Midnight, New Moscow time. Server: "Yggdrasil." Championship finals.
"My lord, the enemies are advancing again!" The advisor's voice rolled across the scorched earth, echoing off lava-covered cliffs.
"They're begging for death!" I growled and scanned the battlefield from atop the tower.
Three enemy heroes (two fully armored Paladins and a winged Angel) were pushing through the center. Behind them came a large human infantry force. Not the ragtag militia of the early waves, but seasoned swordsmen and archers clad in steel chainmail.
Damn it, could this be any worse? We had been desperately holding the line under their assault for over thirty minutes. Sacrificing towers one after another to buy precious seconds, but we still needed at least two more minutes... And now the enemy was upon us, and we couldn't afford to lose the final line of defense.
I ordered my team to flank, grabbed a potion from the rack and downed it on the spot. My wounds closed before my eyes, but that purchase cost us dearly. We'd have to hold on for another twenty seconds.
I unfurled my leathery wings and plummeted into the enemy infantry, ignoring the heroes. First, I had to strip them of their entourage, distract, stall... But I had to avoid their focused strike. With all their gear investment, even one of them was deadly in single combat. Three at once? Suicide.
The infantry fell beneath my claws like grass before a scythe. One after another, soldiers dropped without landing a blow. Blood flowed freely, restoring mana and speeding up my regeneration. Sadly, the spree didn't last long — the Paladin was closing in, and not alone. He had a squad of archers backing him up. The enemy knew I couldn't be allowed to butcher their troops unchecked.
The armored hero took a stance, his Paladin hammer glowing with searing light.
A combat skill! Light Rush or Stunning Leap?
Let's risk it.
I let out a shriek, provoking the enemy infantry to charge me.
Now!
Just as the Paladin leapt, I spread my wings and launched upward to meet him. We crossed paths mid-air, face to face. Too bad I couldn't slash open his exposed throat…
A moment later, the Paladin crashed into where I'd been, stunning his own troops, while I landed among the unprotected archers and continued the slaughter. Perfect timing.
My team wasn't far behind: the Vampire Countess led a horde of frenzied peasants at the isolated Paladin. Her blood aura temporarily sent otherwise useless units into a bloodlust, letting them clash nearly evenly with swordsmen, especially stunned ones. The poorly-jumped hero was instantly swarmed by the crazed peasants and bogged down completely.
I tore the last archer's head off and scanned the battlefield. Bad news — the other two heroes had counterattacked our right flank, pinning the Unclean One, a massive zombie ogre. White beams burst from the Angel's wings, scorching and incinerating rotted flesh. The Paladin, relentless and without using special abilities, shattered the ogre's bones with his hammer. The regular undead held back the swordsmen well enough, but if the winged one wasn't distracted, our ogre would be purged, and the front would collapse.
I soared into the air and hurled a severed head at the Angel, interrupting his cast. What would he do? Would he realize he had to team up with the Paladin and break through to the last tower? Or would he believe he still had time?
Everything hinged on that.
The Angel pointed his staff at me and released a volley of gleaming arrows.
He took the bait. Huge mistake.
I folded my wings and dove like a stone. Some arrows missed, others scorched my flesh to the bone.
Without pause, the Angel spread his wings and ascended. His snow-white feathers flared with blinding light and unleashed a torrent of pure white fire. That attack was unavoidable, but it was relatively weak, spread over a wide area…
The only question was: what would run out first, his mana or my life?
The firestorm vaporized low-tier undead, but not me. I managed to shield myself with my wings, boosting my defense.
Blinding light was everywhere. It seared even through my wings. I checked my inner timer: five seconds. Four. Three. My wings were disintegrating, and the flames reached my body. Two. One. Zero. In that very instant, the Angel's wings dimmed, and he dropped from the sky. After a blast like that, he'd need time to recover, but time was something he no longer had.
My wings had burned to cinders, my health nearly gone, but no matter. I spotted a nearby swordsman's corpse and sat down on it like a throne.
We'd already won. To be precise, we'd won the moment the enemy chose to focus on me instead of breaking through to the tower.
From the final tower emerged knights shrouded in darkness, the elite of our army. They pierced enemy ranks and unleashed wholesale slaughter. The radiant forces were helpless against them and fell by the hundreds.
The Angel, leaning on his staff, rose to his knees and surveyed the battlefield.
The Light's assault had failed.
Cohort after cohort of Black Knights poured from the tower and joined the fray. The Paladin gave up trying to finish the Unclean One alone and began swinging wildly at the encroaching Knights. His blows shattered shields and dented dark armor. But the Knights surrounded him and struck in unison, expertly covering each other. The warrior of Light fell, taking only a few with him.
My opponent, enraged, flung down his staff and vanished in a burst of white light.
No surprise.
The Light had invested too much in this attack. Their army was dead, their defense feeble as ever. Though most of the battlefield remained under their control, it was all an illusion. Now their team faced only a shameful beating, with no chance of victory.
VICTORY
All opponents had surrendered.
