Stranger Among Strangers Read online

  REALM OF ARKON

  Dark Covenant:

  Stranger Among Strangers

  by G. Akella

  BOOK I

  Text Copyright © 2019 Georgy Smorodinsky (G. Akella)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book can be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Translated by Mark Berelekhis

  Cover designed by Sergey Atroshenko

  Illustrations by Helga Wojik

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Note from the author

  Recomendations

  Facebook LitRPG groups

  Chapter 1

  "What's taking him so long?" Sam shoots the door an annoyed look. He looks like he wants to say something else, but then changes his mind, gives a frustrated wave of the hand, and falls silent.

  "Relax, will you?" Clark chuckles. "Mike is talking to the boss now. He'll be on time, don't you worry."

  We've been sitting in the "locker room" behind the arena for forty minutes now, waiting for Mike Mathews, the team manager, whom we call Badger—though not to his face. "We" being Clark, Sam, Lima, Garret, and myself. Ranger, warrior, priestess, mage, and rogue. Respectively. Two Russians, two Americans, and one very chatty Frenchwoman. A motley crew of the highest order. So how is it that we all came together? Truthfully, I'm not even sure how to explain it. But then, massively multiplayer online games with full immersion are known to produce some peculiar shit. And of those games, the Realm of Arkon reigns supreme with a user base of thirty million. Getting those kinds of numbers is impossible without decent PvP[1] content. Here, too, the game world is second-to-none. And of all the PvP content in Arkon, 5v5 arena battles draw the biggest crowds. And that brings us to present day, with the five of us sitting here, preparing for a match.

  "Seriously, what's taking so long? It's fifteen minutes to the match!" It's Sam who exclaims this time. Nobody has got an answer for him.

  Everyone is on pins and needles. The match ahead will not be an easy one. In fact, it'll probably be the hardest battle any one of us has ever been in. Eastern Zone Semifinals in the 5v5 format. And as our next opponent out of the remaining three, we had the dubious luck of drawing the toughest one: The Warps.

  "Attention, fighters!" Appearing on the threshold, Badger shuts the door, confirms that he has everyone's attention, then nods at the gate that serves as the arena entrance.

  "Just had word with the chief. It's confirmed: each one of you will earn fifty large for getting to the finals, instead of the standard twenty. I need not tell you how badly we need this victory, and the money should serve as a good incentive."

  "It can be five hundred large and it won't make a damned bit of difference," Garret grouses to his left. "I'd sooner take his advice on how to handle Dice and his scalable two-hander."

  With a wry face, the mage runs his hand along the shaft of his staff, falling silent as he leans back against the wall. I look around at their faces. Sam, Clark, Lima... None of them are alight with enthusiasm. And for good reason—our chances against a team that has won bronze in the now-defunct European zone lie somewhere between slim and none. The Warps' rating is seven thousand points ahead of ours, and their gear advantage is significant. It's no wonder the odds are eight-to-one in their favor. All that said, making it into the Zone's final means a guaranteed trip to the championships, so Garrett can bitch and moan all he wants, but he knows we're not going to just roll over and die. And fifty thousand Euro is a damn good incentive indeed.

  "Kris! Wake the hell up!"

  What does he want now? With a demonstrative sigh, I slowly turn my head towards him.

  "What's up, Mike? I thought I already said hi."

  "Accept the trade!" the manager's voice is pointedly calm and even. "And whatever it is you're chewing, don't forget to spit it out before the fight!"

  Right, it's my gum, of course... With barely ten minutes left to the match, it's clear why Badger is on edge. But what do I care for his mental state? Don't get me wrong, Mike Mathews is a solid guy, and if it weren’t for him, I'd still be hiding from guards on city rooftops or serving another three-year sentence down in Shanama. Now, sure, I wasn't engaged in those antics under any sort of duress—in fact, I was rather fond of my life in the shadows—but when MDM approached me with their offer, which included significant financial compensation, I didn't agonize much before taking them up on it.

  "Kris? Venom! Have you gone deaf?!" Badger barks, louder this time.

  Seeing that Mike is about to lose it, I accept the trade at last with a chuckle. I realize how annoying my feigned sluggishness must look to others, but there's really nothing I can do. I just don't give a flying eff about the feelings of these characters surrounding me in general, and of a certain team manager in particular. It's no easy feat, becoming a whole new person in the span of a few weeks, as anyone who has ever changed their immediate environment even once will attest. Offer an ex-con a kitchen knife and watch him tense up with adrenaline and fear. Or watch how a soldier fresh off a tour in a war zone scours the city streets for enemy combatants, or jumps out of bed at oh six hundred hours on the dot, even after a night of boozing. Or take me, a man who has spent the past four years digging a ditch in the underbelly of society with focus and deliberation... Forgive me if I've yet to grow into the role of a bloody noble gladiator.

  With the trade window finally open, Mike transfers a dagger into my possession, then watches with satisfaction as my expression turns from patronizing to slightly dazed.

