Patch 17 (Realm of Arkon) Read online

  "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 certai
nly 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 o
ut 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.