I tore off my sweat-soaked VR helmet and slumped into my chair. That match was sweaty. The strategy had been extremely risky, though it ended in an utter rout. They had us cornered the entire fight, forcing us to retreat as we tried to trade evenly with inferior numbers.
Time to switch on the monitors. No way I was diving back into VR after that adrenaline rush.
I pulled up the official tournament stream and rewound it to the moment the Black Knights entered the field.
The ecstatic squeals of the professional commentators amused me. Posers. Unlike our opponents, they knew exactly what we were preparing at base. Still, the show had turned out spectacular.
I couldn't resist peeking at the stream chat. Comments were flying at blinding speed, flashing past in seconds.
[Nagibator2053]: damn, thought they'd finally knock him off the podium
[Astarot_Great]: Astarot is Great! He and his team are unbeatable!
[Redberry^-^]: (╯ ° □ °) ╯ (┻━┻) (╯ ° □ °) ╯ (┻━┻)
[AlFa369]: not fair Samael's team almost won ((9
[Ghost1Warrior]: Absolutely amazing!!! [42]
[CoffeeZombi]: how the hell were there knights
[IMBA_24]: lol ¯_(ツ)_/¯
[Chem_Pion]: Glory to the Invincible God of War!
[Superman2008]: Absolutely amazing!!! [43]
Heh. Fan comments, a small thing, but it's nice.
[Suck_Astarot]: This guy has no room left for trophies — share with the newbies already! Same team's been number one for five years!
I glanced at my trophy shelf. Sure enough, the gold cups had taken over, pushing my reenactment photos to the lower shelf. Time to expand. Or maybe install a second cabinet? I selected the guy's message and replied with a flick of my wrist:
"Don't worry, I'll make room for a few more trophies."
The chat exploded. I could barely catch isolated words, the messages were flying that fast.
No point trying to read it, so I closed the chat and switched to my inbox.
The spam filters were struggling — thousands of junk messages hitting every minute. Let's see… invite from an eSports mag, maybe later. Oh. Message from one of the enemy Paladins:
"You goddamn cheater! There's no way you got third-tier knights under our pressure! I'm gonna expose you!"
Pfft. Blocked, noob. Anything's possible with perfect planning. I'd spent weeks analyzing Samael's team strategies.
The rookies were insanely strong — climbing the ladder like a hot knife through butter. From Bronze to Master League in a matter of weeks. They knocked out the season's favorites effortlessly. But they had a weakness — their captain didn't understand retreat tactics.
Samael wasn't used to losing.
Every duel he entered had to be finished to the bitter end, even when it made more sense to regroup and strike again later. That was exactly what I exploited: I fed him illusionary victories, made him believe his triumph was inevitable and then flipped the entire game with a single move. Still, the guy is someone to watch. He's got immense talent. I could feel it — next season, he's going to be my most dangerous rival.
"Hey, Captain, we almost screwed that one up, huh?!" came the voice of the "Unclean One" through the speakers.
My team had already gotten over the post-victory adrenaline rush and were now discussing the best spot to celebrate.
"We had everything under control," countered the feminine voice of the "Countess", another player on our team.
"Ha! You had it under control. I was barely holding on, they nearly took me down two-on-one."
"You should've coordinated better with Astarot instead of charging ahead!" the Countess snapped back indignantly.
"Enough! Gentlemen!" I cut in.
"And ladies!" she corrected.
"And ladies! No more arguing. Let's hit the showers, clean ourselves up, dress decently, and call a cab to the Golden Dragon. Our tables are already reserved. We're going to celebrate properly!"
"But you have to book that place a week in advance…" the Countess purred with a hint of suspicion.
"I did."
"And what if we'd lost?" the Unclean One asked.
"Well, then we wouldn't be blowing prize money there — we'd be drowning our sorrows in booze," I replied quickly.
We all laughed and ended the call.
I had just gotten up from my chair when the speakers buzzed again. Hm. Incoming call from "Samael." Coming to accuse me of cheating like his teammate?
Accept call.
"Congratulations. On the win."
His voice sounded young — I'd have guessed sixteen if I didn't know that you had to be eighteen to compete. But the tone — dead, icy cold. It sounded like someone struggling very hard to keep the fire from burning out of his ass.
"Thanks."
"I hope you don't think this win means you're actually better than me?"
His voice turned even frostier — though I didn't think that was possible.
I said nothing. Weird question. Stupid phrasing. I mean, I won. That clearly says something. But something about his tone made it sound like there was another meaning behind the words.
"You want me to say it was just luck?" I asked coldly. I can't stand when sore losers try to taint my well-earned victories.
"Exactly," he nearly hissed.
I sighed. Maybe I was wrong to worry about him next season, the guy's way too unstable and might not recover from this defeat. No one stays on top forever, and the winning streak had spoiled him. Still, rising from the bottom of the ladder to second place at the world finals — that's a hell of an achievement. But... I felt like lighting a cigarette. The only thing I could do now was give him a useful piece of advice. It would be a shame if the gaming world lost someone of his level.
