I crouched low against Devil’s serpentine neck, put my heels hard into his scaly sides, and jerked sharply on the leather reins, wheeling us around—back toward Rowanheath’s main gate. Pounding wind beat against me, slapping at my face, and clawing furiously at my cloak as the city below whipped past us and the spattering of enemy troops resolved into view: More Black Legion members out of Harrowick—though there were a few support-mages from the Ancient Ones Faction and a handful of players from the Ever-Victorious Empire, courtesy of Robert Osmark himself.

“Fire,” someone hollered from down below, followed by the groan of wood and the creak of leather as one of the heavy enemy mangonel­­­—specialty catapults on heavy rollers—released a barrage of flaming debris high into the air. They were all aiming for me. Since the raid against Rowanheath a week ago, Devil and I had become minor celebrities, and now every Imperial-aligned player and NPC was gunning for us. It didn’t help that Osmark was offering five-thousand gold marks, equivalent to half-a-million IRL dollars, to anyone who managed to bring me down and earn a confirmed PvP kill.

Devil reacted in a blink, throwing us into a quick dive, avoiding a flaming stone the size of my head, before barrel rolling right, dodging another cluster of baseball sized rocks. A Griffin—one of Rowanheath’s conjured guardians, now under my control—wasn’t so lucky or so quick. A jagged chunk of debris, burning like an incoming meteor, clipped the eagle-faced creature in one of its wings, punching a huge hole through sculpted feathers. The creature squawked in panic, its broken limb wobbling, no longer able to hold it steady. A second later, the damaged wing simply broke away with a crack and the guardian dropped, twirling in a death spiral toward the ground.

The Griffin, in one final act of loyalty, or maybe vengeance, angled its fall so it careened just over the wall and slammed into an encroaching group of armor-clad Imperials. The ground erupted in a spray of dirt and stone, taking at least one of the enemy warriors—a stocky Dwarf with a gnarly red beard wielding a ferociously oversized battleax—down for good. Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t help but grin a little. Served those jerks right.

Devil and I wheeled about again, loitering above the wall’s ramparts, as I searched for the on-duty Commander. I spotted him a second later, his narrow shoulders and golden skin easy to pick out as he strode along the rampart, shouting commands at each ballista firing position. “Li Xiu,” I hollered as we swooped by, “we need to get those siege weapons down! They’re killing us!”

Another round of fiery shrapnel whooshed overhead; Devil dropped just in time, landing on the cobblestone rampart. Unfortunately, another chunk of flaming stone, this one as big as a football, caught a young Murk Elf woman in the gut; she tumbled backward over the retaining wall, screaming in terror as she fell. Her shriek cut off abruptly a moment later as her body slammed against Rowanheath’s streets, a crimson halo spreading out around her lifeless body. Poor girl. I’d died twice so far and it was far from a pleasant experience, especially with the God-awful debuffs that hit like a car-crash at respawn.

The Devs way to incentives not dying. I shuddered just thinking about it.

“Marisa,” a beefy Risi warrior muttered, uselessly reaching a hand out, as though he could somehow save the woman.

“She’ll be fine in eight hours,” Xiu snapped, his words clipped and tinged with a Chinese accent. “Now, back to work you er bǎi wǔ or Rowanheath will fall and then no one will be fine.” The Risi glared at Xiu, who looked frail enough to snap in half, but Xiu stared right back, his eyes squinted, his teeth bared in a grimace, his feet planted wide, one hand resting on the butt of his sword. Xiu was intense. Scary-intense. After a few seconds, the Risi seemed to realize that too, dropped back to a knee, and began working a metal crank, ratcheting back the ballista’s string.

“We need to get those siege weapons down,” I said to Xiu again, fighting to keep the anger out of my words.

“You think I don’t know that?” he hissed, rounding on me, hands planted defiantly on his hips. Xiu was a former Chief Sergeant with the Chinese People’s Liberation Army, and he didn’t seem to care who anyone was. In his worldview, there were only two kinds of people: those who obeyed Xiu’s orders and those who should obey Xiu’s orders. He was a heck of a commander, though, and had a way of reading the battlefield better than any other faction member we had. “We’re trying,” he grunted after a moment, his tone a hair more civil. “But they too far out. Scatter bombs won’t reach, and those wáng bā dàn support mages keep casting force shields to protect troops on ground.”

I thought for just a second, brow furrowed, lips pursed. “I’ll take the Griffins and deal with the mages. Once they’re down, sound the drums and send the spider-riders over in force. As for the catapults—let’s break out Vlad’s new Javelins. They were designed exactly for this kind of thing,” I finished, urging Devil into a loping gait.