  "That's our ultimate for today's match," he gestures at the dagger. "A boost of nearly nine hundred rating. I wouldn't call it a deciding factor in and of itself, but in your hands, it just might be. You are to return it after the match, along with the rest of the gear. It hasn't been registered yet. But come finals, you'll be rocking the dagger along with a whole new set of gear."

  With a friendly clap on my shoulder, the manager tur
ns to Lima.

  "I hope there won’t be any issues with you today?"

  The elfess mutters a response, but I'm no longer listening as the whole world constricts to the item lying in my lap.

  Dirk of Deferred Death

  Dagger; one-handed.

  Durability: 1625/2500.

  Epic. Scalable.

  Class: Rogue.

  No minimum level.

  Damage: 320-380.

  +199 to Agility.

  +199 to Constitution.

  +100% to damage from poison coating the blade.

  When attacking from stealth, the attacker instantly gains two combo points[2].

  The target is unable to remove the applied poison for the first three seconds.

  Weight: .4 lbs.

  Forged by the great master of the drow race, Kron-Rysh Alehan.

  The baselard[3] slides into my hand. The handle, shaped like the Latin letter "I," is draped in leather with a pleasant sandpapery finish, and four rivets alongside it depicting runes. The titanium blade is cut like a diamond, with a fuller on either side.

  It is as gorgeous as the latest Porsche of the boss' wife, and just as expensive. In my four years of playing, my hands have not held a treasure of this magnitude.

  Matches at this level require the combatants' equipment to be declared twenty-four hours in advance so as to allow the public to review each gear slot and factor it into their analysis when placing a bet. The team retains the right to swap just one item of the declared gear before the match—this rotation is called an "ultimate." It's not often that such a swap impacts the outcome of high-profile matches, but there have been cases... And I hope that this is going to be one of those cases, because this is ONE OF THOSE DAGGERS. A dagger specialist gets to choose one of three available specializations. I chose poisons, eventually earning the Master of Poison achievement half a year ago. That means I'm a hell of a lot easier to spot than a Master or Stealth, and my damage output against mobs[4] lags behind that of a Cutthroat[5] by about fifty percent, but I don't care! The Assassin branch of the rogue talent tree suits my style of play most perfectly, and my build[6] is heavily reliant on poisons. The two additional combo points on the dagger will allow me to attack from stealth dealing eleven thousand damage instead of seven. Coupled with another three thousand from the poison DoT[7], any squishy caster caught unawares is going down faster than a drunk sorority girl on a day that ends with "Y," their status as former European champion or any other accolades be damned.

  Now, sure, the Warps know perfectly well who I am, but I can't imagine they're expecting a trick this nasty. If only I were one level higher, the increased damage from my offhand[8] could be enough to take down Dice himself, but, alas, level 200 is the start of a whole different tier.

  With a mental grin, I finally take my admiring eyes off the dagger, then apply a viscous gray liquid to the blade, coating it on either side. Grumm Bone Extract is the best poison for my level—the best of any currently known poisons, at least. I haven't the faintest idea what type of beast this "grumm" is, only that its bones make a fine poison, even if they're worth their weight in adamantine at two hundred fifty gold pieces per pound. Thankfully, that expense doesn't come out of my pocket—I get as much poison as I need for these battles. Ten seconds, ten ticks, and Paralysis for three seconds towards the end—this baby is just what the doctor ordered. A twisted doctor hardly beholden to the Hippocratic oath, but anyway. I don't know where Mike managed to source this dagger, but to say that I'm impressed by the acquisition is to say nothing at all.

  It takes me twenty seconds to apply the poison to the blade. As I put the vial back in my bag, I suddenly realize that the room is eerily quiet. Looking up from the dagger in my lap, I find that all the eyes of my party mates are glued to me, their expressions ranging from grinning to outright smirking. Lima puts up her hands and brings them together in the shape of a camera, then claps them and exclaims.

  "And cut!"

  I stare back at the girl, frowning. "What the hell? What's everyone looking at?!"

  "You should see your face," Sam grunts, sitting across from me. "For once you look like a regular human, not some crown prince in exile."

  "Not even my future husband looked at me the way you were just looking at that dagger," the priestess snickers. "Who would've thunk it that beneath the veneer of a stone-cold master assassin lurks the timid soul of a hopeless romantic..."

  Timid? Romantic? What the hell are they smoking??? Ugh, and you know she won't think twice about uploading the video online for everybody's enjoyment. Hard to believe that a grown-ass woman with pretty good arena skills can act like such a schoolgirl sometimes. But whatever. Wanna upload it? Go right ahead—I welcome the hype and the notoriety.

  Ignoring their teasing, I shift my impassive gaze from the gleeful girl to the warrior, and proceed to explain.

  "Let it be known that drow don't have any crown princes, Sam. Start reading the classics, eh? Or keep your mouth shut so that at least you don't give away your ignorance."