"Learn to accept defeat," I said calmly and my conversation partner exploded.
"YOU! YOU!!! Fine! You won this shitty game, I admit it, mortal. But how will you handle a real battle?! You haven't even..."
I hung up and blocked him. No way I was letting this lunatic ruin my night. I had gourmet food, girls, and good company waiting.
The monitor went black. Strange. I reached out to press the power button, but right after the screen, the entire room went dark.
What the hell?
I got up from my chair and felt my way toward the window. I yanked back the curtain, hoping to see the glow of the evening city, but saw nothing. Absolute blackness outside.
I'm imagining this. Definitely imagining it.
I stumbled backward but couldn't find my chair. I rushed forward — no walls. Nothing. A freezing hand grabbed my ankle, and I fell. The floor was gone too, but something held me suspended over an endless void of darkness.
"Learn to accept defeat," whispered that same familiar young voice in my ear.
And let go.
***
I plunged into nothingness.
No shape. No borders. No me. No time.
An eternity later, something shifted. I could tell up from down. Space trembled and infinity shrank into the wretched shell of a human body. Awkward. Unfamiliar. A part of me slipped into the form — and was immediately drowned in pain.
"Master, we've hooked him!"
"Increase mana tension on the third beam! Don't let him escape!"
I became aware of myself. The body wouldn't respond — I tried to move an arm, and a leg flinched instead. I barely pried open my eyelids, but my eyes pointed in different directions. My chest burned with fire, and my muscles were locked up, like someone had run a high-voltage line through them.
"More mana! Focus power on the outer star! Use the reservoirs!"
The sensation of nothingness vanished. My eyes watered, but I managed to make out where I was.
Stone floor. Candles. A blood-soaked pentagram. People in red robes and deep hoods lifting their hands in bizarre gestures. The air shimmered and crackled, swollen with power.
"Master! The concentration's too high!"
"Shut the portal! Shut it!"
I couldn't make out the speakers — everything looked foggy. The crackling in the air intensified, and a wave of power knocked the cultists off their feet. A cloud of magic erupted into a kaleidoscope of blazing visions. Razor-sharp images bypassed my failing senses and poured straight into my mind.
A noblewoman bathing in someone else's blood.
Torchlight, screams, smoke, fire. A mansion engulfed in flames, rising toward the sky where a massive airship hangs. Bombs fall onto a fortress. A cannonball punches through a bastion wall. A guillotine blade drops — yet another noble loses their head. Blood freezes into red icicles.
The smell of gunpowder and steel. A peasant waving a flag while standing atop an overturned carriage. Next to him, a primitive armored vehicle. The hiss of steam and the thunder of machinery forging weapons for a new world.
Hordes of undead tangling up a tank. Black, writhing root-tentacles. A nuclear blast.
The visions shattered into pieces, leaving just one — massive and overwhelming.
A blinding sun. A battlefield. Royal troops march to crush a rebellion. The commanders are calm, soldiers joking among themselves. What could mere peasant rabble possibly do? Fully armored knight cavalry already galloping forward. Heavy infantry pressing the line, moving up under cover from a mage. The enemy isn't even wearing armor — this would be a walk in the park.
The cannons roared. Grapeshot spared no one — man or horse. The cavalry was torn to shreds, survivors scattering in panic. The knights faltered, confused — they had come too close.
Signal!
A line of infantry raised their muskets. Volley! Clouds of smoke. The whistle of bullets. The army mage, shielding the troops from arrows, coughed blood — bullets had instantly overloaded his barrier. Lead harvested its deadly crop, punching through armor and flesh.
The knights charged, trying to close the gap.
Signal!
The front rank dropped to one knee. Volley! Armor didn't help. Men fell like grass before a scythe.
Signal!
Another volley! This one echoed by the thunder of freshly reloaded cannons. Grapeshot swept through the enemy like a steel broom. No one could withstand the new weaponry. In the mangled remains of armor and meat, it was impossible to even tell they had once been men. The assault broke apart.
Drums rolled as the line infantry advanced in formation, stepping over bleeding corpses. The mage gestured desperately, raising shields. Useless. The formation lifted their muskets.
Volley!
A few bullets ricocheted, but most tore through both magical barriers and the mage's feeble frame. Noble blood, blessed with arcane power, spurted out in pulses, mixing with the blood of fallen knights. To bullets, it made no difference — aristocrat or not.
The infantry moved forward, ignoring the corpses underfoot. The few survivors were finished off with bayonets. The royal army had suffered a crushing defeat. The rebels — not a single casualty.
The vision dissipated into the air, leaving behind the scent of powder and blood.
"Master… was that a sign from our lord? Will he grant us demonic weaponry?"
"Fool! Prophecies are not meant to be taken literally! Grasp the essence! Our enemies lie dead! The Lord prophesies my great victory. We will crush them all and I shall be king!"
My vision cleared. I saw a revolting fat man watching the ritual from a gilded throne.
You're the only fool here.
King?
Dream on.
Every fiber of my being screamed the prophecy was meant for me.
And me alone.