splendor. It all made for a silly sight—the festive ribbons on the young cadets and sackcloth-like garb on the Academy of Higher Magic graduates. He was irritated by the scurrying waiters and their trays, the scents of perfume, the smiling faces all around him.

Ten years prior, at his own graduation ball, he had gotten shamelessly drunk, got into a scuffle with Duke Kerat's third son, breaking his face and singing his luxuriant hair, while himself losing three front teeth... and a favorable placement. And now, instead of the enormous Synala with its elven maidens and Rowass wine, he wound up in the small northern Port Vallidu, reeking of mold and codfish. He'd been averse to events such as this ever since.

Altus took a sip from his glass. He was feeling dizzy from all the flickering faces—diplomats, soldiers, socialites, humans, elves, dwarves! He would be glad to ditch the party—hell, he wouldn't be here in the first place if not for the king's personal invitation... And no wonder, with him being a decorated Knight of the Order of the Maple Branch and commander of Blue Salamanders—the legendary squad that had cleansed the Norleyd Ruins of undead and slain Hartalyon in Kraet Peaks. He was recognized everywhere he went, but given a wide berth upon meeting his dispassionate gaze, with only scraps of phrases reaching his ears: "Yep, that's him all right..."

"Say, aren't you the celebrated Count Altus, grandmaster of fire, who had defended Vallidu from an undead invasion?" a young woman's voice rang out to his left.

The mage turned, then bowed his head in deference.

"How may I be of service, Your Highness?" he spoke with a smile.

The young woman let out a disappointed sigh.

"How did you know who I was? We've never met!" she puckered her brow, which made her even lovelier than before. He looked her up and down, noting her shapely girlish figure, the turquoise mantle, the white lily in her hair...

"With my tattoo expertise, I'd be disgraced if I mistook the House of the Singing Dew for anything else. So, I ask again, princess, how may I be of service?"

"I want to join your squad!"

He was taken aback. The second daughter of the head of one of the most powerful Houses—this was truly unheard of...

"I've just finished my apprenticeship, and I am ready to be tested," her voice broke, "or are you afraid of the complications that might arise with my father?"

Complications were indeed a concern, and major ones at that, but even a Prince had to obey the Law. Besides, the archmage really didn't give a damn about all the rulers of the Great Forest put together.

"Princess..."

"Elsaniel," the girl smiled. "But call me Elsa. I've studied at the Academy; I know how you humans like to shorten your names."

"Why would you want this? We live by strict rules, and don't do grand receptions," he looked around the hall. "And we've none of this..." he hesitated, "lobbying and intrigue, there."

The princess burst out in infectious laughter.

"But you do have adventure. Your squad is all anyone's been talking about the past five years, and life in the princedom is so dull," she made a wry face. "Nothing but..." she twirled her wrist, as if remembering something, "lobbying and intrigue. There!" This time they laughed together.

"Why aren't you dancing? Or do you expect a lady to beg?" she creased her eyebrows.

"Princess, it's not that I can't dance well, I can't dance _at all_..." he felt his face flush.

"It's easy. Come, I'll show you," she offered her hand.

His knees weak and lungs gasping for oxygen, Kyam took the young woman's hand and led her into the hall, toward the dancing couples.

There was a reason he hated these balls. The dance just wouldn't end, and no matter how desperately the mage tried matching his partner's quick and fluid movements, he ended up stepping on her foot and messing up a movement's direction numerous times. By the time the torture ended, he was on the brink of burning a hole in the floor from sheer shame.

To his shock, Elsa had decided to dedicate the entire evening to him exclusively. They chatted of trifles, drank wine and laughed, and when the ball ended, they left together. And they hadn't parted since.

And when, forty six years ago in Borderlands, with their squad hemmed in the castle of a backwater barony by a thousand ear-hunters and young drow wolves backed by mages from the House of Twilit Shadows, they were rescued in the last moment by a sudden blow in the enemy's rear courtesy of Lars' knights and Count d'Arysak's heavy cavalry, he carried her lifeless body—sprouting a poisoned arrow—out of the burning castle. And then he personally cut the throats of twenty six higborn captives, including the of the House Patriarch's youngest son.

A fluttering of wings tore the archmage from his memories, as a huge white bird landed on a boulder fifty feet away. The arrival cried out in alarm, craning its neck, and turned into a cloud of mist. Dumbfounded, the mage peered into the cloud, watching it take the shape of a young woman. Translucent and perfectly still, she gazed at him wistfully.

"Have you come for me?" Altus smiled.

Just then there was a tremor a hundred yards away; billows of mist covered the ground, and four towering figures sprang up from it.

"Wait here, I won't be long," he spoke quietly.

"I am Prince Saad Khor, First among Equals—Ahriman the Overlord's Throne Attendants—General of the First Punisher Legion, and I have come for you, worm!" a fifteen-foot-tall demon in pitch-black armor stepped forward. "On your knees, and don't even think of resisting. Perhaps then the overlord will grant you an easy death."

A powerful, dread-inspiring aura emanated from the demon.

Altus chuckled.

"I am Count Kyam Altus, Archmage of Erantia, and I spit on you and your overlord's mercy, wretched beasts!"

Suddenly there was music playing in his head—the same music they had danced to then, two hundred sixty years ago. Altus repelled two Ice Spears and rolled to the beat of the music, evading rocky spikes that shot up from the ground, then activated his traps and conjured up ten astral projections. Smoke flooded into the gorge, and before long he heard the agonizing roar of one of the seven who had stumbled into a trap. A pity, he counted on more casualties than that. But look, Elsa, I'm getting the hang of this! Another pas—a quick portal jump fifty yards to the side, dodging four terrible lightning bolts. An Icy Fan—his go-to spell—then Quicksand and another Fan at the ensnared monster! He teleported again and spun around. There wouldn't be any mistakes this time. Two mighty strikes with Watery Lash at the horned mug that had popped out of the smoke, and an Ice Arrow with a decoy to finish off the beast.

With his shields already exhausted, he set into the final movement of the dance—hurling a pair of Windblades at the two demons that had appeared to his right, he focused all his remaining strength on the Ice Spear at the one who'd managed to block the blade. The last accord sounded, the music faded, and her tear-stained face appeared before his eyes.

"I did it, sweetheart! Why are you crying?"

Several moments later, four demons stood over a body prostrated on the rocks. Clutching his wounded shoulder, pierced by an ice spear, General Saad Khor contemplated dourly the golden glyphs on the chest of Erantia's dead archmage.

***

I sat perfectly still, transfixed by the vision. The roaring flames, the peals of thunder and sundering rock—all this was gradually receding, yielding to the music of savanna at night.

You've completed the quest, Duty Calls, Part I.

You have gained a level! Current level: 2.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

You have gained a level!

...

You have gained a level!

...

You have gained a level! Current level: 10.

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 27 stat points to allocate.

Your character can now choose a specialization.

You have gained a level! Current level: 11.

You have 2 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 30 stat points to allocate.

Logic would dictate that a quest this high level should have netted me heaps more experience—enough for level 30 or thereabouts, so it must have triggered the hidden "fairness" coefficient that the devs had introduced to counter powerleveling. We also called it the "fartness" coefficient. If memory served me right, prior to the latest patch players were allowed to accept quests up to 20 levels above their character's level. The exception to this were unique quests. The fact that I had been given a quest by a level 500 NPC could only be explained by a quirk courtesy of RP-17, which had mentioned something about a bump in the game's NPCs' intellect.

Having a friend in the game who was, say, level 100, you could easily accept a bunch of maximum-level quests and knock them out with ease by working in a group. Which would bring you to the same level 100 much, much faster. Or your friend could simply pull a high-level mob while not being grouped with you, and keep aggro while you hacked away at the mob pitifully until it died and you got the experience for its death. This was the reason the fairness coefficient was introduced. To be sure, completing a quest 20 levels higher would certainly net more experience than a same-level quest, but the multiplier was capped at around 1.5 as compared to hundreds—the way it was before the coefficient. The same applied to killing high-level mobs. Of course, players continued looking for (and finding) various loopholes, but those were typically closed fairly quickly by the administration, which aggressively propagated fair gaming. And it wasn't hard to track unusual jumps in levels of certain characters.

No matter—all great things must begin with the first step. While Altus waited for me to catch my breath and recover from the vision, I quickly opened my character menu. And, without a moment's hesitation, selected mage. I never was drawn to necromancers, and especially not after what I'd seen. To always travel with a retinue of rotting corpses and other filth that reeked as much as you'd expect—find yourself another sucker! The priest class was always in demand for its excellent healing and buffing abilities, but completely lacking in the damage department and hence not very attractive to me. Most players wanted to burn burn burn, so only people of a particular ilk played support classes. I was not among them.

Congratulations on your selection, apprentice. This marks the beginning of your path to master the power of the elements. Only you will determine where it will take you.

You've gained the rank of mage's apprentice. You can raise in rank by enrolling in one of Arkon's schools of magic.

There was no going back now—I was a mage. Now, to allocate stats... the logical strategy was to throw something into intellect, but with my hit points and energy, logic could go screw itself! I added 20 to constitution and 10 to vigor. Talents I left for later.

"What do I need to do, monsieur?" I asked the archmage sitting across from me. After seeing and experiencing his vision, I didn't want to relate to him as a ghost.

"Setara, the Goddess of Justice, has hearkened to my request, giving me a hero who will rescue my people and the knights of the order. That there," he gestured at the rock formation, "has been my grave for the past two hundred and eighty years. The demons haven't been able to recover the signet ring enchanted with the Key to the vault. It cannot be looted off the corpse or stolen, but only given away freely. I cannot move too far from my remains—this was the goddess' condition. Only when the signet ring is in safe hands will I finally find rest," he explained.

You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls II.

Quest type: hidden.

Kill Shaartakh and loot the Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's Signet Ring from Archmage Altus' corpse.

Reward: experience, unknown. Warning! To complete this quest you will need at least 100 allies.

I let out a mental groan. Why does it always happen that when things finally start looking up, something comes along and smacks you back down to reality?! Where was I going to find one hundred level 170+ players?! Even in Karn I'd be hard-pressed to gather enough volunteers. I could just imagine what was going on there—the panic, people in shock and hardly thinking about raiding. It would take months for tanks to grind their toughness high enough to raid, to say nothing of the other classes. There weren't many masochists capable of enduring even ten minutes of genuine pain.

"Monsieur," I said, accepting the quest, "what is this creature you call Shaartakh?"

"When Velial departed from this plane, not all of his creatures followed. Some of them remained here. Demons have thinned their numbers considerably since, but some specimen still live. Those that are particularly powerful and loathsome," Altus scrunched up his face, gazing toward the mountains. "There was a great emission of power during the battle in the gorge. That was how he appeared... Well, what are your thoughts?"

I patted my non-existing pockets automatically—a Pavlovian response to my nicotine cravings. Realizing the futility of it, I locked my arms to keep them from causing mischief.

"My thoughts are focused on capturing power in this dominion," I shrugged and, seeing that Altus was staring at me as though I were a halfwit, continued. "Don't misunderstand me, monsieur. I would love to help you find peace and to reunite you with your beloved," I cut right to the quick, "but I stand no chance against Shaartakh on my own... Heck, I couldn't even handle a gopher," I looked around in search of at least one of those rodents, as if they could confirm my words. "And where would I find the people—or even demons—to help me in this quest? Karn is closed to me, just as it is to you."

"You're going to go far with those smarts," Altus chuckled. "Setara never did forbid me from lending a hand..." The archmage stood up resolutely, whisking up his staff.

Archmage Altus invites you to join his group.

Whoa! Last I checked, NPCs didn't have the ability to form groups, or was I missing something? I accepted without thinking twice and jumped off the chair, trying to look as eager as possible. Altus checked out my getup skeptically; then, without lowering his staff, brought his hands together and jerked them upward. A warm wave swept over my body. I glanced at the logs and froze, flabbergasted.

You are endowed with Archmage Altus' Blessing. Duration: 120 minutes.

Agility: +500.

Strength: +500.

Constitution: +500.

Vigor: + 500.

Spirit: +500.

Intellect: +500.

It was like I'd gulped down five liters of some energy drink or snorted some kind of super junk.

"That's more like it," the archmage grunted. "Now quit standing there like a statue and follow me." With those words, he stepped into the blue oval of a portal he'd opened a moment earlier, motioning for me to follow.

I recognized the gorge where Archmage Altus had made his last stand right away. The scatterings of rocks and boulders were all there, only the pine trees and the brush had been replaced by a strange brown moss crawling along the molten hillsides. Catching my eyes, Altus explained:

"The demons were mainly using area of effect spells. It will be a while before anything will be able to grow here. There," he pointed toward a large brownish boulder about a hundred yards from where we stood, "is where my bones lie. Make sure to stay back and not draw aggro. And another thing," he sighed, "upon attacking Shaartakh, I will become vulnerable. If I don't manage to kill him," he said, peering intently at me, "you're going to have to come back here later. Promise me this."

"I promise, monsieur," I put my balled right fist to my heart automatically—clearly, I was growing into the role—then nodded and added, "even if I have to make this entire land my bitch."

The archmage nodded and started forward.

I continued standing there, swerving my head around in search of Shaartakh, when the large pile of rocks in Altus' path began to move, which made my hair stand on end. Whatever depths of computer imagination this creature had crawled out of, I was beyond certain that artists like me had nothing at all to do with it. The monster looked like the embodiment of the collective nightmares of patients in some mental ward, and a large one at that. Colossal, the size of a rock handler, with a gray mass of tentacles and queer dark tumors, the monster resembled some kind of terrible mix of caterpillar and octopus. Mother of God! Level 473!!! Shaartakh lifted his foreparts off the ground slowly, and soon the monster was was boring the archmage, who'd stopped roughly a hundred feet away, with its three yellow eyes.

A ripple went through Altus' limpid figure. The archmage threw his arms back and sideways, and, as if a great weight had landed on him, began slowly raising them upward. That was when I glimpsed the transparent vortexes of power streaming from his bones. When Altus' hands reached their apex, the mage cried out something, and a lightning bolt of gigantic proportions struck at the beast with a deafening rumble. The monster's health bar dropped by a whole quarter. With a wild, bloodcurdling yelp, the beast pounced on Altus.

I felt my insides twist into a knot, and the world went dark in my eyes. It was like somebody were trying to drill into my head through my ear canal. I clutched my ears with my hands, but it was no use. Seeing blood flowing from my ears and running down my wrists, I swore with gusto.

Shaartakh's Primal Howl hits you with mental magic for 20 damage! 5190/5210.

Shaartakh's Primal Howl hits you with mental magic for 20 damage! 5170/5210.

...

Shaartakh's Primal Howl hits you with mental magic for 20 damage! 4170/5210.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 32%.

A hundred yards in front of me, the great mage Kyam Altus was working wonders of the art of sorcery. Surrounded by damage-dealing auras of all the colors of the rainbow, the wailing Shaartakh kept trying to snare the mage with its tentacles, but each attempt ended with triggering a trap, which stunned the beast for several seconds and sent yet another barrage of ice blocks and lightning bolts crashing down on it. At half life, the monster split into three giant cactus-like shapes with trunks in place of branches, and attacked the mage with whitish streaks of power.

Shaartakh's Primal Howl hits you with mental magic for 20 damage! 1150/5210.

Your Toughness skill has increased to 33%.

The AoE damage hit every two seconds. I had no more than two minutes left to live, and that was considering my racial bonus absorbed three quarters of all incoming mental damage. Then six hours at the graveyard... But if I went out of range, I wouldn't get the credit for the quest. What to do?!

It turned out I didn't need to do anything, as the end came quicker than I could anticipate. In the third phase of the fight, having rejoined all its parts into one whole, Shaartakh swung and missed again. The archmage countered, quick as lightning, by immobilizing his target, then finished off the monster with a boulder overhanging the gorge and a pair of ice blocks.

_You've earned a unique achievement,_ _Shaartakh's Slayer_ _. Shaartakh is a unique boss that can only be killed once. You and your allies have been granted a permanent 5% increase to your physical and magic damage._

Your reputation has increased. Residents of the Ashtar Dominion are neutral to you.

_What the..._ I thought to myself in shock.

You have gained a level! Current level: 12.

You have 3 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

...

You have gained a level!

You have gained a level!

...

You have gained a level! Current level: 17.

You have 8 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 18 stat points to allocate.

Not bad. The archmage's level was much higher than mine, which meant I was getting only a fraction of experience when grouped with him. Still, that fraction was enough for six levels.

Archmage Altus has removed you from his group. You have lost the two-hour buff, Archmage Altus' Blessing.

_That's right, it's up to me now,_ I thought on the way to the corpse. The pain had abated, but the smell of ash and ozone had likewise succumbed before the stench of the giant carcass so unbearably foul that I couldn't help but hold my breath as I walked. The fumes blended with the smell of scorched, dead flesh. _At least it doesn't cause any damage,_ I grimaced to myself.

I stopped ten yards from the brown boulder and sighed, examining the pile of human bones—turned yellow with time and partially covered with soil. The skull wore an enigmatic smile, eyes turned skyward.

"A wretched sight," said the archmage, gazing at his remains from behind me. "No need to drag this out. Go on, get the signet ring."

I leaned over and touched the bones.

Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's Signet Ring.

Quest item. Cannot be stolen or traded. Does not disappear from inventory with the owner's death.

I was holding a massive ring made of some strange metal, orange tongues of flame intertwining on it in a peculiar pattern, eerily lifelike. The ring was radiating heat. Clutching it in my hand, I turned to the archmage.

"So it ends," he spoke solemnly.

You've completed the quest, Duty Calls II.

You have gained a level! Current level: 18.

You have 9 talent points to allocate.

You've earned the title, "Archmage Altus' Apprentice," which grants a one-time bonus: +5% to all magical actions.

You received a one-time bonus: +20% to maximum resistance to mental magic.

You have 9 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 21 stat points to allocate.

You have gained a level!

...

You have gained a level! Current level: 67.

You have 58 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 168 stat points to allocate.

I stood there with bated breath, jaw dropped to the floor, watching the lines of text scroll before my eyes. In truth, I'd estimated as much—a quest designed for a raid of level 170+ characters, killing a boss that not a single guild was capable of taking on, and reaping all the benefits. Fifty levels of experience despite the fairness coefficient. If not for it, the quest would have probably catapulted me to around level 200.

"Students have waited decades to earn the right to be called my apprentices, so you'd better appreciate my trust," declared the archmage. "But this will help you find a common language with my team. You should know that Raena is a cast first, ask questions later type of gal."

"This is a great honor," I said, trying to preserve the solemnity of the moment.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "By the way, I noticed that your mental magic resistance is kind of low, and you're going to need every bit of it, trust me. So, I've adjusted it a little for you."

You've accessed the quest: Duty Calls III.

Quest type: hidden.

_Find the door to the vault, sealed with the_ _Seal of Bel_ _, and open it to release Archmage Altus' free squad and the knights of the Order of the Red Flame._

Reward: the sword of the slain Champion of the Order of the Red Flame, a truesilver case with an unknown artifact.

"Tell Saverus to take command of the troops. He knows where the documents are hidden. Return the signet ring to Kan Shyom. Then again, don't—neither he nor any of the Foxes should wear it just yet." The archmage pondered the matter for a moment. "Play it by ear. Take Lars' sword and the case from Kan Shyom. Lars would have wanted his Tear to go to the person who saved his people. As for the ring in the case," the archmage's face assumed the highest degree of seriousness, "its plain appearance is very deceptive, and I would advise against handling it directly. It won't bring my people any good, but you... You should decide for yourself. And that's that," he gave a wistful smile and gazed up at the sky, which was growing rapidly awash with light. "Farewell, my apprentice. The goddess is calling for me."

"Farewell, master, and thank you for everything..." the last words I spoke into nothingness, as Altus' ghost had already disappeared. No pillar of light, no swarm of sparks. Having been such a great boon to me, the archmage had simply vanished into thin air.

In the meantime, dawn was breaking in Demon Grounds. The first rays of the morning sun had already penetrated the ravaged gorge, illuminating meekly the sites of two great battles, tracing silhouettes of molten stones and reflecting off the glass-like surface of rock. My heart felt heavy. I realized that Altus had found his long-sought redemption, and might have even reunited with his beloved, but when a person with whom you've developed a deep bond leaves you, it invariably leaves a void in your soul and a bitter taste in your mouth.

What now? I looked around in search of an exit from the gorge... and realized what an idiot I was. This was a game! Somehow the latest events had blurred the lines between virtual and true reality. Then again, this was now my world, and it operated by the game's rules. Case in point, the rotting carcass of a level 473 monster lying in a lake of slime fifty yards away, reeking like a dozen decaying elephants and likely containing a small fortune.

Fighting back nausea and shuddering with disgust over the bluish slush oozing into my boots, I waded through to the carcass and touched it. They say that in every player sits a hamster that squeals with delight at the sight of good loot. Well, if that's true, then my hamster's squeal at that moment was like the roar of King Kong after something massive had fallen square in his nether regions. Sixteen pieces of equipment of rare quality and above, around fifty variegated vials, a piece of fabric inscribed with strange glyphs and several burnt-through holes, a plain oval-shaped hand mirror with a handle twice the size of my palm, and over nine thousand gold. With zero strength left to rejoice, I shrugged wearily and mentally pressed the Take All button. At that very moment, my rear end plopped right into the abominable ooze to the shrill ringing of coins exchanging ownership.

Warning! Your character is 147/12 overloaded and cannot move. Get rid of the excess weight to resume movement.

Fat chance!

The worst item on that list was worth at least five thousand bucks! For a moment I even forgot about the stinking, disgusting puddle in which I sat. I opened up the stat menu. One point in strength extended carrying capacity by five pounds. In a regal motion, I threw 94 points into strength and another 10 into stamina, seeing as I'd need to do something about heavy armor anyway. My burden suddenly light as a feather, I rose and headed toward a small spring I'd spotted earlier trickling out of a nearby mountain. I washed off the filth and the caked blood—yet another new element. It used to be that your clothes never got soiled or even wet (you could wade through a swamp and still come out perfectly dry); similarly, blood never flowed and certainly never crusted. _At least I'm not cold,_ I thought to myself, wringing out my rags. I could finally head back to the village and catch a breath. The rabid pace and nerve-racking nature of recent events had taken their toll. Besides, I needed to mull over the catastrophic changes that had taken place in my life.

"Oh, damn!" I smacked my forehead, then started toward the archmage's bones and collected his remains into my bag. All that was left of the once mighty mage fit into just two inventory slots: Archmage Altus' Skull and Archmage Altus' Bones. My eyes shifted and stopped on a stick that seemed vaguely familiar. I walked over and picked it up.

You've accessed the quest: Finding the Staff.

Quest type: epic.

Deliver Archmage Kyam Altus' staff fragment to the rector of the Mages' Academy in Rovendum.

Reward: one of four elemental staves to choose from: Scorcher, Giant's Step, Ice Reaper, Peal of Thunder.

My capacity for surprise had been overfilled. The reward for an epic quest was, at the very least, an epic item. Not only that, I had two quest items in my bag, and who knew what they might turn into? A beast like that wasn't likely to drop anything trivial. RP-17 or whoever was overseeing Demon Grounds must be giving me all these quests because I was here alone. Not that I objected, mind you. Stashing the rune-encrusted and singed staff fragment into my bag, I started toward the exit from the gorge.

The sloping hill between the gorge and Lamorna was some ten yards high and fifty yards in diameter, with an even peak covered in yellow-brown prickly grass. The ground at the top was hard, and the apprentice's staff made for a bad shovel. Still, after two-three hours of loosening the earth with the staff and scooping it out with my hands, I'd dug a hole about a yard deep. After gently placing the archmage's remains inside, I filled up the grave with earth. I didn't know any prayers, but standing there in silence somehow didn't seem appropriate, so I softly recited a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Before us great Death stands

Our fate held close within his quiet hands.

When with proud joy we lift Life's red wine

To drink deep of the mystic shining cup

And ecstasy through all our being leaps—

Death bows his head and weeps.

Then I fished the archmage's staff fragment and plunged it hard into the ground at the head of the grave. Then I opened the menu and abandoned the Finding the Staff quest. Over the many years the staff had been with its owner, it had become part of his soul and it didn't feel right taking that part with me.

This felt right—the dead mage and his dead staff put to rest side by side. I put my balled right fist to my heart and bowed my head, then spun around and started briskly toward the nearby village.

After reaching the bottom of the hill, a gust of warm wind hit me between the shoulder-blades, playful-like, bringing with it a scent of lilies, as my ears picked up sounds of a waltz. I turned around and froze, stupefied, tears forming involuntarily in the corners of my eyes. On top of the hill—suddenly emerald-green with a large branching tree—stood a frail elven female in a jade mantle, a white lily in her chestnut hair, next to a dark-haired human male in a plain waistcoat. The woman's arms were around his neck, and he was looking back at her with a deep intensity, unblinking. The elf turned toward me, smiled and gave a friendly wave. Finding the strength to take his eyes off his woman, Altus followed with a friendly nod and a wink.

Attention! You have garnered the attention of a higher being. Setara, the Goddess of Justice, is friendly to you.

_You received a racial skill:_ _Setara's Shield._

Setara's Shield dispels all hostile spells and protects you from all types of damage and curses for 10 seconds.

I waved back at the vanishing vision, thinking that this world was probably far more than just the one I'd come from, if only because it had an actual goddess of justice.

# Chapter 3

Change in life is inevitable. Man changes, as does his environment. "Don't be afraid of change," urge the psychologists. "The world is changeable, and he who has grasped this fact is onto something." But there's an ancient saying that disagrees: "Better to be a dog in times of peace than a man in times of chaos." So, where is the truth?

_Something has got to change,_ I had resolved at one point in my life, already in America. I thought about it. Change a girlfriend? Which one? Besides, they were changing rapidly enough as it was. Marriage? Nah, that kind of change would be a bit too drastic. No way I could find a better job. Sexual orientation? God forbid! And so I fell asleep that night, still unchanged. In the morning, groggy and pissed, I changed the alarm notification I'd grown to passionately hate, and somehow felt better.

This time I never was given a choice—everything had changed without my involvement, and it was all I could do to try and survive, adapt to this new environment. These were my thoughts as I approached the village gates. I felt no animosity toward its residents. What use was it to hold a grudge against NPCs that were simply playing out the behavior model programmed into them?

"Where do you come from and where are you headed, handsome stranger?" smiled a young sentry, looking pointedly at my rags and stick.

"Easy there, Rhon," his older partner chimed in, "before the esteemed mage turns you into a toad for your crude manners. You'll be croaking at passersby."

"Oh, forgive me, esteemed mage! What brings your illustrious self to our Hart-forsaken hole?" These two were probably bored to tears, so they were milking the situation for all it was worth.

The sentries looked identical to regular humans: two hands, two feet, perfectly human facial expressions, and if I hadn't already witnessed demons assume combat form in the span of an instant... The odd thing was that they reacted to me as a demon as well. If they had recognized me as a human, their questions would be different, though I was safe either way with my neutral reputation.

"I came to nearby with no memory of what happened," I shrugged. "I'm a courier, headed to Nittal."

The older one squinted at the symbol hanging on my chest and nodded.

"Go on in, then, courier. Go see Vellakh—he knows when the next caravan will be arriving."

"Who is Vellakh and where do I find him?" I asked.

"He's the local elder," said the sentry. "Keep straight. See the yellow building six houses past the inn?" He pointed at a huge stone structure some two hundred yards away. There's an enclosure behind it, he should be right inside. You'll know him when you see him."

"Thanks," I nodded and entered the open gates.

When I had first spawned in this world, I had hardly the time to gawk at the surroundings. So it was only now that I realized that Lamorna wasn't a village at all, but more like an outpost, judging by the abundance of armed soldiers. Of course, there were also peasants and farmers, grubby kids playing in the streets, women with pails hanging around a well, roosters crowing and other poultry adding to the general cacophony. Still, for the life of me I couldn't figure out what the farmers were actually growing. There were no fields in sight. The cattle amounted to a single yak—in the enclosure I'd come to know very well. Coming closer, I saw in the same enclosure four regular cows. It was with these thoughts of the local population's involvement in agriculture and husbandry that I reached the desired building.

"Where do you think you're going?" a demon stepped out from under an awning's shade, his full suit of armor clinging with every moment, his shield displaying the muzzle of some scowling beast. His face bore clear signs of last night's merriment through the open visor.

"To Vellakh the elder. I was told he's around here somewhere."

"The elder, you say," the demon snorted. "Go on, then. The elder is behind the building," he motioned me to go around the structure. Yelling and the clanging of metal were coming from that direction.

Rounding the building, I came upon a training site at which a dozen or so soldiers in full armor were sparring with some kind of sticks.

"Feet! Watch your feet placement! I've seen pregnant broads handle shoulder yokes more elegantly!" bellowed a black-haired man in leather breeches. Barechested, his lean, sinewy muscles were on full display.

I watched them train for a little while. Upon realizing that my desire to eat, drink and sleep trumped even my curiosity, I spoke up:

"Are you Vellakh the elder?"

The training session stopped at once. There were a few chuckles, as the black-haired instructor turned slowly toward me.

"Did you say something, you Hart's ass?" he asked insinuatingly, with notes of tenderness that immediately made me feel ill at ease.

"I'm a courier, and I need to get to Nittal," I shrugged. "The soldiers at the gates said that Vellakh the elder would know when to expect the caravan."

There were more chuckles.

"The soldiers at the gates, eh," the man's voice promised nothing good for the aforementioned soldiers' immediate future. "I'm no elder," Vellakh continued, his finger tracing the scar running across his right cheek. "Who are you? And what the Hart do you want from me?"

I repeated my version about losing my memory.

"A courier, eh," the demon shook his head. "In that case, the caravan will be here the day after tomorrow. If you don't have any money, you can sleep in the barracks."

I politely declined (I'd spent more than enough nights in the barracks back in my day), said my goodbyes and started toward the inn.

"Why are you still standing there, you lizards? Heads stuck in your asses? Pick up from exercise three..." blackhair's roar restarted the learning process that had been interrupted by my arrival.

Lamorna's inn was called The Genteel Legionnaire, though its sign—a husky fellow grinning from ear to ear with two dames pressed up to each side—would be better suited for an enlistment office. I wondered what he was so happy about, since the chicks at his sides were actually pretty scary. Perhaps it was the two mugs of beer that he held in each hand—the anticipation of getting drunk as a hog, way past the point of giving a hoot about their beauty? Or, better yet, that through all his past drunken brawls he'd managed to preserve all his pearly whites?

The front door creaked, and I found myself inside a fairly large hall. The place wasn't empty despite the early hour: a merchant (going by his garb) with a retinue of guards were breakfasting at a far table, while four peasants were sitting by the window, conversing quietly over mugs of murky whitish liquid that looked suspiciously like moonshine, refilling it from a pitcher perched atop their table.

"Greetings, Kort," I addressed the dour-faced innkeeper behind the counter, reading his name. "I need a room for two nights, and some food."

The innkeeper was bald, and his ears and horns were on display in full splendor.

All the demons I had encountered thus far had horns. In some, they were small cone-like growths in the temple areas; in others, like the innkeeper, they were around four inches long and curved slightly backwards. The colors ranged from beige to pitch black. The ears—peaked at the top—were more orcish than elvish in shape.

The innkeeper was level 241, the highest I'd seen in Lamorna yet. Even Vellakh was only 220. The innkeeper's grey horns were probably also the largest I'd seen today. Could the horn size be somehow reflective of the NPC's level? By the looks of him, Kort was in his early forties with a grim, weatherbeaten face, a scar across his right cheek, a silver earring of two crossed bones, and a pair of piercing brown eyes with vertical pupils. _He'd look more in place swinging a rapier on the deck of a pirate ship than wiping mugs in a backwater inn,_ I thought to myself.

In the meantime, the innkeeper favored me with his morose gaze.

"One gold per night. Food is included, but drink isn't. No hitting on the waitresses. Women won't be in till evening," he growled and returned to his somber thoughts. Well, one hundred bucks a night certainly wasn't cheap. But it wasn't surprising either—the higher the location, the higher the lodging costs. I laid two coins on the table, and the innkeeper handed me a key.

"Wait here for yesterday's meal to be heated. Your room is No. 3 on the second floor. Don't worry, you won't get lost."

About five minutes later, a comely waitress brought me a plate of vegetables with meat, a crust of bread and a mug of beer. Having devoured the food, I headed upstairs with a pleasant fullness in my belly.

It was possible to abstain from eating and drinking in Arkon for some time, depending on your character's spirit. The sensation of satiety lasted one day, whereupon the player was hit with a hunger or thirst debuff that caused increasing periodic damage to constitution, mana and vigor. For as long as your regeneration compensated for this damage, you remained alive. It was therefore important to eat at least once a day in the game; not that there was a single good reason to endure constantly worsening hunger and thirst in the first place.

Having made my way to room No. 3, I put the key in the keyhole. The door—wooden and scratched up in spots—flung open and I stepped inside.

You are in your private room. This is your private space—

I dismissed the message with a wave, collapsed on the narrow bed with plain-looking linens, and passed out the next instant.

I woke up at night, and it took me a while to work out where I was. When the events of the past three days finally surfaced in my mind, I swore softly, climbed off the bed and turned on a magic lantern. Casting a skeptical look around the room, I opened the Settings menu. Fifteen minutes and five gold coins later, the room's appearance was made to look as close as possible to my own room in the real world. _My former room,_ I corrected myself with a sigh. The television set was gone, but the computer remained, though its functions were limited to reading chronicles or wikipedia, to use the old language. The clock showed 1:00 AM, but I had three matters to attend to: one important; one important and tedious but necessary; and one pleasant. First things first.

My sister's phone wasn't answering. Could she have changed her number? But then why wouldn't she tell me? Seeking answers, I dialed my former classmate and neighbor.

The call was answered almost right away, as a sharp familiar voice said:

"Hello?"

"Max, hey! Can you talk?"

"Roman?! Is that you? Where are you calling from?" There was something about my childhood friend's tone I really didn't like.

"That's... a long story," I paused, considering how to deliver the news to a person who wasn't the least bit a gamer. "I'm inside a video game. Look, man, I know it sounds crazy, but..." I hesitated, "I died in the real world. Please don't hang up! I can explain everything!"

"No need to explain, I already know," Max replied grimly. "Where exactly in the game are you?"

"Huh?" to say that my friend's question surprised me was to say nothing at all. "I'm in a new zone, it's hard to explain... Why do you ask?"

Listen up," he completely ignored my question. "User name Tauriel, dark elf druid. As of right now, she's level 21. Did you get that?"

"Yes, but what does that..." I started, but then it hit me. "Alyona?! But she doesn't play!" I screamed into the phone.

"Apparently, she does, Roman," Max said with a sigh, then continued with haste and concern in his voice. "She called yesterday afternoon, said she couldn't log out of the game. So Sergei—my cop friend, you remember him—we kick in the door and... And she calls again. There's an ambulance, doctors scurrying around. I pick up and she asks me what's happening? I must have turned gray there and then. Then I logged in... The count is already over thirty million people from around the world! It's mind-boggling! More and more people keep leaving, then calling and saying everything is fine. And Sage—that crystal or whatever—it's completely vanished. I saw it reported on the news."

"Hold up!" I bellowed into the phone, interrupting my typically taciturn friend's verbal torrent. "What exactly did she say?"

"That she's all right. She was shocked at first, obviously... But took consolation in the fact that she'd made herself a size C. Crazy, right? She asked me to tell you that she's fine, that she tried reaching you but couldn't. I had the presence of mind to get her username and all that. Oh, and another thing. Your Aunt Tanya came by. She's the only living relative you've got, right? What do I tell her?"

"Tell her the truth."

"Tell me your username, and how to find you," Max's voice became strangely even.

"Krian, and I'm stuck in Demon Grounds. It's a plane that hasn't been unlocked yet, which means no one can reach me until I get out of here. Alyona knows my username, but getting through to me here is problematic," I said.

"This isn't for her, but for me," Max clarified. "Our firm had gone belly up, I've been out of a job for half a year now. Masha left me. Now I'm all alone, like you guys... So I've made a decision."

"You?! But you've never..." I couldn't even finish my thought.

"So? Besides, who's going to bail you two out of trouble if not me?" my schoolmate grunted. "I bought a capsule three months ago. With no job and nothing to do... There it is now," he said, as if I could see it. "Well, Roman. Till we meet in the next life."

"Wait! Who are you going to be? How do I find you?"

"Oh, you'll find me! While you're off making mischief as usual, someone has got to look after your sister! This narrows my options down to one—dark elves. I'm a little scared, sure... What if something goes wrong? But I don't see another way. Take care, Roman. I'll go tell your Aunt Tanya, and then..."

"Take care, my friend," I managed to say before hearing dial tone.

I sat there for fifteen minutes, staring at a single spot on the floor. Alyona and I were eight years apart. Seven years ago, when only the two of us were left in the world, it took great efforts on my part to bring her back to her senses, make her finish high school and go to college. She was both wiser and more prudent than me, and I knew she would be all right. So now I had another goal—to find my sister. And this goal was more important than smashing the face of a certain douchebag.

_What's going on in Karn?_ I wondered. Thirty million people pulled into Arkon. I couldn't even conceive what things were like over there. Oh well, I had problems of my own to deal with. I sat at the desk and adjusted the monitor to comfortable height. I had to do something about my talents. With no forums at my disposal to do research, I had to figure things out on my own.

Talents and skills were at the foundation of every RPG, and their correct selection and application determined the viability of your character as a whole. I opened up the Talents menu and nearly flipped. As a warrior, I couldn't be bothered worrying about this stuff. When I was being powerleveled, I would simply throw five points into stats that seemed important, select the necessary skills and talents, and move on.

To reiterate, I never was much of a gamer. I had my own place, a nice ride, a good salary and plenty of attention from women. I never had any reason to cheat on reality with a virtual life, unlike folks with limited physical capabilities, students with their extremism and perpetual lack of money, and those who worked in the industry.

For me, sitting on my rear for hours on end killing cartoon enemies, no matter how realistically they may be rendered... Thanks, but no thanks.

Now, however, for those who found themselves in the game, this was the new reality. The pain was real, as was the blood, and I could only guess what other surprises Sage had conceived for the rest of us. The fact was that I had died on the outside; this was now my life, and I had to find my sister and kick in a few nasty skulls. I also wanted to lead a normal life in this world, which meant I had to become strong. I looked through my talents once again. Mages had thousands of them, from the ability to conjure up a banal arrow of ice to powerful earthquakes. Virtually every skill could be bolstered with additional talent points, multiplying its effect many times over.

I fell in thought, searching for a very specific, practical solution for my predicament. I was currently level 67, which, to be honest, was handed to me on a silver platter. And sure, no one I knew would have consciously accepted such a "gift," but that was all in the past. In the present, I was level 67 with the ability to wear and a 2% bonus to heavy armor. I wasn't taking Altus' gifts into account—the game was full of hidden quests, and bonuses like 5% to all spells and 95% resistance to mental magic could be achieved by any player, at least in theory. On the other hand, I was probably the only mage in the game with the ability to wear plate. All I had to do was figure out how to best use that to my advantage.

Let's suppose that, going forward, leveling was no longer going to be a free ride—I would need to earn every level the old-fashioned way, grinding it out. From what I remembered from exchanges with the guys from my department, getting to level 100 took four to six months of playing almost around the clock. And it got even harder from there. The maximum level a player could achieve was 234, and that took four years of playing.

Now, it just so happened that now I was flush with time. On the other hand, I was in a closed zone, which portended no raids in the foreseeable future, and the archmage's epic quest had to be an exception. The strategy then was clear: ignore all the talents designed to bolster the raid, meaning all the spells that took time to cast. Sure, they hit harder, but casting time meant the spell could be blocked or interrupted, and the caster himself became vulnerable. Building up focus—the skill that made it possible to continue casting through incoming damage—wasn't an attractive option at this degree of pain sensitivity. Raid buffs were equally useless with no one to buff.

I also knew that the game was designed to preserve balance among players. This meant that if you took two players roughly equal in level, gear and talent allocation, the two characters would be pretty similar in terms of power. I was hardly an expert in theorycraft, but I had a rough idea just the same.

I put two characters up on the screen—warrior and mage, both level 101, and gave both similar equipment of rare items. The mage got a cloth set with a pair of rings and a level 100 amulet: +50 to constitution and +50 to intellect. Accordingly, the warrior was given plate, +50 to constitution and +50 to strength. Ignoring the 20 base stats given at creation, let's suppose that for every three points the warrior put one in strength and another in constitution, and the mage in constitution and intellect. Then there were the class bonuses: +1 to spirit and +1 to intellect for the mage, +1 to constitution and +1 to strength for the warrior. For the warrior, let's pick talents focused on two-handed weapons, and let's make the mage specialize in water magic. The warrior's best attack at level 100 was Heroic Strike; for the mage, it was Ice Spear. The warrior got a level 100 two-handed sword of unusual quality, and the mage—the staff equivalent.

Taking into account that, no matter the level, raid buffs and various potions added a maximum of 20% to physical damage absorption and 5% to magic resistance (with all resistances capped at 95%), and that only a moron wouldn't already have at least 75% magic resistance by level 100 through basic talents, I ended up with the following.

Warrior.

900 strength added 9% to armor (100 strength = 1%); 180% to base physical damage (5 strength = 1%).

900 constitution, translating to 9000 hit points.

80% water resistance, meaning the warrior would sustain 20 damage for every 100 damage dealt. (I wanted to focus on water resistance because that was the mage's specialization.)

Physical damage absorption at 64%, equating to 36 damage for every 100 incoming damage.

Damage output—~1000 per second.

Mage.

900 intellect added 180% to spell power (5 intellect = 1%).

800 constitution, translating to 8000 hit points.

Physical damage absorption at 28%, equating to 72 damage for every 100 incoming damage.

Water magic damage output—~2200 per second.

Accounting for all the defenses, the mage could sustain 11,111 physical damage before dying; the warrior could survive up to 45,000 cold damage. In other words, the mage would need twenty three seconds to kill the warrior, while the latter would only need twelve to kill the former. Granted, this was a very rough approximation based on the assumptions that both had energy to spare, comparable skill levels and pain tolerance, the mage had infinite mana, and so on. The two combatants ended up being fairly equal. The mage would attempt to keep the warrior at a distance with crowd control spells while the warrior would try his damnedest to get to the squishy caster.

But here's the kicker! By dressing the mage in heavy armor, using the same stats as with cloth-based defenses, it wouldn't take 11,111 damage to kill him, but exactly twice as much! Whereas before he sustained 72% of incoming physical damage, with a 64% physical damage absorption he would only sustain 36%!

I fell back in my chair and massaged my temples. The price of erring would be too high. Though balance in games was important to adhere to, casters almost always enjoyed a slight advantage over melee classes, which in turn enjoyed an advantage over ranged dps, and ranged dps over casters. But with this latest patch the balance had been badly broken with the introduction of a maximum pain threshold, since many people weren't willing to tolerate pain. In this regard, tanks got the shortest end of the stick. But I digress...

For the following three hours, I was using the calculator to estimate the various combinations of a mage in plate going up against the remaining classes. My calculations showed that such a mage would have an advantage over all melee fighters and non-magical ranged dps. As for other casters, the odds were fairly even.

And then it hit me! Why was I looking at my mage as the standard hit-you-from-a-far-with-elemental-magic type? After all, I had a small melee combat bar at my disposal! The developers always insisted that all players were totally free in the way they developed their character, using a broad range of active and passive skills.

Any warrior could pick up a bow and start firinh arrows, just as any hunter could start swinging a sword at their enemies, and all classes had a small spell bar as well. Except a bow-wielding warrior sacrificed a great deal of damage output and wasted many a talent in doing so, and who would want to willingly cripple their character? In my case, however...

So, what was available to me through level 100? Not much: four melee attacks, four attacks with a bow or a throwing weapon, enchanting of my personal weapon with elemental magic, and... and nothing. Ranged attacks were useless for my purposes, but melee... Each attack inflicted pretty great damage, comparable to a warrior wielding a two-handed sword. The enchantment would boost damage further, though that would bind the weapon to me, which wasn't a big deal.

Trembling with anticipation, I pulled up the calculator and put in the initial data with warrior and mage, then applied one of the four attacks, Ice Blade, with a one-handed sword at level 100 (alas, mages couldn't use two-handed weapons, aside from staves), enchanted it and... was utterly disappointed.

Warrior.

900 strength; 9% to armor (100 strength = 1%); +180% to base physical damage (5 strength = 1%).

900 constitution, translating to 9000 hit points.

80% water resistance, meaning the warrior would sustain 20 damage for every 100 damage dealt.

Physical damage absorption at 64%, equating to 36 damage for every 100 incoming damage.

Damage output—~1000 per second.

Mage in heavy armor.

900 intellect; +180% to spell power (5 intellect = 1%).

800 constitution, translating to 8000 hit points.

Physical damage absorption at 64%, equating to 36 damage for every 100 incoming damage.

Damage output—~580 per second.

The damage per second was nearly half that of a warrior at only 580...

With a disappointed sigh, I got up from the desk and rolled my stiffened neck.

_Too bad,_ I thought to myself. _It would have been awesome—with a high physical damage output and maximum maneuverability, I would wipe the floor with anyone who came at me._ Still, the benefit of wearing plate was more than anyone could realistically dream of. Besides, being too dependent on gear could be a major pitfall in Arkon.

I walked up to the window and opened it, letting in the morning freshness. A rooster crowed somewhere nearby. I had spent about five hours over calculations. Well, no sense in dragging my feet now—it was time to allocate the points.

I sat back down at the desk, looked at the monitor and froze. What an IDIOT I was!!! Why the hell did I need intellect if I was going to melee?! I hastily rearranged the stats and ended up with the following.

Mage in heavy armor.

800 strength, +8% to armor (100 strength = 1%); +160% to base physical damage (5 strength = 1%).

800 constitution, translating to 8000 hit points.

Physical damage absorption at 64%, equating to 36 damage for every 100 incoming damage.

Damage output—~1508 per second. EUREKA!

I jumped from the chair and began pacing around the room, trying to keep calm. Mages didn't use melee attacks because that would require boosting strength, and no matter how strong, mages made for lousy melee fighters. It wasn't hard to run the numbers for the typical mage with 28% damage absorption and ~1500 melee dps against a warrior with ~70% percent physical damage absorption and 1000 dps. And that was assuming the same amount of hit points, whereas any decently built warrior would always have more health. But that was for a typical mage, and my case was anything but typical.

"Shut up, you," I barked at the invisible yet still noisy roosters, and shut the window.

So what if my strength would always be below a pure warrior? That class bonus wasn't going anywhere, but it hardly mattered. Mages never took these talents since a near 50% damage absorption and melee combat were useless to them, but I was no mage! Or rather, I was, but not quite a proper one. And I would much rather deal 1500 physical damage per second in melee combat covered by a shield and heavy armor than 2000 elemental damage from a distance wearing rags.

My damage would be ONE AND A HALF times greater than that of an equal-level warrior with a two-hander! Wearing cloth, the same warrior would tear me apart in seconds, but I would be wearing plate! Incredible!

And what about this? I replaced the one-handed sword with a staff and enchanted it. No, this was worse! Staves may be two-handed, but their physical damage was inferior since most were caster-oriented with bonuses to spell power. Whereas a sword left me a free left hand in which to equip a shield that imparted extra stats, armor and a greater chance to reduce incoming damage.

Settled, then! I had 58 talent points available. Let's start with enchanting.

_You've acquired the skill:_ _Personal Weapon Enchanting with Elemental Fire I._

The element of fire penetrates the material of your weapon, adding 2% to its base physical damage.

Attention! Your weapon will bind to you if enchanted with this spell, and neither other players nor NPCs will be able to use it.

I threw four more points into the skill and ended up with:

_You've acquired the skill:_ _Personal Weapon Enchanting with Elemental Fire II._

The element of fire penetrates the material of your weapon, adding 10% to its base physical damage.

Attention! Your weapon will bind to you if enchanted with this spell, and neither other players nor NPCs will be able to use it.

I repeated the same operation with the other elements, yielding the same results, with only the text being different. Now that all four enchantments were maxed out, I unlocked the ability to put five points into enchanting with all the elements.

_You've acquired the skill:_ _Personal Weapon Enchanting with the Power of the Elements I._

The magic of the four Great Elements envelops your weapon, adding 42% to its base physical damage.

Attention! Your weapon will bind to you if enchanted with this spell, and neither other players nor NPCs will be able to use it.

I maxed out the skill.

_You've acquired the skill:_ _Personal Weapon Enchanting with the Power of the Elements II._

The magic of the four Great Elements envelops your weapon, adding 50% to its base physical damage.

Attention! Your weapon will bind to you if enchanted with this spell, and neither other players nor NPCs will be able to use it.

A 50% boost to physical damage at the expense of 25 talent points with 33 remaining. I made some mental calculations—everything seemed to work out. And now...

_You've learned the spell:_ _Stoneskin._

Casting time: 1 second.

Mana cost: 30 points.

Duration: 2 hours.

Your skin is hardened with the power of earth, reducing incoming physical damage by 1%.

Same as with the enchanting, I raised Stoneskin to level 5, then did the same for Ice Shield, Fire Shield and Lightning Shield, thus unlocking Shield of the Elements, which may not have imparted additional physical damage absorption but added 5% to elemental resistances for every level of the skill. Naturally, I maxed out the skill as well.

_You've acquired the skill:_ _Shield of the Elements V._

Casting time: 1 second.

Mana cost: 300 points.

Duration: 2 hours.

The magic of the Great Elements protects you, absorbing part of the incoming physical and elemental damage. You acquire the ability to ignore 20% physical damage, 25% fire damage, 25% water damage, 25% air damage and 25% earth damage.

With eight talent points left, I moved on to attacks.

Gust of Wind I.

Energy: 10 points.

Instant.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

Minimum level: 10.

Melee range required; melee weapon.

An instant attack that deals 100% damage on top of the weapon's base damage.

Slows the target's movement by 5% for 5 seconds.

1% chance to stun the target for 1 second.

Ice Blade I.

Energy: 10 points.

Instant.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

Minimum level: 10.

Melee range required; melee weapon.

An instant attack that deals 100% damage on top of the weapon's base damage.

Slows the target's movement by 5% for 5 seconds.

1% chance to freeze the target for 1 second.

Tongue of Flame I.

Energy: 10 points.

Instant.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

Minimum level: 10.

Melee range required; melee weapon.

An instant attack that deals 100% weapon damage.

Ignores 1% of the target's physical defense.

Stone Blade I.

Energy: 10 points.

Instant.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

Minimum level: 10.

Melee range required; melee weapon.

An instant attack that deals 100% damage on top of the weapon's base damage.

Slows the target's movement by 5% for 5 seconds.

1% chance to stun the target for 1 second.

Eight talent points and four skills. No way I was going to pass on Tongue of Flame—way too unique of a skill. And for my second, I was leaning toward Ice Blade, if only for my affinity for ice... Hold up! Altus was teleporting in combat—did I have something like that as well? After five minutes of searching, I found it! The skill was called Jump; you could add one point to it at level 50, and the second only at 100.

_Jump I_ _._

Mana cost: 50 points.

Instant.

Cooldown: 25 seconds.

Minimum level: 50.

Teleports the caster to a set point within a 20 yard radius. Requires line of sight. Removes all stun and movement-impairing effects.

There. It was time to wrap up.

_You've learned the spell:_ _Tongue of Flame V_ _._

Instant.

Energy cost: 30 points.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

You attack the enemy with a blade burning with the power of fire, dealing 150% damage on top of the weapon's base damage and ignoring 5% physical defense.

