The all-encompassing white loading screen faded from Osmark's vision as his consciousness transitioned into the world he'd created. He stood on a grassy knoll; long blades of green bent beneath his feet, giving the ground a cushioned, almost springy, feel. The grass spread in every direction like a sea of rippling emerald. The air was so thick with the scent of growing vegetation, Osmark could taste it on his tongue and feel it against his skin, carried by a stiff breeze slapping at his face and tugging on his rough garments.

He lifted one foot, examining the flattened grass below. Flawless.

The rolling plains stretching beneath the cloudless, azure sky were stunning not just for their sheer size, but for their incredible detail. Osmark had known the world of VGO would be impressive—he’d seen plenty of footage from the beta runs—but he hadn't understood the scope and magnitude of his creation. Not really. Not until this moment. Guided by AI-curated algorithms, his technology had woven a creation more enchanting than he'd imagined possible. The graphics quality—if such a crude term could even applied—was indistinguishable from real life.

This world was better than reality.

Osmark took a tentative step; his legs wobbled uncertainly beneath him, then gave way. He landed on his hands and knees, scraping one palm along a jagged piece of rock protruding from the grass. A muted flash of pain zigzagged up his arm, there then gone. Curious, he turned his hand over, inspecting the flesh. Vivid green streaks from the grass stained his skin along with a few splashes of red. Incredible. He shook his head and turned his attention to a small army of ants scurrying along nearby with scraps of leaves and tiny clods of earth in their mandibles. A flock of ravens with glossy blue-black feathers, cried out to him as they flew high overhead, and unseen ground squirrels and chipmunks chattered in annoyance at his presence.

"How is this even possible?" Osmark asked himself. The NexGenVR capsule's NerveTech was fantastic technology. He knew that from his time developing it, but the cold measurements of the technical specifications and design diagrams could never have conveyed just how stunning the result would be. A surge of pride welled up inside Osmark. He'd made this. The worries he’d had about VGO seemed so petty and insignificant in light of this fantastic experience. The transition would be agonizing, there was no getting around that, but this world was so much more perfect, so much purer, than the disaster Osmark had left behind.

He couldn’t wait for Sandra to join him here.

But, before that could happen, he had a ton of work to do. As beautiful and enthralling as this peaceful little slice of paradise was—and it was—he didn’t have time to sit around and take in the sights. Osmark’s enemies had a small, but significant, head start on him, and that couldn’t stand. No doubt they were already on the move. Already forming their factions and building their defenses. If he wanted to beat them, he needed to get moving and do what he did best: outwork the competition.

With a grimace, Robert gained his feet and brushed his dirt-stained hands on his trousers.

First, he needed an avatar.

The simulation responded to Osmark’s desire instantly. A semi-translucent image of himself materialized into view. His dark hair and lean figure were the same, as were his hawkish features and smooth-shaven jaw, but his custom-tailored clothing was gone, replaced by a rough burlap tunic, matching britches, and ill-fitting canvas boots, which covered his feet and the lower half of his calves. A coarse rope around his waist served as a belt. The clothes irritated Osmark immensely. They were uncomfortable and ill-fitting, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. The tattered clothing made him look weak. Poor.

Appearances were critical. If Osmark wanted to be respected, then he had to look like someone who should be respected. New clothes moved to the top of his to-do list.

The thought faded as a glowing white interface bar with a variety of options—race, build, sex, face, name—blinked to life around his character’s image.

Osmark focused on “race, ” and a series of new options popped up, showing Osmark all of the character choices available to players. The elves topped the list, Dokkalfar and Hvitalfar representing the dark and light side of the fey races, followed by the stocky, bearded dwarves, known as the Svartalfar. Where the elves were lean and graceful, the dwarves were built like cubes of muscle, fat, and gristle. Their natural crafting abilities and aptitude with Smithing and Enchanting would be a huge plus in the advanced profession Osmark had in mind, but he could never be a Dwarf.

He could never be comfortable in that body.

His eyes flashed over the Dokkalfar, and the display shimmered and changed to show him what he would look like as a Murk Elf: brown hair gave way to black, and the avatar’s skin took on a dusky, gunmetal-gray tone. Though he approved of the Dokkalfar’s rugged physique and mysterious appearance, he wasn’t fond of the murk elf’s favored class, Rogue. A common thief simply wouldn’t get the job done. Besides, he had his sights set on the Viridian Throne, and taking that seat as a rebel Murk Elf would be next to impossible. He’d need an Imperial-friendly race.

The next selection, Wodes, was a big step up. Wodes were much taller and more muscular than the murk elf, with lustrous golden hair and pale skin. Osmark was struck by the Wode’s impressive appearance. Their raw size could be handy in impressing his future followers—that or intimidating his enemies. Osmark took a closer look, and an information panel shimmered to life:

Wodes (Human): The most numerous of Eldgard’s races, the Wodes are a flexible and resilient people known for their impressive stature and steadfast nature. Though Wodes are not blessed with any particular affinity for one class or another, they also suffer no penalties to any class. This adaptability has allowed the Wodes to spread far and wide, making them as at home in the mountains as the forests or plains.

Wodes could be a good choice, but not the best.

Not for what he had planned. The Accipiter, or Winged Race, looked like an option that would be a lot of fun to try, but he knew it would get old in a hurry. The ability to fly was impressive, certainly, but there were plenty of downsides balanced against a powerful skill like that. By design, the Accipiter were physically weaker than most other creatures, their class choices were severely restricted, and worst of all? They all spawned in the Barren Sands, which was about as far West in Eldgard as an adventurous player could go.