  "There's the Kris we've come to know and love," with a nod to the manager, Clark gets up, claps a seemingly slumbering Garret on the shoulder, and points at the dagger in my lap. "Now, we have the dagger, which means our entire battle plan is going out the window. You!" He peers into my eyes intently. "Take out the mage from the start. Not control, mind you, but take out. In thirty seconds or less!"

  "I hear you, boss," I reply to the team captain. "You can count on me."

  Clark spends several more seconds boring me with his eyes, then nods with satisfaction and turns to the others.

  "Lima, you do your thing, as always. Sam, Garret and I will focus on the priest. Only he and the mage can dispel poison from the others. Once both are down, Garret and I will switch to Dice. Venom and Sam will steer clear of Dice. From there, we play it by ear. No changes to initial buffs. We come out under a Dome, as always. Four minutes to the match. Start getting ready!"

  Clark shifts his gaze to Badger sitting in the corner and gives a shrug.

  "We’ll give it our best shot, Mike..."

  The manager nods, gets up, and looks around at the combatants' faces.

  "Your best shot is exactly what I expect! Good luck, team! I'll be watching with a glass of whiskey to calm the nerves, as always..."

  With a smile and a wave of the hand, Mike makes for the exit.

  I watch the manager go. A glass of whiskey? Yeah, right. I remember our first meeting, when he flew to Moscow to sign the contract. A bottle might not be enough given his six-and-a-half-foot frame and fists the size of a human skull. If not for his long face with two scars decorating his bald spot, his nickname wouldn't be Badger. More like Kong. Mike doesn't seem to mind the nickname, either, but we still avoid calling him that to his face. Just to be on the safe side.

  Chapter 2

  I run my palm over the blade of the dagger, trying to focus on the upcoming battle.

  Clark didn't say anything new. The Warps are set up very much like us. A rogue, a mage, a priest, a warrior, and an archer. The differences lie in specializations. Where Clark is a pure ranger without a pet, Gita777 is a hunter. Her damage output is twenty percent below Clark's, but her warthog pet has both Charge and Stun, both of which can inflict serious distress if timed properly. Sam is a berserker, like Dice, and dishes out respectable damage with his weapons, but nowhere near as much as the opponent's scalable two-hander. Even without the weapon, Dice is a freak of a player. I don't even know why he's fighting for the Warps for the second consecutive season. Given his skill and gear, he could be fighting for Samsung and no one would bat an eye. With that bloody two-hander, he's rocking nearly fifteen percent chance to crit at level 199! And that's before his ten percent to crit from talents and achievements. Even after the arena's standard ten percent reduction to the chance to crit, ostensibly for the sake of balance and spectacle, that still leaves fourteen percent! Against my seven! And a crit from his monstrosity is pretty much guaranteed to one-sh
ot[9] anyone on our team not named Sam. And you can't even try to dodge, since any warrior worth their salt counters with an instant Requital in response to a successful dodge, which carries a whopping fifty percent chance to crit.

  Seeing a monster two-hander coming down on you and knowing you can't move away is a dubious pleasure. Especially given that these are gladiator battles, and the arena sets pain sensitivity at ten percent. That's the official claim, at least, but really it's hogwash. Even at ten percent, some of the blows and spells used routinely would cause a fatal pain shock. As it is, the worst pain you'll ever feel even at one percent HP isn't any worse than a proper punch with a boxing glove. Hardly pleasant, but tolerable[10]. Anyway, the bottom line is that Dice needs to be taken down at a distance. That's the theory, at least. In practice, nobody has a clue how to handle him.

  Truth be told, any serious gamer would deem Clark a bloody idiot after hearing out his tactical plan. How are we supposed to move? What is the order of attack? Who's covering whom? Alas, the arena is no chessboard, and only His Majesty Chance knows what's in store for us.

  There is a total of two hundred fifty arenas, all of them varying in shapes and sizes. The physical obstacles and covers likewise appear randomly the instant a match is generated. Nobody knows in advance where they're going to fight: on a beach, in castle ruins, or knee-deep in swampwater. Those are the general rules, anyway. Tournaments don't allow sand or water, but only hard surfaces to ensure no one can track an opponent in stealth by their footmarks. The terrain and obstacles must be perfectly symmetrical to avoid giving either team even a semblance of an advantage. These are high-stakes matches, and the fights must be unequivocally, unquestioningly fair.

  Like all other games of its kind, Arkon was designed to legally appropriate funds from the planet's entertainment-seeking populace, and that means combat rules must be unequivocally, unquestionably fair, lest nobody is going to play these games. So, no, Clark won't start dispensing specific instructions until the specific physical conditions of the arena become visible, that is until the fog covering the arena clears. None of us here are noobs, anyway—everyone's got their role down pat. For instance, as the rogue, my first objective will be to bring the team under the Dome of Invisibility to the first obstacle, and switch to the enemy mage only after. Standard practice.