_You've learned the spell:_ _Ice Blade II_ _._

Instant.

Energy cost: 20 points.

Cooldown: 2 seconds.

You attack the enemy with a blade of ice, dealing 120% damage on top of the weapon's base damage, slowing the target by 10% for 10 seconds with an additional 2% chance to freeze the target for 2 seconds.

_You've learned the spell:_ _Jump I_ _._

Instant.

Mana cost: 50 points.

Cooldown: 25 seconds.

You teleport to a set point within a 20 yard radius. Requires line of sight. The jump removes all stun and movement-impairing effects.

There, I was done. Whether I was right in my assumptions, only time would tell. I threw 39 stat points into vigor and 25 into constitution. Now I would have enough energy for 20 strikes, and I could buff up my hit points with equipment bonuses, if need be. On that note, I went back to my character's expanded window.

Archmage Altus' Apprentice, Shaartakh's Slayer—Krian, level 67.

Race: human [demon]

Agility: 10

5.05% chance to hit critically with physical attacks: 5% base, .05% agility bonus.

5.05% chance to dodge physical attacks: 5% base, .05% agility bonus.

1% damage reduction from falling.

Strength: 100

1% boost to armor.

20% boost to physical damage.

500 lbs carrying capacity.

Constitution: 46

460 hit points.

Vigor: 60

600 energy points.

Spirit: 67

5.67% mana and energy regeneration in combat: 5% base + .67% spirit bonus.

5.67% mana and energy regeneration out of combat: 5% base + .67% spirit bonus.

.67% HP regeneration out of combat: 0% base + .67% spirit bonus.

Intellect: 67

5.34% chance to hit critically with spells: 5% base \+ .34% intellect bonus.

13.4% to spell power.

670 mana points.

Armor: 20

Abilities and skills:

Personal Weapon Enchanting with the Power of the Elements V

Shield of the Elements V

Tongue of Flame V

Ice Blade II

Jump I

Passive skills and achievements:

Shaartakh's Slayer

Archmage Altus' Apprentice

Toughness: 33%.

Bonus to damage with swords: +2%.

Bonus to heavy armor: +2%.

Magic Resistances:

Water magic: 0% (25% with Shield of the Elements).

Air magic: 0% (25% with Shield of the Elements).

Earth magic: 0% (25% with Shield of the Elements).

Fire magic: 0% (25% with Shield of the Elements).

Mental magic: 95%.

Dark magic: 67%.

Nature magic: none.

Light magic: 67%.

_Relations with other races:_ _Humans—hostile, Elves—hostile, Orcs—hostile, Dark Elves—hostile, Dwarves—hostile, Drow—hostile, Demons—unfriendly, neutral in Ashtar Dominion._

I went into Settings and removed Shaartakh's Slayer from my name bar. The monster was essentially a solo skill for the archmage, and I was already reaping the rewards of the achievement by way of bonuses. Then I transferred all of my abilities, save for the enchantment, to my action bar. I had four boxes remaining.

It was time to sort through my trophies. I'd been itching to sneak a peak at what was in my bag, but I'd promised myself to wait until I was done with the talents. Now the time had come, so I started with armor and weapons.

Out of the sixteen items dropped by Shaartakh, only two were of any value at this point in time. But it was the kind of value that made my head spin!

Moonlight Garment.

Chestguard: leather.

Durability: 2789/3000.

Epic scalable. An item from the Moonlight set.

No minimum level.

At level 10:

armor: 25.

+15 to intellect,

+10 to spirit,

+15 to constitution,

+5% to spell power.

Weight: 2 lbs.

From the armor set of the Elven King, Nakilon the Divider.

Requital.

Sword: two-handed.

Durability: 2489/3000.

Epic scalable.

No minimum level.

At level 10:

damage: 46-71,

+15 to strength,

+5 to vigor,

+10 to constitution,

+.5% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

Weight: 15 lbs.

Forged by dwarves in the fiery chambers of Kuad Dor for Ertadyon.

Well, my luck was bound to run out at some point! Two scalable epic items, and I could use neither, since my class couldn't equip leather armor or two-handed swords. I sighed with disappointment. Scalable items grew in level and power along with their owner, and I couldn't begin to imagine what they were worth. Considering that they were dropped by a level 473 unique boss, each could probably fetch a luxury sports car.

As a rule, unique bosses dropped items with increased stats—the higher the boss' level, the better the stat bonuses. I stashed both items in storage to be dealt with later. The remaining fourteen items—eight rares and six epics—soon followed. Picture a Neanderthal stumbling onto a nuclear landmine. The analogy was more than apt, since the items were all level 400+, and I couldn't even sell them to anyone. Well, I could in theory, but I wasn't going to get back anything close to their real value.

Moving on the vessels, I had twenty vials of Shaartakh's blood and six of his saliva—all unique, unsurprisingly, since there was only one Shaartakh. The blood increased the value of any capped-out profession by one; the saliva added a random stat point to a weapon up to level 450, depending on the item's level. Awesome! As far as I knew, leveling professions at higher levels was sheer torture, so this would be by far the easiest +20 to any profession. And +1 stat to a weapon needed no explanation—random, sure, but better than a hole in the head!

Seven vials with Hellspawn Liver Extracts—a rare category base ingredient for level 200+ alchemical potions. According to the wiki, one example was the Great Elixir of Magic Resistance, which boosted all maximum resistances by 10% for six hours and persisted through death. The component was surely quite expensive, but useless to me for the moment. Who knew when I'd level my alchemy to 200, or if I would pick up alchemy at all?

Six epic quality vials with a Potion of Greater Healing, which instantly removed all diseases and curses and restored all hit points. Nice! In light of the recent changes of 20% reduction in levels and stats upon death, this could prove truly irreplaceable.

A strange unique vial the color of gold:

Shaartakh's Breath.

Unique item. Potion.

Duration: 30 seconds.

Effect: the mighty Monster's breath transforms your essence, making your stats on par with the stats of your opponent or the strongest enemy within a 20 yard radius.

Break to use.

I shrugged. Sure, when facing Shaartakh or someone of that caliber, it would be cool to acquire those stats for half a minute, but then what? Your gear and weapon would remain unchanged. Or would they? I wasn't going to waste the potion's single use to find out. At the very least, this little bottle should be able to save my life in a pinch.

But the remaining five vials were all good news!

Shaartakh's Venom.

Unique item. Potion.

Duration: 600 seconds.

Effect: no creature can withstand the ancient Monster's venom. Your opponent's health will shrink to 1/10th of their maximum value.

Throw at your opponent to use.

I knew raid leaders that would sell their soul for five vials like this! And using it solo would be akin to swatting a fly with a jackhammer. But certainly a nice ace to have up your sleeve in case of an emergency.

Filling up the last four belt slots, I put two Potions of Greater Healing, one poison, just in case, and, after some hesitation, Shaartakh's Breath—if anything, it was another chance at survival. The remaining vials and money I put into my private storage, leaving only fifty gold on me for basic expenses.

It was time to go down, have some chow and shop for some gear. As ridiculous as it sounded, at level 67 my character still hadn't had a single kill.

Suddenly I remembered the two strange items from before. I opened my bag and pulled up the mirror. A lovely oval encased in ornate truesilver—which had some value in its own right—with glass polished to perfection. Most likely of elven craftsmanship.

You've accessed the quest: Isyliel's Mirror.

Quest type: hidden.

Return the mirror to its rightful owner.

Reward: experience, unknown.

And not another word: not about who this Isyliel was nor where to look for her. And another hidden quest to boot. It was almost not even surprising anymore. I shrugged and put the item back in the bag, then pulled out the piece of fabric from there and laid it out on the desk. A menacing boar's muzzle was scowling back at me from the brown background, clearly marking some kind of banner. Tattered at the sides, with two holes in the middle, the fabric was stained with something reddish, presumably blood.

***

"What are you grinning at?" Drang gave Scitti a frowning, sour look. "You're a grownup now with a son of your own, but you're just as hyper as you were thirty years ago. No wonder Gorin still has you as an apprentice. A proper dwarf should be even-keeled and dignified, like me," he poked his thumb into his chest.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep washing swill down with beer, you'll be making faces even screwier than that," Scitti snapped back. "Gorin is still pissed that Darna chose me—he'd wanted Scovr as his son-in-law real bad. But it's all right, he loves his grandson just the same. One of these days he'll finally let it go."

"And who can blame him? You're not half the dwarf Scovr is—the legion's banner-bearer and a junior master for seven years now." Drang motioned toward the senior officers standing some fifty yards away from the formation. To their right, holding a long flagstaff at the pointed end of which the legion's banner fluttered in the wind, stood a tall broad-shouldered dwarf. "What do you keep looking at over there?"

"Dark elves, and Kirana's with them!" Scitti pointed at the group of mages from the Great Forest. "Did they forget something?"

"Covering their archers, obviously," the dwarf pulled another grimace, clearly suffering from a hangover. "You should be happy. If it weren't for them, there wouldn't be many of us left in Wolfish Wastes. We've buried a third of our people as it is," he added, the frown on his face growing deeper. "Our own Grimnir is on the front lines with the rest of them, while we're here twiddling our thumbs for reasons I cannot comprehend."

They had been standing here on a small elevation for two hours now, roughly two hundred yards behind the Wind Talkers, waiting for the battle to start, itching to start marching and cover the archers and the mages that were helpless before the hellspawn.

In the momentous battle on Wolfish Wastes, when their Sixth Legion took the brunt of the attack from Velial's main host, they held on by the skin of their teeth with the support of dark elf mages while the other legions, led by the the Erantian cavalry, maneuvered to flank the roaring monsters.

Today they had been left in reserve. For two days the troops had been keeping a rapid pace in hopes of securing an advantageous position in Saakum Gorge, protected by mountains on either side. Now everybody was ready: Erantian cavalry cohorts on the left flank, six legions of the Mountain Kingdom at the center with centuries of dark and light elf archers covering them from aerial attacks by winged demons.

The mages, whose main task was protecting the army, took up the right flank directly in front of them. Safe behind the legions, the battered yet celebrated Sixth Legion was nonetheless at their side, the mithril blades of their pikes and halberds gleaming in the morning sunlight.

"Like I said, it's all good," Scitti gave a wide grin, fixed his mustache and winked at his friend. "Their women are all right, if a bit scrawny. But they're not so bad where it counts," leaning his pike against his torso, he made a gesture alluding to precisely the attribute of elven women he found passable. "And Kirana... that girl is all kinds of cute—"

"Shut up, you idiot!" Drang hissed at him. "She's a goddess, what if she overhears?! Have you seen her swing that sword of hers? She'll split a dozen like you in half and won't even notice that you're all wearing mithril... Look, I think it's starting!"

Sounds of magical explosions reached their ranks, as magic shields were activated over the rows of legions. Archer cohorts began an up-tempo march at the beck of their commanders' battle cries.

"Stand your ground! Silence and focus!" Aracus' voice reached them, amplified by magic. Imperturbable as ever, the legate wasn't even looking in the direction of the battle.

There were no major happenings in the next fifteen minutes; only when the two hosts met did Saakum Gorge seem to shudder from the impact.

"Hey, look," Scitti elbowed his comrade in the side, pointing toward the nearby cliff flanking them. "What's going on over... Alarm! Alarm!" he bellowed.

All heads turned at once. The magical shroud fell, and the dwarves beheld a whole army advancing on them, less than two hundred yards away and closing in.

"First cohort, advance straight, left shoulder forward! Second, third and fourth cohorts, left shoulder forward, two lines, ten deep, by the numbers!" the legate's commands sounded over the horns sounding alarm and were instantly echoed by the tribunes. The war drums thundered as banners were hoisted skyward, and the Sixth Legion began turning toward the approaching enemy at maximum speed.

The right edge of the host was held by the third century, affording clear view of three huge squads of advancing demons of dizzying diversity, and four giant monsters bringing up the rear.

"Which rat's tit did they crawl out of?!" Drang growled, staring at them with bitter hatred.

"Field-Marshal Bagert's legions," explained the gray-mustached Davrin, standing in Drang's row to his left. "Gaunil, Grohn and Shaartakh are his generals." Catching his weapon with his other hand, he pointed at three of the four towering shapes. "And the black one behind them is the commander himself."

"How did they get past us? They're five times as many! We've got the mages and Kirana, and somehow they slipped their attention?!"

"Must be Syrat's handiwork, that jackass. He and his brother have gone over to Velial's side, and only dark magic can deceive dark elves. Unless I'm missing something..."

"Quit your yapping and get into formation!" barked Centurion Gerkan from in front and a bit to their right, peering alarmingly into the advancing avalanche of hellspawn no more than five hundred yards away.

"Shieldbangers, close your lines! Rows three and six, pikes in front! Back rows support front rows!" the centurions' voices thundered through the air. Lowering his pike on the shoulders of the comrades standing in front of him, Scitti gathered his focus and prepared for the assault.

Four massive fireballs crashed into the shields of dark elf mages who had apparently recovered in time. The fifth broke through the defenses and smashed into the ranks of combat-ready fourth century. Cries of pain of dwarves burning alive filled the air.

"Legionnaires!" boomed the legate's voice. "Those beasts and their forsaken god aim to hit the flank of our army! If we fail to hold the line, they will break through to the mages, trample the archers and strike our brothers in the rear! Let's show those fiends what the Bronzebacks are worth in battle!"

His response was the deafening roar of four thousand gullets of revved up warriors.

The response from Kirana and the mages was almost instant, as nearly a third of the advancing squads was buried under a hail of ice spears. One of the monsters—a giant spider with what appeared to be three torn off legs—collapsed on its side and started rolling on the ground, wailing terribly and crushing the attackers' ranks.

The power of the demons' assault was horrific. As the two armies clashed, a peal of thunder seemed to rise over the gorge, punctuated by cries of blood lust and pain. Here and there demon bodies convulsed and went limp, punctured by the pikes. Shieldbangers worked their axes in a flurry, cutting down the demons that had broken through the wall of pikes.

Scitti's pike was wrenched from his grasp, and he barely kept his balance. Grabbing the shield off his back, he pulled out the axe from his side and immediately sliced off a leg of some vile creature that had leaped over the dwarven ranks. A moment later, his neighbor buried his axe deep into the hapless monster's chitin-plated neck.

"Hold the line!" their centurion's voice roared from afar. And they did, except many attackers possessed the kind of jumping ability that helped them to easily leap over the wall of shields, raining down on the heads of soldiers in the back rows.

A humanoid demon with a severed lower extremity fell right on top of Scitti, flailing its sharp-clawed paws in convulsions, spattering him with the ooze from its stub and smashing painfully into his hip. Clenching his jaw in disgust, he shoved the creature aside with his shield and finished it off with his axe. He heard grunting behind him, accompanied by hacking sounds—the battle was joined by the halberdiers.

Scitti sliced left and right—splitting skulls and cleaving vulnerable bellies of fiends breaking through the line. The ground underfoot was swimming in blood and guts. He'd been separated from Drang, and the dwarf hoped desperately that his friend was still alive. He could still hear the occasional command of their centurion and glimpse some kind of flashes all around. He watched a seven-foot-tall toad-like demon pounce on a shieldbanger, who stood his ground, albeit with considerable difficulty. Scitti charged and hacked at the beast from the side until it collapsed to the ground, wheezing in agony.

There was an unbearable howl that blocked his ears, and the dwarf spun around to see a huge gray mass, like a giant cave slug, hurling legionnaires left and right as it scuttled toward the dark elf mages pelting it with spells. A little off to the side, Goddess Kirana had engaged Bagert, and the earth blazed around the two adversaries. Not even the Netherworld's elder demon's massive mallet could break the goddess' shield, but her spells were likewise glancing off his defenses. After a moment's deliberation, Scitti tossed his shield aside, snatched a halberd from the grasp of a dead soldier, and plunged it hard into one of the monster's tentacles. The blade broke through the gray skin, and a fountain of green ichor gushed from the wound. The dwarf nearly hurled from the stench, but held his stomach together long enough to land another strike before being knocked back by the beast's counter blow.

Scitti opened his eyes. He didn't know how much time had passed; all he knew was that he was still alive and that he was wrapped up in something warm. His ears still ringing, the dwarf began climbing back to his feet when he saw a hole in the center of his breastplate, made by one of the spikes on the monster's tentacles. Then why was he still alive? Or was he already in the halls of the Mountain Kings? No, there was the reason—his legion's banner, now stained with his blood, had simply fallen on top of him. It was clear now—the relic had prevented his death. The banner was a powerful artifact that imparted strength to the warriors that went into battle with it; it was protected against hostile magic and handling.

"It's my turn to carry it, brother," with those words, the dwarf removed the banner from Scovr's lifeless hands. Leaning heavily on the flagstaff, he straightened his shoulders and grinned. _Well, Master Gorin, you got your wish—your daughter is the wife of a banner-bearer!_ he thought to himself while surveying his surroundings.

The Sixth Legion had fulfilled their final task, buying time for the mages and archers to regroup. No more than a third of the attacking hellspawn had broken through, which were being finished off by the princes' heavy cavalry. But the legion was no more. The battlefield was a veritable sea of corpses, reeking of rot, blood and scorched flesh. And the unbearable stench exuded by the demons' carcasses. _No, the Sixth is alive,_ he corrected himself and stroked the warm flagstaff tenderly. Just then a gust of wind touched the banner, and it smiled at Scitti with a scowling boar's muzzle.

The battle, however, was far from over.

Left all alone, Kirana was barely parrying the attacks of the Black Demon's mallet. Moreover, the nasty beast that had nearly ended his life was lingering not far away, eyeing the goddess. Kirana wasn't going to last long. The demon's eyes oozed wisps of mist that entwined the woman, weakening her and slowing her movements. And she couldn't do anything to stop it while occupied by the Netherworld army's field-marshal.

There wasn't a knight or mage in sight to help her in time, and as Scitti considered his options, Kirana cast a desperate look around. The sight of her in battle at that moment was terrifying.

And it spurred him to make a decision. The beast ensnaring the goddess was maybe a hundred feet away, its body stretched out parallel to the ground so that its eyes were six feet in the air. Scitti lowered the flagstaff like a pike and sprinted at the target, ramming the point into one of the monster's eyes at full speed. So strong was the impact that the banner disappeared fully into the eye socket, which burst and began to spurt a fetid discharge. The wounded beast's bloodcurdling wail drowned out all the other sounds in the vicinity. The monster literally trampled the offender into the ground with two mighty blows, spun in place and vanished into a portal.

Free of the magic shackles, the goddess unleashed a series of powerful strikes at the unsuspecting Black Demon. One of the attacks found a breach, and Velial's field-marshal collapsed to the floor of Saakum Gorge with a punctured gullet.

When Prince Daar's vanguard of knights made it to the site of the Sixth Legion's demise, they bore witness to an eerie sight. Sitting on the ground in the center of a field littered with bodies was a young woman in clean garb and hair black as midnight, her hand resting on the chest of a legionnaire, gazing wordlessly into his lifeless eyes.

One of the knights was about to say something, but the commander jerked his hand upward, bidding silence.

Meanwhile, the black-haired beauty closed shut the dead dwarf's eyes and, snatching a massive sword off the ground, vanished into thin air without casting even a single glance at the knights.

***

I was sitting on the bed when I came to.

What the hell was that?! If every quest I received came with this type of prelude, it wouldn't be long till I went off the deep end. The din of battle was still ringing in my ears, my eyes watery from the pungent odors.

You've accessed the quest: Returning the Relic.

Quest type: epic.

Deliver the banner of the Sixth Dwarven Legion to the head of the Bronzeback Clan.

Reward: experience, unknown.

I folded the fabric carefully and put it away in the bag.

The dining hall was empty, and I mean completely empty. Not only of customers—there wasn't even anyone manning the bar. The innkeeper must have stepped away somewhere. I wondered what the bar counter was called at an inn? It wasn't a proper bar, after all.

I recalled the differences in establishments between San Francisco and Moscow. To be sure, forty years of buoyant growth of capitalism made their mark, and yet the employees of Russian drinking establishments differed considerably from their Western counterparts, and not in a good way. Like it or not, historically the Russian people were always held together by the state. In a country that officially waged a war on drinking there thrived all kinds of dive bars, speakeasies and similar establishments in which nobody gave a damn about any drinking culture. All that mattered was the consumed amount. Employees of said establishments didn't need to be experts in mixing drinks, nor paragons of service. As a result, they were plainly inferior to American bartenders, as sad as it was to admit.

In the meantime, the door to the residential quarters of the first floor flung open, and out came the innkeeper alongside a frail-looking demon in a mage's robe.

"I'm sorry that I'm unable to help," said the mage. "Mirana is no healer either, but there's no time anyway. If she could find the foul beast, maybe things could be different, but it would take time," he sighed, "time that we do not have." The mage glanced at me, and his expression changed just barely, as if he saw a sticky note on my forehead. But a moment later he'd already forgotten about me.

"I understand, Alsuil," the innkeeper nodded grimly. "Thanks for dropping by." He patted the mage on the shoulder, and when the latter exited the establishment, he turned toward me.

"I'm off duty," something had definitely happened with the man, but he was keeping it together. "The cook will be here after lunch," he added and headed for the door.

"Maybe I could help, Kort?" I asked him.

The innkeeper stopped in his tracks, cocked his head and turned around slowly.

"You look more like a vagrant than a seeker or a Great Healer, light one," he spoke slowly and deliberately.

"I overheard your exchange with that gentleman, and it sounded like someone was in need of healing," I shrugged. "If that's the case, then it's really not a problem."

There was a glimmer of hope in the demon's eyes.

You've accessed the quest: Healing the Sick.

Quest type: unique.

Cure Treis, the sick wife of Kort, the innkeeper of The Genteel Legionnaire, or destroy the cause of the sickness while Treis is still alive.

Reward: experience, unique skill.

Penalty for failure: reduced reputation with Kort, the innkeeper of The Genteel Legionnaire.

"My wife has hours left to live, light one," he walked up to me and peered into my eyes. "Only a miracle could save her; my only other option is to lay to rest about twenty souls, and do it in time."

I removed a Potion of Greater Healing from my belt and offered it to him. The demon's hand jerked toward the vial, but stopped dead midway. Kort looked up to meet my eyes.

"Do you even know how much that's worth?"

"Less than your wife's life, I reckon," I put the vial into his still hand.

He nodded, clenching the vial so hard I almost feared he would break it.

"Wait for me here," he nodded and hurried for the door. A moment later his voice cried out from behind the door, "Irsa! Get up, you lazybones! Fetch our guest something to eat, along with a bottle of Rivan wine. Move it!"

_It's easy to be generous and noble when it doesn't really cost you anything,_ I thought to myself. Sure, the gifted potion was probably prohibitively expensive, but I'd become so adapted to this world over the past few days that I stopped perceiving those around me as mere programs. And even if they were, I wasn't so sure they would remain as such. Besides, I was just like them in my current incarnation. So why not help a fellow man in his hour of need? Correction, a fellow demon... Not that they differed much from humans. I hadn't even considered that it might fetch a quest or some mysterious skill as a reward.

Typically, it was pretty easy to tell a quest giver apart from other NPCs by the semi-transparent exclamation mark over their head. But even if Lamorna had regular quests, they were too tough for me, or I simply couldn't see them at my current level. There were some exceptions to the rule, however, in the form of some social quests or the one I'd just received—the unique kind.

Unique quests were generated in real time in accordance with the game situation and certain actions of specific NPCs. As for the unique skill as a reward, typically it was something in the left field, like cross-stitching. Which didn't mean it couldn't be lucrative, because it could, and very much so. But I'd rather not count my chickens before they hatched.

In the meantime, the waitress peeked out from behind the door—warily, like a mouse from under a broom, clearly frightened. Confirming that I was the only one in the hall, she slipped through the door, laid a plate of food and a bottle of wine on the table, and literally ran back. I tossed a piece of ham into my mouth and started chewing it slowly. I decided not to touch the wine until the innkeeper returned.

Your reputation has increased. The Genteel Legionnaire's innkeeper Kort and his wife Treis consider you a friend.

It worked! This whole time I was still worried that the potion might not work on demons, or perhaps have some other effect? But everything worked out, so I returned to my meal. The innkeeper appeared five minutes later—all smiles and with some kind of bundle in his hands.

"Thank you, Krian," the demon shook my hand heartily. "Here," he shoved the bundle into my hands, "change into these. Treis is still freshening up, but she wanted you to have it right away."

I unfolded the bundle, which contained an embroidered red shirt, brown trousers, and boots of light brown leather. I looked up at Kort questioningly.

"You can just toss your clothes here. Assuming there's no emotional attachment," he motioned at the floor. "Irsa! Where are you?! Gather this gentleman's clothes and burn them."

I didn't need to be asked twice, and quickly changed into the new clothes, but not before removing the remaining three vials from the old belt. The new get-up didn't offer any bonuses. It wasn't combat gear, but at least it made me look decent. I tossed my rags on the floor and took a seat across from the innkeeper, who had already filled our mugs with wine. We drank, and then the owner led me out into the backyard.

"Don't worry, you'll get back to your meal soon enough," he grunted, noticing my wistful gaze in the direction of the plate.

The backyard was mostly empty: a stack of logs, a few nondescript barns and a wheel-less wheelbarrow in the center.

"Relax..." Kort took me by the shoulders and turned me toward him, then put his palm on my forehead. A wave of goosebumps rushed over me.

You've completed the quest: Healing the Sick.

You have gained a level! Current level: 68.

_You've learned a unique skill:_ _Step through Darkness._

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

_You've learned the spell:_ _Step through Darkness I._

Instant cast.

Mana cost: 100 points.

Cooldown: 25 seconds.

You vanish from view and teleport to a set point within a 20 yard radius. Stepping through darkness removes all stun and movement-impairing effects.

Very similar to Jump, but somewhat cooler. With Jump, I remained visible and the spell required line of sight. Rogues had a similar skill called Step through Shadows, which also required line of sight. But this spell didn't, as long as there was space to teleport to.

_I could even step into the royal treasury,_ I thought with a chuckle. I wasn't serious, of course—any decent treasury would be well protected against any such tricks. Besides, thieving was not my style. I quickly leveled my Ice Blade to three and threw three points into constitution.

"I wasn't always an innkeeper, you know, but only for the past three years, after retiring. Before then, I was a punisher for half a decade, working for Tiranus. Quit grinning—show me that you understand." He pointed to the far end of the yard. "Step over there."

I added the skill to my action bar, looked to where Kort was pointing, and activated it. I felt cold for an instant, then found myself standing by the far wall.

"Good enough," said the innkeeper. "Now jump back and let's go talk. You don't need to see where you're jumping—this here ain't like your magic tricks. Simply set the direction and distance in your head. As long as there's open space where you want to go, it'll work. With time you will learn to feel instinctively at any given moment where you can step to."

I waited for the skill to refresh and stepped back. There would be time to practice later. Unfortunately, I also noticed that Step shared a cooldown with Jump, so I couldn't use one right after the other.

The hall had about a dozen people by the time we got back: the same group of peasants boozing at the same table, the same merchant with his guards, and a pair of soldiers at the corner table. Manning the bar was a comely demoness with small horns that stuck out impishly from her raven-black hair braided with a leather string. With a friendly smile, she walked out from behind the bar and offered her hand.

"Treis," she nodded when I gave her fingers a light squeeze. "Thank you, for both of us," she rubbed her tummy and gave another, different kind of smile.

"And thank you for these beautiful clothes," I repaid in kind.

"Have a seat, I've fixed you something to eat. You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach," she pecked her husband's cheek and went back to the bar.

"Something to eat" apparently meant a royal feast. Where did they even find the time?! While I ate, Kort was was gazing at me contemplatively; he didn't even touch his food.

"How did you end up here, Krian?" he asked when he saw that I couldn't possibly stuff anything else into my mouth hole. "I've heard of light races coming around occasionally, but I've never actually seen your kind myself."

"So you did notice! And the mage you were with seemed to as well. But why didn't anyone else?" I answered his question with a question; poor manners, sure, but I wanted to understand the situation before continuing our dialog.

"Master Alsuil is a mage, and I've undergone special training," Kort shrugged. "So, where _did_ you come from?"

"To be honest, I don't remember anything aside from the fact that I'm human. I came to just outside of Lamorna, wearing those rags. I helped an old man slay a big bad monster not far from here. Then I came here. I've got letters in my bags to deliver to Nittal," I shrugged in return. "After that, I wouldn't mind returning to the land of humans. I've got a sister back there, and some debts to repay."

"What old man and what monster?" Kort gave me an intent look, and his face took on an expression of utter shock. "You've killed Shaartakh!" he exhaled, incredulous. "But how?! Not even Ahriman's finest trackers had been able to find the beast! And, forgive me for saying it, but you don't strike me as a great sorcerer. Slaying Shaartakh... there are few lords I can think of that would be up to the task."

"The old man was the great sorcerer, I just hung out on the sidelines," I replied humbly. "But I'd rather not talk about him."

"Very well, I won't ask. The caravan to Nittal will only come tomorrow morning. What are your plans for the day?"

"I'll drop by the local blacksmith and alchemist if you point me in the right direction. I've got money, but no equipment or weapon. After that, no plans. Got any suggestions?"

"Aye, and I think you're up for it," Kort puckered his brow. "You see, Treis' illness was no accident. A karriga has taken up residence in our village. Seeing my quizzical expression, he clarified. "A karriga is a lifeless creature spawned by the God Syrat, and it feeds on the life force of women and children. Pregnant women are the sweetest prey, and my Treis happened to be with child," he glanced at his wife working the bar. "It's enough for the fiend to gaze at a living creature for them to start withering away. And the stronger the karriga, the more rapid the process," Kort let out a heavy sigh and continued. "There are currently about twenty people in the village who aren't from here: three merchants with guards and servants who are also waiting to join the caravan, seeking safety in numbers, and another ten from Vellakh's squad as reinforcements."

I noted mechanically that Kort said "twenty people," as if he were talking about humans. Indeed, the locals seemed to regard themselves as people despite being well aware of their differences from real humans.

"The beast must be killed for its sorcery to be lifted. But finding it is extremely difficult as it camouflages extremely well. For the most part, only a skilled necromancer will tell it apart from a living creature. This is where you come in."

"But I'm no necromancer," I objected in surprise.

"I know that!" Kort waved dismissively. "There's an old with living nearby named Mirana. In her youth she dabbled in all sorts of... methods. I bet she's got a remedy, only she's such a nasty hag that you can't help but want to smash her face in. I feel awkward approaching her," Kort frowned, seemingly remembering some episode from his complicated relationship with the local witch. "But you should be able to convince her. I will give you my sword as a token of my gratitude. It should fit your hand perfectly. I've been saving it for my son, so I hope you appreciate the gesture."

You've accessed the quest: Trap for a Karriga I.

Quest type: normal, chain.

Procure a means of detecting a karriga from Mirana the witch.

Reward: experience; Kort's Lightsword.

"So, she will just give me what we need?" I asked Kort after accepting the quest.

"I doubt it will be that easy," he shook his head. "But it occurs to me that the man who had vanquished Shaartakh will find the arguments needed to convince the old hag."

"What arguments would those be?" I asked, though a curious thought had already sprang up in my mind.

"A clever mage like you will figure it out," Kort grinned. "Your lot is quite skilled at persuading women to, you know... Maybe you could—" he stopped short, giving me a dubious look, then shook his head. "Scratch that, there's not enough swill in our whole village; besides, you couldn't handle the volume. Play it by ear—that's my advice. But if you decide to beat it out of her, don't hit too hard, all right? She does prove useful on occasion—a very rare occasion," the innkeeper burst out laughing.

"Where does she even live? And where do I find the local blacksmith and alchemist?" I asked.

"Give me your map, I'll mark their locations."

While Kort was drawing on the map and writing a note for the blacksmith, I ran up to my room to pick up fifty gold and another vial.

"Here, take this to Snorri. Otherwise that wily ferret will fleece you for all you've got."

I accepted the note.

"Mirana is the finest alchemist around, and she's got plenty of goodies for sale. I will also write a letter to my old commander in the city; he will help you with some advice about returning back there," he stuck his thumb behind him, apparently talking about Erantia.

"Kort, tell me briefly about these lands," I asked him, realizing that I might not get another chance to learn about where I was for quite a while.

According to Kort, Demon Grounds were nearly identical to any other nation in Arkon, only about twice as large. The nation of Alcmehn comprised seventeen dominions, sixteen of which were subject to the central and (by popular opinion) only civilized one in Balliose. The capital was Iskhart, which the developers had designed as a starting city, and it was ruled by Ahriman the Overlord. The collective might of Balliose was roughly ten times greater than the strongest of their subject dominions. It also contained the sealed passage to the Netherworld, though its exact location was unknown to the masses.

At the head of each dominion was a lord to whom all the princes—masters of the provinces—swore fealty. Satraps—another type of hereditary nobility—swore fealty to both the lord and to the princes, depending on whose land their estate was situated on.

To the south, the demon state bordered barbarian lands. Barbarians were demons that lacked a centralized government; led by small councils of elders, they occasionally crossed the border into Alcmehn to raid and pillage. Sometimes the lords reacted in kind. But for the most part, the lords and the barbarians engaged in endemic warfare.

Jarus Province where I ended up was ruled by Prince Ar-Iraz. Lamorna Village was situated practically on the border with the central province of Ashtar Dominion, serving as a transit point. It was the hub where several trading routes came together, used by caravans to travel to Nittal and other towns in the neighboring provinces, and back. For this reason, fifty legionnaires were permanently stationed here. Though Ashtar shared its southern border with barbarians, the latter almost never bothered the dominion. Most of the danger came from the tense relations with the neighboring dominions of Rualt and Lakia, spilling over into some kind of armed conflict every ten-twenty years. Sometimes those were contained to minor border skirmishes; other times whole provinces passed from one dominion to another.

I felt that I'd learned all that I needed to know, except for one final question that needed clarifying.

"Listen, Kort, the soldiers at the gates sent me to see Vellakh the elder. But when I addressed him as such, he gave me a sour look and said that he was no elder. What am I missing here?"

Kort chuckled.

"At the Barley Festival last year he'd had a few too many—or maybe more than a few—picked up the elder's daughter, and the two had themselves a fun time in the hayloft. The girl was only too happy—it was her first time, ain't exactly a beauty queen. So one of his legionnaires blabs, 'Check it, our commander has got his sights on an elder's post!' And it took off from there..."

The smithy was located near the western gates, which I would soon need to take out of the village to get to Mirana's hut. The guards at the gate were hardly enthused by their neighbor, but their opinion mattered little. Snorri the blacksmith—a stocky, broad-shouldered demon, looking like a beardless dwarf—was shaping a blank on an anvil that another demon, apparently his apprentice, was holding down with a pair of tongs.

I waited a few moments to draw their attention. When that didn't happen, I walked up closer and shouted, trying to make myself heard over the clanging of metal.

"Are you Master Snorri?"

I had to wait another minute or so for the blacksmith to put aside the hammer and come out to me from under the tent.

"Why are you yelling, scaring my apprentice?" he asked dourly, shooting me a quizzical look. It didn't get any more dwarf than that! The heavy look made me ill at ease, but I fought through the discomfort.

"Kort sent me. He said you're the best blacksmith around." I handed him the note.

"And what do you want?" barked the blacksmith, completely ignoring my attempt at flattery. He scanned the note and stuffed it in his apron pocket.

"A suit of armor. A full one. For me." I replied.

"When?"

"Either now or later, but sometime today," I shrugged. "I'm setting out to Nittal tomorrow with the caravan."

"Would you like me to forge you a djerngir while I'm at it? It's no bother—five minutes is all I need," Snorri looked at me as if I were either mad or an idiot.

"No, no djerngir necessary," I said, having zero clue as to what that even was. "Just armor, eight pieces of it," I repaid him with the exact same look. "And you don't need to forge anything, I'm looking to buy. Kort said you've got plenty of wares for sale."

"Like he knows," the master groused. "I ain't got anything at the moment. "I promised the last set to that merchant, Torius." He motioned at the anvil behind him, "just finishing up the greaves now."

"What if I beat his price?" I wasn't happy with the prospect of traveling without armor. No one knew what awaited us on the road, and I doubted we'd be traveling through zones where I could solo even one mob. If anything, a suit of armor increased my chances of survival.

"No," drawled the dwarf, err, demon. "I've got, whatchamacallit..." he twirled his index finger through the air, "professional ethic, right. Esteemed Torius promised me thirty five 'yellows,'" Snorri looked at me askance, gauging my reaction. "Do you expect me to let him down?"

With a sigh, I counted off fifty coins and weighed them in my hand.

"There's fifty here," I shrugged. "But if your professional ethic forbids you from accepting it, I have no choice but—"

"We'll bring the set to the inn in two hours," the blacksmith cut me off, reaching out his hand. "As for the, uh, professional ethic," Snorri puckered his brow, recalling the difficult term, "I find the notion rather ambiguous. Now go and stop getting in the way," he waved me away and rejoined his waiting apprentice.

Mirana's house was a half an hour's walk from Lamorna, nestled in a small grove off the side of the road, and I managed to get there without trouble. Indeed, the trouble began only on my approach. The house looked entirely ordinary—nothing sinister or macabre, like owls, skeletal decorations, black cats or bloodsucking bats. It was your typical log cabin with a green roof and a serpent for a weather-vane. The trouble came in the form of a huge Doberman—or a creature the size of a pony resembling one—that appeared out of nowhere and snarled at me as I froze with fear, then took a seat right across. Its black tongue was sticking out of its mouth, a thin thread of slobber running down the muzzle.

I liked dogs, generally speaking, but when you find yourself standing opposite one that's level 180 and staring at you with hungry eyes, you can't help but feel ill at ease. So it went on: me standing there, afraid to exhale, trying to mutter something pacifying, and the Doberman, looking suspiciously like the beasts that had torn the courier to shreds, dribbling as it examined me. The canine's patience gave out first, as it leaped up to all fours and barked. The hut's door creaked, and an old demoness in a plain dress crawled out, leaning on a walking stick. Squinting at the sun near-sightedly, she croaked.

"Who goes there, Hart take you?" she said, then continued incredulously. "A light one? What hole did you crawl out of? Get back and don't get in the way, Khron," the last part was for the dog, who turned right around and vanished behind the hut.

"Did you go deaf with fear?" the old woman turned back to me. "Speak your business."

_Interesting horns,_ I thought. Unlike with others, they didn't stick outward but ran as if alongside the skull.

"Why don't you invite me in first, feed my hunger and quench my thirst, before pelting me with questions?" I countered.

"Shall I draw you a bath and make a bed for the night, too? Gee, I'd like that!" The woman licked her wrinkled lips suggestively, making me shudder.

"That's not why I'm here," I shot back hastily. "And I'm really not that hungry."

Mirana chuckled and motioned toward the house.

"You're already here, might as well come inside," and she headed inside first.

I followed her in and took a look around. The interior of the house was prototypical: bunches of herbs and dried mushrooms hanging off the ceiling, vessels of yellowy substance on the windowsill. There was also a black cat—sleeping soundly on the bench who didn't even bother moving to acknowledge my visit.

"Well, light one, speak," the old woman sat at a table and peered at me intently.

"I need to track a karriga, so I've come to..." I briefed her on what had been happening in the village.

"A karriga, eh," the crone muttered. "A vile beast, that one. I will help you. But it won't be free. Do me a service, and you'll get what you need."

"What service?" I inquired warily.

"Bring me herbs from a nearby cave. And the slime of a speckled toad—they roam nearby. Come back when you're done, and I'll teach you how to draw out the beast."

You've accessed the quest: Ingredients for Mirana.

Quest type: normal.

Bring Mirana 10 tufts of Winterberry and 5 vials of Speckled Toad Slime.

Reward: experience, Potion of Two Moons.

I was in no hurry to accept. The zone was level 170+, which meant the toads were that level as well. Even if the herbs grew right there on the path, somehow I doubted the speckled toads would welcome my attempts at scrubbing the slime off them. Nor did I have any vessels, which meant the toads had to be killed. And only a complete noob would try to solo a mob one hundred levels higher than him. Those toads would dispense with me in a couple of bites. Even if I wore a full epic set, I wouldn't survive more than three minutes against a level 170 mob. The level difference was simply too much.

A decently equipped player might be able to handle a mob within ten levels of him. With excellent equipment, up to about thirty levels. And even then he would need a lot of things to go right.

Therefore, my chances against the toads were nil. Now, I could always go back and get Kort, but I would hate to lose his respect. Shaartakh's slayer chickening out of a fight with toads? No, that wouldn't do. I rejected the quest.

"Madam, I'm in a hurry. Besides, I'm for the ethical treatment of animals," I began a heartfelt speech. "Is there another way to repay you?"

"You are truly shameless," the witch clicked her tongue incredulously. "My great-grandma used to say that light ones chased after every skirt, but I didn't believe her. Oh, if not for your defenses, you'd be seeing me the way I was fifty years ago. I don't know who put them up, but clearly it was a great master."

"Wait, Mirana!" I put my hands up hastily. "I happen to have something that will take those fifty years right off!" I put the bottle with the Netherworld's beast's liver extract on the table. The liver extract was one of the main ingredients for a Potion of Rejuvenation. Even back at the inn I was thinking that no woman would possibly refuse it. And I was right."

Mirana stared at the vial for a bit, then shifted her eyes to me.

"There's more to you than meets the eye, light one, oh yes!" the witch shook her head. "You wish to trade this for the means of detecting a karriga?"

"If you throw in some healing and stamina potions, I certainly won't argue."

Your reputation has increased. Mirana relates to you with respect.

The demoness nodded and got up, opened a nearby cupboard and laid eleven bottles on the table before me. Five were pink—healing potions that restored two thousand hit points over ten seconds. Five were light-green—medium potions of vigor that instantly restored five hundred energy. And one bottle with a violet mixture—Potion of Two Moons.

"Take that," she stuck a yellow finger at the violet vial, "pour it onto a chunk of meat and throw it on the ground, preferably at night. The effective radius is two hundred yards, so if the beast is around it won't be long in coming. The potion is consumed upon use, and the effect wears off after an hour. Now go. I need to think."

When I was already outside and heading back to the road, Mirana called after me.

"Come back in a week, light one, and you won't recognize me. Who knows what might happen then. I can't say I'm not curious about your kind," she winked at me.

I smiled and waved goodbye, thinking to myself that a week from now I would be far away, and wished for her to find somebody else to satisfy her curiosity.

There were several dozen people in the dining hall, and it was noisy. I walked up to the bar, smiled at Treis and nodded at Kort.

"Did you get it?"

"Here it is," I showed him the potion. "Pour it on a chunk of meat, and toss the meat on the ground at night."

Kort nodded, pulled out a sheathed sword from behind the bar and handed it to me.

You've completed the quest: Trap for a Karriga I.

You received: Kort's Lightsword.

I didn't level this time, but hey, you can't win 'em all. I unsheathed the sword and examined it. A double-edged steel blade about two and a half feet long.

Kort's Lightsword.

Sword: one-handed weapon.

Durability: 500/500.

Rare.

Minimum level: 65.

Damage: 120-160.

+100 strength.

+3% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

Weight: 7 lbs.

"Take good care of it," Kort said, "and it will serve you well."

"It is a fine sword. Thank you!"

So, what now?

You've accessed the quest: Trap for a Karriga II.

Quest type: normal, chain.

Help Kort catch and kill the karriga.

Reward: experience, Kort's Cloak.

"Come down to the dining hall closer to midnight. I will gather a few people to make sure the beast doesn't escape. And another thing," Kort handed me a bag, "Snorri came by with an armor and shield. Said the shield is a gift. I shudder to think how badly you must've overpaid him," he scoffed.

Upon getting up to my room, I hastily changed into plate and equipped the sword. The armor set was called Legionnaire's Light Plate, comprising eight pieces, all of unusual class: helm, shoulder pads, cuirass, vambraces, gauntlets, belt, greaves and boots. Each piece added 35 points to strength and 30 to constitution. The set bonus was an additional 50 hit points. The shield was triangular and blocked 60% damage (any attack repelled by the shield let through only 40% damage), added 10 to strength and 55 to constitution. All items had a minimum level of 65, which meant I could easily wear them through level 80-85 or so. I checked out my new stats. Not bad—590 strength and 394 constitution added almost 120% to damage and 4000 to health.

And now for the enchanting. I put the skill on the action bar and selected the sword.

Attention! By using Personal Weapon Enchanting with the Power of the Elements V on Kort's Lightsword, the item will be bound to you. Are you sure you want to proceed?

Shivers ran down my body, as a small translucent clot of power was released from my hand. For a moment, the sword radiated like the rainbow. When the spell ended, I was surprised to discover that the sword in my hand now had a completely different name:

Krian's Lightsword.

Sword: one-handed weapon.

Durability: 500/500.

Bound item.

Rare.

Minimum level: 65.

Damage: 183-244.

+100 strength.

+3% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

Weight: 7 lbs.

Something didn't add up. The average damage should have been buffed by 50%, but it grew to 52.5%. Oh, right, I was Altus' apprentice! I examined my damage output. My strongest attack was Tongue of Flame at an average of 1200 damage per second against an armorless opponent, taking into account my racial bonus to swords and the boost for slaying Shaartakh. And my own armor, buffed by Shield of the Elements, absorbed 62% of physical damage. Awesome! My belt slots increased as well to eight. I decided to keep Shaartakh's Breath and Venom, and one more Potion of Greater Healing—just in case. I added three more healing potions and two vigor ones. Now I was ready for action.

The armor felt as comfortable as a tracksuit. I was glad at least that hadn't been changed with the new patch. Then again, thinking logically, I had enough strength to carry over a ton of weight.

I practiced a few attacks with Tongue of Flame—the room was large enough, thankfully. As the sword made its arc, it flared up and left a pretty red trail through the air. I walked up to the mirror and checked out my reflection, trying to look as menacing as possible.

Looking back at myself was... me. I hadn't tried to change my appearance during character creation. No Hollywood-style perfectly symmetrical mug, no brutal-looking trappings. Six feet tall, athletic build, short dark hair, gray eyes. Wearing a full plate armor with an open visor. My attempts at a warlike demeanor suddenly looked so silly that I smiled.

"Mage-knight wannabe!"

After running all the numbers, acquiring the gear and even getting level 68, it just occurred to me that I still hadn't yet played the actual game. Everything thus far had been just theory. And I probably wouldn't do much tonight either. Then again, I was in no rush—better to wait for opponents equal to me in strength.

With those thoughts, I set an alarm for half past eleven. Without bothering to remove my armor, I got into bed, which gave an offended creak, and fell asleep.

Nights in the realm of Arkon were incredibly alluring. And this one was no different—quiet and blissfully serene. Somewhere to the side clucked roused chickens, while tired cattle lowed sleepily from the barn. The street was well-illumed with moonlight. I felt absolutely no anxiety about the upcoming event, and not at all because I'd finally gotten some gear and a weapon. My confidence was rooted in the fact that besides myself and Kort, the night's hunt for the mysterious fiend would be joined by a squad of legionnaires led by Vellakh and the local mage with the unusual name Alsuil.

The Genteel Legionnaire's dining hall this close to midnight was about two-thirds full. It was smoky and stuffy—the air was pungent with the aromas of roast meat, stewed cabbage and cheap beer. Treis was working the bar, filling up the mugs of peasants and legionnaires that kept trickling in.

The weird thing was, I didn't hear any drunken arguing or brawling that one might expect in such an atmosphere. Everything was calm and peaceful, as though we were at a religious service or a funeral.

I looked around for Kort.

"Krian," Treis waved at me from behind the bar. "Kort and the guys are out back." She handed me a giant sandwich. "Do you know how to get there?"

I nodded, thanked her for the treat, and headed for the back door.

"And there's Krian," Kort announced loudly when I walked out into the backyard, chewing on the sandwich that seemed to boost all my stats by ten. There were fourteen in all, including myself. Ten level 200+ legionnaires, Krian, Vellakh and the mage that I'd seen conversing with the innkeeper earlier.

"Greetings, light one," he held out his hand for a handshake. "Thank you for Treis, and for tonight's hunt as well. I doubt that I would have been able to get that old pepper-box to pony up the Potion of Two Moons." He chuckled bitterly. "Even regular broads become unbearable as they grow old—witches all the more so. How did you manage it?"

"You can expect her disposition to improve," I grunted. "I gave her an ingredient for rejuvenation."

"The liver extract?" the mage gave me a look of shock. "But where did you... Oh, right, Kort told me. So you went and..." And Alsuil burst into raucous laughter.

Everybody looked in our direction. I simply shrugged, none the wiser. When the mage was finally done laughing, he pointed at me and explained.

"This character slipped Mirana a rejuvenation potion, or rather the main ingredient for one. With her skill in alchemy, she'll get plenty of use from it," he winked at me. "It's a good thing you're leaving for Nittal in the morning, 'cause all the local women will soon hate your guts."

I looked in stupor at the grinning Kort, then at the legionnaires and their dreamy smiles, then turned back to the mage.

"Mirana's great-granddad was an incubus. One-eighth of the blood coursing through her veins is that of a demon of seduction. Few can resist the charms of a pure-blooded succubus, but even one-eighth will be sufficient for all the local peasants and these grunts," he nodded at the legionnaires, "to start salivating at the sight of her. And what woman likes it when her man is gawking at another broad? So, when it comes out who's behind her transformation, don't expect them to treat you kindly for your other merits."

"All right, men, let's move out. Everybody knows their role," Kort's voice wiped the smiles off everybody's faces.

Truly, there was more to the local innkeeper than met the eye if even an army squad leader recognized his authority without question.

"You will follow right behind me. Here's the meat; place it where I tell you, when I tell you."

I accepted the chunk of meat, which must have weighed at least ten pounds.

"Here's the thing," Kort clarified. "Because the effective radius is two hundred yards, we need to make sure to cover the inn and the barracks with the new arrivals."

I nodded with understanding and followed after him.

We stopped near the inn at an intersection of two streets. The legionnaires dispersed in the surrounding darkness, their armor clinking softly, leaving me alone at the center of the intersection. The vial cracked in my hand, the targeted chunk of meat darkened, and the air filled with the scent of anise drops. I tossed the bait to the ground and ran over to Kort, who was waiting for me in the shade of trees by the wayside.

For the next fifteen minutes, nothing was happening. The moon kept shining as before, painting enigmatic shadows on the ground; the wind rustled the leaves that provided cover for Kort and myself. Suddenly I felt inexplicable alarm, as a shiver ran down my spine. Seemingly echoing my sensations, a dog howled nearby. I looked at the innkeeper; seeing my quizzical look, he put a finger to his lips and motioned in the direction of the road leading to the inn.

And then I saw the karriga. A humanoid, hairless body with a noseless, simian face—a dark hole in place of the mouth cavity, populated with sharp needle-like teeth. The beast was stalking warily toward the bait, its movements looking completely inhuman, almost like a giant arachnid. The karriga stopped near the bait, then turned its uneven, knobby head this way and that, as if checking the surroundings. For a moment its yellow, deep-set eyes stopped on the trees that hid Kort and myself, and I tensed up, clenching my jaw and squeezing the hilt of my sword.

The monster sucked in a lungful of air nosily and sunk its teeth into the chunk of meat on the ground.

This jumpstarted a whirlwind of events. An Ice Spear struck the karriga in the side, shattering its ribs and slowing it, like any cold spell worth its salt. The night instantly erupted with the clanging of iron and the blood-chilling wail of the wounded beast. Kort wasted no time charging the monster, with me right behind him.