“But we haven’t tested the Javelins,” he shouted at my retreating back, his words laced with tightly controlled panic.

Vlad, our crazy Russian and resident weapon expert, had been invaluable to our cause, constantly tinkering away in his workshop back in Yunnam, working up ever-new weapons for our troops to employ. Most of his inventions were brilliant—shadow missiles that erupted into a hundred flaming arrows, bombs which released toxic death clouds, cannons with rapid reload capabilities—but most was not all. A few of his inventions had … well, the results weren’t pretty: Players, dead, shrapnel littering their corpses. Limbs crudely ripped off. Scorched earth for a hundred feet in every direction.

“We need an edge,” I yelled over one shoulder, a hand cupped around my mouth, “and there’s really no time like the present. Load up the javelins—” my sentence cut off as Devil leaped from the rampart, his wings stretching and catching a stiff breeze as we banked upward. We soared over the top of the assembled Black Legion troops, cruising just out of arrow range. Five siege engines littered the rolling green fields in front of the wall, along with a small army—fifty or sixty deep—of hardened warriors, nimble archers, support mages, and clerics armed to the teeth with buff and healing spells.

Okay, time to take out those support mages, before we got our first real look at Vlad’s new death-dealing weapons of mass destruction. I glanced left, then right, catching sight of the stone Griffins soaring above me in a lazy holding pattern, their huge wings pumping as they placidly waited for my orders. “Squad A,” I shouted, focusing on a group of Griffins clutching giant stone boulders—each a couple hundred pounds, easy—in their lionesque front paws. I didn’t really need to shout; despite the distance and the noise, the Rowanheath Guardians were linked to me in some way I didn’t quite understand, and I could summon and command them even at distance.

But it felt right to shout.

“Bombardment run,” I yelled, “but focus on the spell casters.” I paused, turning my gaze on Squad B, circling high above on the left. “When the mages put up their shields, sweep in low from the back and hit ’em hard while they’re defenseless. Once they’re down, take out the clerics and archers in that order.” A deafening caw, part eagle part buzzsaw, ripped at the air as the guardians acknowledged my command. Then, they were diving. The ten members of Squad A swooped down in a wave, spreading out in a staggered line.

“Incoming!” an Imperial Huntress in dark leathers screamed as Squad A dropped their huge boulders toward the most densely populated pockets of people, letting gravity do the heavy lifting. A few panicked Imperials scurried about, raising shields in a pitiful attempt to defend themselves, but most just stood there smug and cocksure. They had reason to be: domes of flickering blue light erupted in the air as the squad of support mages raised hands skyward, all chanting in unison as they channeled their power into a massive defensive barrier of pure spirit.

The gigantic AOE spell was completely badass, but it only protected the Imperials from aerial bombardment and the mages themselves would be defenseless while casting it. I grinned and waved a hand at Squad B—time to move. Ten more Griffins wheeled around behind the AOE shield and dove on cue, streaking toward the earth like living lightning. They hit the dirt at a sprint, their powerful feline legs eating up ground in a blink as they closed on the mages. The Imperials were quick, a group of archers turned and peppered the monstrous guardians with acid tipped arrows.

They weren’t quick enough, though.

Squad B slammed into the vulnerable mages from behind, their hands still upraised as they chanted. Cruel, hooked beaks tore out throats while razor-sharp talons shredded through flimsy cloth robes. The blue dome above flickered, guttered, and died as the mages fell, and just like that, in a snap, hell broke loose on the field. The remaining Griffins dropped from the sky, meeting the ground troops head on. Shouts and screams filled the air, interrupted by the clang of steel on stone and the snap of bow-strings. The Griffins were badly outnumbered, at least three to one, but they fought fearlessly and ruthlessly.

To them, death really was a minor inconvenience. They weren’t NPCs, not really. They’d respawn in eight hours, good as new with none of the unfortunate side-effects players suffered after dying.

The crash of drums—­whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp—rolled down from the walls, almost deafening even over the din of battle. There was no in-game comm-link for players, and PMing everyone just wasn’t practical, so Otto had suggested the drums as a way of passing orders during battle.

“Spider-riders!” someone shouted in panic.