Everything happened in a matter of seconds. Surrounded by soldiers rushing it from all sides, the beast instantly recognized the weak link in the chain of attackers and leaped in my direction. Kort was too far from me to help. I glimpsed those yellow inhuman eyes and razor-like teeth, the stench of its breath assaulting my nostrils, but managed to put up a shield just as the monster's hooked paws went in for the kill.

An unbearable pain shot through my entire body; the world in my eyes turned bloody red, as I was knocked ten feet back. My body spun in midair, and the landing knocked the wind out of me as I slid five-six feet through the road dust. Glancing at my HP bar, I automatically used a healing potion and rose back to my feet through the pain. It was all over. Bound with invisible rope, the karriga filled the vicinity with an odious howl, echoed by all the local fauna.

"You all right?" Kort asked me as I walked up to the demons, having removed my helm and spitting out the dust that had filled my mouth entirely. The damned beast still wouldn't stop wailing. "Shut it up, will you?" he yelled to Alsuil, then swung and rammed his steel boot into the revolting mouth cavity. There was a crack in its teeth, and the creature choked on bloody froth, with its health bar dropping by about 10%.

"I'm fine," I said, thinking that it if weren't for his wife's sandwich, I would have been knocked unconscious for sure. A single blow—and one blocked by the shield besides—had still brought me down past 30% HP.

At last, the mage cast some spell over the karriga that shut it up—Silence, evidently. Its mouth with broken teeth still gaping, the beast looked like a beached fish.

"Thank you, friend," the demon patted me on the shoulder. "Here's something to remember us by, Treis sewed it herself." He handed me a bundle.

You've completed the quest: Trap for a Karriga II.

You have gained a level! Current level: 69.

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

You have gained a level! Current level: 70.

You have 2 stat points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 6 stat points to allocate.

You received: Kort's Cloak.

I unfolded the cloak—brown with a beige pattern embroidered along the edges—ran my palm along the soft fabric and equipped it immediately.

Kort's Cloak.

Cloth. Durability: 450/450.

Rare item.

Minimum level to equip: 70.

Armor: 80.

+70 to agility.

+30 to constitution.

Weight: 5 lbs.

"Thank you, Kort. You've been spoiling me with presents," I grinned in return. "And what about this one? I thought it was supposed to die," I nodded at the karriga that the legionnaires were simply wrapping up in runecloth.

"Oh, it will definitely die," the innkeeper frowned. "But its death will be as long and agonizing as can be. Let the people that had perished by the fiend's hand delight in the Ashen Lands. You come come and watch, if you like."

"No, thanks," I shook my head. "I'm sure you will do what needs to be done. I've got to hit the road tomorrow, so I should get some rest."

"Agreed," Kort nodded. "See you in the morning, then. And thanks again."

I shook the demon's hand, bid farewell to everyone and started toward the inn. I was thinking that a hero of good alignment might have said something about torture being inherently bad, and that even a despicable monster's death ought to be humane. Evidently, I wasn't your typical hero, 'cause if need be I would grab a pair of tongs myself and readily go to town on a beast that was feasting on the lives of women and children, and squeal with delight as I ripped the bastard to shreds. Perhaps it was the effect of recent developments, or maybe I was gradually becoming more and more like a proper demon.

"When you get to Nittal, go see Gerid first. After that, feel free to decide your next move," Kort reminded me for the umpteenth time.

"Don't worry, I remember. I'll visit your former colleague, if only 'cause I don't know anyone else. At least he can offer a place to stay the night, and perhaps some advice."

"And don't forget to eat. Kort told me about your flying down the road," Treis butted in. "You mages ought to eat more."

"For sure. Next time you see me, you won't recognize me—I'll be like that merchant over there," I gestured over at the corpulent trader who was presently overseeing his people—whether guards or workers—loading crates into one of the wagons.

The total weight of provisions that Treis had loaded me with despite my pitiable protests exceeded seventy pounds. It was a good thing food didn't spoil, because the supplies would last at least a month.

"We move out in one minute!" shouted Lirrak, the caravan's leader, drowning out all other noise.

"Well, you take care now," Kort gave me a tight squeeze goodbye. "And don't forget your promise."

"As soon as I learn how to make portals, I'll be right back here," I smiled.

Treis pecked me on the cheek, then wrapped her arms around her husband and looked up at him.

"Oh, and we've got a name for our firstborn," she smiled at me. "So you had better come visit your namesake."

They say that one ought to leave without turning around, but as I sat there in the wagon of the moving caravan, I found myself unable to tear a wistful gaze away from the diminishing Lamorna.

# Chapter 4

In my past life I liked taking road trips, especially around America. Don't get me wrong, I still loved my homeland, but after the hell that was Moscow traffic, San Francisco felt like automotive paradise. In the very first days here I'd experienced a profound shock. It was as if someone had waved a magic wand, removing all the intersections, traffic lights and potholes, allowing millions of vehicles to move at a high speed, taking their drivers wherever they needed to go and without getting in anyone else's way.

And so I often took advantage of my weekends, tossing my road bag into the trunk, picking up this dame or that, and hitting the open road toward a destination I hadn't yet been to, spending nights in roadside motels. Traveling was always fun, but the sweetest road was always the one leading me home. _When you've got a home to go back to,_ I thought gloomily, looking out on the boundless forest-steppe connecting one horizon line to another. My mood somber, I fished a flask out of my inventory, took a sip and grimaced. I shifted on the poor excuse for a bench I was sitting on and continued examining my surroundings. The local swill tasted kind of like tequila, only it wasn't clear what it was made from since I'd yet to see any cacti around.

The injection of alcohol did its job, and my mood began to even out. The so-called caravan had been trudging along through the lands of the dominion's central province for three days now. We had reached its border five hours after departing from Lamorna, and the mighty yaks continued drawing the half-empty wagons at a pace of roughly forty miles per day. If this were happening in the real world, I doubted we would have traversed even a third of that distance.

Everything was different here. The animals didn't get tired, the wagons didn't break down, and the road was practically flat. I was also happy to see the zone levels decreasing as we kept moving. According my calculations, by the time we reached Nittal I should be in a zone more suitable for my development.

Caravan routes in Arkon had been introduced to help players explore new territories. Independently, a player could travel only from his starting city to the starting city of a friendly race; furthermore, a player could create a portal only to a location he'd been to before. Therefore, to travel quickly between locations a player had to either be able to create portals to a location he'd personally visited, or be grouped with someone who met these requirements.

The game also had a tremendous amount of quests from various NPCs that forced you to explore these new locations to complete said quests.

The remaining modes of transportation were either your own two feet or a mount, which was a luxury few could afford.

And so caravans were introduced that connected the capital cities of every race to capital cities of territorial factions, moving along routes according to a set schedule. The player needed only to pay for passage and be logged in for five hours a day—that was how long the journey took.

Lirrak's caravan had three open wagons, with tents that were pulled over them only in the event of rain. Guarding all this goodness were ten armed demons on horseback, their average level around 210. There were also two coachmen per wagon, which turned into ranged fighters in the event of danger.

Also traveling with the caravan was a mage by the name Dar Ylsan—a wiry demon with fine symmetrical features in a blue robe. His long, pitch-black hair was styled in a pony tail; his horns, matching the hair in color, bore silvery glyphs. Oh, and he also had a tail! Roughly three feet long and dark gray in color, ending in a bone wart shaped like an irregular triangle.

"Never seen a tifling before, light one?" he asked me during a rest stop, noticing my incredulous look.

"No, Dar Ylsan, I'm new here," I said, getting ready to tell the fable of my appearance in Alcmehn.

"No need for titles, we're all equal here. Just Ylsan is fine.

As our ensuing conversation showed, the mage was of noble extraction, or a "tifling." The title "Dar" was roughly the same as a knight in the Middle Ages—the lowest title of nobility, either hereditary or awarded by the powers that be for certain achievements. As I gathered, Ylsan wasn't his family's firstborn, which meant inheritance wasn't in the cards. For this reason, he'd decided to pursue a military career. And caravans in Arkon were considered military detachments, a type of mobile troop.

A tail on a demon designated nobility. Like a third hand, it turned into a powerful weapon when activated in combat mode. To be frank, I still wasn't sure how exactly one acquired a tail when ordained into this higher social class, but I decided not to lose sleep over it—the game's administration moved in mysterious ways. Ylsan was second in command in the caravan after Lirrak as a level 225 healing specialist.

This morning all passengers except me disembarked near a small town where, as I'd gathered, a local fair was starting. No one else boarded, so I was left without any traveling companions. I gazed upon the scenery, languishing with boredom.

Immersed in my own thoughts, I cast another glance at the coachmen, engaged in their own conversation, and suddenly realized that I had absolutely no plan. Sure, it was great that I had Kort's letter to his old mate, but the latter was probably too out of the loop at this point to advise anything useful. I needed a plan of action: what to do, and in what order?

Above all else, I had to find my sister and Max—the two closest people I had who were currently with the dark elves somewhere. I had no doubt that Max was already in the game—for as long as I'd known him, he was never the type to throw words to the wind. But I was in Demon Grounds while they were in Karn, and dark elves were hostile to me. I just hoped that Alyona and Max were relatively safe.

It was stupid of us to not have arranged some sort of communication. We could have sent messages to one another through a third party, someone like my aunt. But I'd been in too much of a shock when speaking with Max and didn't think of it; for his part, Max was probably a nervous wreck, anxious about migrating into the game. I could only imagine what he felt after seeing what had happened to my sister. Knowing Max, he probably didn't sleep all night, agonizing over the decision, and when it was finally made, his thoughts were focused solely on the execution. I sighed heavily. I must've dialed my aunt a dozen times, but her number never answered. Knowing her religiosity, she could have turned it off for fear of someone calling her "from the other side," God forbid. Well, I would keep trying to reach her. I bet that Max had already realized our shared mistake, and was also trying to get in touch with her.

I gazed pensively at a herd of antelope-like creatures grazing some twenty yards off the road, and took another sip from my flask. _Enough of that_ , I reprimanded myself, _booze doesn't help the thinking process._

Meanwhile, the road had wound in the direction of a narrow passage between two small hills that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. On Lirrak's order, two horsemen separated from the caravan to scout ahead. I couldn't imagine what might threaten a dozen and a half level 200+ humanoids in a level 120ish zone, but what business was it of mine? They could all go scouting for all I cared!

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the first step to finding my people was getting out of here; secondly, I had to raise my reputation with the dark elves. By the time I found a way out, humans would probably already map a route to Ellorian, and I could simply use a portal to get there. Wait, why did I automatically assume that I would end up in human territory? Not that it mattered now anyway—finding a way came first, everything else after.

Then there was Cheney. That scumbag was going to pay for all the pain, fear and indignities I'd suffered. Someone once said that hatred and desire for vengeance were bad qualities, and he who planned revenge should dig two graves instead of one, but this wasn't true in my case. These feelings sustained me through all the hardships. I was going to find that son of a bitch and destroy him, whatever it took. And yes, I was aware how ridiculous these thoughts were in my current situation. But I had lots of time at my disposal, and a great desire driving me. What did I know? Somewhere in Arkon there was a zone that was somehow isolated from RP-17. I had designed the zone myself, and I had an approximate idea where it could be, give or take five hundred miles or so. But I knew nothing of the methods used to isolate it, nor of what awaited me there.

Let's assume that Cheney and his crew set themselves up to no less than level 300. They also had at their disposal a huge citadel and I could only guess how many guards. I knew the weak points of the stronghold, having drawn it myself; after all, the citadel was designed to be more decorative than anything. Yes, there was a chance it might have been beefed up in light of the latest changes, but there were still holes that simply couldn't be patched. In short, I needed to find a way to get to Karn, locate this zone, and gather enough allies to help me resolve this problem. It all sounded surreal from here, but even an epic journey across a thousand leagues begins with the first step. And I had already taken the first step by surviving, which meant I was strong enough to see it through to the end.

Lastly, there was the archmage's quest, which might also be my ticket off Demon Grounds and into human lands. I doubted that a hundred Foxes and mages would want to remain here forever. The problem was, I didn't know where to look for the castle the vault of which held all those people in a state of magical anabiosis. All I knew was that it was somewhere nearby, and that two hundred and eighty years had passed since those events.

There must be some records or chronicles—some kind of evidence with clues. The simplest way was probably to show up before the overlord and ask. I even cracked a smile at the thought, to which Rioh—the younger of the two coachmen—responded with a suspicious glance in my direction. I didn't blame him—it was three days now with the peculiar taciturn fellow who had been hitting the flask pretty heavily, and had now suddenly started smiling.

No, I wasn't brave enough to go to Ahriman just yet. Instead, I would arrive in Nittal, go see Kort's friend and ask him about the events of two hundred eighty years ago. Even if he didn't know, perhaps he could point me to a library or some other repository of wisdom in Nittal. All the while I would seek out every opportunity to level my own handsome self.

Speaking of! I opened the Options menu and threw my two available talent points into Ice Blade, maxing it out. The stat points went into constitution. Now, where was I? Right, time to stock up on all the quests available to me and grind, grind, grind like a Korean farmer. Because my level 70 was looking rather feeble for my grandiose plans of reprisal against the game's heavy hitters. I was yet to get my hands on the world map, but for some reason I thought that Demon Grounds stretched beneath Arkon's mainland.

I was also carrying two letters to Nittal, one of which was addressed to Janam, the overlord's second wife. Maybe I could try my questions with her? Doubtful she'd be willing to converse with a common courier. But anyway. First, I needed to rescue Altus' people, and I'd take it from there.

As was usual after making a firm decision, I suddenly felt a lot better.

In the meantime, the caravan had passed through the narrow passage and was back rolling through wide-open space. The scenery, however, changed drastically, which sometimes happened when crossing the border between two zones. The forest-steppe became a rocky semi-desert—a mostly even flatland dotted with rocks of all shapes and sizes. About a hundred yards off the road loomed five massive shapes of stone—local idols, perhaps? There were traces of a giant bonfire, with piles of large animal bones scattered all around. A bit further off I spotted a huge feline stretched out on a boulder, basking in the sun—at level 110, it didn't pose any threat to us. Nor did it care much for us, what with bountiful choices of solitary and small clusters of camel-like creatures wandering all around. I couldn't see from here what they were chewing, only that they were chewing for sure, the way they were lowering their heads to the ground. A few miles off the road was a ravine with a fairly large river flowing along the bottom, its shores lush with vegetation that made the waterway look like a giant green snake.

"So, like I said, they're going to move us closer to the capital, just you watch," declared the robust black-haired fellow in the coachbox. Fixing his leather strap, he gave a sigh so heavy that the ends of his long mustache swung like a pendulum. "Ask Peotius if you don't believe me."

"Come on, pop, what's with you?" the other coachman sitting on the bench across from me—a scrawny kid with small horns and joints protruding from under his skin—replied and scratched his head. "They don't give a hoot about us to move us anywhere. And that Peotius of yours is too obsessed with his scrolls and rituals to see what's in front of his nose. Watch, they'll send over some legionnaires to clean up the mess as soon as they're done with the northern provinces."

"You feeling OK, son? Did you suffer a sunstroke?" the older demon smiled indulgently.

"What's so funny?" Rioh took offense. "That's what Vren told me—and he apprentices for Master Anrad. He's got a friend in the Second Legion. The information comes from his friend: first the north, then everything else."

"Mind your manners, arguing with your father!" the senior frowned; if I remembered correctly, his name was Harn. "Young people nowadays! How would a simple legionnaire know anything about anything? Do you think the legate reports his plans to your friend? At least the punishers sent their people to keep the monsters in check."

"Right, the same punishers that cleaned up around the village but don't dare venture outside in such small numbers. Sure, they're defending the village, made an outpost and are even paying silver for tails, but what's the use? Where are we supposed to graze cattle? There's not even a single mage for miles. Take you, Krian, as an example," the boy had noticed that I was listening in on their exchange and turned to me. "Would you be willing to do a good deed? For a fee, of course."

"What are we talking about?" I entered the conversation.

"Back home in Urcahnta, we've got undead crawling out of the Ghorazm Ruins, wreaking all kinds of havoc," Rioh rattled off. "For years things were quiet and peaceful, but suddenly it's like all hell broke loose. They're preying on all things living: cattle, people... The villagers are afraid to take a step outside the palisade. Crops and pastures are deserted—nobody dares to work them. Seems like only the road to Nittal is still free. How are we supposed to last the winter? There are no supplies, no firewood..."

"Hold on!" I put both of my hands up, desperate to stem the torrent of words. "Start from the beginning. What is Urcahnta and where is it located?"

"Hush, you windbag," Harn lashed the wagon's side with his whip. "How many times did I teach you to think before you talk, and speak plainly," he let out a heavy sigh. "The esteemed mage hasn't been to Nittal once—he said so back when he first got on. How is he supposed to know about our hole of a town? Don't mind him, he's still young and clueless. He'll wise up once I marry him off."

"Marriage, uh huh," Rioh muttered under his nose, leaning back. "Can't wait. Can't you see my excitement?"

"I'm going to have to do some serious convincing!" Harn snapped at his son's grumbling. "No way Master Kern will accept a marriage proposal with your lousy reputation. And what's wrong with Karissa as a wife? Better her than flushing money down the toilet and staring at succubi all day."

"At least all their lady parts are where they should be," the boy scoffed and turned away grumpily.

"And? Will you marry a succubus, too? You want your wife hiking up her skirt for the whole damned village? Idiot!" the father pressed on. "Listen, no one's saying you can't occasionally... you know," he twirled his whip in the air. "But don't even think of living with one!"

"Gentlemen," I interrupted this universal opposition between fathers and sons. "Please, tell me about your village."

"Apologies, master mage, it's just that I wish him well. He's my son, after all," Harn looked at the sulking Rioh. "Are you married yourself?"

"No," I said and, realizing that the conversation may now shift toward youth nowadays being irresponsible, quickly corrected myself, "but I am betrothed. She's waiting for me to finish my schooling. It's strict where I come from—no marriage until you get an education."

"You see! Krian is a responsible person, he understands you've got to have a family," the demon held me up as an example. "Anyway, we'll continue this conversation when we get home. Now, where was I..." he looked back at me. "Our village is close to Nittal, four miles or so from the northern gates. But that's over farmland—if you take the road, it's closer to twelve. As soon as you cross the bridge, there it is. And we've got ancient ruins a few miles to the northwest. Our village mage—Peotius, a highly educated man—says that the Ghorazm Ruins still remember the Exodus War. But nothing ever really happened there; my friends and I used to hang out nearby all the time, and they were just your regular ruins.

"And then, three months ago something happened, and all kinds of undead started pouring out. Most look like pigs, only with real scary mugs. Our mage Peotius says it must be one of the cursed ones' handiwork. We rushed right to the city to complain. But they've got other things to worry about, what with two northern provinces revolting. The city did send ten punishers who went and cleansed the area in the vicinity of the village from the darkspawn, but they're not willing to even try with the ruins. Useless with so few of them, they say," Harn gave another sigh.

The rocky road was now behind us, as the caravan pulled into the ravine. The river emanated a pleasant freshness. The road wounded alongside a sloping rocky ravine wall which, dotted with twisting saplings, blocked us from the setting sun.

"It's not just pigs," Rioh crinkled his brow, letting go off his grievance. "My buddies and I made it almost all the way to the ruins. It's teeming with the living dead. There was a graveyard not too far away—something must have disturbed their rest."

"Who did you go with? Sart and his good-for-nothing pal?" Harn blew up. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from them? How many times have they gotten you in trouble? Well? I've lost count already!"

"The punishers are paying half a silver for every pig's tail. And they're no trouble—sometimes one good shot is all you need," his son waved dismissively. "We're not idiots, you know. We keep to the outside, away from the real danger."

"I'll deal with you yet," Harn shook a fist at the son, then looked at me. "Well, master mage, would you be willing to help our village? Down in the city they're promising a mighty big reward to whoever eradicates the undead scourge."

I shrugged. Going by the real world's logic, the two of them—level 200+ hunters—should be able to exterminate all the undead with little effort, seeing as their village was probably in a sub level 80 zone. But the game's laws superseded real world logic. The developers must have designed the quest in a way that the local NPCs were unable to complete it themselves.

"I will try," I nodded. "Let me find my bearings in the city first, then I'll come visit you in Urcahnta."

You've accessed the quest: Trouble in Urcahnta I.

Quest type: normal, chain.

Find Gilim the Elder in Urcahnta and listen to his request.

Reward: experience.

Harn and his son gave a collective sigh of relief.

"For an experienced mage, it'll be a walk in the park." The older demon fished a voluminous bottle from his bag and offered it to me. "Have a taste of our cider. Made it myself—the apple harvest came out real good this year."

I nodded politely, accepted the bottle and took a few swigs of the apple wine, which tasted more like juice, then gave it back.

"By the way, you mentioned something about succubi?" I raised a question that interested me. "Are there many of them in Nittal?" Sooner or later I was going to have to broach the question of male-female relations in this world, so why not do a little research first?

Harn guffawed in response.

"Don't you know? What we call succubi are the women who have only a dollop of the blood of true demons of delusion and seduction. The real ones down in the Netherworld," Harn stuck his right thumb downward, "aren't many at all. A pure-blooded succubus can only be spawned by a Netherworld's Elder Demon, and only if said demon or demoness had decided to make a child with a true demon of seduction. Down there, succubi are female, and incubi are male." Harn adjusted his belt and continued. "So, yeah, in our lands we don't really get any incubi being born, but only the females. And the way it happens is usually this: on a very rare occasion that a male half-breed finds himself in the area, he usually covers several villages in a short time. And the local broads can't resist him," he shook his head bitterly. "That's how we get girls that are a quarter or an eighth succubus. They say real succubi sometimes come up to the surface from the Netherworld as well, but I think it's just rumors. I never saw one myself, and thank Hart for that."

"Yeah..." Rioh echoed dreamily, seemingly evoking a pleasant memory. "The girls aren't bad at all. Sure, they put out, that is they're promiscuous, but as far as everything else..." he let out another rapt sigh.

"What do you know?" Harn frowned. "That's their blood talking. To us they seem promiscuous—and even then far from all of them—but they need it like oxygen. So says Peotius, and he knows what he's talking about. And Hart forbid a man ever meets a pure-blooded one. That's certain death for our kind, albeit a pleasant one," he coughed into his fist. "Not even tiflings could resist, let alone us common folk!"

"Master Ylsan seems concerned about something," Rioh pointed at the wagon in front of us, which carried the caravan mage who didn't seem to want to bother with horseback. There appeared to be something moving in there. "I've got a bad feeling about this," the younger demon looked alarmingly at his father.

Suddenly the sky grew dark, and everything around us changed. Just a moment ago we were driving in the shade of the ravine wall, enjoying the fresh river breeze, but now both the river and the ravine were gone. To our left sprawled an endless steppe with tall grass that swayed gently, massaged by the wind, all the way to the ice-capped mountains on the horizon line. Some five hundred feet to the right loomed an ancient woods, vast and glum. Eternal dusk reigned beneath the crowns of its mighty trees, their trunks concealed by impenetrable fog. The setting sun above had been replaced by a massive lunar crescent, its sharp edges skewering the night sky.

"What the hell..." I couldn't help blurting out as I looked around incredulously until my eyes fell on Harn's darkened face.

"Put on your armor and helms! Get in defensive formation!" the commander's shout wrested everyone from their stupor. "Keep moving ahead. There's a large structure by the roadside. We'll stop there."

"No one's going to believe me," Rioh mumbled in astonishment. "That's the misty rift, blast it! I didn't believe it existed. Pop, isn't this the crossroads where the Ancients' treasure was buried? They say there are untold riches..."

"Did you hear Master Lirrak? Forget treasure and focus on your helm and armor instead!" Harn barked at him. "If you want to survive this, that is."

"On the double!" one of the legionnaires that had been riding behind us hopped into our wagon. "We've got a little over two miles to go," he added, tying his horse to the side. Two of his comrades were now riding on either side of the wagon, covering both flanks.

The zone's level, in the meantime, had jumped all the way to 180. God, I was such a cretin! Why didn't I rebind somewhere along the way? If I died here, in addition to the usual penalty like losing my level, I would respawn back at the graveyard outside of Lamorna. Lending me hope was the fact that the caravaners were all well above level 180.

"Where are we?" I turned to the legionnaire as he was settling in.

"Nobody knows," he was peering grimly in the direction of the woods. "The old-timers say these things happen sometimes. You ride and ride, and suddenly the environment changes. Your options are either to wait it out or keep moving forward. Those who have passed through the rift tell all kinds of stories. For some, the journey was uneventful. Others barely escaped with their lives. It's all about your luck," he shrugged. "And another thing—no rift is never the same, each is one of a kind."

"The stories about treasure are true as well," interjected the legionnaire riding on our left. "One hundred years ago, the rebel Prince Vallan acquired his Khaveng in such a rift. It's a sword, a poisonous one," he clarified in response to my quizzical gaze, then stroked his horse's withers and continued. "If not for that sword, he wouldn't have remained a prince. Nor would he have conquered his neighbors' lands."

"Jaw off the floor," Harn snarled at his son who was hanging on the legionnaires' every word.

"Nobody knows how many people perished in these rifts."

"Careful here," Lirrak rode up to us. At six and a half feet tall and clad in plate, I would have mistaken the demon for an orc if I didn't know where I was, even with the closed visor hiding the ferocity of his features and the small fangs sticking out from his lower lip. He was the only one riding a lizard—the same kind as from Altus' memories. The chainmail covering the reptile's body was the same that covered the horses of regular legionnaires, except of course for the cut.

The beast of a mount looked in my direction with unlinking eyes, drool dripping from its maw, filled with rows of yellowed four-inch teeth. It made for an impressive sight.

"We're moving toward that structure," the demon indicated the destination looming ahead. "Assuming it's safe, we'll hole up and wait for this blasted thing to pass. Rumor says it shouldn't be more than a day, and we've got enough supplies to last... Get ready for battle!" he roared suddenly, and began transforming literally before our eyes, his already massive body blowing up to almost twice the size, with the metal armor growing in parallel with its owner. His knees and elbows sprouted brown eight-inch spikes; his eyes flared bright yellow behind the slits of his visor.

I followed his eyes. Alas, there was no way to avoid the welcoming committee.

Emerging from the woods and advancing toward us with short quick leaps were around thirty humanoid creatures with wolf's faces. _Worgen,_ I recalled the name from the bestiary. Their lean, wiry bodies were covered in leather armor; their yellow eyes shone menacingly in the dusk. The half-wolves were moving on all fours and in total silence. In the front was the pack leader—a huge-ass level 240 wolf with blood-red slits for eyes that glowed in the darkness. Rather an eerie sight, let me tell you.

In my time I'd read many fantasy books—why else would I develop the hobby of drawing fantastic landscapes? The fantasy authors tend to gripe that when their protagonist encounters yet another monster in their invented parallel universe, the readers, having grown up with graphic horror movies, are too desensitized to be impressed. But from where I was standing, I would readily switch places with any of those authors. Or with all of them at once—let them be brave all they want. It's one thing to lounge in a cozy armchair, staring at a screen while munching on popcorn; it's quite another to be sitting in a wooden trough while a pack of yellow-eyed freaks headed by an eight-foot-tall wolf was leading a totally silent assault against your caravan. Thankfully, the game hadn't yet introduced the concept of relieving bodily needs, because I honestly wouldn't trust myself at that moment.

My brain was telling me that our squad was fully equipped to deal with two and half dozen half-wolves. Ten legionnaires, a commander, a mage, six coachmen-turned-hunters, and myself. On second thought, I shouldn't even be counted for want of any use to this group. Still, eighteen level 200+ NPCs, and Lirrak whose level was only ten below the pack leader's. But my brain was my brain, whereas my eyes were screaming bloody murder at the sight of the cute doggie bearing down on us.

But as the saying goes, courage is not the absence of fear but the ability to overcome it. This took me several seconds. It's not that I was a particularly brave individual; rather, I really didn't give a damn. Losing twenty percent of my levels and taking a trip back to the graveyard at Lamorna wasn't the worst thing that could happen. In fact, I'd personally been through worse just in the past several days. Of course, it would suck to lose time and my gear. It was unlikely that I'd find this place again, so retrieving it could be a problem.

Anyway, like another wise man once said, when your back is against the wall, strike while it's hot! Wait... no, that wasn't right. Do what you can, and let the cards fall where they may. Yep, that was it. And in my case, the best thing I could do was not get in the way—back in Lamorna the karriga had clearly demonstrated my lacking defensive capabilities, and I didn't want a repeat of the same. What I _could_ do was assist on the target that was already being attacked. There was no way I could steal aggro from level 200+ NPCs.

The combat mechanics of RPG games, which featured groups and raids completing dungeons and various quests, hardly changed in the past thirty-forty years.

Every raid comprised three roles:

Tanks—players whose role it was to keep the attention of bosses or mobs, drawing more aggro than the other players and thus protecting the rest of the group or raid from sustaining damage.

Healers—characters who restored and maintained the health of the group or raid during combat.

And finally, dps (damage per second)—characters whose main function was to deal damage to enemy players, NPCs(mobs) and bosses.

Any NPC, whether a boss or a regular mob, attacked whichever player was at the top of their aggro list, i.e. the one they found most annoying. Tanks were well equipped to draw the mob's hatred with special attacks, though other actions, like dealing damage or healing allies, drew aggro as well. Every NPC or boss was programmed with a particular pattern of behavior in battle, usually broken down by phases, and guided by several AIs that operated within their own sets of rules. Lamorna's karriga, for instance, had basically just wanted to split, and had attacked me automatically as the weakest link, completely ignoring the mage that was unleashing a lightning bolt at its side. There were also more cunning NPCs. But at the end of the day, any battle essentially came down to the tank being able to keep the boss' attention with special tricks while the dps wreaked havoc and the healers kept the raid alive.

If for whatever reason the tank lost aggro, allowing the boss to break loose and start beating on the squishy healers and dps, in most cases the result was a wipe, that is the entire raid dying.

As the players respawned at a nearby graveyard, the arguing and finger-pointing commenced: the tank cursing the dps that had stolen aggro from him, the dps blaming the hapless tank, and the healers slamming both the tank and the dps for good measure. Eventually everyone would rebuff and start the process all over again.

With my laughably low level, however, it was virtually impossible to steal aggro from the legionnaires or the coachmen, as their damage output was incomparable to mine.

"Everybody, dismount and get in the middle! I've got the leader, so heals on me, Ylsan!" Spurring his lizard, Lirrak slipped past our yaks as they drew right next to the wagon in front, obeying Harn's shouts and whip. The demon hopped off, ripped the shield off his back and bared his sword. The remaining nine legionnaires were pulling up on all sides, assuming combat form on the go.

Bow-strings snapped, unleashing feathery death at the attackers. Two worgen dropped to the ground, and then the entire pack howled. It was a revolting, plangent howl that seemed to penetrate every cell of my brain; I also noticed the grimace on Rioh's face as he kept firing arrows at the worgen. Harn swore loudly, followed by the clanging of iron and the swooshing of steel slicing through the air as the legionnaires, having assumed a kind of wedge formation and put forward their shields, bore the brunt of the pack's attack. The roars, battle cries and squeals of wounded beasts all blended into a terrible medley. The coachmen—still in their regular form—had managed to release no more than four-five arrows at the half-wolves before the attackers had closed in, and were now firing at them at point-blank range.

Four worgen broke through the ranks and to our wagon. One collapsed on the ground with a sob and two arrows in his nape; the remaining three tried to hop onto the wagon; and one of the three succeeded. Unsheathing their swords, Harn and Rioh engaged the beast before it even landed. Alas, hunters were terrible at close range, and the worgen's health bar was about two thirds full. With a howl, the monster landed a mighty blow that threw Harn off the wagon and into the paws of its kin. And at that point, I joined the battle at last.

My Tongue of Flame struck the worgen with fiery and icy flourishes, knocking a little over fifteen hundred HP out of his fifty thousand. Not bad! I wrinkled my nose at the stench coming from him, while continuing to land blows that ripped his leather armor to shreds. I heard Harn shouting down below, fighting two enemies at once, his health bar already dipping into yellow. Rioh wasn't faring much better. Finally, I lucked out when my icy blade procced a freeze, turning the worgen into an ice statue, from his ears to the tip of his tail, for five whole seconds.

Hopping off the wagon, Rioh rushed to his father's aid. Pulling out his bow quick as lightning, he fired point-blank at the Harn's opponents, while I finally managed to finish off the would-be snowman. The killing blow broke the armor, tore through the brown fur and split open the ribcage. And yes, it was as graphic and unpleasant a sight as it sounds.

I drew away from the puddle of blood spreading along the wagon's bottom and looked around. In front of the caravan, the red-eyed pack leader was frantically attacking Lirrak, who was blocking the attacks with his shield while goading the beast. Several legionnaires and the commander's reptilian mount were attacking him from the sides. Still standing in his own wagon, Ylsan threw up his hands periodically, a greenish glow emanating from them, while the rest were finishing off the few surviving worgen. A horse was convulsing in agony before our wagon, its throat ripped open. A little to the side, Rioh was working over his father sitting on the ground, bandaging his wounds.

My blood pumped with adrenaline, demanding the "show to go on." I teleported to the pack leader and began helping the legionnaires hack away at the howling beast. Eight million HP—goddamn! And that was just the remaining third of his health bar! My feet nearly slipped on some glaucous scraps; the scents of dog's flesh and blood were overwhelming. A few times when I didn't jump back in time the wolf knocked me to the ground with his torso, and once I was nearly trampled by Lirrak's own lizard.

I was out of control. Having lost my grip on reality, I kept hacking away, getting up and hacking some more. When my energy inevitably ran out, I gulped down a green potion and resumed my rotation: Tongue of Flame, Ice Blade...

When the monster's health bar reached ten percent, he threw up his head and howled. It was the kind of howl that made all his previous wailing seem like nursery rhymes as compared to death metal.

"Everybody, get back!" I heard the caravan's commander's shout from afar. "Archers, finish him off."

I jumped twenty yards to the side, and just in time, too, as huge black spikes stuck out of the monster's sides, and he started spinning in place like an urchin out of some nightmare. The hunters continued pelting the boss from a safe distance, each arrow plunging into the target with a sickening crunch, while Ylsan kept topping off Lirrak's health as he continued tanking. As for me and the other legionnaires, we simply stood by and watched. Lirrak's lizard, having taken too long to move away, was also nearby, panting and licking its side, ripped open by the spikes. Its health bar had dropped to half, but the mount would be as good as new soon enough. Finally, sprouting arrows like a porcupine, the beast collapsed on the ground, wheezing in agony.

Obviously, I didn't get any experience for the kill since I hadn't been invited to any raid. And in order to get the experience in this scenario, I would need to deal the most damage to the boss. Alas! My first real battle didn't bring me any experience or loot. But truthfully, I wasn't upset at all. In fact, I was happy to have gone through it. What did concern me slightly was the fact that I had seemed to have lost my head there for a while, succumbing to adrenaline rage. I had never experienced anything like that before.

A sudden wave of weariness came over me. _Why does everything hurt?!_ I grimaced and sat on the ground. I glanced at my HP bar—it was over two thirds full. When did I manage to get hit? Swearing through my teeth, I reached for a healing potion, but Ylsan preempted me. A cool wave of freshness washed over me, lifting the pain and the fatigue. I got back up to my feet, grabbing onto the offered hand.

"Sure you're a mage, Krian?" the healer regarded me musingly, shaking his head. "You don't look like a light one either. The way you blocked the pain... Though I did read that we're not the only ones who can do that."

Blocked? Uh huh. It was my 33% to toughness, but it wasn't like I could explain it to an NPC. But it did illustrate that losing one third of your life for an extended period of time was entirely bearable. In fact, I didn't even really notice it while in combat. What was the limit, I wondered? And what would happen when that limit was reached? Would I convulse in a pain shock or simply pass out? I wasn't looking forward to it—I never was a masochist and I didn't feel like experimenting now.

"What do you mean by 'blocking the pain?'" I asked the mage. I had to say something—he was clearly expecting an answer.

"Just like a hartoga that got its paw broken. The creature isolates the paw from the rest of its nervous system while it heals. You weren't in our party, and I didn't see that you needed heals. But you fought through the pain and made it. Well done."

I didn't know what a hartoga was, but I got the gist of what he was saying. Could that be the reason why I had fought with such abandon, and not my toughness? Nah, doubtful.

I looked around. The legionnaires were chatting quietly while looting. The hunters were deftly skinning the red-eyed wolf. Those who had never witnessed such a spectacle would never understand why it nearly turned me inside out. An animal carcass being worked by men with knives and elbows deep in blood! Like proper residents of the Medieval Times: caught, killed, and skinned. We weren't expected to eat the wolf meat, were we? At least worgen couldn't be skinned, otherwise I would surely lose my dinner. And there was another weird thing: relieving oneself wasn't allowed, but puking—sure, knock yourself out. I thanked the mage and started toward my wagon, away from the hunters and their wretched smells. I slipped on somebody's entrails, and nearly retched for the umpteenth time. I pulled out my flask and took a hearty swig. Phew, much better...

Upon making it to the wagon, I shoved the dead half-wolf out and retook my former spot, trying to avoid the blood on the floor that had nearly dried. Thankfully, there weren't any mirrors around—I could only imagine what I looked like. No matter, the clothes and the armor would self-clean in eight hours.

That particular feature I'd learned from experience, after accidentally spilling wine on my shirt sleeve on the first day of our journey. By morning the stain was gone, and the shirt was as good as new. This must have been somehow connected to the vanishing of discarded items. At some point, this principle had been introduced to keep the littering in the game in check.

The coachmen came back ten minutes later, engaged in a lively discussion. If their task had to be done in the real world, it probably would have taken them half the day. But they made for quite a sight just the same.

"Where else am I going to earn twenty gold for half an hour's work?" Rioh bent over the worgen carcass I had thrown out of the wagon. "Another silver!" he tossed the coin and caught it.

"You're still young," Harn wiped his hands—still stained with the pack leader's blood—on his pants and looked around for his whip. "It was a miracle they didn't rip us apart. Who needs gold when your guts are spilling out of you?" Having finally found his whip, he shouted at the yaks to move back, giving some room to the anterior wagon.

"Why do you need this one's hide?" I pointed at the skinned carcass.

"It will sell for about fifty coins—either to some merchant or to Master Rius, one of the court's mages. Whether they turn it into a scarecrow or whatever, I don't know, and it's none of our business really. But they will pay for it."

Obeying Lirrak's command, Harn guided the wagon to the middle of the road.

The caravan's commander pulled up to us on his two-legged croc and handed me some gold.

"Twenty one coins," he said to me, "your share of the loot. Thanks for your help."

I nodded and accepted the money. I couldn't well refuse the first gold I'd actually earned, now could I?!

"What is that structure we're heading to?"

"An inn, by the looks of it. The kind that's often placed along roads. We'll know for sure when we get closer," he said and set his lizard toward the head wagon.

We were joined by one of the legionnaires—the one whose horse ended up being torn to pieces.

"Sir, how much do you get paid per service contract?" Rioh asked him without preamble.

"My name is Zaran," he smacked the boy on the shoulder. "One silver per day when on the road, and twenty five copper in between assignments. All in all, almost two gold per month. Plus your fair share of the loot. How much did you and your father make today? Thought so!" he smiled.

"Moving out!" Lirrak shouted, and the wagons began picking up speed, moaning and groaning their way toward the solitary structure ahead.

"What are you thinking, son?" Harn asked sternly, without turning around.

"Come on, pop, how much did we make all of last year? Especially with all the undead crawling around the village lately?"

"And when some beast separates your head from your body, how will all that gold help you?"

"I've been with Lirrak for fifteen years, and we've never come across anything like today," the legionnaire stepped in for the boy. "Our squad hasn't lost a man in all those years. The guy you're replacing has moved out west to his family. He now works as Prince Shiren's steward."

"Let him explain that to his mother," Harn waved dismissively at his son and turned around.

It took us an hour to roll up to the structure, fenced off by a ten-foot-tall palisade. The scouts returned to report that the inn was empty, and the caravan began to slowly pull into the gate, the doors of which were lying on the ground nearby. I hopped off the cart while the soldiers and coachmen unsaddled the horses and yaks, hanging bags of grain to their muzzles. Behind the palisade was a spacious stables, two wells and a smithy some fifty feet away from the main buildings, evidently for fire safety considerations. A moat ran along the perimeter, filled with stagnant water and overgrown with reddish-brown seaweed. Standing on the inside of the wall were several wooden dais for archers. The main building was growing decrepit, its size roughly that of Kort's inn.

"Where did all this come from?" I asked the mage as he examined carefully one of the gate's doors.

"Ask me something easier," he shrugged. "It's my first time in a rift."

"What's this?" Lirrak walked up to us, having dismounted his lizard.

"Not clear. The doors are intact, but someone was clearly trying to break in," the mage motioned at the deep furrows in the wood. "And it wasn't our friend either," he added, evidently alluding to the slain pack leader, "but someone larger. I can't tell when it happened, there's a strange magical veil here," he cocked his head and looked at me. I shrugged, sensing no magic whatsoever. Isolated threads of power here and there, but no more. "The gate wasn't broken, but restoring it is going to be tough. See, the doors are all crooked, and the bindings have been removed," he finished.

"We're not going to bother with that. We've got enough people to hold out, if need be," the commander dismissed the idea. "We'll sleep in the main hall; I doubt there's going to be any more trouble."

The front door screeched, and I followed Ylsan inside. My throat began to tickle almost instantly from the raised billows of dust. The mage swore softly and uttered something, and the dust clouds were instantly blown out the window by a gust of wind. It was now possible to breathe.

I looked around the place. It was completely deserted, with rickety and seemingly worthless furnishings. Several tables overturned, the staircase to the second floor crumbling, the bar of light brown wood stained with something black. Hanging lopsidedly off a single nail on the wall was a rural painting.

True to the scouts' report, the place was empty of anyone living. And of anyone dead, thankfully. The legionnaires that had gotten here before us were hastily dragging the tables and staircase debris to the corners of the hall. One of the coachmen was starting up the fireplace with all the scattered fragments.

"Zaran, Ghejt, check upstairs. Ylsan, cover them, just in case," Lirrak was the last to come inside. "You," he stuck a finger at the coachmen, "board up the windows."

"There's a basement here," a soldier appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, gesturing behind him.

"Let's check it out," the commander nodded.

I still couldn't shake the foul taste of dust in my mouth. Feeling completely useless, I skirted Zaran as he aimed to hook a rope to the ceiling, and moved deeper into the dining hall. Everything seemed to be fine, except for the strange almond-like smell that stirred a feeling of unease.

Oddly enough, nobody was rushing to sleep. The soldiers were spreading their beddings on the floor without any fuss. Back from the cellar with a small keg of something, Lirrak assigned night shifts and announced dinner. Ylsan appeared upstairs and, avoiding the hassle of climbing down the rope, simply teleported and reported that the second floor was all clear.

"What's in the cellar?" he asked the commander.

"Empty. A few split-open kegs and a pile of rotten vegetables. This," the demon patted on the keg he was carrying, "is all that's left."

"Got it. I'll set up some signal traps outside," he declared. "Leave some of that goodness for me."

"Better hurry, then," Lirrak grinned. "Or you might miss the party."

"Can I come along?" I asked the mage.

He looked at the commander, and only after the other nodded did he shrug his answer.

"Suit yourself."

The weather had turned rotten, with the crescent now hiding behind the clouds and a sharp gusty wind blowing from the direction of the woods. The dark blotch of trees massaged by the wind, visible through the gap in the gate, resembled some ancient monster. Shivering, I followed after the mage who, rounding the building along a perimeter, paused for a little while outside of every boarded-up window and whispered something, his hands moving ever so slightly, making irregular circles that flashed green on the ground and faded. That was all I saw, but it was clear that we were now under some kind of protection.

Coming back inside, I dined with everyone and then took up a spot by the wall farthest from the windows, just in case something ended up crawling through there after all. The legionnaires would handle it just fine whereas I might just get one-shot. This way I'd still have a chance. Without a bedding of my own, I wrapped myself up in Kort's cloak and tried to fall asleep.

In the books I'd read, many protagonists that ended up in some magic or parallel world would invariably exert a maniacal tenacity to try and get back home. You would think that they all had a wife and kids waiting by the door, but no! More often than not, the protagonist was a loser in his former life—and still, having become a great mage, king or dark lord, sitting up on his throne, surrounded by faithful brothers-in-arms and beautiful wives, he languished for his distant home. Inexplicably homesick, he embarked on new quests, challenged even tougher enemies, and all to find that sacred key that unlocked the door back home. The authors clearly lacked the imagination to give their heroes a more suitable role. At the end of such a book, the protagonist should naturally realize that this was his new home, and never leave it. Only I never bothered finishing such hogwash.

I asked myself if I wanted to go back, and didn't hesitate for a second with the answer—no. I had goals here to achieve, and the throne and the wives could wait—I wasn't pressed for time in the slightest. I needed to get out of Demon Grounds first, then worry about the rest. And with those thoughts, I succumbed to sleep.

I woke up from a nagging pain in my left foot. Before even fully opening my eyes, I already remembered where I was: at an inn in some misty rift, with the caravan. The firelight and several magic lanterns illuminated the shapes of my sleeping companions. But what was up with the pain in my leg? Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed movement, and froze perfectly still. I could swear that I wasn't sleeping, and that this was all happening for real. I saw a young woman floating five feet up in the air, her arms splayed wide and palms turned upward. Barefoot, in streaming clothes, with long hair and a comely face, she was looking up at the ceiling. A soft greenish glow coated her figure.

Still peering up at the floating woman, I noticed the two sentries behind her—sitting by the door in unnatural poses, watching the strange woman in a glassy-eyed stupor. Their weapons lying at their feet, their mouths were twisted into rapt, imbecilic smiles. I glanced at my feet and froze again, this time with dread. Having pierced a hole in my metallic greave with its proboscis, a nasty-looking thing was gnawing on my leg—four to five feet tall and squirmy, like a May bug larva. My HP bar had already been cut by a third. Another specimen was several yards to my side, stirring soundlessly next to a sleeping Rioh.

Blood rushed to my head.

"Alarm!" I bawled, jumping up to my feet. I bared my sword and dealt two blows to the worm's body—Ice Blade followed by Tongue of Flame—simultaneously registering that the bloodsucker was level 81.

Though I started out from an awkward position, my sword ended up breaking the beast's whitish, pimply skin. Greenish ooze burst from the wound, and the mob's health bar dropped by a quarter. The worm jerked its stinger out of my foot, and slammed its black head into my chest, returning me to a supine position. But I was back on my feet the next instant, choking with rage and revulsion, and still screaming "Alarm!" at the top of my lungs. A hailstorm of blows rained down on the monster, alternating between Ice Blade and Tongue of Flame. The eighth strike proved to be the last—upon death the mob deflated like a popped balloon, leaving behind only its now-gray skin and a puddle of fetid goo.

You've accessed the quest: Rescuing Companions.

Quest type: unique.

Destroy the skhiarta and her larvae before they devour Lirrak's caravan of demons.

Reward: experience, Band of Dancing Grass.

Attention! If all the demons stay alive, you will receive a bonus reward.

I popped a healing potion, buffed myself with Shield of the Elements, and took a look around. Six more worms were sucking on my sleeping companions. The woman floating in the air had turned her head unnaturally and was peering at me with inhuman eyes. Level 240 and two million hit points! Nearly as much as the leader of the pack that had attacked us.

Despite all my shouting, not a single demon rose to his feet. They were all alive, for now, but immersed in some kind of a weird dream. So why did I wake up? _Must be my mental magic resistance,_ the thought flashed through my head as I was unleashing a Tongue of Flame at the worm siphoning life out of Rioh. The monster's health dropped to half. Ice Blade, another Tongue of Flame, dodge the head butt, another blade... Another one down!

After nearly slipping on the ooze spreading across the floor, I pounced on the next one. Tongue of Flame, Ice Blade—freeze procced. Four consecutive strikes at the frozen carcass and the worm croaked before it could even remove the stinger from the sleeping Ylsan. I kicked the mage's body in an attempt to wake him, but to no avail—the tifling wasn't moving, as if totally paralyzed. Another teleport and a Tongue of Flame at the fourth mob.

Suddenly everything changed. As I was beating up on the fourth, the remaining three broke away from their feasts and crawled rapidly in my direction. Finishing off my opponent hastily, I had no time to turn around before a powerful blow to my side knocked me several yards back. Tripping over one of the sleeping bodies, I fell to the floor, my HP bar decreasing by a third. I jumped back to my feet and ran to the right lest I get surrounded. What to do? I wasn't going to survive against three...

Idiot! I had a shield! I ripped it off my back and charged the nearest foe. The sword sliced through the gruesome mug's black chitin with a squelch—a crit! The slime sprayed my cheek, burning the skin with. The squealing beast responded with its standard attack, which I blocked with a shield. After executing another blow, I jumped aside to avoid another worm getting at me from the left. Tripping on another sleeping body, I managed to maintain my balance and Jumped toward the windows and piled-up tables and benches. The figure floating above the floor didn't look like a woman anymore, as if it had been stripped of its human aspect. Instead, a seven-foot-tall brown caterpillar now hung in the air, flapping a set of translucent, dragonfly-like wings and staring at me with huge facet eyes. Its very appearance evoked foulness, as if crawling upon my consciousness with its slimy underbelly. At least the beast was just hanging there; if it were to join the battle, I wouldn't last a second. That was probably the script: the mother paralyzed the prey while its brood fed. At least I hoped that was the case.

I struck at the same larva, then hurled a bench at the other two, both with full health, as they crawled toward me. Their hit points dipped just barely as I Jumped back to my primary target. Two more blows and only two opponents remained.

You have gained a level! Current level: 71.

You have 1 stat point to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

I kited them for a while, waiting for my HP to recover. Then, selecting one of the remaining worms, I attacked with Ice Blade. The worms struck back almost simultaneously. I blocked both attacks and landed two of my own. My energy running low, I had to pop another green bottle to restore it. I dodged an attack, blocked the next with my shield, then quickly countered with a one-two combo, deliberately targeting the same worm. The beast needed just a few more hits, but my own health bar had also dipped below half—I was feeling this very acutely, even in battle. My temples throbbed, my whole body ached from the pain that was washing over me.

I Jumped back toward the piles of furniture. Gulping down my last medium healing potion, I threw the tables on the ground behind me and bolted to the far end of the hall. I still had one potion of greater healing in reserve, but it was too early to use it. I didn't count the other one in my bag—there was no time to rummage in there.

After biding time for the cooldown to refresh, I Jumped again and finished off another larva. At last, it was one against one. Back to the standard rotation: two attacks, block, two more attacks, freeze procced—and four more swings with my blade to dispose of the last beast.

And there I was—covered from head to toe in green slime—standing opposite the skhiarta. Was it leaving now or what? No, the caterpillar just kept hanging there, boring me with its eyes. I had barely over half my health left, but there was no point in wasting a potion of greater healing. Sure, it was painful, but the sensation of pain was somehow distant. Swearing through clenched teeth, I opened my inventory and drank the last of my medium healing potions. It was the moment of truth. If the nightmarish insect attacked with anything other than mental magic, I was done for. Suddenly I felt my blood starting to boil with rage. What the hell was this winged abomination? What cesspit had it crawled out of and how dared it infringe on my life?! I charged the monster and executed a few attacks... The blade left two marks on the chitin armor, but the boss didn't react in any way. So, only mental magic. Excellent, I might just live another day.

I kept hacking away at the caterpillar frozen in the air, alternating my special skills as usual. Whenever my energy ran out, I switched to regular attacks; when the vigor bar refilled, I switched back to special skills. Using Shaartakh's Venom seemed pointless—I wasn't going to deal two million damage to this dragonfly creature in the span of ten minutes. So I kept beating it like a mannequin. After a little over eight hours, the skhiarta crackled and crumbled to the floor. With a heavy sigh, I lowered myself next to its remains.

You have gained a level! Current level: 72.

You have 2 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 6 stat points to allocate.

You have gained a level! Current level: 73.

You have 3 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 9 stat points to allocate.

Even after a grueling ordeal like that, I didn't feel particularly fatigued. The small deficit in HP—less than ten percent—was restored rather quickly. With the fight being over, I was back to naturally regenerating health based on my spirit attribute, and this was only possible out of combat. And though my rate of regeneration was fairly low at less than one percent per tick, I was in no position to complain.

And now for the loot. I reached out and touched the insect's remains. There was the clang of gold, as three hundred fifty one coins passed into my ownership. Four level 200+ items, twenty vials of skhiarta blood and six eye fragments—all of them rare. Another letdown. The gold was a nice haul, but the items did nothing for me. I got out my flask and took three sips. Each larva also had a pair of eye fragments and five vials of blood. I couldn't begin to fathom what all those ghastly things could be used for, but wiki would have all the info. Later.

How long would the caravaners keep up the slumberous act, I wondered? Maybe I should pour water over them? I rubbed my cheek contemplatively—it was still burning from the larva blood that had gotten through the open visor. There were two wells outside, but I didn't feel like trekking there on my own. Something might still be out there, and I could inadvertently set off Ylsan's traps. There had to be water around here somewhere.

But then, finally, there was movement from Lirrak. The commander propped himself up on his elbow with a grimace and looked around. Upon seeing the scene, he jumped to his feet but barely held his balance, reeling. He looked at me with murky eyes, then at the skhiarta's remains, and wheezed:

"Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't know what you think, but if it's a flying caterpillar with a ravenous brood, then yes," I nodded at him.

Your reputation has increased. The caravan commander Captain Lirrak relates to you with respect.

"Thank you, mage," Lirrak nodded as he looked around the hall. "No casualties," he proclaimed. "How did you manage to resist its charms?"

"I had good buffs up, so when one of the worms started feeding on me, I woke up. Do you know how to wake the others?"

"I know how to wake Ylsan, and he'll figure out the rest," the demon walked over to the lifeless tifling, leaned over him and poured something down his throat.

Nothing happened at first, but then the tailed demon's body jerked. His eyes opened and he sat up abruptly, convulsing as he puked. Lirrak had prudently moved away in time, and was now observing his assistant's torment with a kind of eerie contentment. _Well, he is a demon,_ I chuckled mentally.

"What the Hart is happening to me..." the tifling squeezed out of himself.

"All good now," Lirrak grunted, having fully recovered his senses. "But we were nearly devoured by a skhiarta's brood. Get yourself together, the boys need waking."

"A moment," a vial with a bluish fluid appeared in Ylsan's hand. He upended the whole thing into his mouth, grimaced and rubbed his eyes for some reason, then finally looked around the hall.

Your reputation has increased. Mage Raey Dar Ylsan relates to you with respect.

"Shit... Is this your doing, light one?" he looked at me intently. "Who buffed you like that?! And how did you even survive? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that you did... But it's kind of hard to believe!"

"Don't pester him. Look, he's pale as a ghost," Lirrak chortled, his friendly smile—framed with protruding fangs—resembling a wolf's scowl. A fellow of considerable bravery out for a stroll late in the day wouldn't hesitate to cross the street at the sight of such fangs. Everyone else was guaranteed a visit to a psychiatrist—in the best case scenario. "Here, a gift of gratitude from me and my people," he put a ring of silvery metal into my hand.

"And this one's from me personally," the mage smiled. The ring was joined by a gold trinket shaped like a silvery crescent.

You've completed the quest: Rescuing Companions.

You have gained a level! Current level: 74.

_You received:_ _Band of Dancing Grass._

_You received:_ _Earring of the School of Restoration._

You have 4 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 12 stat points to allocate.

You have gained a level! Current level: 75.

You have 5 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to dark magic, +1% resistance to light magic.

Class bonus: +1 to intellect; +1 to spirit.

You have 15 stat points to allocate.

Band of Dancing Grass.

Accessory; ring.

Durability: 470/470.

Rare item.

Minimum level to equip: 70.

+60 to agility.

+40 to constitution.

+1% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

Weight: .01 lbs.

Earring of the School of Restoration.

Accessory; earring.

Durability: 450/450.

Rare item.

Minimum level to equip: 70.

+50 to spirit.

+50 to intellect.

+1% to health regeneration.

Weight: .005 lbs.

There, my first truly earned levels. My leveling speed was just incredible! Say what you will, but spending some time in high-level zones certainly had its uses.

All of a sudden there was a flash, and everything in reality changed. The inn's walls disappeared, there was a lapping of water, and we found ourselves mired in a swampy lowland, at the edge of the same ravine, forty or so yards off the road. The bog squelched nastily underfoot, ankle-high in the place where the demons were sleeping; the wheels of wagons parked twenty yards away were mostly submerged.

There was a string of cussing all around, as the shift in reality quickly brought everyone to their senses. I couldn't hold back a chuckle watching a legionnaire—and one of the two night sentries—shaking water out of his helm while spitting whatever filth had gotten into his mouth. The animals were reacting far more tolerably to the change of environment: yaks and horses simply lowered their heads to the water, and only the land-loving croc was kicking up a fuss, spraying mud and water all around as it rushed to its owner and butted him in the side. Lirrak patted the creature's muzzle and gave him some kind of treat. How was he not terrified, I wondered. I wouldn't have the stomach for the risk—give a beast like that a tasty morsel, and it could easily bite off your entire arm!

There were squeals of awed delight from the direction of the road, as a dozen legionnaires riding by outright roared with laughter looking at us. And who could blame them? Here we were—a bunch of grimy, bewildered caravaners trying to find our bearings, our wagons nearly floating on the water. All signs pointed to a wild party the night before. Lirrak shouted something mild at them, provoking yet another fit of raucous laughter.

It took about an hour to push the wagons out of the mud. We then grabbed a quick bite to eat before the caravan got back on the road. Driving our wagon was a pensive and uncharacteristically taciturn Rioh. Harn was sleeping in the corner, letting out the occasional loud exhale and bristling his mustache in a rather amusing way. Ylsan, who had decided to ride with us, was sitting across from me, reading some book. His forehead was always creasing, and he would occasionally mouth phrases soundlessly—a veritable first-grader who had picked up a primer for the first time.

I decided to wait until I got to my private room to allocate stat and talent points. The scenery didn't particularly interest me, so I immersed myself fully into reading the wiki.

A skhiarta was a creature from the Gray Frontier whose larvae first drained their victims' life force, and then devoured the corpse. The larva's proboscis could penetrate even the thickest armor without damaging it, assuming the armor didn't have special protection. Hmm, it had seemed to me that the worm had pierced right through my boot. I examined my bootleg—no, not a scratch. A portion of the life force siphoned from the victim was transferred to the mother, and each larva had to devour at least fifty victims in order to develop into a full-fledged skhiarta. I seethed at the thought that we were merely a light snack for those fiends. The monster's blood was an ingredient for blacksmiths, leatherworkers and tailors to boost the durability of their crafts. The eyes could be used by alchemists.

I didn't find out anything new about misty rifts. Not a word about what they were, where they came from or when they appeared. In fact, information on Demon Grounds on the whole was extremely scarce—a few pages' worth at the most. Chronicles on the other planes were inaccessible to me, save for the bestiary in which I looked up the monster that had nearly dined on us. Almost everything else was useless nonsense, with the exception of the talent tree and talent calculators. From the side it looked like I was lounging on a bench, reading a book in a black binding. A small icon toward the bottom of the page caught my eye. I focused on the sign underneath the icon: Add to Chronicles. Interesting. I tapped it, and a standard entry field popped up: time, location, subject and so on. Below that was a message that I might receive some experience for the added information. I took out a quill affixed to the back of the book and got to writing. It wasn't like I had anything better to do. I described the misty rift, then moved on to the bestiary, adding all the information on the karriga and the skhiarta. The letters and words were coming out in crisp and beautiful calligraphy without any blots, as though I were typing on a computer.

This was how I spent the next several hours—fueled by a trailblazer's zeal, eager to pass essential information on to the posterity. Upon saving my oeuvre for the final time and closing wiki, I noticed that my experience bar had increased only slightly. Apparently, the art of writing wasn't very much appreciated in this world, but at least I'd managed to kill some time. What else was there to do? Ah, there we go. I removed the action bar for want of necessity: I wasn't playing behind the computer anymore, so I didn't need to mash those buttons.

Take a boxer in a ring, imagine he's got access to an action bar with eight buttons. He's not going to be thinking, "OK, next I need to throw a right uppercut, that's this button, pressing..." His movements are almost automatic, and the same was true in this case. The skills you put out on the action bar became second nature. It was no guarantee that you would execute them perfectly and in a timely fashion every time, but activating them happened automatically, without scrambling as to which buttons to push.

Now I could see my HP, energy and mana out of the corner of my eye.

I also needed to figure out my next moves. The first stop was obviously Gerid, Kort's old mate, who apparently had his own inn. It made sense to stay there while I got my bearings. From there, to the traders' guild and the lord's second wife, whatever her name was. Finally, I needed to find out the location of the secret door behind which the knights and mages awaited their awakening from slumber. Of course, finding the actual door was on me, but I wanted to narrow down the search area to no more than a few square miles... Ugh, my idiocy never ceased to amaze. There was a fount of knowledge sitting right across!

The landscape around us had already changed, as the road had led the caravan to a large lake, which we were presently rounding along a steep bank. I could smell the moisture and slightly rotting weeds coming from our left. The picturesque view of the lake was complemented by a castle of gray stone looming from the opposite shore, and several fishing villages.

"Listen, Ylsan, I'm looking for some information. Can you help?"

"Sure thing," the mage put away his book, threw back his hair with a fluid motion of the head, and looked at me. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, you see," I began. "Three hundred years ago, in a castle around here somewhere, give or take a thousand miles, one of the lords was opening portals to our lands. His minions drove humans here by the thousands, cutting them down like cattle as part of some ritual." I paused for a moment, wondering how to weave Ahriman into the story. "Long story short, the king of Erantia—that's the human realm—sent an army here that destroyed the lord and all those who took part in the ritual. Then Ahriman turned up and attacked the humans. I don't know how it all ended, but I'd like to locate where it happened." And, preempting any further questions from Ylsan, I added, "Someone close to me was part of that battle." Let him think it was some grand ancestor of mine.

For a while the mage kept a pensive silence.

"Is this somehow connected to why you're here, Krian? Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be nosy," he shook his head, "but simply trying to understand. After all, traveling between our respective realms is far from simple—only gods and those close to them are capable of such a feat. And you don't strike me as either. Ancestral memory is sacred and all, but..." The demon's face was awash with doubt.

I sighed and looked at him, noting to myself that I was no longer surprised by the horns, the vertical eyelids or the reddish skin.

"This isn't about ancestral memory. I fell asleep near that temple," I stuck my finger upward, "and woke up here," I repeated the legend. "Then I had a vision..." I complimented myself mentally on the fib—was I really a monk at heart? "The events I told you about, they were shown to me in that vision. I realized then that it was somehow connected to my ancestor, and that therein lies the key to my returning home."

It wasn't that I liked lying, but I'd worked enough in sales to make it look natural. And in this magical realm, filled with gods, demons and a netherworld, it was rather a useful skill.

"It sure is a strange story. I'd like to help, but history is not my forte," he said sheepishly. "I took a history course once, but at the time I had a thing with Itala and, well..." completely abashed now, the mage fell quiet.

"Sure, I'd cut history for a girl," I echoed my support. "But maybe you know someone who can help?"

The wagon jumped on a pothole, and I nearly bit my tongue.

"Warn us next time, will you?" Ylsan griped to Rioh, rubbing a bruised hip.

"The sun is in my eye, I can't see for Hart," the coachman mumbled apologetically.

Only Harn kept sleeping peacefully, without moving an inch—so clean was the demon's conscience.

"My father would definitely know, but he's, um," Ylsan drew an ambiguous gesture in the air, "one of a kind. He rarely crawls out of his lab. Even his food is brought there most of the time. Occasionally my mother loses patience and drags him out, but it doesn't last long. He leads a normal life for one week at the most, then holes up in the lab again. He's an alchemist. With his lifestyle, it's a marvel he's had time to have a single kid, let alone three—I've also got a brother and a sister," the tifling laughed cheerily. "We're arriving tomorrow, you should stop by the day after. I should be able to drag him out, but the only one who can bother him in his lab is mother. For the rest of us there are all sorts of booby traps to keep us out. They're mostly harmless, but one time my brother and I mustered up the courage to sneak inside to see what he was up to. And, well..." Ylsan grabbed the end of his tail, as if demonstrating it. "My tail turned green. Some kind of stupid hex, my father didn't even remember how to remove it. I had to hide my disgrace under a cloak for a month before it went away on its own."

"Think maybe this will catch his interest?" after laughing at his cautionary tale, I fished out a vial with the skhiarta's eye from my bag.

"Oh!" the tifling's eyes grew round. "Do you have more? I'd buy a few myself... if you're selling, that is. I've got to brew a complex potion to get my degree, and this is one of the ingredients," his tail grazed the side of his neck—an unusual variation on a customary gesture.

"It's yours," I smiled.

The mage didn't bother with false modesty, taking the vials, then holding them up against the light. With a contented grunt, he put them away in his bag.

Your reputation has increased. Mage Raey Dar Ylsan considers you a friend.

"Why didn't you put on the earring? It will dull the pain if you're wounded."

"I forgot, give me a sec."

I went into my bag, opened the character menu and tried putting the earring into the proper slot. For some reason it wouldn't equip, although I appeared to meet all the requirements. I glanced at Ylsan and saw him rolling with laughter. Reacting to his glee, Rioh turned and spread his mouth into a grin.

"Take off your helmet, man. You're not a soldier like Lirrak," the tifling said through the laughter. "I'm sure he doesn't take his off even when he's with a woman, but we mages are a refined breed."

That was the problem! In the game a helm didn't hinder eyesight, so I'd completely forgotten about it. I'd even slept with it back at the inn. And when I was trying to equip the earring into the slot, my hands were making the motions of actually putting it on in real life—a comical sight if ever there was one. Laughing along, I took off my helm and put it away into the inventory, then tried equipping the earring again.

"Give it here," the tifling reached for the item, "you need to make a hole there." He took the accessory and deftly slid it through my left ear lobe. I felt a slight prick. What the hell? Removing my helm AND punching a hole in my ear? Both those things were new. And strange. At least I could still equip armor the old fashioned way—otherwise I'd need to travel with a full-time squire.

"So, what about those ingredients? Will your father be interested?"

"You bet. Come by tomorrow around dinnertime. We live in the upper city. Have you got a map? Give it, I'll mark the location."

# Chapter 5

That same evening I felt that we were getting close to the capital. Castles and villages became more frequent, alternating with plowed fields and cultivated gardens. And the road itself was becoming much more crowded. I marveled at the extravagance of design—Medieval with a dash of magic. As the dusk gathered, we rode past a huge guard fortress and stopped near a large inn. We didn't go inside, but dined and slept right in our wagons. Ylsan explained that the inn likely didn't have space for nineteen people; besides, paying one gold per man for only six hours of sleep fifteen miles away from Nittal would be beyond foolish.

Come morning, we had a quick breakfast and set out, aiming to make it to the city by lunch. Initially the road stretched uphill, toward a mountain upon which loomed another guard fortress—a squarish gray structure with twenty-foot-tall walls and towers on all the corners. Same as the other fortress, this one stood right on the road, blocking the way. As we were passing through the stronghold, I gazed respectfully at the thick walls and the countless vertical gates. Having undertaken the burden of being my guide, Ylsan explained that the fortress quartered roughly two hundred legionnaires, all of whom were replaced every two weeks, and that there were six such fortresses in all—two on each road leading into the city. When I retorted with the reasonable question, "Why bother with these defenses when the enemy host can attack the city via a portal?", he gave me an incredulous look, then remembered who I was and clarified that all the inner space between Nittal and the aforementioned guard fortresses was more or less protected from this type of invasion. Except perhaps for the overlord's army, which was quite capable of executing such a maneuver, but no sane demon would even entertain the thought of squabbling with him. As for the rest... Sure, technically the enemy might build a portal here, but the operation would require such tremendous reserves of power that the attacking army's mages would quickly turn into useless puppets for the battle following their emergence from the portal.

The only thing I understood from that explanation was that any army advancing on Nittal would have to resort to the old-fashioned, sword-swinging and ladder-climbing means of capturing the fortresses.

We pulled out of the gates and rounded a small hill, whereupon I froze in complete awe.

The hilltop offered a spectacular view of Nittal, which sprawled a few miles below. Fields and gardens seemed to occupy every inch from here to the city. Shielded by massive white walls and mighty towers, Nittal abutted a giant river to the east. A grand citadel stood in the center of the city, built with white stone and girdled by tall walls—the last line of defense. Several more large structures struck the eye: a racetrack ringed with marble columns, and the Temple of All Gods that Ylsan had told me about in our travels, stood on either side of the citadel. The dominion's capital city had a radical layout, with the main square, shaped like an equilateral triangle, branching outward with myriad avenues.

"Impressive, isn't it?" the tifling grinned.

"No words," I said with total honesty, lauding mentally the design team that had toiled on Demon Grounds.

"Our house is there," the mage pointed in the direction of the temple. "Tomorrow, dinner. Don't forget."

"I'll be there. By the way, do you know a hotel called The Learned Troll?"

The mage thought for a moment.

"The Learned Troll? Wait, do you mean The Candle? That's near the trade district. Head toward the the harbor once past the gates. When you get there, ask any guard and he'll show you."

"I will escort you there, master," said Rioh, having been relieved from his shift.

"Mighty kind of you to volunteer!" Harn chortled from the coachbox, tugging at his mustache. "And I think I know why!"

"Shame on you! Master Krian saved all our lives—how could I not help in return?" the young demon scowled.

"Help all you want, just leave the money with me. Keep only a few gold, otherwise you won't come home for a week again. And your mother will nag me to death." Harn turned to me and clarified, "There's an establishment nearby called The White Lily. They provide a rather, um, specific type of service. I can see Master Ylsan knows all about it," Harn nodded at the tifling who was smiling sheepishly. "And no wonder, a young demon like him. Anyway, that's why my son is so eager to help."

"Come on, pop, I'll be back in a jiffy, I swear," Rioh tried changing the slippery subject.

"Best be sure that your 'jiffy' means tomorrow night at the latest. Or I _will_ marry you off, just you watch. Now hand over the dough."

_They're pretty strict with their young,_ I thought to myself, watching the frowning coachman hand over his gold to his father.

In the meantime, the caravan had reached the square city gates. There wasn't any commotion or traffic, and we entered the city without a problem. The guards on the outside—four level 200 legionnaires—followed us with indifferent eyes. Once inside, the wagons rode into a kind of settling basin to the right of the entrance. Lirrak dismounted and said something to the captain of the guard that walked over. Two legionnaires walked past the wagons—customs inspection. Well, inspection might be too strong a word—all that happened was that one of them kicked the wheel rim of the second wagon and suggested that the coachman replace it.

"Go over to that desk," Ylsan said to me, "and register. It won't take long. I'll see you tomorrow," he offered me his hand.

I shook it, then bid my goodbyes to Harn who reminded me about my promise to visit them in Urcahnta, nodded at Rioh who promised to wait for me at the exit, and went over to the registration desk, nodding my farewells to the legionnaires and the coachmen with whom I'd spent the past four days.

"Krian," Lirrak intercepted me on the way. "Look for me if you need anything. Go to the city guard barracks and ask for the caravanners' section. Once there, every dog knows my name. I'll be in the city for two whole weeks, then I'm back on the road. Take care now, light one," the captain smiled at me with his signature orc smile and gave my hand a hard squeeze farewell.

The passport control office was right outside, in the shade of the customs building. A young hook-nosed demon was behind the wide desk. A mage judging by his mantle—blue with embroidered silver pattern—he sprawled in his chair, chewing lazily on something. Standing at his side was a tall and scrawny level 300 tifling with slightly diverging horns, giving me a sour look with arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked to be about forty, with a long melancholic face, dark hair combed back, and slightly pointed ears. The names of both were hidden from me—strange, I thought that only players with VIP accounts could activate that setting. Next to the tifling was the captain of the guard that Lirrak was speaking to not five minutes ago, reporting in hushed tones.

"I was told to register here," I said.

The nose moved closer to the desk, threw open the thick registration log and picked up a quill.

"Name?" he asked in a rasping voice.

"Krian."

"Purpose of visit?"

"Pleasure," I blurted out customarily. Seeing the other's bemused look, I clarified, "I'm traveling."

The mage pushed a peculiar construction my way. It resembled an azure hemisphere, convex side up, attached to a black stone stand.

"Put your hand on it and answer my questions."

Was that the local lie detector or something?

I didn't really have anything to hide, so I did what was asked of me without worry. My palm felt warm and a slight pricking.

"Have you been to the Zorn or Alcatta provinces?" the demon began his questioning.

"No."

"Are you in any way associated with Prince Vallan or any of his vassals?"

"No."

"Are you plotting against the rulers of Ashtar Dominion, either directly or indirectly?"

"No," I shrugged.

"You may remove your hand. Where will you be staying? And for how long?"

"I will probably stay at The Learned Troll. As for how long, I do not know yet."

The demon scribbled another note in his log, then closed it and shot a questioning glance at the tifling. Still boring me with his vertical eyelids, the latter looked contemplative for a moment, then asked in an insinuating tone:

"Was there a breakthrough of light forces somewhere in our domain? Where did you come from, mage?"

"I think that your subordinate just reported to you all the particulars," I gestured at the captain of the guard. I never liked his type, but I wasn't about to pick a fight with him. That would be idiotic.

The tifling shook his head, put his arms behind his back, cocked his head slightly forward and spoke:

"A human mage named Krian somehow appears near Lamorna, a village in Jarus Province, slays the Great Netherworld Demon Shaartakh..." I watched both the clerk's and the captain's eyes blow up to the size of golf balls. "Then, while traveling with a caravan toward Nittal, gets caught in a misty rift," the tifling took the arms from behind his back and crossed them over his chest once more. "At night the caravanners are attacked by a skhiarta—the first such reported incident in at least fifty years. Our mage here doesn't succumb to the monster's charms, but destroys it along with its brood. Did I miss something?"

"No, that about covers it," I said. "But tell me," I held a pause, looking at him expectantly.

"Annat. Dar Annat, if you insist. I'm not big on ranks," the demon introduced himself.

I nodded and continued:

"Tell me, venerable Dar Annat, slaying Shaartakh and the skhiarta—are either of those things a crime?"

"No, of course not. Both are commendable by the dominion, only..." the tifling looked at his subordinates. "Leave us," he commanded. "And you can take a seat, if you wish," he motioned at the now-free chair.

"It's all right, I'm not tired," I remained standing. There was only one chair, and sitting on it would mean putting myself in a position of weakness from the get-go, since I'd have to be looking up. No thanks.

"A moment," the tifling spread his arms wide and made a subtle motion with his right wrist. My ears clogged up for a second, to which he nodded in satisfaction and explained. "Shroud of Silence—to keep curious ears away. So, where were we? Oh yes," Annat gave me another intent look. "You are an enigma, and therefore potentially dangerous. And one of the objectives of the organization that I have the honor of belonging to is precisely this—eliminating any possibility of trouble arising on the dominion's territory."

His heavy gaze had a hypnotic quality to it. As if at any moment a forked tongue would slither out of his mouth, and I, entranced, would readily allow myself to be swallowed whole. Barely fighting back the delusion, I asked:

"Secret police?"

"Not quite, but you're not far off," Annat brushed a nonexistent speck off the sleeve of his gray tunic. "The magistrate I have the honor of belonging to is responsible for internal security in the dominion."

"And how is it I've come to be of interest to such a powerful security service?"

"I just want you to answer a few questions," he motioned at the hemisphere on the desk.

"And if I refuse? Will you arrest me, or worse?"

"Arrest you? Heavens, no. Why would we? You've done us an invaluable service." There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in his eyes. "You will simply go your merry way," he shrugged. "Having said that, you're obviously a shrewd individual—you realize the benefit of cooperating with an organization such as ours. Especially since you've already confirmed that you're not connected to the rebels and aren't plotting against the state."

"Fair enough," I nodded my consent. "Ask your questions."

"How did you end up here?"

"I came from another world. I do not know the mechanism of my appearing here," I said, and my answer was God's honest truth. Indeed, I hadn't the slightest clue how the game capsule really worked.

The hemisphere grew warmer under my palm, but retained its color.

"Who sent you here?"

"The order was given by one of the creators of this world. I am tasked with completing a certain quest that is in no way connected to the security of Ashtar Dominion, nor of this entire plane." As far as I remembered, Cheney was there from the start of the game's creation. And what was it he'd said to me? To be a beta tester? A perfectly proper quest in my book. "But I don't want to expound on the topic."

"Interesting. But the Eye of Truth never lies. Let it be so, then. Besides, who are we to question the designs of higher beings?" As I'd suspected, the tifling took my story to mean that I had been sent here by some god. This was a good thing, as gods were a real force in Arkon that few would want to mess with. And who knew how a god might react to a mortal being overly inquisitive about their plans?

The tifling's inscrutable face gave nothing away. Still, I could guess his thoughts with a ninety nine percent certainty. It was either _The hell with him!_ or _Best let sleeping dogs lie._ If only the horned bastard knew that I'd been itching to tear the aforementioned "god" that had sent me here to a thousand little pieces.

"Last question, and you may take your hand off the artifact. Just for my own personal curiosity. How did you manage to slay one of the elder demons?"

"I don't deserve much credit there. I was helped by a mage's phantom whose bones were being guarded by the ancient beast."

"You mean, the demon croaked because you had to bury the mage's remains?"

"One of the great mages of antiquity," I corrected him. "Besides, it's unbecoming to deprive anyone of a proper burial, don't you think?"

Annat shook his head, deep in his own thoughts.

"I hope that you'll abstain from visiting local cemeteries and burial sites. See, you might not find another elder demon to serve as your lightning rod should you come upon some more scattered bones." The tifling's face didn't show whether or not he was joking. The Hart with him! There were no further questions—the security agent seemingly didn't care about that mage's identity or how the two of us took down Shaartakh.

"Take this," Annat handed me a round piece of leather, ostensibly the local registration certificate. "And another thing... The moment something starts happening to you, please find me right away."

"Why do you think something should happen to me?" I asked warily.

"You're no fool, Krian," the tifling gave me a sidelong look. "Do you know of any other members of a light race visiting the dominion? Or do you think that you can stroll around the streets of Nittal after slaying an ancient monster and not draw attention to yourself?"

"So what can happen to me?" I knew the question was foolish the moment it was uttered.

"How should I know? We'll know when it happens. You can find me in the citadel. Ask anyone how to get to the Gray House. That's all, you may go now," he nodded his farewell.

After a polite goodbye, I set out in search of Rioh.

Upon leaving the basin, I touched the big boulder and confirmed my new binding point. It would have been better to bind somewhere outside the city—there were several such gray boulders on the approach—but I'd been too lazy. Besides, I now had clothes courtesy of Treis, so in the event of death I wouldn't need to flash my undergarments for all to see. This was another element of the game: your personal clothes were equipped into special slots and shown by default after death. Imagine a group of players several miles away from their binding point. What should they do if they wipe—run through the woods buck-naked? Perhaps unsurprisingly, there were plenty such exhibitionists in the game, but city guards had little tolerance for full frontal nudity.

I didn't need to go far to find Rioh. He was chatting with the coachman of a long string of wagons that had been stopped by the city guards at the entrance. Going by the smell, the wagons were filled to the brim with fish.

"There you are, master mage!" he bawled at me from a distance. "I was just telling my friend here how you terminated that skhiarta!"

Dozens of heads turned at once—coachmen of anterior wagons, soldiers lingering nearby—and regarded me with quite a bit of interest.

"Come, Rioh," I waved dismissively, "we haven't much time." The last thing I wanted was to draw extra attention to my person.

We crossed the square—an empty space before the city gates, dotted with storeroom-like structures—and headed toward the harbor along one of the four streets that led there. The street sloped downward noticeably, framed on either side by tall enclosures—some stone, mostly wooden—and gray walls of buildings. This was the city's industrial zone.

"What do you think, Krian?" Rioh spoke after we crossed an intersection. "Should I become a caravan guard?"

I sighed—the young demon was incapable of being silent for long.

"Don't ever transfer the responsibility of making decisions to others. Especially when those decisions will determine your fate."

I didn't expect him to understand the full brevity of my words, but he seemed to get the gist of it. I empathized with his dilemma—it's not easy to give up the old and familiar. In my time, despite great prospects and possibilities, I doubted whether I should cross the ocean at all. If it weren't for Alyona—I smiled at the thought of my sister—I might have remained your run-of-the-mill manager at a run-of-the-mill company. Then again, who was I kidding? I didn't doubt my decision for a second back then—I simply let my sister think she was persuading me.

"Well, I've already decided," the young demon said musingly. "But I'm still kind of scared."

"If you've already decided, just do it."

As we drew farther from the gates, the shops and the storerooms began giving way to residential houses. There was no apparent architectural design or style: some houses had windows that opened up on the street, others were clustered inside fenced-off courtyards. In this part of the city, most structures were two stories high with white or light gray walls. The clanging of metal and the screeching of gears were overtaken by the noise of the private sector: kids shouting and squealing, hammers thumping, horses whinnying. As we passed a drinking well right off the road, we saw a bunch of local women in motley garments engaged in a boisterous discussion with wild gesticulations. With a wave at the others, one of them detached from the crowd and sauntered our way, hips swaying gracefully. A comely dark-haired young woman in her mid-twenties, she sized me up with a sardonic sparkle, winked and kept going, her swaying even more pronounced, leaving Rioh and I no choice but to part and let her through.

"What a woman!" the coachman whispered in awe, following the demoness with his eyes. "She liked you, Krian," he added with a hint of envy.

"I'm happy for her. Are we there yet?"

"Almost. See that crowd? They're exiting the market. We just have go around it," the demon gestured to show how exactly we ought to round the space—evidently, at some point we'd need to take flight. "From there it's another hundred yards to The White Lily. Oh, um," realizing he'd said too much, Rioh corrected himself, "I meant another hundred and fifty yards to your Candle."

"Isn't there a way to deal with these pubertal issues in your village?" I grunted.

"What are you asking, master mage?" Rioh gave me a reverential stare.

"Is there nobody to hook up with in your village?" I rephrased my question.

"Oh, of course! Don't you worry about that! When you come visit us in Urcahnta, you could have any single girl you want! Even some married ones would—"

"No!" I stopped right in the middle of the road, cutting short the coachman's monologue with a heavy sigh. "I'm talking about you! What do you need this Lily for? There you've got to pay for it."

"Ohhh, that..." the demon deflated. "You see, in Lily you need to pay, but in Urcahnta you need to marry. I'd rather pay. Here in the city the girls are easygoing, but back home they'll bite your head off. You can't swing a cat without hitting a relative, even if a distant one... You're lucky—you can come, do your business and leave," he accentuated the word "business" in a way that made me think he wasn't talking about fighting back the undead at all.

"Fine, let's just go," I sighed.

If there was one thing I liked about cities in Arkon, it was their cleanliness. I could only imagine the stench that must have afflicted a large Medieval city. To be sure, there were plenty of smells here too, but most were of the pleasant variety. As we drew closer to the market, we began seeing more shops and storefronts, typically with the standard game signs.

The air was therefore filled with the aromas of freshly baked bread, roast meat, leather and some kind of trimmings. Though these smells were surely present in any real Medieval city, they were no doubt overpowered by the pungency of manure or swill poured out into ditches. There were ditches here as well, but they mainly served the role of gutters. The horses and yaks hitched to myriad carts and wagons didn't defecate on the street.

I knew we were coming up on the market from the din of the crowd that came from there. We skirted it and slipped into a narrow alleyway—I had nothing to do at the market, not now anyway. I was definitely going to check out the wares later, maybe even pick up some quests.

In another hundred yards or so we made a right into a fairly wide gap between two houses, which took us to a parallel street. The young demon seemed to know his way around this part of town—and why wouldn't he!

I knew why the locals called the hotel "Candle" the moment I spotted the structure, namely the extension built over the third story—cylindrical in form and painted white, like some kind of phallic symbol threatening the heavens. The building looked utterly ridiculous, but who was I to judge the intricacies of the local marketing?!

"We are here, Master Krian!" Rioh decided to play Captain Obvious.

"I see that," I nodded and patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks for walking with me—I would've gotten lost without you."

"No, thank _you_ , Krian," he said somberly, then shook my offered hand.

"Good luck to you, future caravanner. Enjoy yourself with the ladies of The Forest Violet."

"The White Lily," he corrected me. "The Forest Violet is further downtown and very pricey. Although the girls are real lookers too, like..." he stammered, searching for the right comparison. "Like the one who winked at you! Do you want me to show you the way?"

Viol"I'll find my own way if need be," I stopped him before he could start listing all the brothers in Nittal, their menus and rates.

"Master mage! May I ask one last question?"

"Shoot."

"Do you promise to visit us?" he looked at me with hope. "It's gotten real bad at home. My mother is afraid of letting my little sis outside. It used to be really great in the village—folks were laughing, enjoying life. But it's nothing like it used to be."

"I promise, Rioh!" When he mentioned his sister, I felt an aching inside me. _How is Alyona doing?_ I sighed. _Hanging in there, I hope._

"Thank you," the young demon flashed a big smile. "I'm going to head out now, all right?"

"Go already!" I hurried him. "Your conquests await."

I watched his figure shuffle away clumsily for a bit, then shrugged my shoulders and walked into the open gate of the hotel.

The hotel was almost the carbon copy of Kort's inn. In fact, all establishments of this type had more or less the same layout. The large dining hall, which took up the entire first floor, was submerged in twilight despite the hour of day. The few magical lanterns around the room did a poor job of diffusing the darkness with their dim light. The best-lit areas were over by the windows where the hotel's patrons were sitting. The crowd was small but probably right for the time of day: several singles dined alone at separate tables, while a larger group in funky clothes were evidently celebrating, judging by the half-empty bottle of moonshine crowning their table.

Right of the front door stood a brawny demon—the bouncer by the looks of him—flirting with a giggling barmaid as she wiped the tables clean. The bouncer barely favored me with a glance, and the waitress didn't do even that.

The bar was knocked together with wood that seemed to have grown dark with time. Four kegs were stacked right on top, each one forty to fifty liters. Behind the bar was a glass stand with dozens of different bottles, to the right of which a boar's muzzle scowled at the guests from the wall.

I looked around for the owner or bartender; finding neither, I coughed pointedly to draw attention to myself.

To my surprise, it worked. The door leading to the inner chambers flung open, and a demon emerged. Roughly fifty years of age, he wore a mouse-colored shirt unbuttoned to his chest, a leather vest with a black trim along the edges, and skinny black pants tucked into boots. The size of his sword—sheathed at the waist—instilled respect.

My jaw dropped when I saw what the demon was holding in his right hand. Mother of God! It was better than any epic loot! In the meantime, the demon assumed his place behind the door; bringing a smoking pipe to his lips, he took a deep drag, exhaled the smoke, arched his right brow and asked in an even, rasping voice:

"You all right, light one?"

So cool and collected, as if he entertained patrons from Karn by the dozens. Could've at least feigned surprise for appearances' sake. Then again, Kort hadn't seemed to care about me not being local at our first encounter. I swallowed a lump, sucking in the aroma of tobacco, and said:

"I'm looking for Gerid. I have a letter for him from Kort in Lamorna."

"You're looking at him, boy," the proprietor replied just as calmly. The look in his dark brown eyes somehow closely resembled that of Annat the security agent. I handed him the scroll.

"Beer? Moonshine?" the demon accepted the scroll, but was in no apparent hurry to open it.

"Where did you get that?" I nodded at the pipe.

"So that's what you're staring at," the demon chuckled for the first time. "Been too long since your last smoke, has it? I've got a spare one for sale—one gold and it's yours. I'll even throw in a few pouches of tobacco."

Fast forward five minutes, I was sucking in tobacco smoke with abandon while sipping on dark beer at one of the tables. Things were beginning to look up. Now if only there was also an amenable young lady to... I glanced at the barmaid scurrying past with a tray, and sighed as I took another sip. No, not now. First I needed to speak with Gerid and figure out my next steps.

If memory served me right, the next melee combat upgrades started at level 110, which amounted to 10 talent points if counting to 200. Plus Jump and Step through Darkness at 100, 150 and 200—another six. Then there were the portals—10 talent points were needed just to learn the first level of the skill. This made sense: if you want to move quickly, you've got to sacrifice something. The first level was the portal that teleported only the caster; the second level, achieved at level 150, could teleport a group of five once per day; finally, at level 200 you received a normal portal that could teleport any number of people. With the caveat that the aforementioned "any number" had all of five minutes to run through the portal before it faded. Whoever didn't make it had to wait till the next day. Basic math showed that at level 200 I would have as many as 84 talent points left for allocation. Funny, players typically bemoaned their lack of points, but I had more free points than dirt. Ugh, it looked like I had little choice but to become a full-fledged mage after all.

Your reputation has increased. Gerid, the owner of The Learned Troll hotel, relates to you with respect.

Ten or so minutes later the proprietor came up to my table, apparently having read the letter.

"Come with me, light one. I sense a long conversation between us." He was replaced at the bar by a young guy who was glancing my way with curiosity.

Gerid led me into a spacious room and motioned at an armchair beside a black coffee table with ornate legs. The entire room was carpeted, which made me wonder if I needed to remove my shoes at the entrance. A writing desk by the window; three dressers, two of them filled with books; several paintings on the walls. _Are all the game's innkeepers such odd characters?_ I thought to myself.

In the meantime, the proprietor took a seat in an armchair across from me, produced two silver glasses and filled them with a dark, viscous liquid. Motioning at one of the glasses with a nod, he kept silent for a while, then looked at me and spoke succinctly:

"Thank you, Krian. For Treis," and he upended the contents of the glass into his mouth.

I followed suit. The beverage was around 50% proof, and the taste reminded me of Martell. I let myself savor the warmth spreading through my body.

"Let's talk business? In the letter Kort requests that I help you, but doesn't specify what exactly is required of me."

"It's hard to explain," I shrugged. "I'm looking for a specific place. Certain things happened there nearly three centuries ago."

I relayed to the demon what I'd told Ylsan the previous day, and also mentioned the inspection at the gates. Upon hearing the name of the agent interviewing me, Gerid chuckled.

"Dar Annat is one of Prince Ritter's finest. And the prince heads one of the dominion's most prominent magistrates."

"Gerid, who are punishers?"

"In Erantia you have the imperial guard. This is our rough equivalent. One major difference is that your servicemen consider is scandalous to serve on the police force, whereas here it's considered an honor. Kort and I served in the same legion, but we often crossed paths with Ritter's Gray Tunics."

The demon poured us another round, and we drank.

"Lakians may be real sons of bitches, but their brandy is incomparable," he declared. "Now, about your quest... I would try looking in the old archives. The only problem is, they're located in the ruined section of the citadel's west wing. About a century ago there was a big explosion at the research center, resulting in a terrible fire. A shady story, that one. Some say the mages had mixed up some volatile spells. There were no survivors to explain what really happened—all of them perished that night. Following the incident, the next research center was moved outside the city for safety considerations."

"So nobody knows what happened?"

"Nobody cares to know," Gerid chuckled. "When the work crews cleaned up the rubble, all manner of vermin started pouring from it. Nothing too serious, but too much of a bother just the same. The dominion was at war at the time, there wasn't any money budgeted for restoration, so that section was simply sealed off." The demon fell back in his chair, produced a tobacco pouch and proceeded to stuff it. "The section is adjacent to the prison complex," he continued. "And the guards often report hearing all kinds of sounds coming from that direction. Not that I believe them—when you booze as much as they do, you start hearing things even in an outhouse, never mind a prison."

"You mentioned vermin—what are we talking about?" It sounded like I would need to go there myself, and I wanted to be prepared.

"Small stuff," the demon waved dismissively. "Mice, rats, toads, sickly pups and the like. The eggheads had a whole menagerie in there. That section wasn't sealed off right away, and the mages scoured every inch of the space after the war. Some labs hadn't been impacted at all. All the valuable stuff was salvaged, but the archives? Nobody cared for them but old Prant. I also heard that the place was filled with powerful death magic emanations. Could be the reason why a whole section of a palace wing never was restored."

"How do I find this place?" I asked.

"I'll mark the location of the entrance on your map. As to how to get inside or for the blueprints of the premises, only Master Prant can help you. That's the senior archivist. He's a decent old man, but certainly eccentric, obsessed with his documents. He might be able to tell you what you need to know without needing to try the archives."

We drank another round.

"Gerid, what's happening in the dominion? I hear there's a rebellion?"

"All we get is scraps of rumors. Two months ago Prince Vallan captured Alcatta, a neighboring province. Members of Prince Rojen's family, whom he'd managed to send to Nittal by portal, said that several satraps had gone over to the invader, and someone had killed the Alcattaean legate right before the battle. Stripped of its leader, the legion was routed. The prince himself is probably dead, since he was sending his family through the portal just as Vallan and his people infiltrated his castle. Clearly, we're dealing with treachery and collusion." The demon emptied the rest of the bottle into the glasses. "That is all the public knowledge we've got. There are also rumors that Vallan now leads two legions, and that he will soon march them on Nittal."

"But why? The central province is stronger than any three other provinces combined. Or am I missing something?"

"Stronger, yes, and our lord is no chump either—Vallan is no match for him. However, currently there are only two legions in the province out of four: the first and the third. The second and the fourth have gone off to the Lakia border, as war can break out there any day." Gerid nodded at the glass. "Go on, last one."

We emptied our glasses.

"Anyway," he continued. "The upshot is that out of eight provinces in the dominion, three—that's Kialla, Skart and Lorta—are involved in the Lakia conflict, while Zorn and Alcatta are rebelling. It isn't clear yet which side those princes will take in this conflict. They say those provinces are teeming with Vallan's agents. Even here in Nittal there's plenty of them—the Gray Tunics have been catching instigators on a daily basis..."

"Haven't the princes sworn an oath?"

"And? Did you forget what blood flows in our veins?"

"Isn't there some kind of oath that would compel even a demon to be true?"

The former punisher was silent for a good ten seconds, as if picking his words.

"Each one of us has inherited a portion of true Netherworld demon blood—a tiny particle of primordial chaos. Those who had inherited more of it have been able to accumulate great strength and subjugate the rest. There is what's called a Trueblood Oath that would never be broken by a demon with a sufficient amount of it, but I don't know the exact number," Gerid shook his head. "Only that it exists. Much time has passed since the materialization of our plane, so much so that some demoness whose ancestor had migrated here from the Netherworld might have more true blood than any prince. Even putting that aside, there is a flip side to this oath: those to whom it is sworn cannot harm their new liege. Now imagine two provinces at war, and the lord wants to put an end to the butchery. How does he do it if he can't harm the warring factions? You see how these oaths can be tricky. Don't forget where you are, Krian."

"How do you know all this?"

"You think that, as a former soldier, I must be a total dunce?" the demon smirked and nodded over at the shelves overflowing with books. "I got a pretty good education. And the books are rich with knowledge. After all, the manifestation of our plane hadn't deprived any of our ancestors of their memory—they simply became something else. As for running inns and hotels—this is still work," he said while looking around the room, almost guiltily. "Once a punisher, always a punisher."

Well, that made sense—a lord ought to have agents everywhere. One of the Medieval kings back on Earth had been of the same opinion, though I couldn't remember his name. The result had been that nearly all of the country's inns were run by former soldiers.

"So everybody's waiting to see which side the remaining three provinces will take?"

"Not quite. Everybody's wondering if these three provinces might throw their support behind the rebel—same words, different meaning. Because even if two out of the three decide on that route, there may be a significant power shift in the dominion. Having said that, I don't really see it happening."

We hung out for a little longer, then I got up and headed to my room. It was getting dark and I didn't feel like heading out anywhere, so I decided to deal with my talent points. I lit up a cigarette and opened the menu on the monitor.

I would calculate from level 200 as before. My task was to figure out which way to develop further.

I had five unallocated talent points and fifteen stat points. I raised my health by fifteen, and that was the end of that.

And now—talents. 30 points to level 200 would go into portals, six into Jump and Step through Darkness, and 10 into melee attacks. That would make 46; adding up the points yet to be allocated, I counted 130. The remaining number? 84! I had to think logically, as much as I could with my dilettante abilities.

It seemed to me that I should be able to take a warrior or hunter of similar level. Not a hardcore gamer by any means—I wouldn't stand a chance against one of those with my glaring lack of experience. But against others like me, I had a definite advantage. My physical damage output exceeded that of a warrior with a two-handed weapon by almost 50%, and that was with the same armor class. For hunters and ranged dps I was a nightmare; for mages, however...

Mages were trickier, since I'd thrown all my points into strength and physical attacks. I would need to keep them close, since any mage could tear me apart from a distance. Even if all my presently available points went into spells...

But I wasn't going to change course. My mobility was the same, but crowd control was essentially non-existent. I had my answer.

I scanned the options available for mages, specifically water mages (or frost as they were often called). Why frost? The best combination of damage output and control was possible only with the cold specialization.

In Arkon, no one could become the jack of all trades. A warrior couldn't be a top-notch damage dealer and a tank simultaneously; a necromancer couldn't be a master of curses while fielding a undead army. Similarly, elemental mages couldn't truly master two different elements—at least that's how it was before the patch. It was possible, for instance, to be proficient in earth magic and a decent air mage. Thus, a secondary element was developed with the aim of securing certain key abilities; or to have a reserve range of weapons as an alternative when encountering someone immune to your primary specialization.

There were also talents common to all trees, such as portal creation, as well as overlaps between the trees, such as Lava Lake which required earth and fire, but those were few and far between.

The water specialization sacrificed damage output in favor of crowd control, which made it arguably the best in a player versus player situation. So, let us see what we could do with this build.

I had two trees interweaving before my eyes: water and ice. As I'd already mentioned, the ice specialization was the more popular of the two, by far. Despite the fact that at level 150 a Water Disc dealt 10% more damage than Ice Spear, most folks still chose the path of ice due to the fact that the same spear could be boosted by secondary talents that would also slow the target by 40% on impact with a 5% chance of freezing them for five seconds. In fact, ice magic conferred the same slowing benefit to all offensive spells, from spear to boulder, whereas water didn't.

So, what did we have for crowd control spells? I scanned my available talents and found five: Morph, Silence, Bound by Frost, Ice Chains and Ice Shackles.

Transform. Available to all specializations, two second cast time. Transforms a living opponent into a similarly sized animal for one minute. Usable against only one target at a time. The caster does not need to be in combat. The transformed foe cannot attack or cast spells. Range of spell—40 yards. Any damage taken breaks the effect.

As I understood it, the point of this spell was to neutralize for a while one opponent out of any given group. Any way you slice it, it's better to face off against two mobs instead of three. A good skill to have, and cheap at only 10 points: five for the connecting talents and five more for Morph itself.

The talent tree was designed in a way that you couldn't simply throw a point into any talent and learn it. Most were only available after investing at least one point into each of the talents leading up to the one you really wanted. And there was no way of circumventing the rules. Gamers were a crafty folk by default, and this was especially true of us Russians. Koreans were the opposite—law-abiding and remarkably assiduous. God forbid anybody take offense—Russia had plenty of hard workers as well. But here's the thing about the science of statistics—it's uncompromising.

You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to realize the easiest path was to ask your friends to powerlevel you to level 100, at which time you would throw your first point into Ice Spear or Water Disc (in the case of a mage) and become super duper powerful while retaining a whole heap of available points. For that very reason the best talents were typically reserved for the last slots of various connecting branches. In the case of Morph there were only five, which wasn't too many. But I digress.

Silence. Like Morph, available to all specializations. Instant cast. Prevents the target from casting any spells for a period of ten seconds. Range—100 yards. Cooldown—one minute. Damage sustained does not break the effect.

As with Morph, ten talent points were required to learn: five for the connecting talents and five for the actual skill. Most importantly, the spell could be used in combat. Awesome! This factor made the talent a must-have.

Bound by Frost. Silence that also pins the opponent for up to six seconds at the spell's highest level. The affected target cannot move or cast spells. Any damage taken breaks the effect.

Thirty connecting talents and five into the skill itself. Maximum mastery available at level 120. I could see the utility here: catch a mage, charge him and hack away with Ice Blade or Tongue of Flame. Of course, the very first strike would break the effect, and any mage with a decent pain tolerance could simply Jump away and start playing hard-to-get. Plus, a one minute cooldown.

Ice Chains. Essentially Bound by Frost minus the silence.

Simply pinned the opponent in place. No, that wouldn't do.

Ice Shackles. One of frost mages' most potent weapons. Instant cast. At the skill's maximum level, all enemies within a 12-yard radius of the caster freeze to the ground for ten seconds if their cold resistance is less than 75%.

Moreover, all pinned opponents suffered damage equal to the caster's primary stat. Cooldown—30 seconds. Damage taken may break the effect, but the likelihood is unknown.

Cool story! Pin everybody in place and focus fire till they're all dead. Not a sound strategy against hunters and other mages, but potentially deadly against warriors, rogues and other melee fighters. And if something goes wrong, bind them, Jump away and sprint your way to safety.

An excellent spell, but painfully expensive with the first tier only available at level 50. The second tier opened up at level 75 and required ten connecting points to get there. In all, the spell required 45 talent points to max out at level 150. Of course, all connecting talents strengthened the ability, increasing the effective radius, damage and so on. The chain of secondary skills also branched out toward Ice Spear—a definite plus if building a frost mage. For me, however, the value of this spell was questionable—it worked best against melee fighters, and those I feared least of all. What I needed was a similar ability but with a longer range.

I got up from the desk and started pacing around the room—I found it was easier to think that way. Silence and Morph were obvious, but I questioned the utility of the other spells in the water school of magic. Clearly, theorycraft wasn't my forte. Besides, I'd never played a mage before. Truth be told, I hadn't really played a warrior either.

But wait, why was I so fixated on water? I should be considering other schools as well. I sat back down and peered into the monitor.

Earth Shackles. Instant cast. Select an area up to ten yards at the spell's highest tier. All enemies caught within the area of effect will be bound by the power of earth. Maximum range—forty yards. Cooldown—same as Ice Shackles.

Compared to Ice Shakles, the drawbacks were a smaller radius (by two yards) and no damage dealt to opponents on impact, while the advantages were the ability to select any area within a 40-yard radius and damage taken not breaking the effect. The fifth tier required pouring 45 talent points into the spell, just as with Ice Shackles. But I liked this spell quite a bit more.

Earth Shackles also branched off to Stone Disc—the earth equivalent of the water school's Water Disc—which would consume another 15 talent points through level 200. There didn't appear to be any other viable alternatives to work towards. My damage output with spells would still be inferior to that of pure mages, but at least it was something.

I stuffed my pipe, fell back in my chair and lit it. I could turn on ventilation in my private room's settings, removing all foreign smells with the press of a button. That is why I wasn't concerned about sleeping in a smoke-filled space. The sun had long set—it was time to turn in.

_Am I an earth mage?_ I chuckled. Let's sum up: there would be 130 talent points till level 200, five of which I already had.