I glanced back in time to see a wave of furry legs and bloated bodies pour over the top of the wall, carrying a contingent of mounted Alliance members: Battle-Wardens, Firebrands, Ice-Lancers, Shadow Knights, Marauders, Cutthroats—players of every class and racial affinity—all bound to spider mounts. The creatures rappelled down on thick strands of gray, gossamer webbing, before scuttling into the fray. A chaotic hail of arrows flew in both directions, claiming fighters on each side … Fire and ice cut through the air, scorching flesh or impaling enemy bodies … The clash of steel rang out as hard-hitting melee warriors dismounted and sprinted into battle …

The enemy catapults were still up and operational, but I had complete confidence Xiu would get the javelins up and working. With everything else in motion, the only thing left to do now was head down and try to grind out some extra EXP. The constant raids—two a day, every day, regular as clockwork, for the last five days—were supremely annoying, but at least they were great for grinding. Since the battle for Rowanheath, I’d picked up three additional levels, putting me at level 32, which was phenomenal progress considering how many experience points I now needed to advance.

Let’s do this, I thought at Devil. Drop me toward the rear, then do what you can to take out the siege engines.

Siege engines don’t bleed, the Drake replied stoically. Our telepathic bond had grown considerably since our fight against Carrera. I want blood, I want to eat, Devil continued after a second.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say. You can mop up, I finally sent, feeling a mild wave of revulsion at the words. Devil was a great mount and a terrifying battle minion, but he wasn’t human. Not at all. Not even close. A fact I was becoming more aware of each day. He was an animal, a predator to his core, and he rarely cared about morality or pain. I looked down at the field and saw people—real people, even if they currently wanted to kill me—who would experience the awful trauma of being torn apart by Devil’s hooked teeth and tearing claws.

All Devil saw was meat.

Once we’re done, you can eat whatever’s left, but work first, I said.

Done, he replied, barreling rolling in an instant.

The world flipped, the ground now forty feet above as my head dangled down. With a gulp, I unhooked my feet from the leather stirrups and let go of the reins. My stomach fluttered as I slipped from the saddle and dropped toward the ground like an insane skydiver who’d forgotten to strap on a parachute. Wind whipped at me, arrows streaked by in flashes, and the whole while the ground rushed up to meet me. I took a few deep calming breaths and triggered Shadow Stride ten feet from the earth. The world lurched to a halt as the Shadowverse exploded around me in all of its monochromatic, blurred-edged glory.

I turned my body into the fall, flipping head over heels, and landed on my back with a thud and a groan.

Dull pain radiated through my body, throbbing in time with my heart, but my life bar didn’t drop even a fraction of a percent. A fall like that should’ve killed me outright, or at least broken every bone in my body, but I couldn’t sustain damage while inside the Shadowverse—even natural damage from say, a really high fall. A happy little loop-hole I’d discovered a few days back after some Imperial Ice-Lancer blasted me out of the air. Sort of a magic parachute, though I needed to work on that landing. Flopping flat on my back still hurt, even if it didn’t damage me.

With a grunt and a heave, I scrambled to my feet—the whole world frozen around me—and found a target: An Imperial Wode with beef-slab shoulders, preparing to split one of my Murk-Elf warriors in two with a gleaming sword. Maybe I couldn’t save everyone down here, but I could certainly help the Murky on the ground, his eyes frozen in terrible resignation that he was about to die a very painful death. I dropped into a crouch, lined up my shot, taking a few practice swings with my heavy warhammer, before stepping back into reality. Time crashed back down like a wave as everyone jerk back into motion.

The Wode let out a bellow as he lunged forward, but my hammer was already in motion.

I triggered my Crush Armor ability as the strike landed; the attack cost me a 100 Stamina but added an additional 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents just like the Wode Berserker in front of me. Between Crush Armor and my Stealth Attack bonus, the poor sucker didn’t stand a chance. The spiked heel of my warhammer slammed through the steel gorget protecting his neck and sank directly into the vulnerable flesh beneath. The warrior dropped his sword in shock, staggering to one side from the force of the blow, gauntleted hands flying to his ruined throat, now slick with crimson blood.

His health bar flashed an angry red—critical zone—but a final Umbra Bolt to the head sent him for respawn, though his body, bloody and ruined, remained behind. I wriggled my warhammer free, offered the downed Murk-Elf a helping hand up, then spun and darted back into the heat of the battle. The siege weapons were still operational—though Devil was currently roasting one with a thick column of purple flame—but between the Griffins and the spider-riders, Imperials were falling by the bucket-loads, unable to coordinate a counterassault.

Off to the right, a group of Black Legion was staging one last final stand, a ring of ten armored warriors with heavy shields stood back to back, fighting off folks in every direction, while a pair of gore-spattered clerics stood in the center, healing the most grievous wounds and casting buff after buff on the fighters. In theory, their strategy was great, but it also left them open to a devastating AOE spell—like my Plague Burst ability. I threw my left hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog. The green grass beneath the entrenched ring of fighters exploded in a pool of thick prehistoric tar; writhing tendrils of inky black lashed out, wrapping themselves around feet and legs, arms and torsos, rooting the enemy warriors in place.