Tier three portals—30 points.

Tier four Jump—3 points.

Tier four Step through Darkness—3 points.

Melee attack upgrades—10 points.

Morph—10 points.

Silence—10 points.

Earth Shackles—45 points.

Tier five Stone Disc—15 points.

Reserve—4 points.

So, _Earth Shackles I_ , _Silence V_ and _Morph V_ through level 90. Then I'd save ten talent points and learn _Portal I_ at level 100. It was settled. I opened the character menu and threw four connecting points toward Silence and one into Shackles.

_You've learned the spell:_ _Earth Shackles I_ _._

Instant cast.

Duration: 10 seconds.

Mana cost: 300 points.

Cooldown: 30 seconds.

You create an area of powerful terrestrial magnetism two yards in diameter within 40 yards of yourself. All creatures caught in or entering the area are shackled by the element of earth for the duration of the spell.

I added the spell to the action bar and turned on the monitor. Now that the decision was made and the talent points spent, only future would tell what would come of it.

What a load off my back! I rose from the desk and flexed my neck and shoulders, stiff from all the sitting. It was deep into the night, with nothing else to do but hit the proverbial hay. I quickly removed my armor, took a shower, ventilated the room and climbed into bed.

Struggling to fall asleep, I decided to make a plan for tomorrow. First, I would take a stroll to the citadel and deliver the letter to the lord's wife. Then a visit to the archivist, who was somewhere in that same area. By dinnertime I was supposed to be at Ylsan's with the skhiarta eye fragments and blood. I'd kept them in my bag, having unloaded into storage only the equipment it had dropped. Oh! I should also stock up on potions and inquire about weapons and armor. There were plenty of stores in the city, and there should be time to shop in between my errands.

I woke up surprisingly early. Gerid appeared to be still asleep. Or running errands of his own. The same young demon from yesterday was manning the bar, a large earring sparkling as it swung from his left ear. I breakfasted hastily, refusing a mug of beer, smoked my pipe, and headed out into the street.

# Chapter 6

Nittal in the morning was just as good as in the daytime hours. The streets weren't as crowded, but the doors to the shops I was passing by were invitingly open. About three blocks down I saw a sign with the drawing of a flask and the words "Master Regus' Alchemical Goods" written on it. With boatloads of time at my disposal, I decided that this shop was as good as any I might encounter.

The indoor space was fairly small with a counter right at the entrance, the air filled with the scent of vanilla. Master Regus himself—a short elderly demon manning the counter—turned my way, squinting myopically.

"Hello."

"Hello, young man," the demon rose from his chair, put his mug with a beverage onto a small table, and walked over to the counter. "What brings you here?"

"I need twenty healing potions and just as many stamina ones. If you have them, of course," I asked politely, scanning the myriad bottles on the shelves.

"Young man, you have come to the right place. My shop has everything you could possibly need. From Cat's Eye Elixirs to Swiftfoot Potions," said the shopkeeper, following my eyes.

"I just need stamina and health. Nothing else."

There was a hint of disappointment in the old demon's shrug, but he had everything I'd asked for on the counter within five minutes. I counted the vials—the same kind I'd gotten from Mirana severals days back—and handed the demon four gold coins.

"Master, do you have elixirs that boost certain characteristics?"

"Such as?"

"Strength, stamina, constitution."

"Five silver each," Regus nodded.

Half a gold for one bottle with a two-hour buff wasn't cheap at all. However, the memory of not being knocked unconscious back in Lamorna precisely thanks to this stuff was still fresh in my mind, and I wasn't going to stint myself. Elixirs and potions were lightweight and didn't take up much space.

"Forty of each, please. And the same number with spirit and intellect if you have 'em."

"Err..." the old demon was floored by the requested volume. "You see, Krian, unfortunately I don't have that many in stock. It was real busy in the morning hours and I'm running low."

_Busy morning, yeah right,_ I chuckled to myself. _As if it's time to close for the day_. But hell, I was just like that once—lying to clients and getting off on it. I didn't want to offend the old demon, so I acted like I believed him.

"When could you fulfill the order?"

"If you leave a deposit, I should have it all ready by tomorrow," the demon thought for a moment. "Will you be using all five simultaneously?"

"Most likely. Why?"

"Perhaps you'd rather use this one instead?" the shopkeeper produced a lilac-colored vial from under the counter. "The same bonuses plus agility, and lasts for four hours."

I examined the vessel.

_Medium Elixir of Possibilities._ _Adds 50 points to all stats for four hours._

Not bad at all.

"How much do you want for it?"

"Seven gold per elixir," the shopkeeper answered. "But if you take ten, I'll let them go for six each."

Six hundred bucks! Imagine that! And people actually bought this stuff, as far as I knew. I did some quick mental calculations as to how many of these I might need. Only medium elixirs could be used through level 100, meaning I had another 25 levels to go till the next tier. How long would that take? A few weeks? A month?

"I want forty. When can you deliver?"

"Tomorrow. With one hundred and fifty gold deposit."

"Here," I handed the money over.

Your reputation has increased. Regus the alchemy master relates to you with respect.

"Come back tomorrow after lunch," the old alchemist smiled at me warmly.

I bid him goodbye and headed back outside.

The realm of Arkon boasted a great multitude and variety of potions and elixirs. Unfortunately, my belt had only eight slots to store them for quick access, and I didn't feel like buying anything special without an acute need for it. Should I find myself in need of diving, I'd buy a potion for underwater breathing. But I didn't want to clutter my inventory needlessly.

About half an hour later I made it to the main square, shaped like a giant triangle, and marveled once more at the impeccable design.

The citadel in Nittal was the rough equivalent of the Kremlin in Moscow—a city within a city. To be sure, it was smaller than the Kremlin in size, but not by much. The hidden might of the structure instilled awe—the majestic stone walls seemed to rise above even the city walls by a few yards. I counted six massive towers from the main square, one of which served as an entrance into the stronghold.

Left of the citadel were the wrought-iron gates to the Temple of All Gods. From my vantage point I could make out only a small part of the main structure, which was partially obscured by the branches of myriad trees growing on its territory. But even that was enough to see that the structure was truly colossal. A wide paved road led from the main gates to the Temple, and despite the early hour it was fairly crowded.

To the right, the citadel abutted the racetrack—a structure of white marble framed by massive marble columns. According to Ylsan, the racetrack could accommodate twenty thousand spectators.

Besides the Temple and the racetrack, the main square was surrounded by all sorts of different structures, the functions of many of which I couldn't begin to fathom, even if I had the time and the desire.

The truth of the matter was that a city as large as Nittal had never existed back on Earth in the period of antiquity. Constantinople, Rome, a few other Italian cities perhaps—no more. But this wasn't the real world, or rather it wasn't designed to be initially. Thanks to RP-17, this world of sword and magic had become very much real for me.

Four legionnaires were guarding the entrance to the wide-open citadel gates. Near there, a mage in a vinous loose-sleeved mantle was conversing with a demon in a gray tunic—the same one worn by Annat the security agent who had interviewed me the day before. Neither they nor the guards at the gates were paying any attention to anyone entering the stronghold.

I was feeling a bit anxious about this Janam lady. It was only in fairy tales and mediocre books that the protagonist could easily get an audience with the king. Have you ever tried getting one-on-one time with the First Lady? Thought so. Still, I had the courier's badge on my chest and a personal letter in my hands, so perhaps it would work out. If anything, they shouldn't kill me for trying!

With these thoughts I crossed the square and, my face still as stone, walked through the main gates.

"Hey, not so fast," the demon in a gray tunic emerged at my side seemingly out of nowhere. "Where are you going?"

"Personal delivery to Lady Janam from Prince Ar-Iraz of Jarus Province." I didn't know what to say under the circumstances, but the words seemed to sound convincing.

The demon looked me up and down with his penetrating deep-set eyes, then motioned for me to step aside and not impede the foot traffic.

"Show me your tag and the package."

"Here," I produced the piece of leather issued to me by Annat, and the parcel with the letter.

"Whatcha got there, Galt?" the mage in a vinous mantle walked over to us.

"A courier from Ar-Iraz to Lady Janam, apparently," replied the gray demon.

The mage turned his gaze to me. His eyes were of an unnatural brown color.

"What in Hart's name are you doing in Nittal, light one?!" he couldn't hold back his shock.

"He just told you my purpose here," I nodded at the gray tunic, still holding the parcel and the piece of leather.

"Odd," the mage shook his head. "Check it," he motioned at the tag, speaking to his partner.

The other took the tag from my hands, passed a small crystal over it and gave it right back.

"Checks out."

The mage looked over the parcel in my hands and shrugged.

"Lady Janam isn't presently in the city. She and Lord Astarot have gone away for a little while. I can see the package isn't urgent. Come back in a few weeks—that's the earliest she's expected to return."

The mage didn't mention where they had gone, nor did I care. Was I supposed to schlep this thing to the boonies somewhere for five gold? Nah, my plate was full enough as it was.

"In that case, I need to get to the library to see Master Prant," I turned to the gray tunic since the mage had already stepped away. Yes, I had the map, but it didn't hurt to ask.

"Go that way," he pointed straight down. "Make a left after the fountain with the headless man. Keep going about a hundred yards till see you see a gray building. There's a pond on the side—you can't miss it."

The library turned out to be a small two-story building. The front door screeched nastily, and I found myself inside a spacious hall. A young demon in a yellow mantle sat at a writing desk left of the entrance, writing something animatedly into a huge log. Neither the screeching door nor my presence seemed to draw his attention.

"Sir!" I hailed him loudly, having walked right up to the desk.

"Huh?" the demon looked up from his writing, blinking furiously.

"The library?" I added a questioning tone to my voice.

"Yes, what do you need?" the demon looked back at his log and shut it, looking flustered for whatever reason.

"I'm looking for Master Prant."

"Of course, I'll take you to him," the youth rose from his chair, sleeked his unruly black hair, and gestured for me to follow.

We walked some sixty feet down a poorly-lit corridor and turned right toward a stairwell leading down. Of course, if these were the archives, the designers had to put them in some basement. Two flights of stairs and we arrived at a massive wooden door sheeted with iron. The demon opened it—not without difficulty—and ushered me inside.

"Master Prant is in there. Down the hall and to the right."

When the narrow dark corridor was behind me, I found myself in a large, illuminated space. There were a dozen empty desks and chairs with magical lamps on top. Right behind the desks were stands of dark brown wood, rising up to the bas-relief ceiling. The innumerable books and scrolls on the shelves stored on their yellowed pages the history of the dominion.

"It's not often one of the light races visits the Nittal archives," an elderly voice screeched to my right, dripping with irony. "I would go as far as to say you're the first light specimen to honor us with your presence."

Standing on a small pedestal to my right was a carved writing desk, behind which sat a demon that, with his sparse gray beard and equally sparse long mustache, looked like an old Chinese man. The demon wore a blue mantle trimmed with golden runes and a cone-shaped hat. _An interesting take on an old trope,_ I thought to myself.

"Greetings! Are you Master Prant?"

"Did you expect to see Lord Astarot here, young man?" screeched the old demon. "Then I must disappoint you," he smirked. "So, what brings you here? A thirst for knowledge? Or are you looking to peruse century-old accounting reports? Perhaps you're interested in the dominion's history?"

"Yes!" I shot back hastily, hoping to stem the loquacious archivist's prattle.

"Yes what?"

"History. I want to find information on an event that took place somewhere around here two hundred and eighty years ago."

"Which event is that?"

I repeated to the demon the version relayed earlier to Ylsan. The archivist was silent for some time.

"You think that the citadel ruins of the Craedia Princedom holds the key to your return?"

"You know where that is?!" I blurted out.

The old demon smirked.

"Who doesn't know about the Ahriman-cursed barbarian kingdom on the dominion's southern border?"

Damn! Of course, what game didn't have your cursed lands, dead lands, dark lands and the like. To be sure, no one said completing a hidden quest would be easy.

"Master, what did actually happen that day? Why was the princedom cursed? And what kind of curse is it?"

"Too many questions, young man. And I hardly have the answers, at least for the first two. Alas, I am not a historian, but a humble archivist. That information is stored in the old archives in the west wing. As for the curse itself, any demon crossing the border into the princedom becomes significantly weaker. The combat transformation ability is lost, and vigor is reduced. For this reason, no demon in their right mind would venture there. Sure, there have been miscreants who had tried, but they hadn't gotten very far. And after the overlord's army had swept through the two provinces, it's unlikely you can still salvage anything of value. Unless, of course, you know exactly what you're looking for and where to find it. But then," the old demon gave me a piercing look, "I don't think this curse will affect you. It impacts only demons, and you, young man... I have no idea what you are."

"What do you mean?"

"At first glance you appear to belong to a light race, but a closer look reveals you're also a demon, albeit without the external attributes. And you're definitely not a half-breed. Can you imagine mixing water with fire? Water can be vaporized, fire can be doused—but you cannot combine the two. And yet, here you are—that very inexplicable mix."

"But why do you think the curse won't take me for a demon? Assuming everything you say is true."

"Because you're not a demon, but a light race specimen endowed with demon abilities," said Prant, hurling me into total confusion.

"Why don't I have a combat form, then?"

"Krian, I am an ar-chi-vist," he syllabicated. "Don't expect an answer from me. As far as what happened in the Craedia Princedom and why it is cursed, like I said before—there may be information that sheds light on the matter in the archives of the ruined west wing. Although I doubt you will find anything special there, at the very least there'll be maps of the princedom."

"I heard about that. They say there was a big fire. Do you really think anything has survived?"

"I'm certain of it. The archives were protected, sealed in a closed space. Yours truly did the sealing himself," declared the old demon. "Almost all the equipment that was stored in similarly sealed spaces has survived the fire and been extracted. But who gives a hoot about old records! All the fuss I've kicked up has been for naught. The lord's chancellery promised to take care of it, but that promise has been dragging on for fifty years now."

"But what actually happened back then, one hundred years ago? What was the cause of the fire?"

"Eighty three years ago," the archivist corrected me. "There was a big war that summer, and very few had remained at the research center—everybody was with the armed forces. Master Varkas was left in charge—a water mage and a dark arts specialist to boot. Powerful death emanations can still be felt in the ruined section of the west wing—there has even been some undead activity. Maybe a spell mix-up, or an accident in the lab," the old demon mused, spreading his arms. "I wouldn't know—the mages don't report to me."

"Is it possible to get into the archives?"

"I will give you the keys, young man, but on one condition. I want you to bring me sixteen tomes entitled _The History of Ashtar Dominion_ , penned by Master Kuan and supplemented by his disciples."

You've accessed the quest: Salvaging the Archives.

Quest type: normal.

Bring sixteen tomes entitled The History of Ashtar Dominion to Master Prant.

Reward: experience, 10 gold.

"Those are very valuable books for historians," the archivist continued as soon as I accepted the quest. "It will be a great tragedy if they are lost forever. The tomes require care, and I fear that the spells preserving them have already expired."

"I will bring you the books," I nodded. "Just tell me how to get there."

"Here," the demon opened one of the drawers in his desk and laid two massive keys and an old map on the desktop. "The archives are on the third basement floor. Here's the layout of the research center—you won't get lost. The light key is to the entrance, and the bronze one is for the actual archives."

"Thank you," I picked the map from off the desk and put it in my bag.

"No, thank _you_ ," the old demon looked to the side somewhere. "You know, I could have been among the casualties. I didn't want to leave that evening if not for an urgent matter..."

"Why didn't you want to leave?" I asked as a formality, picking up the keys.

"You see, young man, it was raining heavily that evening..." the demon's words sounded distant somehow. I felt dizzy as the world began to spin.

***

The cold rain kept pouring. Cymon wrapped his uniform cloak—bearing the punisher's badge—tight around his torso. If water got under the armor, it wouldn't be pleasant. It wasn't fun being encased in all that metal, but the master's orders were to be obeyed, not questioned. He didn't want to go home to change in the rain; besides, it was pretty far. He adjusted the blades at his waist, which he'd inherited from his grandfather, and continued on.

Come morning the weather seemed to improve—the rain had stopped, and the sun was starting to peek out from behind the clouds. The streets of Nittal immediately flooded with citizens weary of the foul weather. The shops' doors opened invitingly and the backyards' rang out with childish laughter, but the downpour returned shortly after lunch and sent everyone back to their homes.

In the evening dusk, the magical lamplight barely illuminated the road leading to the west wing of the palace complex; the pavement was covered with rain puddles that squelched merrily under the punisher's boots.

This year's summer was turning out awfully showery, as the eastern wind had brought cold and rainclouds to Nittal. It had been two decades since he'd last seen a truly pleasant day. _I wonder how the boys on the Rualt border are doing?_ thought the tifling as he walked.

The war with Rualt over Jarus Province had begun several months prior, and the lord had taken the legions southwest. Success seemed to follow the Ashtareans—rumors from the border had it that the province's capture was only a matter of days. The city, however, with only half of the city guard and a quarter of the Gray Tunics left to keep the peace, was showing signs of unrest, with thieves of every stripe, killers and saboteurs crawling out from their shadowy holes. A week ago they finally tracked down a necromancer in the suburbs who had turned a small village into a graveyard. They destroyed the monster, but with considerable difficulty. Cymon frowned at the memory of the devastation witnessed in that village. It was that achievement that had earned him his punisher's badge, which the master had put on him personally.

In their magistrate, "punisher" was roughly equivalent to the rank of centurion in a legion. For the forty-year-old Cymon—now the youngest punisher on the force—the promotion was yet another milestone in a very promising career. He was exhausted—the chronic lack of sleep over the past several months was taking its toll—but sleep would have to wait. After all, Cymon had promised his old college buddy to drop by and celebrate his latest success.

He had met Kert in their sophomore year. After flopping yet another alchemy project, Cymon was sitting in the campus park, unsure of what to do next. The workbook lying on his knees was filled from end to end with Master Akat's red ink. It was hard to admit failure, but to say that the young tifling was struggling with alchemy would be a gross understatement. Deliquation, amalgamation and other albification processes were hopelessly tangled up in his head, erecting an impassable wall of chaos.

He was distracted from his dark thoughts by a young man in a yellow student's mantle sitting on the bench a few feet away. Cymon shot an annoyed glance at the uninvited neighbor and immediately realized that his own problems probably weren't the worst thing that could happen in life.

The youth was panting while holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose, trying to stem the bleeding. His lip was broken, and the bruise under his left eye seemed to be swelling across his cheek in real time. Realizing that Cymon was looking, he turned in his direction and, glaring with his surviving eye, hissed vehemently, the handkerchief still in his face.

"What are you looking at?"

"I was just sitting here, actually," the tifling chuckled.

"Whatever," the words came hard for him. "Feel free to sit somewhere else." The kid was clearly asking for it, but Cymon wasn't going to take the bait.

"Whatever is right," he shrugged. Really, why would he—the finest swordsman in his sophomore class—bother with this shorty?

Tiflings were taught the art of combat from diapers, and by twenty years of age each of them was head and shoulders above ordinary demons. Possessing a tail as yet another extremity for use in battle, coupled with the finest fighting and magic skills inherited from their fraction of true blood, magnified the noble demons' combat qualities several times over. Other than that, however, the tiflings enjoyed no special privileges, save for perhaps the title of "Dar." Sure, tiflings boasted abilities far beyond those of ordinary demons, but the effort required to actualize them was equally great.

Such an unexpected retort appeared to mollify the kid. Noticing the notebook with a sea of red on Cymon's knees, he asked in a normal tone:

"Alchemy? I think I recognize that ugly handwriting—Master Akat, yes? Let me take a look."

Cymon handed over the notebook, noting that the sleeve on his neighbor's yellow mantle was singed in several places—likely the result of failed experiments.

"There's the problem," the youth stuck his finger with a gnawed-off nail into the notebook. "This is where you should have done a repeat distillation, then let it sit for two hours before heating it up and finally purifying."

"Could you say it in plain language now?" the tifling inquired somewhat sheepishly.

"Sure! I can explain it if you need me to. I'm Kert, by the way," the kid spread his swollen lips in a smile.

"Cymon," the tifling shook the offered hand.

"Look, Cymon," Kert moved closer, "this is where you—"

"Aww, that's sweet," a jeering voice came from the bench across. Cymon looked up and saw that it belonged to one of the three students sitting there. "You've found yourself another nerd to pal around with!"

As the trio walked over, the tifling checked out the runes on their mantles. All were seniors—one noble and the other two apparently his lackeys. Totally at ease, they clearly didn't expect any opposition since Cymon's tail was hidden from view. _Well, well, gentlemen, let's see how this plays out._

"We thought that you've had enough at first, but then we changed our minds," said the biggest of the three, scowling at Kert while lashing his bootleg with his tail.

_Good on you, little buddy!_ thought the tifling, noticing the shiner on the mugs of one the aggressors.

Kert was about to respond, but Cymon stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Scram, shitbirds," the tifling leaned back on the bench, breaking up the distance between them a bit.

"Oh, this one's got a mouth on him!" The beefcake at the center leaned in and threw a jab aimed at the head without even bothering to swing.

Dodging sharply to the left, Cymon slid forward and whipped the one on the left square in the mug with his tail. At the same time, adding inertia to his body's movement, he threw an uppercut-like kick at the attacking tifling that landed at his jaw. Two more strikes at the torso and the head, and the stunned beefcake was flat on the ground. Pouncing on the third, he kicked him in the stomach, interrupting his cast. Another powerful blow had the mage's apprentice doubled over and went out of action. Cymon looked over his foes and, with a derisive snort, walked over casually to the tifling, still wheezing on the ground. He crouched over him and spoke in a tone dripping with scorn:

"Next time, I will cut off your tail and stuff it down your throat. Better you don't give me a reason to do it."

Still sitting on the bench with his mouth wide open, Kert was shifting his gaze from the bullies to his protector and back again.

"That was really something," he shook his head.

"Let's get out of here," the tifling waved. "These fellows have a lot of recovering to do."

After graduation, Cymon joined a legion and, like all his ancestors, rose to the rank of captain before being noticed by one of Master Ritter's punishers.

As for Kert, who had been drawn to sciences and the arcane since childhood, he stayed behind to work at the research lab, eventually attaining the degree of Master of Fire.

In time meantime, it had become completely dark. The magic lanterns grew brighter, casting peculiar shadows on the pavement. The wind was picking up; there was a flash in the sky, followed by a peal of thunder several seconds later. _Great, now this,_ thought the punisher as he picked up the pace. A few minutes later he was at the western palace extensions, pushing open the massive front door of the research center.

"Greetings, Cymon," the gray gatekeeper behind the desk welcomed him with a warm smile.

"Greetings, Allet," said the demon, shaking water off his cloak. "Is Master Kert still around?"

"Almost no one has left yet," the gatekeeper groused. "Those science folk can get mighty obsessive. Today they've got some kind of speriments."

"Experiments," Cymon corrected the old-timer with a smile.

"They can play bridge with Hart himself for all I care, as long as they do it at home!" the gatekeeper declared with discontent. "All grownups too, probably have wives waiting at home. Now old Allet doesn't need much: let me close the gate for the night and have a drink in peace before bed... But no, not with these scientists. Instead I'm waiting up half the night until they're all done with their experiments. Watch, one of these days I'll retire, and you lot will have to post your own people to stand guard. Don't think there are many fools willing to waste their nights here," the old demon threw up his arms. "Just... go! Master Kert is inside—today is his shift at the main accumulator."

Cymon thanked the gatekeeper and proceeded along a familiar route: down one flight of stairs, then straight down a poorly-lit corridor, past a row of closed doors and an absurd construction—a box of light-colored metal attached to a wall with matte glass at the center. After another forty steps he turned right and pushed open a wooden door with the symbol of fire carved on it.

"Finally! I was getting tired of waiting," Kert jumped out of his armchair, walked briskly over to Cymon and shook his hand. "Come quickly or we'll miss the best part."

"Come where?" exclaimed the punisher, taken aback by his friend's persistence.

"I'll tell you on the way," Kert shot back as he dragged Cymon with him.

They complemented each other very well. Where Cymon exuded utter calm and confidence, his friend—ever slovenly with a mop of hair that had never known a brush—was literally bursting with energy. All the shady and dubious ventures the duo had gotten themselves into—and out of, albeit with great difficulty—back in their college years had been on Kert's initiative. Little had changed since then: like a ball of mercury, he scurried along in front in a direction only he knew.

"How's Lita and Kert?" he asked as he walked, without turning around.

"Kert is almost talking, and Lita is good," the tifling smiled. "But you're going to get it for missing her birthday."

"Bah! I sent a basket! I didn't forget her—"

"Exactly! That same basket is what she's going to put on your head when she sees you. She's keeping it safe especially for the occasion."

"I couldn't make it. Honest. It was all hands on deck here."

"Uh huh, I know all your excuses. Your lab mouse died or some such nonsense."

They went down one flight, walked some twenty yards and ended up before a massive mithril door leading to the holy of holies—the space containing the main magic accumulator. Kert put his palm to a hand-shaped recess on the door, turned it slightly and whispered a few obscure words. The door shuddered and began sliding to the side.

"Come in," the mage made an inviting gesture, but was the first to step inside.

Cymon followed him in and took a look around the large, well-lit space with a high ceiling. The walls were lined with racks and stands bursting with devices of ambiguous function, and metal cabinets with tubes connecting them to the center of the room where, on a pedestal of truesilver, perched a gigantic elongated crystal—three feet wide at least—and sparkling with every color imaginable. The tifling shivered from the magic emanations filling the room.

"Don't just stand there like a statue, come closer," Kert motioned at a small table with three chairs leaning against it, covered with a greenish material that resembled silk to the touch. "But watch it! I know how rowdy you get when you've had a few."

"Look who's talking!" Cymon nearly choked on his outrage. "There was only that one time, and all I did was knock over a shelf of vials. Accidentally! Besides, it was you who'd dragged me into that shop."

"Not so much a shelf as a whole stand," Kert shook his head. "And those weren't vials but reagents. And you didn't just knock it over, but rammed it through the shop window, which also broke, in case you forgot. Master Yrkan still hasn't regrown his hair."

"That's because you spilled that green gloop on his head! And it was you who picked a fight with the guards, as usual."

"I was standing up for a friend who was called a clumsy ass!" Kert couldn't hold out any longer and roared with laughter. "I'll get the glasses. What are we drinking today?"

"As if you really don't know," grinning, Cymon fished out a bottle of Lakian brandy.

"Punishers sure are swimming in dough nowadays," the mage clicked his tongue. "By the way, why are you dressed in plate all of a sudden, like a statue in the lord's palace? Where is your signature gray jacket?"

"Tunic, not jacket," the tifling corrected his friend. "The master's orders. There are too few of us in the city—we lost three brothers just last week. The master must have thought we'd be better protected in plate."

Kert produced two glasses from somewhere and shoved one into Cymon's hands, who then poured the dark liquid into both. A pleasant aroma filled the air.

"Congrats on your promotion, buddy!" The mage clinked his glass with Cymon's, and they drank. "Fill 'em up right away before the drink airs out," said Kert, squinting blissfully.

The tifling poured another round, and they finally sat down at the table.

"Why did you drag me here?"

"Hart take me!" Kert smacked his forehead, nearly spilling the brandy from the glass in his other hand. "I almost forgot because of you. Master Varkas has decoded the runes on the artifact from the Zorn excavation site. Turns out it's another accumulator, and a powerful one at that. And filled to the brim with dark energy, which we're always short on! Everybody's in the testing hall now, getting ready to transfer the energy from the artifact into our own accumulator. The center will finally be able to run a whole lot of interesting studies!" Kert upended his glass and set it back on the table, then ran over to one of the metal cabinets and flung open its doors, revealing a screen that looked like a large oval mirror.

"This is the visor," the mage explained to Cymon when the latter walked over. "Literally devours energy, which is why it can only function without excessive losses near the main accumulator. We're going to calibrate it now."

"Won't you get chewed out by your superiors?" Cymon inquired. He'd heard of visors—devices that transmitted images over a distance—but he'd never seen them first-hand. It kind of resembled a magic eye, only much larger and causing far less disturbance.

"Ain't no one left to do the chewing out," Kert grunted, twisting and turning the myriad bolts and gears. "All the big bananas are with the main host. Master Varkas is in charge, and he's currently in the testing hall two floors down."

The visor's screen showed the image of a large semicircular space with a central platform and rows of tables branching outward. The transmission was from a back row, so the view wasn't great—only the central section was visible, where several demons in mantles of varying colors scurried to and fro. The number of spectators was hard to calculate, but the safe assumption would be thirty or fewer.

"Well?" Kert nodded at the screen.

"Reminds me of the circus," the punisher shrugged his shoulders. Then clarified in response to his friend's puzzled look, "the tribunes are similarly enclosed with a transparent shield."

"Right, same thing!" the mage said indignantly. "This shield is a thousand times stronger than in any circus! See the one in a blue mantle, to the right of the compensator?" Kert indicated one of the five mages setting up various equipment on the central platform. "That's Master Varkas. He's calibrating the main accumulator as we speak."

"So?" Cymon grunted.

"So?! The energy from the artifact will pass through four converters—the yellow crystals on the corner stands, and then—"

"How about another round?" the tifling interrupted his friend.

"You don't find this interesting?"

"Not really," Cymon admitted. "I cannot fathom what could be so fascinating about transferring energy from one accumulator to another. You're all mad here!" he shook his head. "Trading sleep for this madness!"

"Oh, what do you know! The paltry fourteen percent loss when transferring energy makes this method truly revolutionary!" Seeing his friend's ironic gaze, Kert gave a loud sigh and waved his hand. "Pour it! I can see I'm wasting my breath."

In the meantime, the mages in the testing hall had apparently completed their preparations and had dispersed to different corners. The one Kert had identified as Varkas held up his staff slowly, squeezing it with both hands, and shouted something. The visor didn't transmit sound, but it didn't need to—everything was clear enough. At his command, the pitch-black artifact—looking like the claw of some monstrous river crab hoisted on a small cubic altar—sprouted barely visible whitish lines that stretched toward the four crystals-converters on special stands, shaped like the main accumulator but at one third its size. The crystals were set at the top of the quadrant that was roughly ten feet wide, with the altar at the center, and the lines of power emanating from them interlocked at the dark body of the accumulator, which floated several feet above the altar.

"It's working," there were notes of awe in Kert's voice. "Varkas really is a genius. All right, let's get back to the table—we've got another two hours, at least," he nodded at the visor.

"Was Lita very upset?" asked the mage when they returned to their seats.

"Nah," Cymon smiled. "She's known you a long time."

"I really do feel bad," Kert said guiltily. "And I haven't seen my namesake in a month."

Suddenly the room shook. The multicolor indicators on the metal cabinets started blinking their alarm, and an ominous buzzing sounded from the accumulator's direction.

"What the..." Kert looked around alarmingly, and his eyes stopped on the visor. "Gods!" he exclaimed, rushing over to the screen, with the tifling following closely behind.

Something inconceivable was happening in the testing hall: in place of the construction erected by the mages now gaped the black mirror of a portal, out of which poured giant insect-like creatures resembling wingless flies the size of dogs. Wearing a shroud of grayish haze, the beasts dispersed quickly throughout the hall, leaving a trail of brown-green tracks. To the right of the portal, a dark disgusting mass rolled in a putrid pool, shuffling a dozen six-foot-long tentacles. The monster's eyes stared unblinkingly into the hall, its jaws moving slowly, masticating what was left of Master Varkas. The other participants of this experiment were lying nearby—still alive, but not for long by the look of things. Their bodies were decomposing in real time, twitching in the pool of that abominable liquid.

The protective canopy covering the central section of the hall had vanished, and all hell had broken loose in the tribunes: some of the mages were convulsing in agony, others were still fighting off the fiends, but most were already lifeless.

Out of the entire hall, only six could be seen working together. Having put up their shields, they were unleashing the full arsenal of their respective schools upon the gray beast.

"What the Hart is going on?!" Cymon pulled on the sleeve of his flabbergasted friend.

"Death," Kert whispered, his face ashen. "Death has come to Nittal."

"Snap out of it!" The tifling shook the mage roughly. "You're talking gibberish!"

"That is the Agent of Death, and its minions carrying the plague. There's nobody left in Nittal who can oppose the monster—all the powerful necromancers and healers have gone off with the legions. Varkas was the only one left who could... but..." Kert nodded at the screen.

The monster in the testing hall began to quake—hard enough that a gnawed-off arm stuck halfway out of its maw—then jumped back fifteen feet. A wave of rot spread from it in all directions, covering the hall with a brownish taint. One of the attacking mages' shield popped, and he crumpled to the floor. One of the corpses in the pool of ooze twitched, his ribcage parted and a bloody abomination rose from the remains—identical to those pouring out of the black portal.

"There must be something we can do" the punisher bellowed and shook his friend by the scruff of his shirt. "You're smart, god damnit, think of something!"

The demon's head dangled helplessly, and his eyes stopped on the main accumulator.

"Wait," Kert's hand pushed the tifling in the chest. "I know!" he shouted, his voice back to normal.

"Spit it out."

"We're already dead, you and I. But we can still save the city," the mage spoke quickly. He bolted to the front door and began opening it. "There's no way we're surviving this, anyway..."

"Cut to the point!" Cymon broke in, following right behind.

"I will blow up the accumulator and let the fire burn out the blight, but I will need about ten minutes. There's a box hanging on the wall in the first floor hallway—you passed it on the way here. Break the glass and turn the lever. In three minutes, the hallway will put up an invisible screen that the Agent of Death won't be able to pass through so easily." The short demon in a wrinkled brown mantle looked his friend in the eye. "Cymon, if even one of those beasts escapes, all of Nittal will turn into a necropolis by nightfall. With the damp weather, the plague will spread almost instantly. That's it," Kert gave the tifling a quick impulsive hug. "Farewell, my friend! Run!"

Cymon rushed out of the room and, unsheathing his swords and shifting into combat form on the go, zipped down the dark corridor. Out of the corner of his ear he heard the mithril door slam shut behind him. The tifling didn't give a damn about anyone—and especially not about himself—but up there in the sleeping city he had a wife and a young son. He could not afford to die without completing his task.

He was at the metal block in twenty seconds. The glass shattered from the strike with the butt end of his sword, and the tifling turned the sandpapery lever after the indicated arrow. There was a soft buzzing sound. Now all he had to do was hold the line for three minutes. Cymon moved another ten yards toward the entrance to the passageway, where the plague carriers were most likely to emerge, and froze, his form relaxed.

For about one minute nothing was happening, but then he heard scratching noises coming from the staircase leading down. The first two beasts, who were even more repulsive in person than on the screen, died instantly. Cymon shoved their corpses—chopped in half and oozing green goo—aside and to the wall, trying to conserve his breath. Three more carriers emerged from the stairs, scurrying, and then a few more. Cymon became a three-handed vortex of steel, with the mithril tip at the end of his tail striking down the plague spreaders with just as much precision as the blades in his hands. But the fiends poured forth faster than he could kill them, and there came a point when the tifling realized that in another twenty-thirty seconds the torrent would become too much, and one of the carriers would surely slip by him. The punisher howled with despair at the thought.

The help came unexpectedly. There was a shuffling of feet at his back, and suddenly a wall of fire went up before Cymon, burning alive the stream of monsters rushing him. The tifling turned around. He was struggling to breathe, having inhaled too many toxic fumes. Despite all his defenses, he didn't have long to live.

"Allet?" he wheezed.

The old gatekeeper had transformed. Maintaining the spell with arms raised to shoulder level, his eyes glaring bright yellow beneath the massive arcs of those bushy brows. In his combat form, the demon looked nothing like the old grouch Cymon used to know.

"Master Allet, if you will," the old gatekeeper hissed, coming up to the tifling. "This shield," he nodded at the box buzzing on the wall, "is not going to hold the Agent of Death," he stated grimly.

"Kert will blow up the accumulator soon, and the fire will burn out all this filth..." the tifling doubled over in a fit of coughing. Despite the draft coming in from the street, the stench in the hallway was unbearable.

"You and your friend Master Kert have done well," the old demon smiled weakly—he was using all his strength to keep up the spell. "Sure, the lord will need to rebuild half the palace, but it's a fair price to pay for saving the city."

"Master, but why are you—"

"I've got family up there, too. Three granddaughters..." A translucent screen went up with a swoosh behind them, blocking passage. "There we go," the old mage sighed wearily. "I'm happy to have met you and Master Kert. I'll hold out another three minutes or so. The rest is up to the two of you."

"Thank you, Allet," the tifling just remembered that he'd forgotten to thank the old demon...

When the wall of fire died down, and the old mage collapsed onto the tiles, having given his all to the cause, Cymon leaped on top of the heap of scorched corpses and bellowed his legion's war cry.

The tifling became death incarnate. His two swords and tail were pure lightning, slicing through the darkness and monsters' bodies as if through butter. His armor—buffed to the max with all resistances—endured their bites with ease, as he no longer needed to hold the line or preserve his strength. He began to feel pain somewhere on the outskirts of his consciousness, but he could not stop. He had to keep a step ahead lest it swept over him.

How long did he have left? The tifling dodged a plague carrier that had leaped at his chest, cutting down the fiend in midair. What if Kert were to fail? Cymon slipped on the tiles, but kept his balance. Three more beasts materialized before him. He chopped down twice and leaped to the side, whipping the third target with his edged mithril tip, knocking it down. A quick step forward and his blade pierced right through the disoriented foe.

There were squelching sounds from the staircase, as the Agent of Death himself crawled into the hallway. The quaggy, sponge-like mass and the trail of brown-green slime underneath now blocked nearly the entire space. A set of unblinking yellow eyes bored into now-still Cymon. _What the hell is happening with Kert?_ The tifling noticed the monster start to shake and, remembering what usually followed, covered the twenty-yard distance between him and the Agent of Death with a single leap. Cymon kicked with his metallic boot, interrupting the monster's cast, then drove both of his heirloom blades into the beast's unblinking eyes.

The floor beneath him gave way. Paying no mind to the bloodcurdling wail of the wounded monster, Cymon gazed into the mouth of the volcano bearing down on them. Smiling, as if to an old friend...

***

"Can you hear me? What's wrong with you?" Master Prant kept asking me in distress.

I was standing, gripping the tabletop, my breath short and shallow. It took me several seconds to realize the vision was over. No more plague carriers, no more Agents of Death. _What have I done to deserve this..._ I sighed mentally, then said to Prant:

"I'm all right, master. Just got dizzy for a bit, is all."

"You need a medic, young man," the demon shook his head. "You were standing there with your eyes closed for a good five minutes. I didn't know what to do with you."

"At least it wasn't a few hours," I chuckled. "I will definitely take your advice. But for now, I must take my leave." I nodded goodbye to him. Then, lurching slightly, I left the premises.

I was sitting in the shade of a small tree by the pond, next to the library, gazing at the calm water and gradually recovering my senses. The clock was showing close to noon; there was a ton of time till dinner at Ylsan's, so I wasn't in any hurry. In essence, I already knew what needed to be done, but I didn't want to change my plans. New information certainly wouldn't hurt, nor a chat with the healer's father.

So, what did I find out? That Craedia was a barbarian princedom spanning two provinces, and that it was cursed by Ahriman. Some answers, but a boatload more questions as well.

First of all, barbarians weren't supposed to have princedoms; they lived in clans or tribes. That much I knew, and I didn't feel like looking up barbarian culture on wiki. Could Prant have been wrong? No, NPCs couldn't err—if he didn't know the answer, he would have simply kept quiet. Fine, let's just accept it as a given that barbarians had decided to found a princedom—what the hell did I care?

Secondly, why would Ahriman bother cursing a fairly large territory like that? I had no doubt that he was capable of it—after all, he was on par with gods here—but what was the point? He'd already driven out the light army, so why curse the land? Even if he had somehow learned that the light forces were hiding somewhere, it still didn't make sense since the curse wouldn't affect them. Maybe the reason had to do with the actions of the local lord whom the Foxes and Altus' mages had put to rest? There was something about the renounced and cursed gods... The second version seemed more probable, but it didn't really matter—I wouldn't know anything anyway until I got to the archives. Unless Ylsan's father had something to say on the matter.

Thirdly, I now knew the cause of the explosion and fire in the west wing, and the journey through those two floors was shaping up to be rather interesting. I wasn't worried about encountering anything truly scary—according to Prant, the area had already been cleared by mages when extracting the equipment. I was close to the ruined section of the palace, and had the time to at least walk over and sneak a peek.

It took me about ten minutes to get there. I'd passed a small lovely park with a fountain and several sculptural formations, rounded the barracks and ended up in the desired place. There wasn't anyone around save for a few gardeners a hundred yards away cutting the lawns. I didn't see any desolation around me, but only a long one-story extension with a solitary door. Even to the untrained eye it was obvious that this structure used to be at least several stories higher—it was simply too much of an eye sore amid the general architectural style.

I stopped near a large metal door leading to a level 80-85 instance, and sighed mentally—getting answers in the near future wasn't in the cards. Maybe there were games out there where a character could solo a dungeon ten levels above their level, but I sure as hell didn't know any. Considering that mobs in instances were roughly twice stronger than regular ones and usually came in packs of three to five, I'd need to be at least 100 before attempting this venture, and even that was optimistic. What was it Gerid had said? Small stuff: mice, rats, pups and the like... Maybe he didn't need to worry, but me... I shivered at the mental image of a level 85 mouse, then shrugged and, with a sigh of disappointment, set out to look for the healer's house.

In order to find the residence of my demon acquaintance, I had to skirt the entire territory of the Temple of All Gods. Passing by those white brick walls I realized it wouldn't hurt to have a peek inside the actual temple. In a world where gods were a real force, visiting a place in which you could address such a force directly could certainly prove useful. Besides, I'd already managed to gain the favor of one goddess. It was settled, then—after visiting Ylsan I would return to the temple and donate some money to Setara. What if something might come my way eventually as a result?

Once past the temple enclosure, I was finally on the right street. The large three-story house of the healer's family stood deep in the garden, barely visible from the main street. I pushed the creaking gate and proceeded along a narrow gravel road. Everything around me spoke of a woman's touch: the neatly pruned lilac bushes, the beds of daffodils and tulips set elegantly atop decorative stone, the small pool on the lawn, and the marble statue of a woman with a pitcher peeking through the fruit trees.

An elderly demoness in a white apron opened the door.

"You must be Krian. Young master said you were coming," she squinted at me nearsightedly. When I nodded affirmatively, she stood aside to let me through. "I'm going to call him. Please wait here," she gestured at the leather sofa just past the front door.

I thanked the woman, took a seat and waited, examining the fantastical potted plants.

"You're Krian?" a young girl stood on the steps of the staircase to the second floor, holding the rail. She wore a dress of pale pink, with a matching ribbon adorning the tip of her tail.

"I am, my lady," I rose from the couch and bowed my head slightly in a greeting.

The girl ran down the stairs and walked right up to me. She curtsied, then blatantly sized me down. She couldn't have been older than fourteen years of age, and her eyes burned with curiosity.

"I'm Velda, Raey's sister. And what's a 'lady'? Is that how you address women where you come from? Will you tell me what life is like up there?""

"Raey?" I echoed.

"Yes, Raey Dar Ylsan, my brother. Thank you for saving him, by the way."

"Got it," I smiled. "You're right, 'my lady' is the proper way to address a woman. And life up there is pretty similar to here, actually."

"Don't embarrass our guest, Velda," came a soft voice that belonged to a demoness around forty, wearing a house dress of dyed linen. Ylsan was standing right behind her, smiling.

"Daressa Ylsan," she introduced herself, extending her hand. "As you've probably realized, I am the mother of this young man, and I am very grateful to you for his safe return."

"Don't mention it, really," I was feeling awkward.

"Do you have children, Krian?"

"No," I said, and thought somberly that I probably would never have them. Then again, who knew with RP-17? Perhaps it had or would eventually manage to implement even this function...

"When you get them, you'll understand," she smiled. "My husband will be here in time for dinner. The table will be set in half an hour, so don't be late. Children, won't you show our guest the garden?" She gave her daughter a stern look for some reason, nodded at me and took her leave.

"Come," the mage beckoned me. He wore a pair of black silk pants and an orange tunic untucked.

"So, your name is Raey?" I asked him when we stepped outside.

"Uh huh," he grunted. "But out in the field I've gotten used to being called by my surname. If this grass here doesn't interest you," he motioned toward the flowerbeds, "let's go straight to the gazebo instead."

"I'll tell mom you called her flowers 'grass,'" Velda wagged her finger menacingly at her brother.

"I'm not scared," said the mage, then added, pointing at his sister. "Velda is on vacation, and she's working hard to help mother cultivate a wide variety of the local flora. Naturally, I'm using the words 'working hard' rather loosely, but mother is of the opinion that cultivating flowers is a suitable hobby for a young woman."

"Please, like you've never planted flowers yourself!" Velda countered sardonically, sticking her tongue out at her brother.

"There was a time," Raey didn't argue.

"Krian, what is a skhiarta like?" asked the tiflingess as soon as we sat down on the benches inside a gazebo amid a small grove of fruit trees.

"Yes, tell us," her brother echoed. "I only saw what was left of it after the fact."

"A young woman in dark clothes," I confided. "She floated in the air with her arms spread wide. I thought it was all a dream at first."

"The corpse didn't look very much like a woman," the mage frowned.

"It became that way after several of its larvae had died."

"Fascinating," the girl whispered in awe. "A monster from the Gray Frontier..."

"Her brother was nearly eaten alive, and she's fascinated," the tifling snorted.

"But he wasn't," his sister parried, matching his tone.

"Listen, Raey, where can you buy a suit of armor around here? I'm due to outgrow this one soon."

"At least you removed the helm," he smiled, remembering the comical sight of me trying to equip his gift earring. "For armor, your best bet is Krayon. You must order in advance, but you won't find a better master in the entire city," said the mage. "He also doesn't accept orders from just anyone, but it doesn't hurt to try. Give me your map, I'll mark down his shop. I'd go with you," the tifling sighed, marking the right location, "but I've got important business out of town. I'm leaving tonight, for a week."

"Important business by the name Itala," Velda outed her brother, then winked at me. "Business with pretty brown eyes and long chestnut hair."

"You traitor!" exclaimed the indignant mage, glowering at his sister as she blinked her innocence.

I couldn't hold back and burst out laughing, and was joined by the brother and sister moments later.

Kyle Dar Ylsan looked nothing like the obsessed alchemist I had pictured before meeting him. Broad-shouldered and long of hair, the tifling wore an austere dark blue camisole and shoes with golden buckles, reminding me of Captain Blood—the legendary pirate from a popular book written way back in the XX century.

We dined in silence in a hall with large folding windows on the house's second floor. Two young demonesses served us, doing their job quickly and without drawing any attention. After dinner, the master of the house invited Raey and myself into his office for a talk. Seeing his daughter's imploring stare, he sighed and granted her permission to be present for it. The girl was clearly daddy's little girl, and, as is often the case in such circumstances, he was putty in her hands. I thanked my hosts for the delicious dinner and followed everyone upstairs.

Located on the third floor of the house, Raey's father's office was rather large and tastefully furnished. Filled bookcases stood along the walls; a large oval mirror hung over the marble fireplace; the wooden floor, darkened with age, was covered with ornate rugs. At the heart of the office was a massive writing desk standing by the window that opened into the garden. In the corner was a small table with a bunch of different tubes and vials—a mobile lab by the look of it. Dar invited us to sit in armchairs around an oval wooden table. Noticing my glance at the sword and shield hanging on the wall, he clarified:

"I had to serve in my youth, like everyone else from our clan," as he spoke, the tifling produced from a wall drawer an oddly shaped bottle and three glasses. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but Raey has three brothers. The oldest is done with his service and now manages our country estate. The other two are currently serving in the First Legion."

The pleasant aroma of aged wine filled the air of the office. I took a sip from my glass—it reminded me of Chablis, but there was something special about the flavor.

"From our own vineyard," Raey commented.

"Wonderful flavor," I praised the wine, which I genuinely liked.

"Venerable Kyle Dar Ylsan, I wanted to—"

"Come now, Krian, we're all friends here," the master of the house smiled warmly. "Let's forget the formalities, shall we? Call me Kyle."

I nodded my consent. Then I took out the remaining vials with skhiarta eye fragments and laid them out on the table.

"I want you to have these. Raey said they are sought-after alchemical ingredients."

"You're my son's friend all right," the tifling shook his head. "How much do you think these are worth? The last recorded skhiarta kill took place fifty years ago. Forgive me, but I cannot accept such a gift. I will buy several vials from you; the rest I recommend taking to the research center—they will pay you well for them."

"Kyle, you said it yourself: we're all friends here," I put my unfinished glass on the table, fell back in my chair and crossed my arms. I had removed my armor before coming to dinner—it would have felt awkward to dine socially in full plate, and the clothes gifted by Treis looked no worse than the garb worn by tiflings I'd seen around town, all of whom were noble by default. Therefore, I wasn't the least bit concerned with my appearance. "The value of these," I nodded at the eighteen vials on the table, "is a relative thing. For me, they're worthless, but for you they may be worth a small fortune. But tell me this—what value would you put on your friendship?"

"My friendship is valuable indeed, but you've already earned it. Just as you've earned the fondness of everyone in this family. You can count on my assistance in any event, even without all this," the stubborn tifling nodded at the vials.

"Dad, Krian said that he needs a set of armor," said Velda from her chair, who had been sitting quietly all this time. "And you know Master Krayon."

"That's a whole other matter," her father smiled. "The old dwarf will charge an arm and a leg for his labor, and that's if he even agrees to do it. Having said that, his craft is worth every penny. Consider it done, Krian. A note from me to the master should do the trick—he owes me a favor. It won't get you a set for free, but you can expect to pay half the standard price."

"A dwarf?" I leaned forward, incredulous. "There are dwarves here?"

"You know the origin story of our race," the tifling shrugged. "The light gods' army included representatives of all the realm's intelligent races. At this point many of the external qualities have been erased, but you've walked around the city—haven't you noticed certain similarities between the demons and the other races of Arkon? Master Krayon is just one example. He looks just like a dwarf, and even wears his beard long for emphasis. Although, it is strange... I've never seen dwarves first-hand, though I've read a lot about your plane."

"What's strange?" I asked.

"The dwarf race excels in craftsmanship—no one can match their skill in mining, smithing or jewelry making, right?" The tifling paused, waiting for my affirmation. I nodded, unaware as to where he was going with it. "Let's consider the issue logically. Metal must be mined, smelted and so forth. Correct me if my line of reasoning is erroneous. But have you ever been inside a smelting shop, Krian?" I shook my head. "It's hot. Very hot. In light of that, could you explain to me the logic of growing a waist-long beard? Any errant piece of coal or drop of incandescent metal and half your beard is gone in an instant. One glance at the sorry state of Master Krayon's beard confirms my suspicions. But I digress. Have you already learned anything about your matter of interest?"

I relayed to Kyle my conversation with the archivist, and shared my desire to get inside the old archives. The tifling was silent for a while, mulling over my words.

"Krian, what do you know of the Twice Cursed?"

"Virtually nothing," I shrugged my ignorance.

"Vill and Syrat are two dark gods. Vill is the God of Torment and Torturous Death, and Syrat is the God of Hatred. When Velial's army invaded Karn from the direction of Darkaan, it marched on Valdarra, razing human counties along the way. The first battle took place near Fertan, a town in the Daar Princedom. The opposition amounted to several light gods and the united army of orcs and humans who had put aside their enmity in the face of this deadly threat. On that day, the armies of Vill and Syrat attacked the light forces in the rear. The heavy cavalry of human princes and the light orc cavalry were the sole survivors of that battle of Fertan. It wasn't until later, in the Battle of Saakum, that the armies of these two gods fled the field of battle, leaving a flank of the Netherworld forces defenseless." The tifling looked at me. "I suppose there's no need to explain now why Vill and Syrat are universally reviled?"