Making sure they couldn’t run.

“Burst, burst, burst!” I called out at the top of my lungs as my left hand whipped through the air in a complex series of gestures: flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as cold power trickled into my palm. My warning call carried in the air, repeated over and over again by retreating Alliance members, eager to clear the zone.

Toxic Cloud didn’t discriminate between friends and foe.

A rancid yellow fog—thick, billowing, and positively toxic—bled from the air, swirling around the Black Legion raiders, clawing ferociously at any exposed flesh, and digging into open mouths or nostrils. The trapped warriors fought against the dark tendrils of Umbra power rooting them in place, desperate to get away, but their struggle was fruitless. Many dropped to their knees, hands wrapped around throats as they gasped like fish stranded on land. The cloud dissipated a few seconds later, the area now safe, though my Spirit meter continued to plummet as the lingering Plague debuff chewed through enemy hit points.

I smiled, a cold vicious thing. I’d seen some spectacularly cool Class-Kits in VGO—some rarer and more powerful than my own, like Vlad’s Alchemic Weaponeer Kit—but I still thought the Shadowmancer was about as wicked as they came.

The Alliance members, retreating a moment before, reversed course, charging the dying Black Legion troops with weapons raised, screaming defiant war cries the whole time. I sprinted forward, happy to join them, unleashing Umbra Bolt after Umbra Bolt as I ran, raising my warhammer in preparation for battle—

A thunderclap split the air as a wave of terrible heat and gale-force wind blasted me from my feet, scorching my armor and knocking a fifth of my HP off in a single go. I flipped ass over tea-kettle and landed on my side with a thud, my body aching, my skin raw and tender like I been flash-fried. Holy crap, what the heck was that? I coughed and blinked sporadically against a purple afterimage temporarily burned into my vision, before slowly sliding up onto my elbows. I froze—half of the siege weapons were gone. All that remained was smoldering timbers, twisted, red hot metal, and piles of gray ash.

And the warriors manning the contraptions?

There was no sign of them at all. Even their corpses had been eradicated, wiped away like a smudge on the mirror.

For a long beat, the battlefield was silent as a graveyard, interrupted only by the whistle of the steady breeze blowing across the grass and the crackle of burning timbers. Then a cheer went up from the wall, hoots and hollers oddly out of place against the backdrop of carnage. “Fire,” Xiu yelled, his clipped Chinese accent easy to identify. I watched, dumbstruck, as a pair of ballistae bolts streaked toward the remaining siege engines. These new bolts, which had to be Vlad’s Javelins, didn’t look all that different from the old bolts: basically giant, wooden arrows, though these sported blunt, silver-tips carved with intricate runes, which burned with golden fire.

The few Imperials manning the remaining mangonel­­­s abandoned the wooden contraptions without a thought, sprinting for the hills as fast as their legs would carry them.

They didn’t make it far.

The javelins landed with the force of a literal bomb-blast; a cloud of dirty golden fire mushroomed into the air accompanied by a plume of black smoke climbing lazily into the sky. A blast wave rippled out from the detonation site, hurling debris and tongues of flame in every direction. The fleeing Imperials were roasted alive, their screams barely audible over the clamor of the blast. This time, I conjured a defensive dome of twisting purple light, saving myself from the assailing wind and relentless heat.

I stared at the devastation through squinted eyes. I guess the javelins worked.

With a groan, I gained my feet and took a quick survey of the battlefield. The siege engines were gone, destroyed beyond recovery, and most of the Imperials were either dead or badly wounded. Devil, thankfully, had retreated from the siege weapons and was busy snacking near the base of Rowanheath’s formidable wall. I sighed, blew my cheeks out, and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I needed a bite to eat and a break. Needed it badly. I whistled to Devil, who glanced up at me with annoyance etched into the lines of his scaly, terrifying face.

He had part of a Risi's arm dangling from his lips like a spaghetti noodle.

Time to get back to the Keep.

He grunted noncommittally at me, smoke trailing up from his nostrils in displeasure, then finished off the dangling arm with a disgusting chomp. He swept his huge head around the field as he ambled toward me, pausing now and then to take another bite here or there, before finally allowing me to clamber up into my saddle. He gave one last reproachful look at the body strewn wasteland, a forlorn growl building in his chest, then broke into a quick trot, building up speed as his wings pumped, generating huge gusts of air which flattened blood-coated grass. After a few thrusts, we were airborne, rocketing into the sky.

“Good work, Xiu,” I shouted down at the commander, shooting him a thumbs up as Devil and I streaked by, bound for the Mystica Ordo and a one-way port skip back to Yunnam.