"Were they cursed once by the light races, and then by Velial?" asked Velda, cozying up in her chair.

"You could say that," Kyle sipped from his glass. "The gods don't often favor us with their presence, so those two don't have much to worry about. You've already met the karriga and the skhiarta, but there are tons of other monsters like them, spawned by the Twice Cursed, that infiltrate our plane from the Gray Frontier. But my point is about something else," the tifling put his glass on the table and fell back in his chair. "In Craedia Princedom, Ahriman's army had found piles of evidence that the local supposedly free Lord Erisjat was the henchman of one of the Twice Cursed, if not both. Tell me, what ruler in his right mind would exterminate his own subjects? And in a way that horrified even the overlord's hardened punishers?"

"You mean, Ahriman didn't know about the attack from Karn? It was actually Erisjat that his army was marching to destroy?" I articulated the theory that had occurred to me long ago.

"No, Ahriman doesn't give a damn about the barbarians or their self-styled lords. They can beat up on each other all they want, and he won't lift a finger. But who wants dark gods hanging around their border and hatching up schemes? I think that the overlord simply wanted to neutralize a potential threat, so he cursed the princedom to keep others from loitering around. And the light armies were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Then again, these are just my theories," the tifling shrugged.

"And who is this Hart that everybody keeps mentioning?" I finally asked the question that had been bugging me. Wiki didn't mention a single word about any Hart.

"The God of Deceit and Trickery. He's called Bel up where you're from."

Logical enough. Back in the ancient times we had Zeus and Jupiter, Mars and Aries—the same gods but sporting different names.

"By the way, Krian, I have a proposition for you. You're heading out to the old archives anyway, right?" I nodded affirmatively, and Kyle continued. "There's a lab right near the archives; here, I'll mark it on your map. There should be an old distilling tank inside. It's fairly useless these days—science had progressed far since then. But the tank was made by one of our ancestors, and I would like to preserve it. I will be glad to reward you with an enchantment for your shield. Do we have a deal?"

You've accessed the quest: Returning a Family Relic.

Quest type: normal.

Bring Kyle Dar Ylsan the distilling tank made by his ancestor.

Reward: experience, enchantment scroll of Medium Elemental Protection for the shield.

Exactly what I needed! I was sorely lacking resistances. The enchantment wouldn't solve the problem entirely, but it was better than nothing.

"How will I recognize this object?" I asked after accepting the quest.

"It is a small cube of light metal," Kyle showed the dimensions with his hands. "There's only one like it, so you won't miss it. It was left behind because the salvage crews deemed it trash. Though I can't really argue otherwise," the tifling sighed sorrowfully.

We spoke for a little while longer, and then I hastened to take my leave. I still wanted to drop by the temple, deliver the message to the head of the traders' guild, and, with a little luck, maybe even make it to the blacksmith and order some armor. I waited for Kyle to write the letter to the master, then bid a warm goodbye to him and Velda with a promise to not be a stranger. Raey walked me to the gate, lamenting yet again his impending departure. I advised him not to sweat it and to enjoy his travels. We shook hands, and I left his friendly and hospitable house.

After thinking about it, I decided to postpone my visit to the temple until tomorrow. My other business was more pressing. I looked at the map—the traders' guild building was situated between the market and the river harbor. It was time to pay a visit to the venerable Yldiz—even if I didn't find him, I should be able to submit the quest to somebody else since the instructions didn't mention "private and confidential."

The travel took about forty minutes. I could have gotten there faster, but I felt like a tourist in Paris for the first time, stopping often to take in the sights. And there was certainly plenty to take in. Strangely, back when I played a warrior, I never felt inclined to just roam the streets of Valdarra, even though Erantia's capital was one of Arkon's most beautiful cities.

Man, these merchants were living large! I admired the four-story building, its walls adorned with sculptures and ornaments, rippling gold in the rays of the setting sun. The pediment bore Helcas the god of trade, his right hand clutching an abacus as he flew about his business. Two demons at the entrance—garbed in sapphire liveries with countless gilded buttons and matching aiguillettes—gave me a wary look but didn't say anything as I entered the building.

I wasn't allowed to see the guild leader, which didn't surprise me one bit. But I did manage to see his secretary who accepted the package and promised to relay it. The quest gave decent experience, but not enough to level up. I also had to wait for about half an hour for my rightly earned two gold coins. _Naturally, the more money someone's got, the harder it is to get it,_ I thought to myself as I signed some kind of receipt. With nothing else holding me here, I was relieved to finally leave the guild's premises.

Next stop—Master Krayon's shop. I checked the map and picked the shortest route that passed through the residential sector: only four blocks straight ahead, then right until my destination. I really hoped that the dwarf was up to the task of forging me a set of rare armor. Every major city in Arkon had masters who could sell or, as was the case here, be commissioned to craft rare equipment. Of course, they typically charged an arm and a leg and were therefore unaffordable for most players. The same equipment cost two to three times less when buying from other players or at an auction, but where was the nearest auction house? I probably wouldn't get to one for quite a while. And trying to outfit myself from mob drops wasn't an option. Well, it was technically, but not a good one. Mobs around my level would only drop gear in the 60-75 level range. The drop rate of a rare item from a regular mob was roughly one in a thousand; the chances of that item being plate were even less. Bosses dropped rare equipment most of the time, but, alas, there was no way I could handle even the weakest one around my level—I'd need a group. Never mind the fact that even getting the shot at a boss was no easy thing—they didn't exactly travel in packs. I'd gotten incredibly lucky with the skhiarta—even as much as 75% mental magic resistance would have gotten me dispatched back to that graveyard by Lamorna.

With those musings, I turned from a fairly busy street into a small alley, stretching roughly one hundred yards and framed on either side by tall fences of residential houses. The fences featured vibrant street art that belied the routine and boring materials they typically guarded, like metal or lumber.

Suddenly my whole body spasmed, and I began to slowly double over. Someone grabbed me roughly from behind and started twisting my arms behind my back.

"Sssteady..." a voice hissed into my ear.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw two more demons running up from behind. On pure instinct I casted Step through Darkness and ended up behind the nearest fence. The paralysis abated, and I lost my balance, falling into a vegetable patch. Jumping right back to my feet, I bolted in the direction opposite from the ill-fated alley.

"Stop!" a voice yelled from the direction of the fence.

Yeah, right! Some fat demoness with a wooden tub squealed from her porch as I ran past, but I paid her no mind. Running up to the gate, I threw off the bolt and dove into a parallel alley just as somebody's ugly mug appeared over the fence way behind me. There were shouts and whistling. _Is this what the local cops entertain themselves with?_ I thought while making a right, waiting for the cooldown to reset. Another Step through a fence, and a dash across somebody's backyard.

"Daddy, look, that strange man is—"

I didn't get to hear what the "strange man" was up to. With a wink at the boy sticking a finger in my direction, I ran up to the gate, opened the bolt, pushed through and found myself in an empty yard of a three-story construction. Taking a moment to admire the sizes of certain articles of women's underwear drying on clotheslines, I rounded the house and glimpsed a fairly wide street through the rods of the metal enclosure, which forced me to slow down. _Easy now, if I keep running I'll just attract unwanted attention,_ I thought to myself. I took a second to catch my breath and walked out onto the street at a steady gait. There was whistling now from all directions, but I felt not at all inclined to turn myself in to the local authorities.

Why were they after me, anyway? I was wearing a courier's badge! Or was paralysis not considered an attack? I wasn't technically hurt, after all. How did all this work, anyway? The message on the badge said that couriers could not be attacked first—that seemed to be the law. Were the courier to break the law first, however, that probably changed things. Only what law had I broken?

I needed to find a safe place urgently and lay low for a while. Having never dealt with the local law enforcement, I didn't know what to expect—they could easily be the kind to polish your clock first and ask questions later. And I seem to have really pissed them off somehow. If there was an upside, it was the I was being hounded by ordinary guards—my tricks wouldn't have worked against punishers.

The whistling was getting closer. I looked around on the go and noticed a big three-story house with white columns framing the entrance hiding behind branching trees some fifty yards off the road. _Forest Violet_ , I thought at once. It had to be the local den of debauchery that Rioh had spoken of. With precious few other alternatives and whistling that kept getting closer, I didn't hesitate for more than a few moments.

I hustled to close the distance between me and the house, ran up the marble steps and turned the carved wooden knob. A bell rang melodiously, and I found myself inside a spacious empty hall. The walls—finished in soft pastel tones—were decorated with gilded engraved panels, casting dazzling reflections off the hall's many mirrors and adding even more volume to the space. A few beige sofas stood beside squat coffee tables on cambered legs. The quiet of the room was disturbed only by the barely audible murmur of a small decorative fountain.

I stopped in the doorway, hesitating. Where were all the inhabitants? Just then the curtains rustled softly aside, and a comely demoness around my age sauntered into the hall. She fixed me with an incredulous look, her green vertical eyelids unblinking. Her assets—of which I counted many—were nicely accentuated by a formfitting blue dress.

"Hello! I was just passing by and decided to drop in."

There was no answer. The young woman continued to examine me like some exotic zoo animal. It was beginning to get to me.

"Are you deaf?" I asked empathetically. "Or do you see your future on my forehead? Or maybe I walked into a library and not a brothel?" I nodded at the few books lining the coffee tables.

"This is a salon," the demoness spoke in a throaty, pleasant voice, a playful sparkle in her eye. "That's what this establishment is called here. I apologize, but we're closed today."

"That's a shame," I said. I had zero desire to go back outside.

"Was that you they were whistling at outside?"

"Yes," there was no sense in lying. "But I didn't break any laws, and I'm in no mood to deal with those gentlemen."

"You don't look like a criminal, light one," she mused. "But do you really think that your pursuers will simply pass by our little establishment? Or do you expect me to hide you from the city guard?"

"You got me," I grunted. "Obviously, I won't be able to avoid this headache today. Goodbye." I spun around and took a step toward the door.

"Wait!"

I stopped and shot back, without turning around:

"What now?"

"If you promise to come see me another day, I will help you."

"Do I have to sign my name in blood?"

"Very funny."

"I'm sorry. You have a deal."

"Come," she took my hand and led me into another room, then motioned at a small sofa. "Have a seat. Care for a drink?"

"Just water, please."

What did she want with me? The demoness left and returned almost right away, holding two glasses. At that same moment there was a knock on the door. With a finger to her lips, the woman put the glasses on a coffee table and went to answer the door.

She was gone for about five minutes, and I took the opportunity to look around. The room was the exact copy of the other one, only without a fountain. A mirror caught my eye. There appeared to be some imperceptible change in my appearance... Had my hair gotten a shade darker? No, it must be the lighting playing tricks. But the eyes! My eyelids had changed shape—they weren't like a demon's just yet, but something in between a demon and a human. The iris around the lid had grown yellowish. I ran my hand through my hair and sighed with relief—no sign of horns just yet.

"When you're done admiring yourself, let's sit and talk," a voice sounded behind me, dripping with irony. "I'm Dara, by the way."

I straightened my shirt. I'd forgotten to put on my armor, though perhaps that was for the best.

"Krian," I nodded, turning around.

"Have a seat, Krian," she gestured at the sofa across from her. "Don't worry, I don't bite," the demoness arched her back, cat-like. "They're gone. No man in his right mind will cross the threshold of this place on this day," she smirked. "Right mind being the operative term."

"Far be it from me to argue. Now, I've got a few questions myself. What's so special about today? And why do you want me to come back another day? Are you a succubus?" I sat across from her, picking my glass off of the coffee table and taking a sip. The water was flavored with lemon.

"Many of us are called succubi," she smiled and threw back her fair-colored hair in a fluid elegant motion. "Yes, the true blood does course through my veins. As for today, it is the seventh day of the second summer month—the day of Orik's Remembrance. On this day, a man and a woman had better not find themselves sharing a bed if they are not husband and wife. Lata is a woman, after all, and you know how resourceful we women can get if vengeance is in order. If you've got the time and the desire to hear the long and sorrowful story of how the goddess lost her beloved, I'll be happy to tell you."

"Thanks, but no thanks," I shook my head. It was clear enough that today was a day of abstinence, and the gods certainly weren't to be trifled with. "And why do you want to see me again? Love at first sight, is it?"

"Fie, how crude!" the demoness pulled a grimace. But she couldn't hold back a giggle just the same. "Tell me, Krian, how many of my girlfriends have slept with a light one? Hmm?"

"Do you think the light races are special somehow? I've never slept with a succubus either—so what?"

"We are many, but you are one. Do you see now? As to whether or not you're special, I don't give a damn either way. I'll tell my girlfriends whatever I want." She licked her lips emphatically, then sighed for some reason and continued. "But you shouldn't expect anything special either. You're strange, very strange."

"How am I strange?"

"You're acting like an elder demon—our charms are practically useless against them. But you're surely not an elder, at least not yet," she shrugged.

I didn't tell her about my resistance to mental magic—why bother? Besides, the situation was so absurd I still couldn't make heads or tails of it. OK, so I was the cretin who had decided to hide from the guards in a house of ill repute. But why did she...

"So you risked everything just to add to your collection?"

"I didn't risk much," she smiled. "Even if you come clean about where you hid, nobody is going to come after me. As for everything else, it is beyond your understanding, so don't bother trying. The true blood changes us, endowing us with certain abilities unique to us alone. For instance, I know for a fact that _She who will be your shadow_ will reward me someday for not allowing you to leave here today."

"What are you talking about?" I was getting increasingly confused.

"I'm sorry, I've already said too much." Dara climbed up on the sofa and made herself comfortable in the corner. "Tell me about yourself, light one."

I got to the hotel a little after midnight. The demoness bade me farewell around half past eleven, claiming it would be best not to tempt certain goddesses who were particularly despondent on that day. I pondered her words for a while on my way back, but failed to reach any conclusion and dismissed the matter altogether. There weren't that many people out in the streets, and I made my way to The Learned Troll, trying to avoid the attention of the patrols. Once I was in, I looked the half-full hall over and proceeded toward the bar. I wasn't hungry—Dara had fed me with sweets of some sort—but I could really do with a cold pint.

Gerid was standing behind the bar. Upon seeing me, he leaned in and said in a low voice, without removing the pipe from his teeth:

"What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Depends on what you mean," I shrugged. "I'd really like a beer—today was hectic as hell."

"Your acquaintance is waiting for you at the table in the far corner," the demon nodded in the direction of the table in question. "He said he only came to talk, but I advise you to be careful in your dealings with him. I looked where he pointed and swore quietly. Speak of the devil... Dar Annat was sitting at the far table, his arms crossed over his chest and his back against the wall. The tifling was pretending to study the glass of wine before him, but I was totally sure that he had already noticed me. On the plus side, no one was grabbing me or dragging me anywhere.

I sighed, took my beer from the bar, and headed for the far corner. The tifling only looked at me once I sat down in front of him.

"Greetings to you, Dar Annat. It's a good thing you turned up—I was planning to visit you tomorrow." I decided offense was the best defense in my case. "I was attacked by unknown assailants in the city today. They had whistles, too... Musicians?"

"Asses, more likely," the tifling snorted. "But you keep surprising me, Krian. That was a magnificent escape from a paralysis spell! The agents expected you to Jump forward or backward, but they didn't know you could Step through Darkness."

"What was their reason for trying to apprehend me? What did I do for the esteemed guardsmen to spend half an hour whistling to each other all across the city?"

"What was the letter that you gave to Pront, the secretary of Venerable Yldiz?"

"A sales report from Jarus Province. Is anything wrong?"

"Who gave you the letter in Laketa?" the tifling ignored my question.

"What's Laketa? What is this... an interrogation?"

"No, just a conversation so far."

I kept looking at Annat, and a thought crossed my mind for a moment, vanishing without a trace, yet leaving me with a distinct feeling that I was overlooking something.

"Laketa is the central city of Jarus Province," said the visitor in the meantime.

"Oh, so that's what this is about! Unfortunately, I've never been to Laketa—I picked the letter from the corpse of a demon who had been devoured by some of the less friendly representatives of the local fauna."

There was no point in lying, so I told Annat the whole story the way it happened.

"Can you prove it?" the tifling pressed on.

"I can swear on your artifact," I shrugged, then thought for a moment. "If you wait here for five minutes, I can bring you evidence. Will the late courier's cloak be satisfactory?"

"Quite so."

"I'll bring it in a moment. Believe me, I don't intend to disappear—I just need to visit my room."

"I'm fairly certain you won't. Incidentally, are you aware how great a risk it was for you to visit The Forest Violet?

"You know that, too?"

"Young man, please give us some credit—we aren't complete idiots. The fact that you managed to evade two guard patrols doesn't mean we couldn't find you by your tag. I told you we didn't have that many light ones in our town."

"All right, wait here," I sighed. "I'll bring down the cloak."

I went up to my room, retrieved the cloak of the hapless courier from storage, and returned to the hall.

"Can I take this?" Annat asked, having studied the cloak thoroughly.

I didn't know what he found there, but whatever it was, he looked satisfied.

"Sure, go ahead," I waved my hand. "Do you have any more questions?"

"What else did you find among the dead courier's possessions?"

"A letter for Lady Janam and a few coins."

I saw the tifling tense up, as though preparing to pounce.

"Do you have the letter on you?"

"Sure, here it is," I produced the scroll from my bag. "The lady is away on a trip, so I could not deliver it today."

"Interesting," the tifling carefully examined the scroll that sparkled with magic.

"It must be delivered personally," I shrugged. "You can take it if you want," I offered him the scroll. "You can do the delivery yourself."

"Thanks, but no thanks," Annat shied away from the scroll as if I were offering him a venomous snake. "You found it, you deliver it," he said. The end of the phrase had a detached sound to it, as though the Dar was pondering something at the moment. I shrugged and returned the scroll to my bag.

"That's it—I have no further questions for you," the tifling rose from the table. "Should anything else happen, you know where to find me, Krian. Goodbye."

"Dar Annat," I rose from my seat. "Why _did_ they tried to arrest me today?"

"Pront, the secretary of Venerable Yldiz, the recipient of your letter, was arrested today on charges of high treason."

The tifling nodded to me and started to walk toward the exit.

I watched him go, thinking there was definitely something I was missing...

"How much?!"

"Two thousand gold coins—and that's a special offer to a light one. Otherwise I wouldn't even talk to you," Master Kryon, who indeed looked a lot like a horned red-faced dwarf with a singed stubby beard, stuck his finger into his ear, as if actually expecting to find something inside. "You folks from up there must be thinkin' Kryon will work for you for ten coppers, eh?" The dwarf took his finger out and examined it with slight regret. Then he returned to reality and glared at me. "Well, you won't get squat from me for ten coppers!" he shouted, apparently including the entire population of Karn into "you lot."

I drew a heavy sigh. Why did game devs and writers always try to represent dwarves in this manner—as loud, quarrelsome louts? Even when these dwarves happened to be demons. I took out the letter from Raey's father and handed it to the smith.

"I need gold, not kindling paper," Kryon grunted, but did take the letter.

"Duh, now he's at it, too!" said the smith gruffly. "What did you do, cut off Vill's balls and give them to him for his experiments?" he inquired, though the hostility was gone from his voice.

Your reputation has increased. Kryon the Master Smith relates to you with respect.

"Eight hundred gold and not a single coin less. You and that tailed bastard will drive me to bankruptcy." Un-freaking-believable! Eighty thousand bucks for a suit of armor. And that was with a 60% discount. On the other hand, a suit of armor in this world was much more important than an SUV in the other one.

"Might you be interested in this, master?" I produced a vial of skhiarta's blood from my bag.

Kryan took the vial and examined it.

"How many do you have?" asked the smith in an indifferent voice, trying to look calm.

"About ten," I shrugged. I knew how this game was played!

"I'll take eighty off," grunted the master smith, hiding his eyes.

"Don't take me for an idiot! The last skhiarta was killed fifty years ago," I recollected Kyle's words. "It's an extremely rare ingredient." I had forgotten to look up the value of the reagent in the wiki, but the rare class of the vials told me some bargaining was definitely in order. "Half the price!"

"Are you out of your mind?" Kryon made a grand gesture with his hands, addressing the smirking apprentices who stood in the corner of the smithy, as if calling onto them to bear witness to my madness. "You must have hit the cobblestones with your head when you fell from your plane to ours!" He gestured downward with his hand, describing my alleged arrival and head injury. "One hundred and sixty, and not a copper more!"

"Really, Master, it's not like I'm trying to pawn off ten vials of gopher blood or some such. That thing came from the Gray Frontier! Three hundred, and it's a deal!"

"Two hundred for ten vials is my final price."

"All right, it's a deal," I was tired of bargaining, and I was actually fine with the price. "I suddenly remembered I had forty of them. Such a lucky coincidence, isn't it, Master Smith?"

"My gramps told me not to have any dealings with light ones—he said all of you were dodgy," Kryon muttered. However, he didn't look particularly disappointed. "So what is it that you need?"

"This set here," I pointed at a pair of greaves from a level 100 set of armor.

"But you won't be able to wear them," the demon was surprised.

"I think I will, in about a month," I reassured him. "A shield would be nice, too," I said while looking around the smithy. "Actually, I recall that I have another fifteen vials on me..."

I don't know whether my inner hamster was disappointed by my overpaying or rejoicing at the fact that its master would receive an amazing rare set of armor in three weeks, but I was approaching the Temple of All Gods in a good mood. Actually, there wasn't much to be that happy about—a suit of armor of this sort could be purchased at the game auction for about 300-400 gold pieces, given the price gap between the auction and similar craftsmen. But I must reiterate that auction house access was a long way off, and the suit of armor had cost me nothing, since I didn't intend to level my alchemy or blacksmithing skills.

Initial levels of professions could be learned in starting cities. The local starting city was Iskhart, but I had no wish to travel all the way there. I had enough money for the time being—over nine thousand, which should last me a while. My only problem was my main weapon—I could probably make it to level 100 with what I had, but I'd definitely need an upgrade once I got there. Unfortunately, Kryon was only a master armorer—he did have a few swords for sale, but nothing above the unusual class, which wouldn't be much better than what I had equipped at the moment. Oddly enough, there were no good weaponsmiths in Nittal, and Kryon suggested that I inspect the shops and look for weapons personally. I didn't feel like doing anything of the sort, so I decided to head to the Temple, then pay a visit to Dara in the evening, and set off for Urcahnta tomorrow morning.

If you asked an Ancient Greek who their god was, the reply would be instant—something along the following lines: "We have many gods, but the main ones are those sitting on Mount Olympus." There was no equivalent of Olympus in the realm of Arkon, nor were there any dramatic legends of how Zeus gave birth to Athena, who came out of her daddy's head clad in a full suit of armor and wielding a spear (how was it she didn't emerge mounted?!). Arkon's gods just existed, and that was that. The copy that accompanied the patch mentioned gods' plans of some sort—I knew nothing of them, and had no wish to find out for as long as they didn't affect me personally.

The attitude to religion within the game could best be described as one of philosophical resignation. Similarly to their Ancient Greek counterparts, each god had a limited area of specialty. Gods could help you raise your reputation; they could also give you quests and either provide perks or hit you with debuffs. However, you could not get any decisive advantage within the game even if you were some god's favorite—after all, any game must maintain a certain balance. At least, that was the case before the latest patch.

There must be as many gods here as there were in the Ancient Greece—you could hardly keep all their names in mind. However, if one of them marked you with their attention, you should probably remind them of yourself periodically—who knew what perks that might give you? Therefore, the fact that the Goddess of Justice favored me and even gave me a one-time ability could be considered very fortunate—there were around twenty million players in Arkon at the moment, and barely fifty deities. The ability received from the goddess was very much like the Shield of Faith, a skill used by the paladin class. The knights of light used their shields to reduce their sustained damage to one third; however, the skill only worked once a day, if my memory was correct. But beggars can't be choosers—and indeed, maybe Setara's shield would someday prove the very thing that would protect me from some kind of trouble?

Those were my thoughts as I approached the Temple of All Gods—an enormous building whose design was copied from the Pantheon in Rome by the devs (only they made the Temple four times bigger). Drawing was much easier than actual construction work—you never know, maybe in a few thousand years the demons would admire the skill of the ancient builders the way we used to admire the skill of those who'd built the Egyptian Pyramids back on Earth. Hot damn! A thought came to mind that stopped me in my tracks. What if Earth, in turn, had been drawn by someone at some point in time? Then again, it didn't really concern me much at the moment.

It was lunchtime, and the Temple grounds were pretty crowded. All sorts of petitioners and visitors were either moving toward the entrance of the temple, like myself, or simply walking along the paths paved with white tiles between the numerous marble statues standing on the temple grounds. Oddly enough, I didn't notice any beggars—back in Valdarra, for instance, there were crowds of them. Temple acolytes could be told apart by their beige cassocks with symbols of different colors upon them. I had no idea about the meaning of those symbols and whether they were associated with gods or represented the temple hierarchy. Wiki contained no relevant information.

The pediment of the Temple bore the legend, "The Gods see us all and reward us by our deeds." I shrugged and entered, passing between the massive stone pillars of the portico. What I really loved about virtual reality was that you could create miracles like this one here—the temple was twilit inside; the rotunda, or the temple's main room, was cylinder-shaped and over a hundred and fifty feet in diameter. Entrances to gods' shrines were located alongside its wall. The numerous pillars, statues, ornaments and frescoes appeared lit from the inside with some surreal magic luminescence. The hemispherical dome looked like a starlit sky and had a mesmerizing effect on whoever looked at it. There were plenty of people around me, but I still got the impression of being alone in the Temple.

"You shouldn't gaze at the dome for too long, light one—it may give you a splitting headache," a calm and soft voice behind me made me turn around. There was a young demoness there, clad in a beige cassock with her hood up, and the intent gaze of her green eyes made me feel a bit timid.

"You don't seem surprised at all. Do the likes of me visit the Temple every day?"

"Even gods visit our temples sometimes, so there is no reason for me to be surprised about your arrival. The prophesies of Maeliss dar Karis say that by the end of the fourteenth century the boundaries between our planes will disappear. I have no reason to distrust this information." She took off the hood with a light gesture. "My name is Sister Arsa. Can I be of assistance to you, light one?"

"Krian. I'd be really grateful if you could show me the way to Setara's shrine." There were lots of arches in the circular wall. I could have tried each shrine, but I didn't feel like lingering too long.

"Of course, Krian," she pointed toward one of the entrances. "This is the shrine of Setara the Winged—to the left of the shrine of Hart."

The entrance to the shrine was a marble arch with a pair of open wings, one to either side. I went through the narrow corridor, past the walls decorated with bas-reliefs and mosaics, and ended up in a spacious chamber with an altar (a large block of marble). Above the altar stood a ten-foot statue of the goddess. The majestic and beautiful woman with clothes ruffled by the wind was armed with a sword and shield, and her posture suggested unstoppable motion forward. The open wings on her back made the illusion of flight complete. I admired the statue for a while, and then nodded, as though greeting the goddess, and joined the line to the altar.

There were just five demons standing in line, so I didn't have to wait long. I put my hand into a special niche, put ten gold coins into the bowl that stood here, and whispered words of gratitude. Nothing happened, so I nodded the statue goodbye and headed for the exit without undue haste. At some point, I felt a calm examining gaze directed at my back. I decided against turning around, and the sensation of a stare was gone as soon as it appeared. I shrugged, thinking that I must have imagined it—either that, or that was the effect of the surroundings.

After some contemplation, I decided to visit Hart's shrine, too. I was wondering about the appearance of the god whose name I heard the most often over the last couple of days. I didn't have to search the entrance too long—the developers in their irony placed the shrine of the God of Thieves right next to that of the Goddess of Justice.

In a minute I was standing in complete silence, looking at the statue of an old man sitting on a chair above the altar with his body leaning forward and his palms resting on his knees. Hart was giving the visitors an appraising ironic look. I stood there for a minute, admiring the designers' skill, and then did the same as in Setara's shrine—I put my right hand in the niche upon the altar and gave the God of Thieves a gold coin, since it somehow didn't seem right to leave just like that. I nodded Hart's statue goodbye, for one had got to be careful in such places, and left the temple quickly.

_I wonder what would happen if one player put his hand upon the altar, and another one threw the money into the bowl—which one of them would get the credit for the donation?_ That's what I thought to myself on my way to the local alchemist's shop. All the donations in the shrines of the realm of Arkon followed the same pattern, though I didn't quite understand why. Most likely, the AIs responsible for the entity that received the sacrifices must read the data of the player who made the sacrifice. However, if that was the case, I could put my hand on the altar while someone else threw the money in the bowl, the deity involved would probably consider these coins to be my offering. I shrugged and decided I didn't care enough either way. And then I saw a familiar sign up ahead.

I cited pressing business to decline the offers of tea, mulled wine, and something called kava, gave Master Regus the rest of the money, and collected forty magenta vials with the ability elixir. I pondered for a while, and then bought some more health and stamina restoration potions, twenty vials each. Then I bade my farewell to the companionable old man, having promised to buy potions and elixirs from no one else while in Nittal. He must have been starved for company, but I needed to wrap up my business here without undue delay and set off for Urcahnta.

I dropped by a tavern with the sign of a rooster with its tail fluffed out upon it, and ordered myself a meal. I sat down by the window in an empty hall and tucked into my lunch in peace.

"Phew, good thing I managed to catch up with you," a young dark-haired demon in plain gray garb flopped down at my table right across from me.

"How can I be of service?" I pushed the empty plate away and eyed the interloper inquisitively. There was nothing special about him: level 51, hair tied in a neat ponytail, large brown eyes with a hint of mischief, and a square earring made of some white metal in his left ear.

"I'm Leeque," the young man introduced himself. "And you must be the notorious wizard Krian."

"I am indeed Krian, but whence the notoriety?"

"Ooh, a modest one, too," the young demon smiled. "Few here could boast of your achievements."

Could he be referring to Shaartakh?

"If that's all you have to say, I guess I'll get going," I rose. "Got a lot of stuff to do."

I really resented characters of this sort. He looked like a regular guy, but there was something about him that defied understanding, and one should keep well away from anything one doesn't understand in a magical world such as this.

"Hold on! I completely forgot—I was following you and saw you drop something, quite by accident, so I picked it up and ran after you to hand it back. Here you go."

The guy placed a well familiar signet ring on the table.

The Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's Signet Ring! But how could this be? It was a quest item—it could not be lost or sold! I grabbed the ring and stared at the young demon in front of me, completely baffled.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

"Master said you'd be a bit surprised," Leeque chuckled. A bit surprised?! I'd just witnessed a violation of one of the game's fundamental laws!

"What master? As a matter of fact, who are you and what do you want from me?" I said in as cold a voice as I could muster. "You've just told me you followed me and saw me drop a ring. How could any 'master' know about it? Also, you have been running after me too long—I managed to finish my meal in the meantime."

"You should stop quibbling, really," Leeque shrugged. "And don't get so stressed, your mental health is too important... The look in your eyes tells me that you suspect yours truly of having stolen the ring from you."

"You mean you haven't?" I made my countenance even gruffer, but the demon just smiled in response.

"No one stole your signet ring. What I've just given you was a simple copy that vanished as soon as you put it in your bag." The young demon raised his hands, as if to say that his every word was true. "Please consider everything that has transpired an innocent practical joke—I needed something to catch the interest of someone as extraordinary as yourself, didn't I?"

Indeed, even if he didn't steal the ring, how did he see it in order to copy it? Insofar as I knew, quest items from a player's inventory were invisible to others.

"Then let me reiterate—who are you, and what do you want from me?"

"One shouldn't conduct serious business when one's throat is dry!" Leeque called the waitress and ordered a jug of wine.

While the elderly demoness was collecting the empty plates and bringing what Leeque had ordered, I studied him carefully, trying to fathom what I'd gotten myself into this time. The demon's level 51 didn't intimidate me in the least, but who could this mysterious master be, and what could he know about the ring and my quest?

"I think that my identity matters not one bit," Leeque took a sip from his glass and narrowed his eyes in visible delight. "What does matter is what I can do to help you."

"So, what is it you can do to help me?" I said slowly.

I wasn't going to drink with this shady character, so I was just sitting at the table, waiting for what would happen next.

"Krian, you want to make your way up there, don't you?" the young demon sighed and studied the ceiling dispassionately.

"So?" I tried not to let my agitation show in any way.

Leeque shifted his gaze to the fingers of his left hand as though he were examining his manicure for defects.

"If you do me a small favor, I'll share some useful information with you." The demon finally stopped contemplating his hand and raised his eyes to look at me. "I'll also throw in a present that will come in very handy in the future."

"What is it that I'm supposed to do?"

"A trifle, really. A while ago, a certain..." Leeque wavered for a moment, looking for the right word. "Well, let's call him a master. So, this master sent one of his apprentices into the house of a rather dubious individual—we can call him a necromancer." The demon took another sip of wine and continued. "The apprentice was supposed to borrow a certain object from this necromancer's collection, but he never managed it... mm-hmm." Leeque shook his head, apparently recollecting something. "Well, this necromancer did a rather rotten thing to his apprentice—he placed his soul inside the very object that the master had needed. So..." Leeque crossed his arms on his chest, looked me in the eye, and uttered very distinctly: "The master wants you to retrieve this object."

You've accessed the quest: Restoring Justice.

Quest type: unique.

Bring the Star of Hittara to Leeque.

Reward: experience, unknown.

I accepted the quest without thinking twice. I didn't care about understanding anything about the whole matter—it might be my only lead to getting to the other plane, after all. It would be folly or worse to reject such a gift. I produced a pipe from my pocket, which I had already filled with tobacco, lit up, and asked the most logical thing in this situation:

"Why me? Is there no one else in Nittal who could retrieve this object? Believe me, I harbor no illusions about my current abilities—to tell you the truth, that lady over there is three times more powerful," I pointed toward the old waitress, level 120, who was observing the dining hall from her chair next to the entrance.

"Is this what I hear from the slayer of the Netherworld's Elder Demon?" Leeque chuckled.

"I have had nearly nothing to do with the vanquishing of that demon."

The demon clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back on the bench, contemplating something. Then he appeared to have reached a decision and turned his gaze toward me once again.

"Your modesty does you credit, two-lived, but believe me—there's no one else but you who could handle this quest."

"What was that?!"

"Duh, stop trying to pretend you're something you're not!" the demon made a dismissive gesture. There was an imperceptible change in his gaze, which suddenly became coldly calculating. "If some are ignorant of a certain fact, it doesn't mean everybody else is. Up there," he pointed toward the ceiling, "there are lots of those like you. But none of them can do what you can. Moreover, there is absolutely no one else but you who can actually tackle this task."

"Have you been up there? How? Who are you?"

"I believe we have already reached an agreement upon this: business first, information later," the demon replied coldly.

"All right, all right," I poured myself a glass of wine from the jug, downed it at once, took a few deep drags from the pipe, and asked in a quieter tone, "So what is it that makes me unique?"

"The fact that you don't exist," my companion grunted.

I nearly choked on the smoke upon hearing this.

"How's that supposed to work?" I barely managed to utter those words without coughing.

"Hard to say," Leeque shrugged. You're a human being and a demon at the same time, which is absolutely impossible, but there you are, so that's why I offer you this deal."

"Is it you or your master who needs the Star? Where am I supposed to find it? And how can I retrieve it without sharing the fate of that apprentice? The last thing I want is for my soul to be transferred into some object."

"Does it really matter who needs it? Retrieve it, and you'll get the information you seek. As for the rest of it, you're headed for Urcahnta anyway, so you'll end up sticking your nose into the Ghorazm Ruins, right?"

"I have no idea what's happening over there, so I can make no assumptions yet."

"Oh, please," Leeque waved dismissively. "You can handle whatever they throw at you there. If you really want to help the locals get out of the mess they've found themselves in courtesy of that very, uh, necromancer, for want of a better word, you'll have to take a walk through the ruins. You'll find a portal there." The demon placed a vial with a powder of some sort onto the table. "Dump this into the portal window before you go in yourself. Please don't forget, or you'll simply stop being two-lived and become, how do I put it, someone who dies very frequently."

"What's going to happen once I dump the powder into the portal?" I wanted to get all the details to avoid having an explosion of some sort send me to the graveyard.

"The powder will reorient the portal, which will take you where you need to go."

"Could you tell me more?"

"My, aren't we thorough," Leeque smiled. "The portal will take you to a place that's close to the necromancer's dwelling—it's only about half a mile away."

"All right, but how do I collect the Star?" I didn't really think the owner was likely to bring it out on a tray and to give me a basket of warm pastries to keep me from hunger on my way back. "And how do I recognize what I'm looking for, anyway?"

"A relative of mine will help you there. Believe me, light one, I have no illusions about your abilities, either. All you need to do is enter the vault and take what's needed."

"What relative and how is he supposed to help me?"

"Well, this relative of mine also has a bone to pick with the necromancer. His wife's diadem is in the same vault as Hittara's Star. We shall simply surprise the necromancer a bit," The demon smiled, winked at me and placed three more objects on the table—a rock fragment of some sort, a scroll and a small black box. "Once you go through the portal, draw the symbol from the scroll on the ground, place the rock in the center, and dump the contents of this box on top of it. Nothing too complex, right?"

"Won't you tell me anything about the identity of this relative?" I realized I'd subscribe to this cryptic quest anyway, so I tried to get as many details as I could.

"Curiosity doesn't become you, Krian. Once you do everything as per my instructions, you'll see everything for yourself, so why ask? Oh yeah, that relative of mine... He's a bit, you know..." Leeque made a gesture with his hand, trying to find the right words. "This guy's got a short fuse, so try to explain to him right away why you summoned him."

"Why don't you come along and explain everything yourself? You'll most likely find it much easier to converse with your kinsman."

"I would go, of course, but can't you see I can't even get through the ruins. Also," the demon made a despondent face, "there's a dispute of, uh, a theological nature between yours truly and the kinsman in question. So it's best for the two of us to avoid seeing each other presently. As for you, just tell him you can get his diadem, and he'll do the rest. You'll be able to sense where the vault is from a long way off."

"How do I find you afterwards?" I could see I wouldn't learn anything else.

"Just drop the Star into the bowl on Hart's altar in the Temple of All Gods," Leeque stared right into my eyes, and suddenly a ripple ran over everything I could see.

A stone box of a room, brown walls with dark stains, and a cage with a chained skeleton clad in filthy rags. In the center there was a table, covered in blood and nicked countless times, with the remnants of someone who had once been human chained to it. Presently it was a scalped corpse, with every bone in its limbs smashed and its stomach ripped open. The room was lit very sparsely, with every object shrouded in darkness, so the silhouette by the table seemed to be woven from primordial darkness itself.

A black cassock with a raised hood... The stranger was holding an amulet in his hand—a red stone set in a light metal that emitted a barely visible glow.

"I can feel your presence, brother," the stranger's voice was like the hissing of an enormous snake, "but you're a bit late. Your apprentice has pleased me—he died the right way, and it took him a long time. So you must find this stone even more valuable now, am I right?" The stranger's hand moved swiftly, and the amulet disappeared. "Well then, come and get it. I'd love to see you try, anyway. How are you going to claim something that lies behind the seals of the Nameless?"

I breathed in sharply, barely holding back retching spasms, and took a look around me. I saw the tavern, a jug of wine standing right before me, and a glass. The smoking pipe was right in my hand, but Leeque was nowhere to be seen. Those visions again. I'd be all right with them if it didn't take me a while to return to my senses. I felt as though my clothes were soaked in the stench of blood and death. I took a few deep drags to relax, and gestured the waitress to come over.

"Has the young demon gone?" I asked the demoness as she approached the table and looked at me questioningly.

"What demon?"

"The one who sat at the table with me—he ordered this jug," I nodded at the vessel standing on the table. Was she senile or what?

The demoness pondered this for a moment, shifted the cloth she was wiping the tables with from her right hand to her left, and replied with concern in her eyes:

"Master, you should probably stop drinking. You ordered this jug yourself half an hour ago, and you were alone at the table the whole time."

"Of course, of course," I nodded to her.

The quest titled Restoring Justice in my log testified to the fact that I could keep on drinking if I wanted to, but I had no such desire whatsoever. I checked the inventory for the Champion of the Order of the Red Flame's Signet Ring, just in case, then rose, nodded the waitress goodbye and started toward the exit.

As I was leaving the inn, I heard a barely audible chuckle at my back. Obviously, I didn't turn around. But I did wonder what I had gotten myself into this time...

# Chapter 7

Around ten years ago I was no stranger to five-mile walks. I would look at the owners of expensive cars with a little bit of envy, trying to convince myself that long walks were really good for your health and that you could read your favorite books aboard public transit, not to mention plan your route from point A to point B with fifteen-minute accuracy. Everything changed at once as soon as I bought my first car. The pedestrian inside me was replaced by an avid driver. All my former convictions vanished—I no longer found Moscow's numerous traffic jams intimidating, and audiobooks were hardly inferior to their printed counterparts in any way.

I left Nittal in the morning through the Northern Gate, and started to contemplate buying some means of transportation for the umpteenth time as I wound my way around the motley and rambunctious crowd of demons that had gathered near the entrance to the city.

You could only learn the Riding skill upon reaching the hundredth level by spending five talent points on it. I had completely forgotten about this useful skill when planning my leveling. Still, I had four unallocated points in reserve, so it shouldn't be a problem.

Purchasing a mount fit for riding was never considered cheap in this game, but it wasn't much of an impediment in my case—I had money. _I wonder how much Lirrak paid for his riding lizard?_ I thought to myself. Mounts that could assist their owner in battle were valued a great deal more than the regular kind. It would be unwise to skimp on such a helper in my case, and I made a firm decision to visit the city market and take a look at what the local "automotive industry" had to offer upon returning to Nittal.

Rioh's father had mentioned a shortcut to their village leading across farmlands, but I instantly decided against taking it. Meandering between orchards and vegetable patches dug by the locals? Spare me. It would be much easier to take the road that would definitely bring me to my destination, even if it meant walking a few extra miles.

Some three miles out of the city the road became nearly empty of travelers. I was walking along the roadside and thinking about the last quest I'd received. Who could this Leeque be? An envoy of the God of Thieves—or, perhaps, Hart himself? An envoy, most likely. However, the stranger in black was most likely Vill, the God of Torturous Death, who was none too likely to be overjoyed with people trying to raid his vaults. Granted, the gods must conform to the laws of the game just like everybody else, but an irate dark deity could still give you a whole lot of trouble. Given the lack of a logout button and real-life levels of pain sensitivity, this could present a serious problem. Vill could not just appear in the middle of the road, grab me by the scruff of the neck and drag me to his torture chamber, of course, but the bastard had lots of followers in Arkon perfectly capable of doing exactly that. Anyway, I'd pull through no matter what—that creature in the black cassock reminded me of an old acquaintance I intended to get to sooner or later, so I'd gladly help anyone who decided to kick his divine ass.

In the meantime, the lovely landscape comprised of well-tended gardens and orchards, which had managed to become quite tedious by now, came to an end near the wide stone bridge mentioned by the senior coachman. Across lay a sunlit pine wood; the main road to town ran right through it. A crooked wooden post on the roadside had a warped sign nailed to it, showing the direction to the village that I needed.

As I crossed the bridge, I entered a new location: "The Environs of the Ghorazm Ruins, 70-80," I read in the log. Great! The ruins themselves must be an instance dungeon with a level 80 final boss. Since Leeque had told me that nothing here would be beyond my powers, this wasn't a raid dungeon but rather the regular variety, designed for a group of three to five players. Therefore, I should reach level 85-90 before I venturing into it. What I needed was to complete all the quests available in the village and grind away at the local mobs day after day. I should be able to reach level 80 quickly enough, but then the amount of experience received for wasting mobs would diminish. The only way for a player to receive experience in the realm of Arkon was to have a level gap of ten or less between themselves and the creatures they killed. I shrugged and thought to myself, _No matter!_ I had loads of time, anyway.

A windmill appeared before me, followed by roofs of different colors, and, finally, after the road's last bend, the village itself—a large settlement without any palisade around it. A rather wide river ran through the valley behind the vegetable patches—the same I'd crossed some twenty minutes ago.

"Greetings! Would you please tell me how to find the local mayor?" I asked an old demon, who was sitting on a bench next to the last house, absorbed in carving something on a piece of wood on his lap.

"Head that-a-way," the old man waved in the direction of the village center. "Gilim's house is right behind the inn."

_In that case, I'll go to the inn first,_ thought I to myself, heading toward the center of the village.

Urcahnta was nothing like the villages described by the Russian classics—there were no signs of poverty or squalor. The houses were sturdy and well-built, with carvings decorating the blinds and the gables, testifying to the wealth of the locals. You could hear the banging of hammers from several directions, barnyard fowl was loudly complaining of something, and a number of cows drank turbid yellow water from a shallow muddy pond. The village seemed to be going about its daily business—the only thing that caught my attention was the absence of children on the streets. Two young demons in untucked loose gray tunics and brown trousers tucked into their high boots were rolling an enormous wheel in my direction—for a cart, most likely—and cursing under their breath. When they saw me, they both froze with their mouths wide open; the wheel slipped out of their hands and landed in a puddle on the road. I nodded to them, getting around them from the right-hand side, and kept on walking with a smile on my face, listening to the curses coming from behind.

Urcahnta's entire social and political life took place on the small square in the center of the village. The well, which played the part of the local media, was adorned with carvings and stood in front of a small inn. The well-built two-story house with a crane-like bird carved on its gable must have been the residence of the local governing bodies.

Behind the massive, iron-plated doors of the inn lay a small dining hall supported by carved wooden posts. The silver-headed innkeeper with the face of someone who had long ago become one with the Tao glanced over me indifferently, took my money and gave me the key to a room on the second floor. I decided to waste no time in the inn—I wanted to see the local fiends as soon as possible, so I left the moment I had the key in my pocket.

Gilim, the mayor of Urcahnta, looked a bit like the crane that was carved on the gable of his house. Thin and long of nose, he stood well over six foot. Gilim invited me in as soon as he found out who I was. He yelled to his daughters to set the table as soon as we entered, gestured me to a wide bench near the window, and proceeding to seat himself on a tall and narrow stool.

You've completed the quest: Trouble in Urcahnta I.

I didn't receive much experience for this quest, but I hadn't been expecting much in the first place. I refused the meal, but agreed to have a beer with the the owner.

"Harn just wouldn't shut up about you, Master Krian." Gilim was flattering me—I wasn't a master of any sort. "I didn't believe you'd turn up, but it appears Harn was telling the truth when he said you were a decent sort and would definitely keep your promise. It's near impossible to live in the village these days. There are more and more fiends with every day, and if it hadn't been for Master Neyl's punishers, those creatures would be crawling all over the village at night," the mayor sighed heavily. "Well then, master mage, will you help our village? The city authorities have sent fifty gold coins to be awarded to anyone who slays the lich."

"What lich?"

"When Master Ritter's seeker came to the village with a group of the punishers, he said there was a lich in the ruins. He'd made a few rounds of the village, asked the local folk some questions, and then went back. We'd thought they'd send us more men to help out, but they decided to send gold instead." Gilim made a helpless gesture. "However, no one really wants to venture in there. But you should manage it perfectly well, I think. Harn has told me how you saved an entire caravan from a monster."

You've accessed the quest: Trouble in Urcahnta II.

Quest type: normal, chain.

Bring Mayor Gilim the head of the dead mage from the Ghorazm Ruins.

Reward: experience, 50 gold.

Attention! To complete this quest you will need at least two allies.

Hmm, the governing AI must apply a filter of some sort to such dungeons—players could get in easily, but NPCs could not. Some NPCs may be able to enter such instances without any problems, but it appeared that punishers sent from the city couldn't get in.

In the meantime, two of the host's daughters—clad in red skirts and white embroidered blouses, and as tall and thin as their father—wasted no time setting the table with what simple snacks they could find, occasionally casting such glances in my direction that I almost blushed.

I took a long pull from the tankard given to me by the host and nodded as I accepted the quest.

"All right, then!" Gilim sighed with relief. "Here's to your success, master mage!" The mayor saluted me with his tankard.

We raised a toast to luck, and I hastened to bid him farewell.

_A lich, eh,_ thought I to myself as I left the mayor's house. Actually, I cared little whether it was a lich or an Arabian princess. Actually, no—no Arabian princesses, please. Yesterday's encounter with Dara was still fresh in my memory. A lich was much better indeed—no extraneous eroticism that way.

Sure, fifty gold was small change to me by this point, but it was time to get used to regular quests received in locations corresponding to my level. After all, for this kind of location this price for clearing out a dungeon was a high enough reward. _And the fact that I got lucky with the money in the beginning doesn't mean this kind of luck will stay with me,_ I concluded with just the tiniest bit of self-deceit, for the quests I had in my log implied otherwise.

Sure enough, the only quest from the list I could really handle right now was the one I received from Leeque, but, as the ancient wisdom goes, "there's always a catch!" The envoy of the God of Deceit and Trickery had entrusted me with stealing some thingamajig from the God of Torturous Death. The quest reeked of trouble—even if I managed to accomplish everything, I couldn't be sure of receiving a just reward. I tried to avoid thinking about the possibility of failure—the sight of a dismembered body on that table was still fresh before my eyes.

"Master Krian! Master Krian, I knew you would come!" Rioh must have learned of my arrival somehow—he was waiting for me at the square.

The women standing near the well stopped chatting and turned in my direction with visible curiosity.

"If you keep shouting about it like that, the whole village will soon know it, too," I smiled. The young demon's unfeigned joy was nice to see.

"Duh, let them! Come to our place, master mage, it's right nearby."

"Actually, I was planning to check out the local fiends," I tried to extricate myself.

"Oh, come on, master mage! We've been waiting! Mom has a present for you—her way of saying thanks for me and pop, as it were. Fiends can wait! Come along, will you?"

"Oh, all right. Let's go," I waved my hand resignedly.

I only managed to end my visit in about an hour and a half. Harn's wife—a stout demoness by the name of Sinta—had put so much food on the table that it would suffice to feed a company of soldiers. I ended up receiving a set of clothes as a present, and Harn also advised me to visit the local sorcerer, who, he said, would have an interesting assignment for me.

_Well, the visit wasn't a waste of time, after all,_ I thought as I walked towards the residence of Peotius, the local luminary. Books that I'd read often portrayed protagonists slaying dozens of bad guys as little more than killing machines. Without fear and beyond reproach... And also devoid of emotion. What some authors tended to forget completely was that unless a person was a total sociopath, they absolutely had to possess the need for others to treat them as actual human beings. I knew nothing of how I'd change here over the course of time, but I would hate to lose this need for human warmth and turn into a humanoid beast.

The local sorcerer's house was located on the northern edge of the village—you could see the punishers' outpost on the road to the Ghorazm Ruins from his gate. With the thought that I shouldn't forget to take the quest to eliminate the nearby fiends from the captain, I entered the yard.

I crossed a clean and well-tended garden with a pavilion amid the trees and knocked on the door. I didn't have to wait long—in about five minutes the door was opened by a rather quaint character: he looked no older than thirty, was bold, with slightly elongated pointy ears and large green eyes. The sorcerer had the level of 210. He was of medium height, a little shorter than me. I must have interrupted him during some experiment, since he was wearing a leather apron all covered in stains and a mask resembling a respirator. A waft of different smells rolled over me from the open door, with the aroma of ammonia prevailing.

"Come in," the sorcerer stepped to the side, letting me in as soon as I'd introduced myself. He showed me into a small but well-lit room. "I'll finish in a moment—give me five minutes," he asked.

The village sorcerer wasn't merely a healer and an alchemist—he was clearly interested in herbalism, as I surmised from the numerous plant catalogs on his shelves and a well-tended garden in the yard.

The sorcerer wasn't away for too long—he returned to the room without the apron or the mask, wiping his hands meticulously with a piece of rag.

"I have an exam in ten days, so I have to prepare," he said. "How do you like our village?"

"A lovely place," I replied. "Harn told me you might have something for me."

I had no wish to linger, having wasted enough time already.

"Sure," he nodded. "You see, Krian, whatever happened in the ruins has had an odd effect on the local fauna. There is some sort of a disease—it doesn't affect beings of our level of sentience, but instantly transforms animals weighing around 50-60 pounds into aggressive walking corpses." The sorcerer put the rag aside, locked his fingers together on the table, and continued. "Domesticated animals remain unaffected by the disease, and this is something I cannot understand."

"So where do I come in?"

"I need tissue samples from several representatives of the local fauna for my research. I shall give you a few Medium Invisibility Potions in return."

You've accessed the quest: Samples for Research.

Quest type: normal.

Bring Peotius the sorcerer ten blighted tissue samples taken from each of the following species: boars, wolves, and bears.

Reward: experience, 2 Medium Invisibility Potions.

I accepted the quest and quickly said my goodbyes. I went out, visited the local graveyard, which was the spitting image of the one in Lamorna, set a bind point, and only then proceeded to the punisher camp for my quest.

A wide canopy held by six supports, about a dozen wooden cots, a pot on a tripod, a few tables and benches, and three odd-looking constructions made of medium-sized logs and resembling anti-tank obstacles. One had to be very generous to call this an outpost—it looked more like a cookhouse.

Captain Neyl, woken up by one of the legionaries, washed his face in a small roadside pond, and approached me, yawning all the while.

"So you plan to take a stroll to the ruins, eh?" asked the captain in a hoarse low voice after giving me the once-over. He looked around fifty—a shaved head with a long topknot and a droopy mustache gave the captain an uncanny resemblance to the cossacks from the books I'd read in my childhood, with the exception of gray horns on either side of his cranium.

"Yes, and I'd like to find out what I'm likely to expect. I have also heard that Master Ritter has put a bounty on the local fiends."

"The first impression you get is that there's nothing of substance there—on the surface, at least. We didn't check out the swamp, but we did go all the way to the ruins," Neyl shrugged. "Blighted land begins right across those trees," he pointed to a small copse some nine hundred feet away. "You mostly encounter pigs on your way to the ruins. No idea where so many have come from—we've never had anything like those numbers before," the captain shrugged again. "You can find wolves and bears if you go farther into the woods. You mostly find regular fiends right next to the ruins. As for the reward..."

You've accessed the quest: Rid the Territory of Blighted Pigs.

Quest type: normal, recurring.

Bring 20 tails of blighted boars to Captain Neyl.

Reward: experience, 1 gold.

I received identical quests involving wolf and bear tails—I had to bring fifteen and ten of each, respectively. There were also two undead quests—the captain paid a gold coin for ten skulls or five severed zombie arms.

"Another thing," Neyl frowned and looked aside. "Things aren't all that cheery over there," he sighed. "When the whole thing started, the locals tried to clean up the territory by themselves. But then the hunters started to disappear—the village lost seven of them back then. Me and my boys have made a few sorties to the ruins, but we didn't encounter anything substantial along the way." Neyl looked toward the copse. "You take good care when you get there. If you see anything, call me and the boys, and we'll help. There's not much hope for the locals," he waved dismissively. "They had a few reckless guys, but those disappeared a week ago. There was one hell of a thunderstorm that night, and you could hear some strange roaring coming from that direction."

"I see," I nodded. "Thanks for the warning, Neyl. Tell me, is it true that the fiends try to make their way into the village every night?"

"Nah, the mayor likes to put on a scare," the captain chuckled. "We eliminate anything we see up to the very copse. Should something wander in at night, a single slash of the sword takes care of it."

Beyond the copse pointed out to me by Neyl there were fields on either side of the road, where the locals used to grow their crops. Now these fields were but enormous rectangles of wilted vegetation, with numerous pigs of a revolting bluish color roaming them in groups of three. Each was about four feet tall. Patches of skin hung from their sides, and you could see ribs where the flesh had rotted through. It made for a revolting sight. The beasts were around level 70-75, so I had no worries whatsoever. I said to myself, _Let's get started._ I took the shield from my back into my left hand, clenched the handle of the sword with my right, stepped off the path and cautiously set toward the group I'd chosen.

Earth Shackles bound the two beasts the furthest from me. The third pig, or, rather, boar, going by the tusks on its lower jaw, snorted loudly and started to hop in my direction. Some ten yards off the creature accelerated all of a sudden, covering the remaining distance in the blink of an eye and plunging its tusks into the small of my back with an upward motion. The pain made me clench my teeth, and I barely managed to stay on my feet. I slashed at the boar's neck with Ice Blade—not the best strike I could have managed, but it took a quarter of the beast's HP. I used my shield to block the next attack, and then lashed out at the squealer with Tongue of Flame. I landed a critical blow—the boar wheezed and slowly fell to the side. A stench of burning rotten flesh filled the air.

A few seconds later, the two remaining pigs were released from the hold of my Earth Shackles, and they started to trot toward me confidently. Having learned of their ability the hard way, I hid behind the carcass of my first victim, preventing the attackers from dashing in my direction, and greeted the first beast with the well-familiar Ice Blade—right in the snout. I blocked the counterattack with my shield, used Tongue of Flame, another parry with the shield, and the second pig slowed down for a moment as it had to trot around its fallen comrade. I hit it with an Ice Blade and then jumped aside to replenish my energy a bit.

I covered myself with the shield against the advancing piggies, blocked the dash of the one that had full HP, and finished off the wounded one. Then I killed the last one with four blows, parrying its counterattacks, took a deep breath and held it, waiting for the pain to abate.

I decided against using a vial with a healing potion—it was best to be frugal with those. They only worked once a minute, anyway, so I'd only use them as a last resort. I recovered my HP in about 15 seconds. With Raey's earring, my HP regeneration out of combat was a little over two percent per tick. Just standing next to these carcasses reeking of putrefaction was already revolting, but I had to approach and touch each of them with my hand to collect the loot. I didn't find anything special on the carcasses—each contained a tail and a tissue sample. The boar also had a pair of tusks, but I doubted those cost more than a few coppers.

The result was far from encouraging—I got less than one percent of experience, and the pack of pigs cost me nearly a third of my HP, but that was with me nearly going all out, and with my Toughness being a whopping 33%. It took me about thirty seconds to kill all three pigs, but I felt no immediate desire to challenge the next pack—it's hard to force yourself into such a masochistic activity.

I found one thing rather weird—this time I felt pain throughout the battle, but my fights with skhiarta's brood and the giant wolf were different. You didn't need too many smarts to see why—the previous times my system was pumping out enormous loads of adrenaline and I truly hated my adversaries. As for the pigs, I merely saw them as regular quest mobs containing tails, tissue samples and other crap of the same sort.

No, that wouldn't do. They were no mere mobs! These beasts were in the way of my revenge! I cast Shackles on two pigs, binding them with the spell. Then I leaped at the boar before it could dash at me and struck out with Ice Blade. These beasts stood between me and the bastard who had fractured my bones in his basement! Two more flourishes, and the boar fell on the black loamy soil, and I rushed toward the remaining two without waiting for the spell to wear off.

"You left me here to die, Cheney!"

I hit one of the immobilized mobs a few times before the spell effects wore off and the pigs turned toward me to attack.

"And I kept dying the whole damned day!"

Fury took hold of me completely.

"How dare you stand in my way!"

A few more blows, and the last pig fell to my feet with a death rattle, my blade in its eye. I distractedly collected the loot and waited for the HP bar to refill, examining the carcass at my feet. The pig snout with an ugly hole in its eye socket suddenly assumed the familiar features of my Enemy.

"Yes, you bastard," I spat out the words, nearly gagging on my hatred, "the same is gonna happen to you!"

I cleaned my blade of bits of grayish flesh, raised my eyes from the corpse and looked out on the field.

"But I have survived—yes I have—and I'm coming to get you!"

With a bestial roar, I pounced on the next pack...

It took all my willpower to stop at dusk. I was standing near the wood adjacent to the field, covered in gray goo from head to foot. There were pig carcasses everywhere, emitting a horrendous stench of death. Some had already disappeared, leaving gray blotches of an irregular shape on the ground, but the ones I could see were enough to conclude it had been a productive day. It took nearly six hours of ceaseless farming, but the fields on both sides of the road were completely undead-free. I had 144 tails in my bag and lots of assorted yucky stuff such as fangs and stomach fragments—today's trophies. _Time to head for the village._ The piggies would start to revive before too long—the process was known as "respawning" and it began about six hours after a mob's death. Incidentally, could this be why RP-17 had extended the time it took players to resurrect from two minutes to the same six hours? _We're all mobs here._ I chuckled and set forth toward the village.

I had leveled to 76 on the tenth pack, and the experience bar had crawled to 14% since then. Toughness and Focus had also increased by 1% and 2%, respectively. I allocated the free talent point to the last connecting skill before Silence, and used stat points in the usual way—by dumping them into HP. You could never have enough, after all.

The two road sentries got a better grip on their pikes and looked at me with some concern. But then, recognizing me as the mage who'd passed their way a few hours ago, they lowered their weapons and stood aside, letting me through. Neyl gave me seven gold coins, wincing at the smell and muttering something about crazy necromancers under his breath. He recommended to dump all the stuff that fell from the pigs into the pit by the side of the road, and I followed his advice five minutes later.

As I reached the inn, I went upstairs quickly so as to not expose the locals to the stench that came from my armor. I entered my room and went right into the shower without taking off the armor, and opened the faucets fully. The armor would have cleaned itself by the morning, and the room was well-ventilated, but I hated the thought of leaving my equipment in such a horrendous state.

The tails I handed in didn't bring in much experience—the bar moved to 21%. _Looks like I'll have to stay here for a long while,_ was my final thought before I drifted to sleep.

***

The remnants of stone walls formed a trapezoid around the ancient castle. There were four destroyed towers in the corners—like ever-vigilant sentries, they eyed the surrounding area with the dark pits of their embrasures. I could see the ruins of the structures that lay inside the perimeter and the sinister remains of the castle keep. The area around what once used to be a castle was peppered with large rock, with groups of zombies and skeletons maneuvering in between.

Around two weeks and a half had passed since my arrival to Urcahnta. I had managed to waste so many pigs, wolves and bears in the surrounding area that animal rights activists would definitely have placed a bounty on my head if it were happening IRL. Half a month of endless farming, ten to fifteen hours a day, had made me so weary that one sight of the local fauna made me ready to retch. However, level 82, fully studied Silence, and 43% Toughness were totally worth it.

I no longer had to recollect Cheney to invoke this fury—simply entering combat sufficed. Rage no longer blinded me—I never lost touch with reality. Fury and hatred seemed to have become inverted in some way, and now I could only sense them remotely. Pain would only come after the loss of half my XP, so I was quite content with myself.

Today I decided to sneak into the ruins and take a good look around. The levels of the local fiends (79-80) and the packs of three or four skeletons or zombies didn't scare me at all. On the contrary, it was much easier to use the shield for blocking the strike of a former humanoid than to parry a side blow of a bear's paw or the attack of a wolf clinging to the very ground.

Earth Shackles bound a tall skeleton with a two-handed sword, and the bonehead running my way with a club was met by an Ice Blade. Then I cast Silence on the third skeleton, whose hands became surrounded by dark flashes indicating that it was preparing to cast a spell. I used my shield to parry the strike of an ironclad club, sending my first opponent to be reborn again with two strikes, and then cast Ice Blade once again, getting the dead sorcerer who had swung a club at me right in the head—the stupid mob was deprived of his capacity to cast spells for ten seconds and decided to try his luck in a melee attack, of all things. The blade's Frost kicked in, and it took just one more blow to make the hapless lich's bones fall to the ground with an icy clangor. The enormous skeleton's dash stunned me for a second and a half, and I failed to parry a powerful strike with the two-handed sword that knocked off almost a quarter of my HP. Before the warrior skeleton swung again, I managed to land two blows, then crouched, with the second blow swinging over my head, and struck the warrior in the exposed side. There was a cracking sound—I'd knocked two ribs from his ribcage. Before he managed to react, I chopped off his head with my final blow. I calmly waited for the pinkish HP bar to refill and bent over the bones scattered underneath my feet.

_Skeletons are no fat cats for sure,_ I grunted. Thirty three copper coins, three quest skulls, a rusty ax and a few pieces of woolen fabric—not what I'd call a good haul! You'd need to kill about a hundred mobs hanging around the area to earn a single gold coin. Oh, and Neyl ran out of money on the third day. The magistrate had allocated only fifty gold coins of bounty money, of which nifeteen had been claimed by local hunters.

The captain took a long and thoughtful look at me as I just returned to the village and told me that a necromancer he knew in Nittal was looking for an assistant, and that if there was anyone he could think of recommending, it was yours truly.

I thanked him for caring so deeply about my career and that I would think about it, and took his last gold coin. Good thing I was still getting experience for these quests, or I would have needed those skulls about as much as an oyster needed a parasol.

The sun was beginning to set, painting the ancient castle ruins in somber crimson and wine red hues. I looked toward the fallen gate. Another three hundred yards or some fifteen packs of the undead were blocking the direct way through with their aggro zones. And there were more in the courtyard. _All right, no use tarrying—I need to take a look at the dungeon today._ I chose the next group of fiends as my target and cast Shackles on the far skeleton armed with a sword and shield...

All that remained from the keep was a story and a half. The hexagonal building, once formidable, looked squalid and dilapidated, and even the narrow slits in the walls could hardly scare anyone now. It only took me an hour and a half to get there—most of the time was spent on entering the gate of the castle and wiping out most of the mobs roaming the courtyard. I didn't get much richer—all I got was the copper equivalent of eight silver coins and an unusual helmet for level 71, as well as skulls and pieces of woolen fabric that filled my bag.

The entrance to the main part of the castle doubled as the entrance to a level 75-80 instance designed for a group of three to five. It was at the end of a fifteen-foot passageway, some sections of which had crumbled down. Another week of farming and I should be able to take a look inside and say hello to whoever lived in the castle.

Something glittered on the ground—some ten yards away from the keep's wall, pockmarked by centuries. I came closer and saw a rusty dagger on a gray stone. _This is weird—how did a level 190 dagger end up here?_ As the thought occurred to me, I heard a horrendous grating noise. I noticed a blurred movement to the right, upon a protruding part of the wall, and turned instantly, grabbing the shield with my left hand. A powerful blow threw me back onto the cobblestones, and an agonizing pain seared my body—it felt like being caught in a mangle.

Gh'khorsh the Stone Gargoyle hits you for 4742 damage.

Attention! You are stunned!

As I was falling, I cast a teleport spell to a point some twenty yards to the side, shaking off the stun and evading the blow of a level 232 stone gargoyle. The six-and-a-half-foot bulk looked like an inflated bodybuilder with membranous wings. It landed at the very spot I'd just left with a crash. The appalling simian snout with huge fangs made a sharp turn toward me, its yellow eyes flashing. The muscled and taloned paws flexed. The gargoyle was preparing for another leap.

It took a Herculean effort, but I managed to rise again and meet the monster's leap standing, holding my shield in front of me...

Gh'khorsh the Stone Gargoyle hits you for 288 damage. You die.

***

Attention! Your character's death has resulted in the loss of 20% of your levels. Your current level is 65.

Attention! Your character's death has resulted in the loss of 51 stat points. Your current stats are distributed as follows: Agility—10, Strength—71, Constitution—72, Intellect—72, Spirit—72, Vigor—60.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_ I was sitting at the graveyard near Urcahnta and looking at the moon hanging in the darkened skies, my back to a gravestone. Seventeen levels gone just like that! The damned gargoyle had completely nixed all the progress made over the last three weeks—my current level was even lower than right after Shaartakh's demise. Neyl was telling the truth—those hunters didn't just disappear (I'd been under the impression the NPCs were falling prey to the undead wreaking havoc). As it turned out, a named mob was to blame.

Players would consider themselves very lucky to encounter such mobs in the game due to guaranteed good loot. A mob that was about 1.5 times stronger than the regular sort would give the lucky victor a rare item in every case. The fact that its level would often be two or three times higher than that of the zone would normally be fairly inconsequential—you could call a fellow clanmate of a higher level, or several friends, and pocket the trophy. Alternatively, you could sell the info to someone you trusted.

This particular encounter, however, made me want to howl at the moon. It was hard not to get discouraged in this situation... the more self-pity I felt, the more I hated myself. Finally, hatred triumphed over pity, and an outburst of fury destroyed my melancholy completely. "Screw all of you!" I hissed, rising. Seventeen levels lost—so what! I got to keep all my talents, and fifty seven points of stats were small fry considering the gains from the equipment. I'd be able to equip my armor and sword again. As for the cloak, the earring, and the ring—I could put them back on once at level 70, so no great loss there. However, I still needed to think of a way to retrieve aforementioned armor.

The first thing that came to mind was to ask the legionnaires for help, but how would that reflect on me? And how would I put it to them? "Why don't you guys snuff the gargoyle with those mighty high levels of yours, and poor little me will stand and watch? Oh, and I also need to get that armor off my corpse." Yeah, right. Ludicrous. I had to get the armor myself, and I knew how to do it. All I needed was to pop into my room and grab two vials of Medium Invisibility Potions.

There was a huge pile of boulders some thirty feet away from my corpse. Skeleton packs didn't venture that far—the gargoyle's roost was close nearby. It was pretty simple—I would use the first potion to get to the pile and wait out the five-minute cooldown. Then I'd cast Shackles on the nearest pack and Silence the sorcerer, if they had one, just to play it safe. Then I'd grab my stuff, pop the second bottle, and split.

It would still probably be a good idea to tell the legionnaires about the gargoyle—it wasn't like they would rush out to the ruins and start exploring right away. But I had to go either way, otherwise I wouldn't manage to sleep at all—why would I want that kind of anxiety? I shouldn't draw any aggro on my way to the ruins—that much had been established.

As usual, my mood lightened once a decision was made. What was a month or two of delay when you had eternity at your disposal?

"Stone gargoyle, eh?" Neyl scratched the back of his head, deep in thought. I was fortunate—the captain wasn't asleep, so I didn't need to wait for someone to wake him.

"Yup. Sitting on a protruding part on the wall of the keep, right above the entrance. I won't be able to handle it alone, so I thought I might tell you about it."

"But we've been there, haven't we?" the demon frowned. "Although those creatures are great at disguising themselves—you can't tell one from a rock. We may have failed to notice it."

"He's no fool to attack a dozen soldiers, is he?" I don't know why I had to specify the gargoyle's gender or why that would even be important—Hart only knew how those beasts were classified! And I definitely shouldn't mention the aggro radius. Neyl's was... somewhat different from mine, given that his level was 230, and mine, 82... formerly, that is. Little wonder that the legionnaires hadn't noticed anything.

"Thanks, Krian. We'll definitely check it out today and see what kind of beast hides there." Neyl looked toward the ruins somberly. "Will you come with us?"

"I'll definitely join if I manage to get there in time," I nodded. Where else would I be? Hell, I should get some popcorn as well, and a front-row seat to the execution of the brute that had sent me to be reborn.

"It's agreed, then." The demon shook my hand. "Come by midday—that's when we set off."

It took me about an hour to get to the ruins. I could have been quicker, but I was trying to move as stealthily as I could, keeping to the very center of the path lest I waded into the aggro range of some wild beast, god forbid.

I only realized how stupid it was to travel through the forest by night once I got deep enough. The forest had a life of its own. The light of the moon barely got through the gloomy canopy of the trees that stood to either side of the road. Silence was often broken by mysterious sounds that would make anyone in their right mind want to run as far and as fast as they could.

For a moment I thought about going back and retrieving my equipment later, after dawn, but I instantly suppressed it. The decision had been made, and I wasn't about to go back on it.

The eyes of the skeletons patrolling the environs of the ruins shone with a blue light—the devs must have thought it would intimidate the players, but I found it funny for some reason. The ruins themselves, lit by moonlight alone, looked like a huge dark blotch from where I was standing.

The position of my corpse was marked on the map. There shouldn't be more than three hundred fifty yards left—about three hundred to the gates, and another fifty to the dungeon entrance. I pulled the vial with the Medium Invisibility Potions from my inventory. Invisibility would kick in two seconds after ingestion and last a minute. The potions's cooldown time was five minutes. It would indeed be odd if the cooldown time were shorter than the effect—everyone would turn into a brigand. The first goal was the pile of boulders. Let's roll.

You are currently invisible. The level of threat you represent has been lowered. No enemies can target you. The effect's duration is one minute. Any extraordinary action on your part will result in the termination of the invisibility effect.

So, I could run around, crouch, shout and wave my hands. However, if I used Jump or looted my corpse, invisibility would instantly fade. It took me about fifty seconds and nearly all my visor to reach the designated spot. Now all I had to do was wait.

No doubt, it was unwise to visit such places at night. Apart from the resurrected undead, nothing seemed to have changed over the time that I'd been gone. Fragments of walls that had once protected this castle were scattered all over the place, along with the rubble from a stone statue, the dark remnants of a well and the somber arch of the keep's entrance. All in all, the moonlit courtyard of the castle looked decidedly spooky.

The ugly thing that had killed me was sitting some five feet above the ground. Neyl was right—if you didn't know exactly what to look for, the still body of a stone gargoyle was hard to tell from a simple rock. _Noon isn't that far off, you monkey._ I didn't care for the loot the gargoyle had on it—I just wanted to see the damned thing kick the bucket! _This is strange—I've never been this bloodthirsty._ I quickly chased all that sappy self-reflection out of my mind. Sure, I'd really enjoy seeing this scum die. And then I'd come closer to kick its corpse. Something like that. The game was no longer a game, and I was now able to rejoice at my enemy's death. And I didn't give a damn if anybody judged me for it.

Five minutes went by as one instant. My corpse was fifteen yards away, with a single four-mob pack close nearby. Let's rock!

I cast Shackles on the skeletons and quickly ran toward the dearly departed. I should leave the Jump in reserve in case I might need it. I threw Silence on the one with the staff while running—the last thing I needed now was his lousy magic. I approached the body lying on the cobblestones, quickly looted all my stuff, and instantly downed an invisibility potion. Two seconds till I could run back to safety.

Shit! I had originally assumed the fourth skeleton—the one armed with a dagger—to be a rogue, but he turned out to be a necromancer who'd managed to hit me with a thirty second periodic damage debuff, instantly stripping my invisibility. Gah! How was I supposed to tell them apart if all the undead in the courtyard flounced about in the nude with nothing but the legend "Ghorazm Ruins Skeleton" and their level floating above their heads?

Getting past eighteen packs of the undead without any armor on was certain death—I'd never be able to leave the ruins again. "Screw you all!" I bellowed and leaped toward the dungeon entrance. I heard the familiar scraping sound above my head on the right—the winged ape had woken up. I accelerated and dove into the dark arch of the keep, hearing a loud thud of the heavy body hitting the cobblestones behind me...

# Chapter 8

Welcome to the Realm of Arkon, Max...

"I made it!" Max took a small step forward, struggling to keep his balance, and pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to mitigate the splitting headache pulsing in his skull. "I'm alive!"

"You're a tough one, bro," a tall dark-haired guy dressed in rags, who was passing by, nodded respectfully. "I lay flat on my back for about five minutes after the jump, but look at you—you've managed to stay on your feet!"

Max wiped cold sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his coarse-wave shirt, taking a few deep breaths, and finally allowed himself to take a good look around. "Knock me sideways!" he breathed out in admiration as he took in the splendor that surrounded him. Majestic trees of enormous size stretched hundreds of feet upwards. Their luxuriant canopy was like a sunlit ocean sparkling with every shade of green imaginable. Inexplicably, enough sunlight filtered through to sustain fresh growth below, which, in turn, was breathtaking—a wide variety of plants filling the air with pleasant aromas. This beauty was augmented by the elven architecture, which seemed to exist in perfect harmony with the vegetation and complement the forest in its exquisite elegance. Elves resided inside the trunks of trees, which kept on growing untroubled, as though by virtue of kinship with the creatures living within.

The only thing spoiling the view were a few hundred other players dressed the same as Max. He wondered why none of them seemed to be doing anything—they just sat on the grass and talked, gesturing wildly, while others roamed the wood without any visible purpose. About fifty yards away away a group of young men and women with flowers in their hair were dancing at an impromptu disco. He felt as though he paid a visit to the Moscow Botanical Gardens and ended up at a mixed hippie/emo party. The hair color of those around him ranged from snow-white to raven-black; many had tattoos and piercings of all sorts on their faces, and as for the ears...

_The ears!_ Max felt the rims of his ears and gave a mirthless laugh. _But of course, I'm an elf now._ He shook his head. _Why couldn't Alyona choose a human character?_ Still, his ears felt the same as usual under his fingers, and the shape was hardly a problem—he'd get used to it. He took a good look at his hands, just in case, and then felt his face. _All the sensations appear to be the same as before._

"You should feel yourself between the legs while you're at it," smirked a dark-haired fellow lounging on the grass some twenty yards away. He had a stick of some sort in his lap, which vaguely resembled the handle of a spade. "Are you disabled?"

"Why would you think that?" Max approached the guy and sat down on the grass next to him.

"About thirty-six hours have passed since the patch—the first wave here were those who had nothing to lose IRL." He stuck his thumb in his chest. "A few days later, once everyone realizes what's going on, there'll be hordes of people here." The guy sighed heavily and turned away, ending the conversation.

_What a weirdo! He should be overjoyed, but look at him sitting there all mopey,_ thought Max as he opened his character's menu. Having never played games of this sort before, he had spent the whole night before his departure in front of his computer, choosing a suitable class for his character and then memorizing the guide. He had no time to manage anything else—he was afraid that the opportunity to relocate to the Realm of Arkon might cease to be available any moment, which would forever separate him from the only people he'd ever cared about. His race was chosen for him—since Alyona had decided to become a dark elf for whatever reason, he had no choice in the matter—an elf is an elf is an elf.

The game's interface was intuitively understandable—the semi-transparent square with system messages, eight slots on the action bar, and three additional bars for HP, energy and mana. One could access the skills and abilities displayed on the action bar from within one's head as well, but the author of the beginners' guide recommended to keep it visible until around level 30, so that one could have visual confirmation of every action. He was physically incapable of reading all the system messages displayed at login after the surge of pain that had jolted through his body, but now that he was feeling perfectly fine again, Max tried to concentrate on the text and ignore the shouts of joy coming from all over the place.

Welcome to the Realm of Arkon, Max. You are currently in the village of Armilan in Sunlit Forest (zonw level 1-8). Sunlit Forest and the adjacent areas are starting zone for the race of dark elves. We remind you that attacking friendly NPCs or other players in starting locations is prohibited. You can leave a starting zone anytime by passing through the Origin Gates and entering a suburb of Ellorian, the dark elf capital. However, the administration strongly advises against doing this before your character reaches level 10, since you will not be able to return. Get your first quest from Mentor Almaren. His location is indicated on your map.

The guide said you should never leave starting zones before reaching level 15, the highest that could be achieved there. The enormous amount of people in the outside word would inevitably make leveling a great deal harder. Max glanced toward an enormous tree that served as the local town hall. There were two sullen elves standing at the entrance, level 50 each. Max sighed heavily. He surely wanted to find Alyona as soon as he could, but what was the next step? He needed to be able to protect her. What could he do now, having never played games of this sort before? Any kid would know tons more about these things than he. Therefore, he grudgingly swore to himself to follow the guide's recommendations.

According to the author, one needed around five days to get to level 15. He was prepared to spend this time here. According to Alyona, she was already level 21; however, leveling up was anything but easy here, so she was unlikely to get too far ahead. As for experience, he was nothing if not tenacious. Nothing ever came easy to Max. He was twenty one when his mother died, and he managed to find the resolve to keep on practicing his swimming, then graduate from the Moscow Power Engineering Institute, which he had gotten into without any connections or privileges, _summa cum laude_. This was followed by six years of slaving for a company. At the age of twenty eight he invested all his savings into a business of his own. Now he had to work even more, and it wasn't his fault when the company he had founded went bankrupt. A week later his wife left him, and the young man suddenly realized there was hardly anything to his life but his work. He suddenly discovered that his school friend Roman—and Roman's beauty of a sister, whom he saw often since the two lived in the same apartment block—were the most important people in his life. His feelings for Alyona had long gone beyond mere friendship, so it didn't take him long to decide. When his friend called him to report he'd gotten stuck in some godforsaken gaming plane, Max had already made up his mind.

After talking to Roman's aunt, he called his ex and told her he was leaving the real world for the game. Then he smoked half a pack of cigarettes in the kitchen, building up his courage, and then, finally, got into the gaming capsule...

"Why so gloomy, boys? Come celebrate with us!"

Max's recollections were interrupted by a tall and slender elven maiden that stood about fifteen feet away. She looked just like an anime character—regular people's eyes re never so large or so green. The picture was complemented by D cups and incredibly long and slender legs. The girl spoke with a slight accent. The game used a single common tongue, translating into it from a large number of other languages, but players opined that native speakers of different languages could still hear a slight accent in non-natives' voices.

"Thanks, gorgeous," his eyes stopped for a second on the two undone top buttons of her blouse that revealed the girl's cleavage in the most tantalizing way. "I just got here. Gotta get my thoughts together. Maybe later..."

"Suit yourselves," the girl snorted, eyed Max's neighbor, who never uttered a word, and turned around sharply, heading for another nearby group of young men sitting on the grass with spring in her step.

"I could get used to this," said Max, his eyes following the girl.

"Indeed," his taciturn neighbor finally spoke up, his thousand-yard stare fixed on the clearing where new players kept emerging from the golden fog, alone and in small groups. They turned up on the grass in different postures, stayed motionless for a while, then rose, and walked away shakily.

_So, what about those stats?_ Max could see his neighbor's reluctance to get on with the conversation, so he reopened his character's options screen.

Agility: 1.

Strength: 8.

Constitution: 8.

Vigor: 1.

Spirit: 1.

Intellect: 1.

HP: 80.

Energy: 10.

Mana: 10.

Just like it said in the guide. His first skills would only appear once he'd reach level 10, so he didn't really need energy for anything save running so far. _Strength and constitution are much more important now, so I'll just walk for the time being,_ he grunted and checked the inventory bag. Mm-hmm. The rusted lump of iron inside (the so-called Apprentice's Sword) with 3-7 damage could only be called a sword in the most general sense of the word, whereas Apprentice's Round Shield was more like a lid from a barrel with pickled herrings. But then, his clothes (a shirt, trousers, boots and belt) didn't look any better. All that junk combined gave a +35 bonus to armor and allowed to ignore five percent of incoming physical damage. Max rose and tried to swing the sword a few times. The result left much to be desired. No matter—weapon skills would come once he'd invest some talent points. The time on the clock was 9:30 AM—he had the whole day ahead, and he needed to make it as productive as possible.

"She won't come," he said to his dour neighbor. "Why don't we group up and do some quests instead?"

"How did you..." The other guy looked at him with suspicion.

"It's all over your face," said Max. "You'll thank her later. Nothing worse than being with a woman that's staying with you for reasons other than love."

"Like you know anything..." The guy crossed his arms and proceeded to stare at the ground.

"Trust me, I had the same happen to me six months ago. But things are different in real life. Here you have every chance to keep on sitting until new players start to arrive in thousands. Didn't you just tell me that the early arrivals are the really desperate ones..."

"But she said she'd come," the guy's shoulders slumped. "I've waited a whole day already."

"Maybe she's still mustering up her resolve," Max decided to sugarcoat it. "Could be a whole lot of reasons. Anyway, there's no point waiting any further. Once we earn some money, you can call her and ask her why she didn't come."

The guy shook his head and also rose.

"You're probably right," he admitted with a sigh, and offered Max a handshake. "I'm Sergei—I mean, Luffy. It's probably best you call me that. Go ahead and throw me an invite."

"Maximilian, or, rather, Max," the newfangled warrior chortled. "I've already read your nickname, although it's probably best to get introduced the old-fashioned way."

"I agree," the young man nodded. "I'm from Kiev, by the way."

"We're almost neighbors," Max smiled. "I'm from Moscow. But Moscow and Kiev don't exist for us anymore," he sighed. "There are just two pointy-eared characters from Sunlit Forest. By the way, isn't that a weird name for a dark elf location? I would think they'd make it a bit more sinister. Is it that way?" He pointed toward the NPCs standing watch.

"That's right," Luffy nodded. "Let's go see Mentor Wasisname. Let him get his mentoring on..."

"There's something else I'd like to know," asked Max as they set off towards the tree. "I more or less get where these are coming from," he nodded toward the dancers. "They are just overjoyed to be immortal or free from real world problems. But there should be regular players here as well. Those who just logged in to play and were taken unawares by the whole thing..."

"The game is more than four years old now, and there aren't that many newcomers," Luffy eyed the piece of hardtack he'd just fished out of his bag, shook his head and put it back. "A whole crowd gathered here yesterday—three hundred at least. Everyone was yelling..." He pointed toward the guards. "These guys were placed there as a result. A fat load of good it's gonna do them..."

"So where did they all go?"

"Some headed for Ellorian, to the game administration building or whatever it's called officially. Others scattered all over the place—probably drinking their grief away in one of the neighboring villages. There are lots of locations around here—all of them for elf noobs, about forty miles across. Thirty settlements alone, and each has an inn with a bar.

"Where'd you get the money for the drinks?"

"The two of us may be paupers," Luffy smiled back, "but serious players wasted no time in transferring real money. Also, the regular sour stuff won't cost more than thirty copper, so we can drink to our acquaintance as soon as we make that much."

"We're here to see Mentor Almaren," said Max to the guards to set their minds at ease once he and Luffy reached the tree.

"Level six," one of the guards pointed upward with his thumb, his eyes full of irony as he gave them a sideways glance. "Watch your step, and don't even think of scratching anything on the walls."

"Or else?" inquired Luffy.

"Marlorien will simply throw the idiot out," the elf frowned, "and falling from one of the top levels is a sure way to the cemetery, unless the idiot in question had managed to grow wings. I don't see any on you."

"I wasn't going to scratch anything, anyway," the newfangled mage reassured the guard, and they entered the enormous hollow that served as the entrance.

"Why the hell did you provoke him?" asked Max as they ascended the spiral staircase, although calling it a staircase would be somewhat misleading, since it had no stairs, looking more like a wooden path going up the trunk, exiting at some point and coiling around the tree like a snake.

"Like I should let an NPC order me around."

"Now look here," Max stopped and put his hand on his companion's shoulder. "Did you forget where we are? Or do you have a logout button somewhere? You say he's an NPC, but he's just a fellow dark elf to you and me, and this tree," he gently ran his hand across the warm bark, "might become your home someday. Don't you ever forget it, please."

"I get it, and I'm sorry," the mage sighed heavily. "Now I'll have to get used to lots of things."

"What did he call the tree, by the way?"

"Marlorien. If I'm not mistaken, _lorien_ stands for 'flowering' in Tolkien's works, and _mar_ is probably 'building.' The devs tried to adapt the game to the elvish lore as much as they could—let's be grateful we aren't being forced to actually speak their language..."

"So we won't be able to chop down a single tree now, will we?"

"Nah, it ain't that bad. Only this kind of tree is sentient—the rest are supposed to be the regular sort, I think. But if you start chopping things down left and right, some pointy-eared forest ranger is bound to take you to task for it. Anyway, enough standing around—let's go see Almaren. Who was the idiot who stuck him all the way up there? Do we have to climb trees for each and every quest now?"

"You should have chosen an orc," Max chortled. "It would be yurts all the way."

"Nope, the orcs have only got shamans, and I'm not too fond of dancing around a bonfire beating a frame drum. The folks from the forum also said it was rather hard to get used to protruding fangs on the lower jaw. We have it easy," Luffy pulled his ear a few times and turned his head to face Max. "Those are normal ears, more or less—not bunny ears or anything, after all... Those fangs, though, you can't exactly have a dentist pull them out. But tell me one thing..."

"What is it?"

"Why the hell did you choose a warrior? It's a world of magic, after all—something we don't have on Earth. Didn't you find it exciting?"

"Well, warriors have access to some spells, too," Max smiled. "Let me see how sick you get of all that magic in about a thousand years."

"In about a thousand years I'll become the Lord of Darkness, and the princesses of the lands I will have conquered will serve me dinner clad in nothing whatsoever."

"Don't tell anyone about your plans, o Luffy the Terrible," Max made a frightened face. "You never know—it might make surviving long enough to become a lord somewhat challenging. By the way, does your nickname mean anything?"

"Straw Hat Luffy is the protagonist of an incredibly popular Japanese manga—a type of comic book. I lived in Japan with my parents as a kid, and got hooked on all that stuff," he explained. "Luffy ate a Devil Fruit and became a rubber man as a result—his body could stretch for many yards."

"Don't tell anyone—one gets bizarre associations." Max coughed. "Aren't you old enough to switch to hentai, anyway?"

"What kind of associations..." the mage started to speak, but checked himself. "Bah," he made a dismissive gesture, "why didn't you follow that chick with big eyes yourself?"

"For lack of time and desire. But in a thousand years I'll ask you for a few princesses—dressed ones, preferably. Dressing a woman can get rather expensive, you know."

"We'll see," Luffy grunted as they stopped before a wide entrance leading inside the tree. "Have we really reached it at last?"

Almaren—a tall gray-haired man with sharp features—turned out to be a level 250 druid. He was sitting at the far end of a spacious room, reclining against the back of an armchair that grew right out of the floor, and thinking about something with a great deal of concentration and his eyes half-closed. The mentor was wearing leather armor with a silvery pattern upon it. His helmet, which looked like a moose head with large antlers, lay on a short round table in front of him, next to a staff emitting a pale green light.

"Mentor Almaren?" Max inquired politely as they entered.

"Two more?" The druid snapped out of his reverie, looked somberly in their direction, and gestured them to approach. "Come closer."

When they approached, gingerly treading the soft floor and looking at the furniture that grew out of the walls and the floor, the mentor sized them up, looking skeptical, scratched his cleanly-shaved chin and said:

"A warrior and a mage, eh? Well, now..."

You've accessed the quest: Alisha Leafwhisper.

Quest type: normal.

Find Alisha Leafwhisper in Armilan and tell her Mentor Almaren sent you.

Reward: experience.

You've accessed the quest: Artainor Bearson.

Quest type: normal.

Find Artainor Bearson in Armilan and tell him Mentor Almaren sent you.

Reward: experience.

You've accessed the quest: Sunny Spring.

Quest type: normal.

Fill a rock crystal vial with water from the Sunny Spring in the Golden Copse of Sunlit Forest and bring it back to Mentor Almaren.

Reward: experience, Scroll of Full Healing.

Attention! Scrolls of Full Healing can only be used in starting locations. They will disappear from your inventory if you leave.

You've accessed the quest: Return to the Mentor.

Quest type: normal.

Complete all the quests given to you by Alisha Leafwhisper and Artainor Bearson, and report back to Mentor Almaren once you're done.

Reward: experience, ordinary weapon of your choosing.

"Alisha will give you the crystal vial. You may go," Almaren pointed to the door and resumed his contemplation.

"Is that it?" asked Luffy, taken aback by the brisk treatment.

"What else did you want?" Almaren sighed heavily and looked at him the way one might look at an annoying insect.

"Some kind of greeting, at least? Something along the lines of 'Welcome to Sunlit Forest, venerable Max and Luffy! I'm so glad you're finally here. Times are tough, and the dark elf race really needs all the help it can get from heroes such as yourselves...'" This was uttered in stentorian tones with a grand gesture of the hands.

The room was perfectly silent for about ten seconds. The druid's stare, directed at Luffy, went from irritated to surprised, and then... _This must be how sane people look at incurable asylum patients,_ thought Max. With just a tiny bit of pity and disgust.

"Harrumph," Almaren cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his hand. "Heroes, is it now. I'll disappoint you a bit," he shook his head. "There's only one venerable person in this room. Guess who it might be? Or, rather, answer my question," his eyes fell on Max. "Is everyone such a dolt back where you came from?"

"Dolts, are we now?" the young guy hissed through clenched teeth, looking the mentor straight in the eye. "Watch it, you moosehead."

"Or else what?" Almaren harrumphed again, apparently having let the "moosehead" slide. "Tone down your arrogance, young man—it isn't backed up by anything, and the same goes for the crowd that tested my patience to the limits for six hours yesterday. Prove you're worth something, and then we'll talk."

"We lose all our skills when we come to this world," Max proceeded in a calmer fashion. "So we have to start everything from scratch."

"Your companion mentioned tough times," the druid chuckled. "I'm not sure what he meant, but I have a hunch that heroes such as yourselves can totally handle the task of awakening the sleeping soil."

You've accessed the quest: Sleeping Soil.

Quest type: unique.

Receive special tools from Immalah the Herbalist and till the area where the soil is asleep.

Reward: experience, increased reputation in the Armilan Village, 1 gold, the ability to learn the Herbalist profession.

Attention! All the other quests remain inactive until the present quest is completed.

"Soil in the northern outskirts of Armilan is dormant, and we cannot wake it with our usual methods. Other races use tilling to awaken their soil. If you want to be treated well, this quest provides you with an excellent opportunity. That's it. Now go... I have already wasted too much of my time on you..."

"Are you aware that your tongue is your greatest enemy?" Max sighed, looking sideways at Luffy as they descended.

"Like yours is a friend," the wizard chortled. "Or was it me who called him a moosehead?"

"My tongue is friendly enough. You can pick up a profession at level 10, while we have one available to us at level 1. One gold coin is around a hundred bucks each."

"I'm concerned about something else entirely—didn't you find anything odd?"

"You mean the greeting?" Max looked at Luffy questioningly. "Duh, he sees the likes of us all the time. What's the point of running off at the mouth for each one?"

"Are you trying to tell me you've never played these games before?"

"Nope. I had no time for it, although now it dawns on me that I probably should have."

"You see, in games like this the whole world revolves around the players, so the druid was supposed to have greeted us properly, but he... And what he said about where we came from—he should have uttered none of that, don't you get it? None of that!"

"Could the NPCs have come to life after the latest patch?" Max suggested.

"It sure looks that way, and what it means is that we're the ones who have to watch our tongues now. I'm surprised he didn't squash us like bugs."

"So what," the warrior made a dismissive gesture. "We're immortal, aren't we? So what if he did squash us? I'd level up to 200 and then come back here and squash him—or, at least, take his antlers as a trophy."

"You really believe anyone can level up to 200 with this twenty percent penalty for dying?"

"I have no doubt."

"Heh," Luffy sighed theatrically. "I wish I had your certainty."

It didn't take them long to find Immalah the Herbalist. It was a short and thin elf, who, oddly enough, seemed overjoyed at their arrival. He rummaged in a hollow that must have served as a tool shed, gave the companions two wooden shovels, led them to the site, outlined their tasks and went away, humming some melodious tune.

"Two hundred bucks, is it," exhaled Luffy, resting his hands on the handle of the spade that he had driven into the ground and eyeing the dark patch with the rough area of three hundred square feet. "Not half bad. Chinese workers probably get around that much for tilling two and a half acres by hand."

"Chinese workers get tired," muttered a slightly embarrassed Max, "whereas we happen to be in a magical world."

"But there are usually ten of them digging."

"Which means each of them gets five times less. Besides, labor brings out the best in a person."

"Whereas idleness makes one happy!"

"Enough yapping already. If you call yourself a hero, put your money where your mouth is," Max chuckled and set forth toward the patch pointed out to him by the herbalist, the shovel over his shoulder.

***

"I still say this is a great place," Max took a sip of wine from a simple wooden chalice, inhaled the smoke with gusto and gave the nearby sorcerer, who was contemplating the motley birds swimming in the lake, a gentle shove. "You're overcome by melancholy again?"

Luffy took a suspicious look at the vessel in his hand, downed the contents in a single gulp, and stretched out on the grass, folding his hands behind his head.

"I should stop lying to myself," he said sullenly. "The phone is silent, her mother isn't picking up, either, and when I called her friend, she got so scared she nearly soiled herself."

"Well, she's doing all right, at least," said Max philosophically. "And so are you, by the way. This 'doing all right' thing may not involve the two of you being together, but she isn't the last woman alive, is she?"

"A month ago, when they'd just brought me back from the hospital, I told her she was free right away. We wouldn't have starved, but who needs a guy with no legs? Why did she have to stay with me? Why lie?" The young man sat up in agitation and looked to the side with anger in his eyes. "They brought the capsules a week ago—you have to order them well in advance where I come from. We thought we could spend time here... Then this nightmare of a 'departure'—a neighbor died together with his son, right in their capsules... Then Alex called his mother, and she followed. Can you imagine?" The mage picked the chalice up from the grass and handed it to Max. "And then she calls me—this neighbor woman, I mean—and asks me to look after the apartment until their relatives arrive, and to call the coroner. It took me less than five minutes to decide... Xenia agreed to it, too—we had no kids, after all. But why did she have to lie to me?!"

"You're a fool, brother," Max shook his head. "You lived with an amazing woman. Remember her and be grateful she didn't leave you when you were down in the dumps... Let's drink to her."

"You're a real spoilsport, Max. Whenever there's a serious conversation, you sidetrack it, and I have nothing to counter with... Forget it. May she be happy and in good health," the young man finished his wine in a single gulp and stretched out on the grass again. "Thanks," he said after a while.

"For what exactly?"

"For hearing me out..."

They finished digging late at night, having tilled the entire stretch of land. When the herbalist, whom they woke up in the middle of the night banging at his door, gave them their gold, they instantly leveled to three. Immalah mumbled, "Why can't some people just sleep the night away?" as he taught them their first profession by pressing his palm against their foreheads. Then he gave them a thin notebook containing descriptions of the Sunlit Forest flora.

The companions spent the next three days running around the woods. Alisha, a pretty young elven maid who also turned out to be a herbalist, gave them about a dozen quests at once, all of which involved gathering local flowers and herbs. The stocky and somewhat beast-like druid tasked them with cutting off pestilential burls growing on some trees—he called those blighted fungi. Finally, by the morning of the fourth day, the friends had eradicated the source of the pestilence, which was an enormous mossy tree stump. They reported to Artainor, and then headed back to Mentor Almaren, cursing the entire local flora in low voices.

There were substantially more people once they returned, and they had to spend eight hours in line before they could register the quest as completed, all the while listening to news from the outside world. The news was unremarkable, however—all the developments were expected. The panic and the hype were growing by the minute. The death of over thirty million people drowned out all other reports of current events and was discussed on every channel and all over the Internet. Several governments had already implemented limits on capsule usage while scientists discussed whether or not the Realm of Arkon could be considered a separate reality. Most people, however, didn't care much at all. Parents followed their children and vice versa. Many of those who couldn't find a place for themselves in the world had migrated, as well as the terminally ill, adventurers and thrill-seekers. Capsules skyrocketed in price and soon became impossible to find. One man claimed to have bought his for eight hundred grand. But the weirdest thing was that the same capsule could only be used by close relatives to leave one after another. Therefore, a mass exodus into this world wasn't likely to happen anytime soon.

"Salutations, heroes," said Almaren in a strange voice as he rose to greet them. "I bid you welcome to my humble abode..."

"You're trolling me, aren't you?" Luffy looked at him suspiciously.

"Just a tiny bit," the druid grinned. "However, I'm truly grateful to you for the awakening of the soil."

"Soil is all nice and good," muttered Luffy while examining a plain-looking wooden staff—his quest reward. "But we really didn't expect we'd have to spend three days gathering a comprehensive collection of herbs and flowers," he grunted, satisfied by the visual examination.

"Oh, so it's hunting that you're after?" The druid shook his head in reproach. "Well, that's easy enough." He settled into his armchair, produced a blank scroll and started to write something on it...

You've accessed the quest: The Majordomo of Venlamin.

Quest type: normal.

Find Majordomo Diplexius in Venlamin and deliver the message from Mentor Almaren to him.

Reward: experience.

"The Brown Hills are overcome with packs of rats—they feed on the bark and the soft heartwood of young trees," he explained to Max as he gave him the scroll. "Certain events that have transpired lately have made me focus on something else entirely. A week ago, Majordomo Diplexius asked me to send him a few hunters to destroy the pesky rodents. I have no free hunters at the moment, but the two of you should be able to handle the task without much trouble."

"Kill a beaver! Save a tree!" Max looked at Almaren, holding the two-handed sword received as a reward for completing the quest on his shoulder for want of a sheath.

"Something along those lines," nodded the druid. "You get the drift, but note that wood rats are a bit larger than beavers. Good hunting, heroes," the druid waved the companions farewell. "We're unlikely to meet again here—on the mainland, perhaps, two years later, when my service here is done. One more thing—I come from the Wood Moose clan and consider it a great honor to be compared to that animal. You should bear that in mind, young warrior..."

"There's a place that's a lot like this one near Kiev, right next to the village of Rovzhi. When I was a student, we would spend nearly every weekend there during the summer." There was a hint of nostalgia in Luffy's voice. "The pines are just like the ones here, and the shore is just as steep. This puddle is a far cry from the Kiev Reservoir, of course, but..."

"I can't remember the last time I went fishing," Max replied in the same vein. "There should be someone here who teaches the fishing skill—we should definitely find them tomorrow."

"Don't you ever feel horrified when you think all of it is gone forever? After all, we're basically walking corpses, you and I."

"Cut the crap," Max took his eyes away from the players splashing in the lake a hundred feet away and frowned at the mage. "How the hell are we walking corpses? As for beautiful places, I'm sure there are lots more of them here than back there."

"But how is that relevant?" Luffy sighed. "There may be more beautiful places, but none of them feel like home..."

"You're at it again, are you?"

"Don't mind me—I get this way when I've had a few," the mage shook his head. "Still, it's a good thing we came here instead of staying at the inn... those drunken mugs depress me."

"Remember the movie that came out recently— _The Final Day_ , or whatever it was called? With another asteroid heading for collision with the Earth? They really partied hard there, knowing the end was nigh, didn't they? But why would you do it here? Did you notice that only one person in ten or so is actually doing something useful? The elves are supposed to be one of the evolved races." Max looked at the drunk elven maidens screaming and splashing each other, and then his glance fell on the chalice in his hand. "At least they can't remove their undies in a noob zone. Thank goodness. I shudder to imagine what would happen here otherwise."

"You're a snob, brother," Luffy snorted. "Why do you care? The two of us aren't all that sober, either."

"I don't like seeing people behave like animals, is all. As for us, a bottle and a half each is a ridiculous amount. Also, we've been working like beasts of burden for three days straight—we deserve it." He rose in a single fluid motion. "Shall we go? The moon is out already."

"Let's—it's high time we had some proper sleep. I'm sick of camping out in the woods."

"Don't forget you're an elf—they're supposed to sleep up in trees, aren't they?" Max shot over his shoulder.

"Let monkeys sleep up in trees," Luffy dusted his pants and followed. "But think how convenient this is—there are ten rooms tops in the inns, and they can house a hundred—and everyone gets a room of their own, unless they invite someone over. This hotel owner lady—the one that looks thirty at the age of sixty-something, what's her name..."

"Paris Hilton?"

"That's the one. Imagine what she could have paid for someone implementing that IRL..."

"Like I care! We're not IRL anymore," Max turned over as they approached the massive door of the inn, with the din of inebriated patrons coming from inside. "At seven in the morning, right here," he pointed to the ground with his finger. "Tomorrow's gonna be a hectic day—don't you dare oversleep."

"Worry about your own oversleeping," the mage grunted. "Let's get going before I pass out right here," he nodded at the bodies piled up next to the entrance, wincing at the smell of vomit, "right next to these folks..."

"You have drunk ten times less, although you can surely try if you want," Max smiled, and the companions entered the inn.

Max found it really hard to fall asleep that night. He never slept well in a new place, and now his unease was compounded by the wine and all sorts of uneasy thoughts coming to his mind. How would Alyona react to his arrival? What if she'd already found someone? What would he need to do to find her in the first place if she never checked her mail? Everything had seemed easy enough initially—log into the game, send a private message, and wait for the answer. But on the very first day it turned out that after the patch, which took place less than a week ago, the only way of reaching someone was by mail. It was impossible to send mail to the mainland from Sunlit Forest, so he'd have to wait until he got out of here.

Then he started to worry about his friend. There was no information on Demon Grounds anywhere on the game forum—that plane was still being prepared for launch, so there was simply no one around who would know how to get there. Max eventually got tired of tossing and turning—he rose, turned on the light, opened the window and lit a cigarette. There were drunks singing tunelessly in the street. A woman was laughing loudly. The young man sighed. How would this new world accept them the way they really were? He sat down on a ramshackle stool near the windowsill—you needed money to change the interior of your private room, and he and Luffy had spent everything on missing pieces of equipment—and surrendered to contemplation. It was true that the players differed little from NPCs who had come to life now, the way Mentor Almaren appeared to have done, all of them following a preprogrammed pattern of behavior. In case of the elves, that pattern was affected by such qualities as pride and arrogance. If Almaren, like the other Sunlit Forest NPCs, was programmed to have a certain amount of benevolence towards players, the movers and shakers of this world were unlikely to cry tears of sympathy at the sight of a warrior dressed in rags. That meant they'd have to fight hard for their place under the sun—and, on top of all that, he'd have to find and protect Alyona, and then discover a means of infiltrating a locked gaming plane to save his friend. He could contemplate his place in this world later—he was no stranger to hardship and expected a lot more to come, yet Max didn't doubt himself or his ability to succeed for a second.

He opened the character menu to distract himself, and took another good look at his stats and equipment. The best item out of those laid out carefully on his table was the two-handed sword received from the druid.

Young Warrior's Two-Handed Sword.

Sword: two-handed weapon.

Durability: 200/200.

Ordinary.

Minimum level: 10.

Damage: 15-27.

+11 to strength.

Weight: 9 lbs.

His stats with the sword equipped looked as follows:

Agility: 1.

Strength: 35.

Constitution: 30.

Vigor: 8.

Spirit: 1.

Intellect: 1.

HP: 300.

Energy: 80.

Mana: 10.

Armor: 62 (31.2% physical damage absorption).

Weapon damage: 16.05-28.89.

Mighty Blow I: 42.80-68.48 physical damage.

Max didn't know the exact formula for calculating the percentage of physical damage being absorbed by the armor vis-a-vis the player's level, but the fact that his 35 points of strength increased his damage output by 7% (5 points of strength being roughly equal to 1%) was indicated next to the stat. Having reached level 10, the newfangled warrior was faced with the selection of the skill that he'd have to learn first—either Dash or Mighty Blow. Max decided to invest the points in extra damage. He'd see whether or not he'd made the right decision tomorrow. He took another look at the learned skill.

Mighty Blow I.

Energy: 10 points.

Instant cast.

Cooldown: 3 seconds.

Minimum level: 10.

Required: melee range, melee weapon equipped.

An instant attack that deals 100% damage on top of the weapon's base damage. +10 to damage for two-handed weapons or +12 to damage for one-handed weapons.

_Just like the guide recommends,_ he thought, minimizing the character menu. Whether the simple set of chain-and-leather armor that he had managed to buy for one gold could protect him also remained to be seen—it increased his armor class, but didn't boost any stats. He resented the fact that his utter lack of experience meant he'd have to listen to other people's advice—in his former life he tried to make all his decisions by himself. However, there was no choice at this point, unfortunately. _And then there are the rats to take care of,_ he put out the cigarette and shut the window tight. He'd never have to kill anyone previously, so those who've spent a while playing such games had a definite advantage. However, Max didn't doubt himself—he'd kill anyone who would stand between him and Alyona or Roman—and, possibly, also Luffy, since they'd become close friends over the past three days and had decided to seek their fortunes together.

The time on the wooden clock on the wall showed three AM—there was less than three hours of sleep left. Max turned off the light, stretched out on the bed, made an approximate plan for tomorrow, and only then finally managed to drift into peaceful sleep.

The sun that rose from behind the trees transformed the elven village in an astonishing way—it played in the droplets of dew hanging from the blades of grass, chasing the layered fog into the woods and painting the slowly drifting clouds pink.

"Why so grumpy?" Max chortled at the sight of the mage—scowling and shivering from the morning chill. "The early bird—"

"Stays sleepy all day long," said Luffy gruffly, still half asleep. "Right, let's go see this Dyslexius..."

"Hey, you guys," a level 13 elf hunter nicknamed Theophilus separated from a nearby group and approached them. "Let's go take care of the local miniboss—we're just missing a tank and dps," he sad with a barely audible accent. "It's a level 12 boar—we'll deal with him in five minutes."

"Sorry, man," Max shook his head. "We've got a lot of stuff to do ourselves, but thanks for the invitation."

"Have you shat your pants now?" the hunter snorted derisively. "Not enough cojones, eh?" the guy turned to address those behind him, as if calling them to witness. "The game's overrun by chickenshit noobs..."

"Get stuffed, imbecile," Luffy butted in. "I bet this guy is the master looter in your group, isn't he?" he asked the young men and women standing behind the hunter. "Once you snuff the boar, this dope will grab everything for himself—there's no way you'll be able to take your share. So good luck to all of you," he chuckled, shaking Max by the shoulder. "Come on, let's move."

According to the expressions on the elves' faces, the mage's words hit the mark, but the two companions decided not to wait for the situation to resolve one way or another. As Max was leaving, he just smiled back at the hunter, who was staring him down furiously.

"Do we really look like such easy marks?" he asked the mage who was walking in front. Max had read a few warnings about con artists of this sort on the forum, and regretted having almost allowed himself to be taken in.

"Perish the thought," the wizard hastened to reassure him. "You and that phallic symbol on your shoulder," he nodded toward the dully glistening two-handed sword, "not to mention the shining armor, doubtlessly make you look like a legendary hero of yore."

"Accompanying Merlin the Great to the golf course?" Max pointed toward Luffy's poker-shaped staff, and they shared a merry laugh.

"Heroes, eh?" Majordomo Diplexius—a tall, broad-shouldered elf with long silver hair in two long braids—put away the scroll and looked at Max with a mix of irony and scorn. "Well then, it shouldn't be hard for you to destroy a meager fifty wood rats in the Brown Hills."

You've accessed the quest: Vermin Extermination.

Quest type: normal.

Bring fifty Wood Rat Tails from the Brown Hills, located to the north of Venlamin, to Majordomo Diplexius.

Reward: experience, increased reputation in Sunlit Forest, 1 gold, unusual cloak of your choosing.

"The rats are basically not aggressive," the elf explained once they accepted the quest. "However, the instant you attack one, you shouldn't approach any of the others without a weapon in your hand. Those beasts have something like a hive mind binding them together—you should bear that in mind. And another thing," Diplexius pointed toward one of the residential trees. "Pay Alaune Veliessa a visit. She might have a quest for you, too..."

Alaune Veliessa's marlorien was surrounded by flowering vegetation growing in a fifty-yard radius—it was the lushest garden Max had ever seen. Flower combinations that seemed impossible created an unimaginable overall effect—one couldn't stop admiring them. Decorative hedges assumed the shapes of fantastical animals and seemed to come alive when touched by the rays of the rising sun.

The owner, a middle-aged elven lady with very comely and symmetrical features, met them at the doorway of her home. She appeared flattered by the admiring looks cast at her garden by the companions.

"You like it, don't you?" she inquired in a melodious low voice.

"It's amazing," Max exhaled, having finished admiring the bush that grew in the shape of a sleeping panther. The wind was ruffling its leaves, creating the impression that the large cat was asleep and breathing steadily in its slumber. "How do you manage it?"

"When your comrade becomes a Herb Whisperer, he'll also be able to do it," the woman smiled in return. "Why didn't you take up this noble profession, o young warrior?"

"I'm not that young," Max shook his head. "If I find out how you do it, it won't seem like fairy tale stuff anymore, and I'm not sure I'd like that to happen."

"What a great excuse, bravo," whispered Luffy, who had stood to the right, making Veliessa smile for a moment.

"So you opine that your thirty-two years make you an adult?" she inquired with a touch of irony in her voice. "Well, it doesn't matter—be an adult if you want to." The woman stepped to the side graciously and invited them in with a gesture. "Come in and tell me what brings you here so early in the day. I have no wine, but I think you might like my tea."

"I'm really sorry that you'll have to kill these animals," the elven woman shook her head when they told her about the purpose of their visit. "But I know it cannot be helped. Those rats breed at an alarming rate, and the forest is in serious danger. As you must have guessed," she nodded toward the rows of test tubes and flasks standing on the shelves, "apart from herbalism, I dabble in alchemy and have pretty decent command of nature magic. If you get me 10 wood rat secretion glands, I'll probably be able to come up with a spell that will substantially slow down the propagation of those vermin. I can teach you alchemy in return, with mana, HP and energy restoration potion recipes thrown in, or pay you a gold coin for those glands."

You've accessed the quest: Ingredients for Veliessa.

Quest type: normal.

Bring 10 Wood Rat Secretion Glands to Alaune Veliessa in Venlamin.

Reward: experience and a choice between 1 gold or learning the Alchemy skill, plus the recipes for Lesser Mana Potion, Lesser Health Potion, and Lesser Energy Potion.

"If you add the recipe for this incredible tea to those of the potions," the mage nodded toward the steaming cup in his hand, "we can bring you eleven of those glands, no less."

"It's hard to say no to you," the elven lady smiled at him. "I don't need eleven—I'll teach you for free, and even provide you with a pouch of tea from my personal stash."

"Really, did you hear the way she pronounced the last phrase?" said Luffy in a dreamy voice when they left Venlamin, having consulted the map previously, and headed north, following a narrow path. "I'm really beginning to like it here..."

"You mean they find it hard to reject you? Sure, I've heard it all," grunted Max without turning around. "By the way, how old do you think she is? If she finds my thirty two years youthful... What kind of experience does one need to guess a person's age just like that?"

"You really are a wet blanket," the mage sighed heavily. "Was it really necessary for you to say that?"

"I'm not trying to discourage you, I'd just like you not to get any ideas before we manage to get a good idea of how things work over here."

"I'm not getting any ideas," Luffy grouched. "I have other things on my mind right now. By the way, any idea what these glands look like?"

"We're not supposed to remove them surgically or anything," replied Max without a moment's thought. "You're just supposed to find them inside dead rats, or did I misunderstand what they said on the forum?"

"Nope, you're right. And since you're so intelligent and well-read, you'll be the one to remove them, just in case," Luffy nodded toward the two-handed sword. "You've gotten yourself a slicer, after all, young padawan."

"Right, even score," Max laughed, and the companions walked on.

They noticed signs of the local rodents' activities well in advance. Two enormous hills well over a hundred feet each were completely devoid of trees, as well as the area around them. It didn't look like a woodcutter operation—there weren't even any stumps left. The rodents themselves were nowhere to be seen. According to Diplexius, wood rats were exclusively nocturnal. The steep hill slopes were pocked with dark caves, six to twelve feet wide. Max counted twelve of them.

"Which hole shall we investigate?"

"That one," Max pointed toward one of the caves. "I'll have to swing my sword around somehow, after all."

Inside, the cave looked more like a rapid transit tunnel. There was enough light from the glowing green vegetation on the walls and the ceiling to see what was happening some two hundred feet ahead.

"A little larger than a beaver, eh?!" said an outraged Luffy, observing the rats scurrying through the cave. "My grandpa had a sheepdog that was quite a bit smaller! And the stench!"

"You've never really seen beavers, have you?" Max grunted as he got a better grip of the sword. "Did you expect the aroma of lilacs?"

"Something less revolting would sure be nice..." muttered the mage. "Are you ready?"

"I am."

Luffy targeted the nearest level 10 rat, his hands flashed red for a moment, and a fiery arrow hit the mob in the side, taking off about a quarter of the rodent's HP. The wounded rat squealed loudly and started hopping towards the foe. Max took a step forward and activated Mighty Blow, plunging his sword into the rodent's neck. There was a gruesome crunch; the rat bled, squealed, then dashed past the warrior and sank its fangs into Luffy's thigh.

"Bastard!" the mag exhaled, wincing from the pain, and tried to push the mob aside, taking the staff with both hands.

A blow of the two-handed sword threw the rodent to the side. The rat turned around and attacked the warrior this time. A sharp pain shot through Max's leg—the sensation was very similar to that of his neighbor's Irish wolfhound biting him in his childhood. _Bearable,_ was the only thought that flashed in his mind as he dealt his third blow. The second Fire Arrow ended the battle—the rat convulsed, and then was still.

"The smell has changed," Max winced from the spreading reek of burned wool, blood, and musk. "Although I can't say it has become more pleasant..."

"This rat bastard screwed up my second casting," Luffy approached the rodent's corpse, limping.

"You have higher damage—one blow wasn't enough to draw its aggro," said the warrior in an apologetic tone.

"Doesn't seem life-threatening," Luffy rolled up his trouser leg and demonstrated an enormous bruise on his thigh. "I dread to think what would happen if it went a little to the left," he shook his head.

"Don't stick your 'a little to the left' out much," Max chuckled, "especially when there are rats around. Although you shouldn't worry, anyway—you won't need it in Sunlit Forest anyway, and it's gonna grow back if anything happens. If it doesn't, we'll see a local healer about it..."

"I don't find your moronic jokes amusing," the mage made his way around the pool of blood spilled by the mob, went down on one knee, and touched a patch of the mob's skin where there were no wounds. He grimaced and rose, rubbing his hands.

"What's the matter?"

"Look, why don't you take it yourself?" Luffy nodded toward the corpse and moved aside.

"Wuss," snorted Max as he looted the corpse for a piece of rat meat, a twenty-inch tail and a gland—a slippery bluish piece of offal. "How are you planning to get your alchemy on? I heard some of the ingredients they use are even quainter."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," replied the mage in the same vein. "I won't be able to carry much at this point, at any rate—I need a special bag. So, shall I pull the next one?"

Some two hours later, Luffy inquired, "Are you sure you're not Korean? Maybe you have relatives there?"

"You leveled to twelve? So why don't you shut up—there's nowhere else we can level this fast."

Max was a gruesome sight—he was covered in blood and unidentified pieces of rodent anatomy from head to toe, much like a character in a horror B-movie. Once they leveled to eleven and learned Dash, things livened up a bit. The rats no longer reached the mage—the warrior would Dash to intercept them, and deal the second blow as soon as the stun wore off. There was just one mishap—inexplicably, three rats attacked the companions at once instead of coming at them one by one. This could have cost Max and Luffy their lives—fortunately, all three mobs attacked Max, and still the Scroll of Full Healing saved the day. The warrior used it once the pain became unbearable and the world before his eye flashed red, else they would have had to trot all the way back here from their bind point in Venlamin. The silver lining was that Max's Toughness skill increased by two percent.

"Are you planning to stay here until we waste all the critters? We've already taken care of over a hundred mobs—they'll start respawning pretty soon."

"There's next to nothing left," the warrior gestured forward, where one could vaguely discern a wall. "A dozen rats or so, and we can leave."

"Reckon this is the end of the cave?" Luffy snorted. "It feels like we should have walked right through that hill a long time ago."

"No matter. Let's snuff these and split. By the way, do you smell what I smell?"

"I won't be smelling much for quite a while after today," the mage sighed heavily. "But it stinks like there's a stiff somewhere down there."

"Exactly. So stop talking and set your sights on the next one."

About five minutes later they stood near the far wall of the cave and studied the swollen and semi-decomposed body of an elven warrior that lay in the shade of an overhanging piece of stone.

"The hell is this?" Max eyed the bloodied sword sceptically, put it in his inventory, and looked at the mage. "Can you make anything of it?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," the other replied, trying to breathe through his mouth. "The guy must have entered the cave, walked it all the way through, and died. The rats aren't aggressive if you don't attack them, or he would have died much earlier.

"Brilliant," Max tried to perform an applause, and the rattle of his chainmail gloves echoed toward the entrance. "Won't you just tell me what the hell a level 40 elf was doing here, and how he might have died?"

"Hey, I'm no coroner! I used to be the director of a travel agency, if you must know, although you don't need to be an expert to get an idea of what happened here," he nodded at the three lacerations on the dead man's chest. "A bear must have attacked him, and then he probably expired of blood loss. This is weird, though."

"Exactly," Max shook his head. "What kind of a blow does it have to be for chainmail to get rent like that?"

"Any bear could do it IRL, let alone here. Don't just stand there—loot the corpse and let's get out of here, I suddenly feel like a drink."

"Why are you refined types always so squeamish?"

There was a clinking sound, the corpse's money was shared equally between the friends, and each became two silver coins richer.

You've accessed the quest: The Guardsman's Medallion.

Quest type: rare, chain.

Take the medallion of Guardsman Kiluren to Garrison Commander Istadior in Armilan and tell him about the fate that befell one of his soldiers.

Reward: experience, increased reputation with the dark elves, 2 gold.

Max fumbled with the small round disk made of hard brown wood for a while, lost in thought, and then gave it to Luffy.

"There's nothing else—just the money, and this."

"Do you realize what we found? Of course, I read a piece about some dude finding a scalable epic item in noobland, but I think it's a huge pile of BS. But we really did get lucky! You can't even imagine! The reward for completing a rare quest chain is a rare item!" Luffy attempted to read the symbols on the wooden disk, but failed. He handed the medallion back to Max with a dismissive gesture, turned around and started toward the exit.

"Hey! What about the corpse? Aren't we supposed to bury it?"

"Do you have any idea about how the elves bury their dead?" Luffy turned around and stared at the warrior in surprise. "What if they want to inspect the body themselves? We'll report like the quest tells us to, and let this Ibrahim send his own gravedigger detail."

"It's Istadior..."

"He could be Sir Isaac Newton for all I care."

"Just admit it—you simply don't want to have anything to do with a semi-decomposed corpse!"

"Well, do you?"

"No."

"So stop acting like Zorro," the mage snapped. "Let's get going—we need to report to the quest givers in Venlamin, and then walk for another five miles until we reach Armilan."

There were a lot more people in Armilan by the time they got back, around four in the afternoon. The atmosphere in the village was festive in the best possible sense. Max had never seen so many smiling faces before.

"Listen," Luffy gazed after a group of five girls with hair of different colors, and pointed at the enormous line before the mentor's marlorien. "When the game was just taking off, there must have been around fifty times more people here. How did the devs handle overcrowding that time?"

"Write the tech support and ask them," Max grunted. "How should I know? Maybe there are several noob zones such as this one, or some other workaround. Mind how you twist your neck—you might break it. A day or two more, and all of them will move on to all sorts of locations, and every quest giver will have a line in front just as long as this one. If it weren't for this medallion, I'd have sought the exit already—level 13 should be sufficient."

The guards at the entrance to the garrison territory absolutely refused to let them through at first. They had to wait for the elf in charge of the guards for about ten minutes. He examined the medallion, nodded, took the companions to the biggest marlorien, told them they'd be invited, and set off about his own business. They sat down on the grass near the entrance. Luffy got a bottle out of his inventory, took a few swigs, and then passed it on to Max.

"We might want to grab a crate of this wine with us just in case they don't have it on the mainland," he said as he crunched into an apple.

"Grab one by all means—who's stopping you?" Max passed the bottle back, took a cigarette out of his inventory, and lit up with a blissful face.

"What I'm trying to say is that you're the one who'll have to carry it—I won't be able to lift that much. Oh! What the..." the guy froze with his mouth open wide, pointing at something behind Max's back.

A short tree growing nearby suddenly straightened out with a crack and started to move toward them, its lower limbs creaking. Passing no more than five yards from them, it stopped, glanced at them with its enormous unblinking eyes, and moved on, apparently having found nothing of interest.

"I'll be damned," muttered the outraged mage, "that thing could leave me stuttering for the rest of my life. Fancy meeting a block of wood with eyes in the forest at night... You'll have to change your pants and find yourself a shrink right away..."

"I guess you shouldn't worry about the pants," Max laughed, "but a shrink probably wouldn't hurt. An elf afraid of a Guardian Tree! Really!"

"I've been blessed with a companion of great courage and intelligence, I get it," Luffy shook his head and took another sip from the bottle.

"You should have read the guides and the forum posts—I spent the whole night in front of my computer before coming here."

"Well, I didn't have that much time for guides. I had a brief look at what you need to do when creating a mage. I didn't plan to play much when I ordered those capsules. I had something else in mind, and see how it played out..."

They were escorted to Istadior about fifteen minutes later. He turned out to be a tall level 240 elf wearing a silvery suit of armor. The garrison commander's hair was woven into a thick and intricate braid; his paleness and the circles around his eyes suggested he must have skipped a few nights' sleep.

"Hand over whatever you have there," the elf took off his armored glove and threw it onto the table, where he'd already put the helm from the same suit. He took the medallion and examined it closely. "Where did you find it?"

"In the Wood Rat lair, about half a mile north of Venlamin." Max explained in detail how they found the body of the guardsman and which cave they had visited.

"Did he have any letters on him?"

"No, just the medallion," the warrior decided not to mention the four silver coins.

"Sata! What rotten timing." Istadior sighed heavily. "Here, take this," he placed four gold coins on the table, "and thank you."

Quest: The Guardsman's Medallion.

You received 2 gold.

"Is there any way we can help?" Max uttered the standard formula for such situations.

The elf thought for a moment, and then raised his eyes at the warrior, apparently having reached a positive decision.

"A week ago, twenty guards went to Yltarin—an outpost in the far north, near the edge of Maeglyn Woods. Three days ago, we lost contact with them—the messenger falcon never arrived. And today you brought me the medallion of one of them." The elf rubbed his eyes, bloodshot from the lack of sleep, took a cup of some pungent tea and took a few sips. "I'm critically short of people—did you see what's going on in Armilan? I need you to deliver a letter to Yltarin and return with a reply by tomorrow evening," Istadior sat down at his desk, wrote a few lines on a parchment scroll, sealed it with his personal seal and handed it to Max.

You've accessed the quest: Trouble in Maeglyn Woods.

Quest type: rare, chain.

Take the letter of Garrison Commander Istadior to Outpost Commander Neytan in Yltarin and bring his answer back to Armilan.

Reward: experience, increased reputation with the dark elves, 2 gold, and a rare weapon of your choosing.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited: 29:59:59... 29:59:58... 29:59:57

"If you fail to make it by tomorrow evening, I'll send fifty rangers to the outpost," the elf took another sip from the cup and pointed at the door. "Hurry up—time is of the essence."

"Dang, we'll have to schlep twenty miles north!" Luffy pointed at the mark on the map. "But then, journeying back and forth to get a rare weapon is a freaking excellent opportunity!"

"I'd stop biting my fingernails if I were you," Max shook his head reproachfully. "You're an alchemist, aren't you? There'll be all sorts of ingredients to handle. Stick a finger in your mouth, and you'll wake in the graveyard."

"Did anyone ever tell you what a negative Nancy you are?" the mage sighed heavily.

"Well, that's just the way I am," the warrior smiled. Here's the village of Trin-da-ri-en—how do they come up with these names?" He pointed to the map. "We can spend the night there, and head for the fort, or whatever it is, in the morning. We'll only have three miles to go. By the way, he mentioned a certain Sata—who is she?"

"As far as I remember, Sata is the local goddess of luck, or the other way round. We can read about it in the chronicles on our way. Shall we go?"

***

"These hotels are weird," Luffy lazily picked at the contents of his bowl with a spoon, sighed, and leaned back on the bench.

"What do you mean?"

"This building obviously grew by itself."

"So what?" Max finished his serving, pushed the bowl to the center of the table, and raised a questioning eye on the mage, taking a sip of fragrant tea from the cup brought by the waitress.

"The thing is, you can choose to become a builder or an architect in the game—I don't remember which one exactly. But how are you supposed to build anything if it all grows by itself? All the houses, inns and other constructions are marloriens—doesn't make any freaking sense at all."

"You must be really bored if you think about such nonsense."

"I want some meat! I'm sick of these herbs, fruits and veggies! We have about ten pounds of rat meat, don't we? Why don't we roast some over a fire?"

"Do you know what time it is? It's midnight. Why the hell would we roast anything in the middle of the night?"

"You just lack the appreciation of how romantic it is to be in the great outdoors," the mage grimaced as he pushed away a bowl of boiled vegetables.

"I'm not that big on idiocy—that's all. What I really want is to wrap up our business here as soon as we can and proceed to the mainland. What's gotten into you?"

"While you were filling up the water flasks, I finally managed to get in touch with Xenia on the phone..."

"And?"

"It's just like you said," Luffy sighed heavily and looked away.

"Listen, brother, didn't I tell you that whatever happens, happens for the best? Now you're free to start a new relationship with anyone you want. A new life and a new woman! Have you seen all those beauties out there?" Max eyed the inn's dining hall. "Have you seen this many beautiful women in one place back home?"

It had taken them six hours to get here. The remoteness of the village from the central location notwithstanding, it was packed with people, and they were lucky to have snagged the last free table in the dining hall. Oddly enough, the players behaved perfectly proper—sitting at their tables, drinking beer and wine, and conversing in hushed tones. Although Max didn't see much joy on their faces, he'd have to note there wasn't any despair to be seen here, either. Judging by the fact that most of the players were level 13 to 15, one might guess that most of those who gathered here ended up stranded inside the game against their will.

"Stop trying to comfort me, will you?" Luffy gave the warrior a push in the shoulder. "I know you don't have it any better than me. I, at least, can turn over a new page... But don't worry—we'll find your crush and her brother, how could we not?"

"May we join you guys?" A quaint couple was standing next to their table—a ranger and a priestess.

The girl's hair was bright red, and there was an elaborate tattoo of the same color on her right cheek. The guy wasn't any duller—his ashen gray hair was woven into numerous little braids. Max could only guess at the amount of time required to style one's hair like that.

"Sure thing," the warrior moved the dirty bowls to the side of the table, and nodded toward the opposite bench.

"Thanks," the ranger waited for the girl to sit down before he followed suit. "I'm Van Leek, or just Leek, and she's Esthera. We're from Amsterdam."

"I'm Max, he's Luffy," Max smiled back at him. "I'm from Moscow, and he's from Kiev."

"Where's your straw hat, Luffy?" asked the girl in a pleasant voice, making the still sullen mage smile. "Are you so sad because you lost it?"

"Right you are," nodded Luffy. "But I'll definitely find it."

A waitress appeared without making a sound. Having quickly taken the new acquaintances' order and collected the dirty dishes from the table, she disappeared just as silently.

"So, have you gotten used to how things are here?" The young man spoke with a slight accent.

"It's hard to say," Max shrugged. "It's only been a little over four days."

"So you're newcomers?" exclaimed the ranger, surprised.

"Yup. And you're not here of your own volition, as far as I can see, are you?"

"We didn't mind too much," the guy smiled a completely childish smile as he hugged his girlfriend's shoulders. "We went to a special boarding school together—we both have musculoskeletal system disorders."

"So how long have you been here?"

"Almost a month. Esthie wanted a tattoo, and you need over forty points in Herbalism to get one. It's easy enough to level it to thirty here, and then you'll be lucky if you advance by one point per day. And redleaf is a rare plant, even on the mainland, and really hard to come by, so this is why we've been hanging out here for so long."

"Cool tattoo," Luffy smiled at the girl. "Does it give any benefits?"

"Thanks," the priestess smiled back. "It does—once you get to the Temple of Loaetia, you can get a special quest from the high priestess there, and they'll replace it with another tattoo—not quite as pretty as this one, but a five percent bonus to healing is not to be scoffed at. I see you're a herbalist yourself—I can tell you more about it, but the quest is only available to the priest class... I'd never have managed by myself without Leek," the girl looked at her boyfriend affectionately.

"No, thank you," the mage shook his head watching the waitress set the table with bowls and cups. "A few thousand people came to Armilan today; I think there'll be more tomorrow, and the day after the place will be packed. We finish our last quest tomorrow and then we're out of here."

"Why, we must drink to that," Leek took out a quarter-gallon flask. "Empty your cups. We leave tomorrow morning, too. We have friends waiting outside—we've arranged it through a contact on the outside." He poured the dark viscous liquid into their cups. A smell of herbs permeated the air.

"Where'd you get such a marvelous thing?" Max finally finished blinking after downing the beverage. "There's nothing but wine available here, and this infusion of yours is 100 proof at the very least."

"Lots of things are available to us alchemists," Leek chuckled. "Ethanol is one of the most basic recipes in this profession. Hardly Jack Daniels, but just fine if you make a herbal infusion. You can get the recipe from Veliessa in Venlamin. You must have passed that village on your way here. She made us collect a bunch of different mushrooms so that we could use her lab, but we know our mushrooms well in Holland."

"We know her. However, our alchemist here asked her for a tea recipe instead of alcohol."

"What's wrong with tea, eh?" Luffy exclaimed indignantly.

The four of them shared a mirthful laugh.

"Say, what kind of a quest are you doing?" Leek asked Max. "We might be able to help. We have completed nearly every quest available here. We won't be able to participate since our friends are waiting, but we might be able to offer counsel."

"Nothing serious—we need to deliver a letter to the Yltarin Outpost. It's something like three miles if you cross the forest direct."

"Mind that you're careful there," said Leek in a suddenly serious voice. "There's been weird stuff going on there after the patch."

"Such as?"

"There's a chain quest that involves the werepanthers from Maeglyn Woods. If you complete it, you get a seven percent increase or so in reputation with our race. Nothing special, your typical hunter quest: first you kill about a dozen young werepanthers, then some mature ones, and finally there's a boss fight with Phylatrim, the leader of the pack." Leek took a sip from his cup, winced and continued. "What was I talking about? Oh year. The werepanthers are gone. Well, not quite—they used to roam among trees like regular mobs, and now they have formed packs—it appears that they're using the local beasts to level up. A few dozen players died there already—some of them while trying to collect their equipment—several times in a row. Dying here isn't fatal, of course, but rest assured there's nothing pleasant about it. Me and Esthie died three times already, and we'd rather not do it again."

"You think the patch affected the werepanthers that way?" Max asked. "I have a very rough idea of the differences between werepanthers and druids."

"I wouldn't want to mislead you—I don't see much of a difference, either." Leek shook his head. "Don't accept this chain, it isn't worth it."

"Thank you." Max gave the ranger a firm handshake and nodded the red-haired priestess goodbye. "We've got to go. Good luck on the mainland."

"Take care of your woman, Leek," Luffy squeezed the hand he was offered, patted the ranger's shoulder, and looked at Esthera. "I guess I don't have to tell you that your man is the best, huh?"

"Nope," the girl smiled blissfully. "Good luck to you guys, and take good care in those Maeglyn Woods."

They set off the next morning after a filling breakfast. The morning woods were wrapped in a thick fog, almost completely opaque. Nature was still in a state of calm, when everything sleeps for miles around, enjoying the last bit of rest before the dawn. Droplets of crystal clear dew were falling from dozing trees onto the grass, and their sound seemed to reverberate through the entire forest.

"Why are you so grumpy?" the mage asked Max, carefully stepping around a root sticking up from the ground.

"You know, something has just occurred to me—I haven't been in a proper forest for ten years or so. Work and more work... and whenever we'd go on vacation with the missus, we'd go to Thailand, Turkey, the Emirates, and the like..." Max sighed. "Not much in the way of forests there. But I still have a plot of land near Moscow inherited from my parents—right next to Taldom, a small town in that region. Grandma got it as far back as the twentieth century, right after the Moscow Olympics. I've only been to that plot once."

"Why once?"

"So many plots have been bought since then that there's no sign of nature. An enormous human anthill with fat women in tracksuits digging their veggie patches."

"You're a connoisseur of the finer things, brother," chuckled the mage. "I traveled the whole world with the squaw—we've even been to the Amazonian jungle. But I too haven't been in a regular forest in over ten years."

"We were planning to go fishing to the Akhtuba or to Karelia with Roman someday... But there was always something—the missus objecting, or tight deadlines at work. And then Roman went to America, and life became that much duller. Although he never was much of a fisherman," the warrior smiled. "His idea of fishing was to pour a shot, send it down the hatch, and then repeat... Like you and your alchemy studies..."

"I promise," the mage gave a scout salute, "that as soon as we get to the mainland, I'll accompany you on a fishing trip! Scout's honor... I'll even help you put whitebait on the hook. Just let me learn the recipe of alcohol first, and I'll be ready anytime..."

"Deal," the warrior laughed.

The only difference between Yltarin and a regular village was two watchtowers—trees that grew special platforms for archers. Otherwise it was a simple village with thorny bushes growing all across the perimeter that looked more decorative than functional. They approached the fort when the risen sun had chased away the fog and started to glisten in the drops of silvery dew on the roadside blade of grass as it filtered through the canopy of the firs.

_Duh, I was expecting something of this sort,_ Max sighed as he caught the heavy smell of putrefaction brought by the light wind blowing from the side of the fort. "That soldier must have had a good reason to head toward Armilan."

"So, Holmes, what do you believe to be the cause of these soldiers' demise?" the warrior asked, turning his head toward his companion as they entered the fort through a wide passage in the bushes.

"It's not just the soldiers," Luffy tried not to take any unnecessary breaths as he pointed toward a number of corpses wearing green druid cloaks. "Everything else is the same—marks left by teeth and claws." He shrugged. "Or maybe not," the mage took a few steps forward and bent over two corpses lying next to each other, barely managing to keep from retching. "These two were killed by regular weapons."

"Do you think they're the werepanthers Leek was warning us about?"

"Max, why would you care? Let this Ibrahim handle it himself..." Luffy could no longer hold it in and vomited onto the grass. "Daaaamn," he muttered as he wiped the tears from his eyes, "let's leave this place, I didn't subscribe to this shit."

"Hold on, we need to loot the bodies," Max examined one of the closer corpses. "This is the very Neytan who was supposed to receive the letter from us."

Trouble in Maeglyn Woods quest has been modified.

You've accessed the quest: Trouble in Maeglyn Woods.

Quest type: rare, chain.

Return to Armilan and report to Garrison Commander Istadior on what happened in Yltarin.

Reward: experience, increased reputation with the Dark Elves, 2 gold and a rare weapon of your choosing.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited: 14:59:59... 14:59:58...

"Do whatever you need to—I'll wait for you outside the palisade," Luffy pointed in the direction opposite to where they came from. "It should probably stink less there."

"You doing all right? Back to your senses yet?" Max sat down on the grass next to the mage and passed him a flask. "Have some of this."

"It appears I'll have to get used to some things," Luffy returned the flask and stretched out on the grass with his hands clasped behind his head.

"We'll all have to get used to them," Max fiddled with the tinderbox, lighting up, and took two deep tokes. "This never happened before—the corpses didn't stink like this, and there weren't as many worms, either."

"Why didn't you throw up right there?" the mage nodded toward the fort.

"Well, I've never been the squeamish type," Max shrugged. "By the way, there was no loot on the corpses."

"None whatsoever?"

"None at all," the warrior nodded. "Let me finish the cigarette, and we'll head back—I don't like it here. Werepanthers are only supposed to come out at night, but better safe than sorry, as they say..."

That very moment a loud female scream of pain and despair sounded some twenty yards away. Without thinking twice, both dashed in that direction. Once Max tore through the bushes, he saw a young level 40 woman with dark hair, and a gray tentacle coming from a nearby stump coiled tight around her ankle. The girl's HP bar was in the yellow, and the expression on her face reflected such unbearable pain that the warrior had a chill run down his spine.

"The scroll! Luffy, heal her!" he bellowed, grabbing his sword and attacking the vile gray thing that was stretching forward from the stump.

"But it's... Ah, damn it!" Luffy realized he was doing something exceptionally stupid, yet he took out a scroll and used the spell of complete restoration on the dying werepanther woman.

A moment later he noticed that Max, who had slashed through the gray tentacle, losing more than half his HP in the process, was falling down on the grass with a moan, letting the sword slip out of his hands, and that the girl whose health they'd just restored still couldn't quite come to her senses, while the severed tentacle was reaching for her leg again. Afterwards, Luffy tried to explain to himself what had happened, but without much success. He quickly jumped forward, grabbed the girl with both arms, and started to roll with her across the grass. Something hit him hard in the teeth, and his mouth filled with salty blood. In another moment, the girl, who was already fully conscious, threw him off with strength that was incredible for her constitution, jumped to her feet and started walking backwards in the direction of the forest, casting haunted glances around herself and hissing loudly.

"She's strikingly beautiful!" the mage whispered as the girl turned around sharply, licking off the blood from her split lip, shifted into a black panther and vanished in the trees in a few short leaps.

Your reputation has increased. Tasha, a fighter of the Night Hunters clan, relates to you with suspicion.

Your reputation has increased. The Night Hunters clan is unfriendly to you.

"What did we do just now?" Max got up, wincing from the pain, and picked up the sword that had fallen out of his hands. "I even had my Toughness increase to three percent."

"She's so cool," Luffy kept staring at the spot where the girl that he'd rescued just stood.

"Hey, snap out of it," the warrior gave him a shove. "Pick up your jaw already."

"We're both idiots," the mage turned toward him with a happy smile on his face. "No player in their right mind would rush toward a woman's scream coming from the bushes—even if they did, the last thing they'd do is save a hostile high-level NPC. They'd be more likely to finish off the NPC and get a ton of experience."

"Do you regret what you did?"

"By no means... Like you, I can't bring myself to behave as a player—vestiges of real world ethics, you see."

"I never raised my hand at a woman in my previous life, and I don't intend to change my ways in this one," Max was still recovering from the pain. He sat down on the grass, drank some wine from the bellied flask, and lit a cigarette. "Of course, if the woman in question tries to kill me or someone dear to me, I'll have no such qualms. But this wasn't the case here. By the way," he blew out a puff of smoke and looked at the mage inquisitively, "what's the deal with those reputations? I don't remember reading anything about 'suspicion'."

"It's your personal reputation with an individual NPC. The ones I know are hatred, suspicion, respect and friendship. You must have looked at faction reputation statuses—that's your reputation with different social groups. They're as follows from the bottom up: hated, hostile, unfriendly, neutral, friendly, revered and exalted."

"Unfriendly means we shouldn't be attacked on sight, right?" Max pointed toward the forest—four tall wide-shouldered elves had emerged from the trees and were approaching the friends. Their recent acquaintance followed, her head bent low.

"The morning adventure continues," Luffy chortled. "Do you think we might expect a quest from them?"

"Yeah, like wasting all the elves in Sunlit Forest," Max chuckled as he rose from the ground. "It's bad manners to welcome your guests sitting down."

The guests looked very impressive indeed—each of the four was armed with paired blades and had a level between 50 and 55. Their calm faces may have been carved in wood for the amount of emotion they demonstrated.

"I am Phylatrim," the leader of the group eyed the companions with saturnine green eyes. "Who are you? And why did you save my daughter?"

"Are you saying we shouldn't have?" replied Luffy with a challenge in his voice.

"As for you, mage, we need to talk separately," the werepanther's scowl deepened as he glanced at the young woman behind him, trying to make herself as small as possible.

"I'm Max, and he's Luffy," the warrior decided to take the initiative in conversation. "We were just passing by. As for your question, I find it insulting."

"Indeed?" A shadow of surprise crossed Phylatrim's face. "Are you trying to say you consider it normal to save your enemies' lives?"

"She is no enemy of mine," Max nodded toward the girl, "and neither are you. I have no idea what causes you may have to regard us as enemies."

"But you're a dark elf," the werepanther spat out the last two words.

"So? You don't look like an orc to me, either."

"Our clan is part of the Nightcrawlers—the Fifteenth High House, one of the strongest before the War of the Great Rift. Nakilon, the so-called druid king, the swine who would later start the war, banished us to the southern part of the Great Forest, and also the wildest. No one can withstand the onslaught of four High Houses waging war against you—if the Great Forest hadn't stood in the invaders' way..."

"So that's why you slew everyone at the outpost," the warrior gestured behind him.

"Do you think it's pleasant to be hunted by scum such as these, as well as the likes of you—'just passing by,' eh? A few days ago we felt as though scales fell from our eyes, and we remembered who we really were. The ones out there," Phylatrim pointed towards Yltarin, "killed two of our kin with these foul traps," the werepanther pointed at the dried-out gray tentacle. So we came to take revenge. It was a fair fight—we lost five, but Kirana must be pleased with us."

The whole thing felt surreal to max. He looked at Luffy for support and realized his friend was a goner—the mage couldn't take his eyes off the dark-haired girl, completely ignoring everything that transpired around him.

"You do realize the locals will want to take revenge, don't you? In about twenty four hours there'll be at least fifty rangers here," Max noticed how Phylatrim and his three companions suddenly grew tense.

"How do you know that?"

"We were tasked with delivering a letter to the outpost commander. If we don't come back in twelve hours, they'll send a party of soldiers that I fear will be too large for you to handle."

"Well," Phylatrim sighed heavily, "the news is even worse than what had saddened me in the first place—learning that my daughter mixed her blood with that of an elven mage." He sighed again, threw a sideways glance at the girl, then looked at Luffy, and uttered: "Go."

The young woman stepped out from behind the backs of her escort, and then approached the petrified mage, her chin held high. She looked him right in the eye, and then licked off the blood that was still dripping from the wound on his cheek. Then she stepped back slowly. Max was flabbergasted by this turn of events, but he noticed there wasn't a hint of unease in her eyes.

"I... er..." Luffy gave his friend a look that made Max worry that the mage was in danger of losing his marbles right there and then. "What was that?"

"It appears that you're as good as married, brother."

"But how..."

"You do not consider my daughter worthy of yourself?"

"Perish the thought, of course I do! But she... it was an accident... you see..." the young man grew red as a beet, and looked down bashfully.

"Nothing happens by accident in this world," Phylatrim said in a low voice, adjusting the handle of one of the swords on his belt. Your blood mixed the very moment you saved her life. And Lata must have considered the price acceptable. Or do you think it's easy to mix your blood with a woman of our kind? You can lap up all of her blood and force your own down her throat, but it still wouldn't happen." The werepanther made a dismissive gesture with a frustrated look on his face. "What do elves know, anyway..."

"Lata? The Goddess of Love, Lata? But..." Luffy came to life all of a sudden. "What are you going to do next? You can't stay here!"

"We'll try to launch a breakthrough at the Origin Gates. Many will perish, but some are bound to survive and be able to reach the Wild Wood."

"That plan stinks!"

"You have a better idea?"

"I do! We'll make you members of our group," he turned toward Max, as if calling him to witness. "A group's reputation in a raid is measured by that of its leader, and our relations with them are neutral. For as long as Armilan receives no word of what happened here, it should work." He looked at the four elves and explained: "The guards won't attack if the leader of the party that passes through the Origin Gates is someone like myself, for example. At least, that should work until they find out about Yltarin."

"A mage cannot command a party of fifty warriors," Phylatrim shook his head.

"How about a warrior?" Max gave him a long look.

"Are you ready to share our Blood?"

"I don't have to marry anyone, do I? I have nothing against your women, but I already have—"

The werepanther smiled for the first time.

"No, you don't." He looked back at his daughter once again, sighing, and she responded with a firm and stubborn stare.

"In that case, I agree."

"Karten," Phylartim turned to one of his taciturn companions. "Gather the rest, we must make haste."

Having waited for his companions to vanish in the woods, the werepanther unsheathed his dagger, thrust his left hand before him with the palm facing upwards, and slowly sliced his wrist with the blade. He passed the dagger to Max and then produced a small white chalice, using it to catch the blood trickling down his wrist. Max took the dagger without any hesitation, did the same thing as Phylatrim, and then handed it back. Phylatrim nodded approvingly, sheathed the dagger, took the chalice in both hands and drank about half of it.

Attention! Lord Phylatrim, also known as Instant Death, invites you to join the Night Hunters clan.

We would like to remind you that being a member of an NPC clan, you can still join any other clan founded by the players. You can also be a member of several NPC clans at the same time.

Attention! Once you go through with the ritual of joining the Night Hunters clan, you will learn extra skills and gain passive abilities which will remain with you forever.

We would also like to remind you that if your affiliation with the Night Hunters clan becomes known to the representatives of other communities within the game, their relations with you will be determined by their relations with the High House of Nightcrawlers.

Please remember that only a few high-level characters have the ability to identify you as a member of the Night Hunters clan.

Accept invitation? Yes/No.

Max took the chalice from the werepanther and slowly drank the rest of the salty liquid. His head suddenly swam and he was overcome by unbearable heat. His vision blurred as if what he had drunk wasn't a few ounces of blood but rather half a gallon of brandy on an empty stomach. It took Max all his willpower to stay on his feet.

Congratulations! You are now a member of the Night Hunters clan.

Your reputation has increased. The High House of Nightcrawlers is now neutral to you.

Your reputation has decreased. Dark elves are now unfriendly to you.

Your reputation has increased. Light elves are now unfriendly to you.

"You're a strong one all right," Phylatrim chuckled approvingly as he took the empty chalice from the warrior. "Welcome to the clan, brother."

"Welcome to the clan, brother." The dark-haired beauty repeated the ritual formula.

"Hey, what about me? I want in, too!" Luffy looked like a child who had been denied a treat.

"You'll be one of us once you take part in the Rite of the Scarlet Moon," the werepanther smiled. "You should have joined up first and started hitting on my daughter later."

"Have some patience, my dear," Tasha approached the mage with a gracious gate, hugged him by the waist, and rested her head on his shoulder. "We only need to wait a tiny bit more..."

"Sure thing," the young man replied in a voice that was suddenly hoarse with tension. "Whatever you say."

In the meantime, werepanthers started to emerge from the trees. Max had never seen so many large felines before. He counted about forty panthers all in all—some were followed by tiny cubs. _Am I going to become like them now?_ he thought, knowing perfectly well he could no longer change anything. Still, he wasn't going to regret it—it makes no sense to regret your actions, after all. You couldn't make things the way they were before anyway, so let someone else waste their time on worries and regrets. The werepanthers seemed to be good folks, and he really wished none of them would die during their exodus through the Gates. You couldn't bring the dead elves back to life at any rate, and he really needed allies in this world. As well as a place to call his own...

_You have earned a new title,_ _Night Shadow_ _. Now you can command groups of sentient NPCs affiliated with the Great House of Nightcrawlers of up to 50 members. You and the warriors under your command receive 10% to your Disguise skill, 10% to movement speed on woody terrain, 3% increase to physical and magic damage, 3% to armor class and all resistances, and 3% to the effectiveness of healing spells._

Attention! All the above buffs only apply to soldiers affiliated with the High House of Nightcrawlers.

_You've learned_ _Advanced Disguise_ _, a passive skill. Now you can become invisible when you use the Disguise skill next to objects whose size compares to that of your body. If you stay invisible for over three minutes, the intensity of smells coming from your body and equipment decreases by a factor of five._

_You've learned_ _Forest Dweller_ _, a passive skill. Your movement speed on woody terrain is increased by 50%._

"Well then," the werepanther lord's voice interrupted his reverie. "Time is short—accept your fighters."

You've accessed the quest: Saving the Clan.

Quest type: unique.

Take the Night Hunters clan through the Origin Gates.

Reward: experience, increased reputation; unknown.

Attention! The time for completing this quest is limited: 11:59:59... 11:59:58... 11:59:57...

The rest was like a bizarre dream. The clan was forty-seven members strong. They moved quickly, detouring the villages that lay on the route to the Origin Gates, never stopping to rest. The only thing that stuck in Max's memory was the slack-jawed expression of shock on the faces of the few players they encountered on their way.

They reached the Origin Gates—a long and narrow passage in a rocky formation guarded by three dozen level 250 dark elves, by the evening. When one of the guards cast a scornful glance at their group, turned away, and walked on by without saying a word, Max realized that they made it. The group passed the actual Gates in a few minutes' time. Emerging from the tunnel near Ellorian, the group instantly left the road and entered the forest. They kept moving south for two more hours until Phylatrim finally gestured them to stop.

"You know, mage," the werepanther took his measure of Luffy, smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. "Now I think the goddess had a reason for pointing you out to my daughter. "Here, take this," he gave Max a leather scroll, yellowed with age. "I don't know what's written here—I received it from my father. It's unlikely that anyone will be able to read it where we're going, but you may have better luck..."

You've completed the quest: Saving the Clan.

You have gained a level! Current level: 14.

You have 1 talent point to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to earth magic.

Class bonus: +1 to constitution, +1 to strength.

You have 3 stat points to allocate.

_You received:_ _Scroll with Mysterious Lettering._

You have gained a level! Current level: 15.

You have 2 talent points to allocate.

Racial bonus: +1% to resistance to earth magic.

Class bonus: +1 to constitution, +1 to strength.

You have 6 stat points to allocate.

Your reputation has increased. Lord Phylatrim, also known as Instant Death, considers you a friend.

Your reputation has increased. The High House of Nightcrawlers relates to you with respect.

You've accessed the quest: Mysteries of History.

Quest type: unique.

Find someone who can read the cryptic scroll and find out what it says.

Reward: experience, unknown.

"Phylatrim, you do realize you shouldn't leave the group until you reach a safe place, right?"

"I know, brother," the werepanther nodded. "Thank you!" He gave Max a firm handshake and slapped Luffy on the shoulder. "Don't forget who you are—and remember that you have family in the south of the Great Forest. Say your goodbyes," he nodded to his daughter. Then he turned around and shouted to the others, "We're leaving!"

Tasha's face looked pale and mysterious in the twilight that fell on the forest. She looked at her chosen one silently for a while, then quickly approached him, hugged his neck and kissed him firmly on the lips.

"I will find you when the time comes, mage," she whispered, then took a step back and looked at Max. "See you later, brother, and good hunting to both of you."

The girl transformed into a panther right before their eyes, and disappeared in the forest a moment later.

"Got a smoke?" Luffy sat on the grass, took a flask of wine out of his inventory, and made a few large gulps.

"But you kept telling me you were a non-smoker," Max chuckled as he gave the mage a rolled cigarette.

"I did, giggling like a complete moron," Luffy chuckled back. "Do you think she'll come?"

"I'm sure she will! But you're a goner now, brother... Barely a day has gone by, and here you are, hooking up with a new babe! Just to think of all the drama you gave me..."

"Keep your judgments to yourself," the mage shook his head. "Do you realize what we have gotten into? This thing is forever."

"Is there anything you object to?"

"Not really—it's just that everything was so unexpected and surreal, like in a dream. I'd hate to find myself waking up out there," he pointed towards the starlit sky, "in the game capsule..."

"I'm afraid we'll never wake up there anymore," Max sighed heavily. "You know, I reckon we shouldn't tell anyone what just happened to us here."

"I agree," the mage nodded, saluting with his flask of wine. "So, shall we drank to our new life?"

"Aye aye," Max smiled. "I'll drink to that..."

To be continued

If you liked this book, please consider leaving a review. I have these books translated out of pocket, and your review will help me to fund the translation of the rest of the series as quickly as possible.

Thank you so much!

G. Agella