That was no good since he needed to be on the Eastern-most side of the continent.

He dismissed the Risi—half ogre creatures with powerful frames, thick muscles, and green-tinged skin—without a second thought. They were scary and intimidating, true, but they were also suited almost solely for up-close physical combat—tanking—something Osmark had zero interest in. Not to mention, he refused to look like a damned monster for the rest of the foreseeable future.

There was only one reasonable option left. The only real option, in the grand scheme of things. He scrolled over to the Imperials.

The avatar twirling in the air before him changed from the green-skinned Risi to a human Imperial. The Imperial’s features were similar to Osmark’s natural appearance, though they were more chiseled and refined—made sharper and more perfect through virtual reality magic. Without his glasses to hide them, his eyes had become an intense sapphire blue, burning with a fierce intelligence. Osmark’s brown hair was a touch darker and a bit longer, but otherwise looked more or less like it always had.

If it’s not broke, he thought, why fix it?

Imperials (Human): Though less numerous than the Wodes, the Imperials have carved out their place in the history books. Their military might and political strength have no equal, and their Empire stretches from one horizon to the other. Imperials are not gifted with any resistance bonuses, but all initial stats begin at 12, except for Intelligence which starts at 15. As with other humans, Imperials are not restricted in any way as to the classes they may pursue as they advance.

“Perfect,” Osmark whispered, casually lacing his hands behind his back.

He spent a few moments making minor refinements to his avatar’s appearance—he made his shoulders a touch broader, his chin a bit more defined, and removed the stubble from his cheeks—and then clicked the “Create” button.

A new prompt appeared. “Please select a name.”

Osmark considered his options only for the briefest moment.

“Robert Osmark,” he said. If he changed his name he might be able to fly under the radar in these crucial early days, but the minor benefit wasn’t worth it. Not by half. He’d clawed his way up from the bottom of a Brooklyn gutter, and he wasn’t going to give that up. Not for some political gnat like Sizemore and his cabal of sycophants. Everyone in VGO knew who Osmark was, and what he’d done. They were all alive because of his initiative. That was a reputation boost he couldn’t afford to throw away, even if it did plant a target on his back.

“Are you sure you would like to create Robert Osmark the Imperial?” A booming baritone voice asked. “Once you create a character, you will not be able to change your racial identity or name. Please confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

Though Osmark had designed the opening cinematic, that didn’t prepare him for the explosion of music that surrounded him. A powerful orchestral anthem crashed through the air like a thunderstorm. Drums rumbled, cymbals clanged and clashed, and a host of warbling stringed instruments washed through his head.

“The year is 1095 A.I.C.—Anno Imperium Conditae,” the disembodied announcer bellowed over the music. “Dark power and the stirrings of war ride upon the winds of Eldgard, the provincial outpost of the Great Viridian Empire.”

Suddenly, Osmark soared above a massive lorica-clad army which was led by a man in golden platemail riding a black stallion. The troops’ armor gleamed in the sun, and the marching column shone like a great steel serpent winding its way across the landscape. A cloud of dust rose from a snaking line of heavy, mounted cavalry, blotting out the horizon behind the army as if stomping hooves had obliterated the roads they traveled and left nothing in their wake.

“Imperial legions,” said the announcer, “allied with the forces of light, march from the east, bringing the natives of Eldgard to their knees through flame, magic, and steel. Bringing progress. Building roads. Cities. A kingdom. Civilizing the dark-natured Wodes, the swamp dwelling Dokkalfar, and the Accipiter of the far-western deserts, enlightening them in the ways of the ever-victorious empire.

“But the natives of Eldgard are not so quick to give up the old ways—to heel for foreign masters. Though the rebellion is yet small, they fight on. Hour by hour, day by day …” A massed throng of howling Wodes surged from the forest lining the wide road and charged toward the Imperial forces. The enormous blonde warriors hoisted oversized battle axes above their half-naked bodies. Their muscles writhed beneath their skin, coiling like serpents preparing to strike.

The Imperials held their ground, faces hidden behind metal helms, weapons held steady as their mounts pawed at the earth. The forces slapped together with the ring of metal on metal and the cry of horses. For a moment, it appeared as if the Wodes had won the battle before it even began: The front ranks of the Imperials vanished beneath a swarming tide of flashing steel and tattooed flesh. For a moment, the warcry of the Wodes drowned out all other sounds.

A pang of doubt speared through Osmark’s gut. Had he made the wrong choice? In his designs, the Imperials were the dominant force on Eldgard, but the Overminds were more than capable of adjusting the game world as needed to keep it challenging and exciting for the players. An unavoidable part of the content design.

A second later, the wave of barbarians swallowed the golden leader and his black stallion.

Osmark’s heart stopped.

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

The Imperial foot soldiers formed a tight wedge of interlocking shields and thrust out barbed spears that pierced the main body of the encroaching Wode force like an arrowhead through unarmored flesh. An Imperial cavalry contingent slammed into the side of the barbarian army, trampling their opponents beneath steel-shod hooves. The golden Imperial commander emerged amidst a circle of dead Wodes. His rugged face covered in blood, a wicked, victorious grin splitting his face as he raised his sword high and unleashed a piercing battle cry.

The soldiers responded with furious war cries of their own as the Wodes broke, fleeing the field for the safety of the treeline. The Imperials showed no mercy, however. The barbarians had raised arms against the Empire, and now they’d pay the price.

A galloping line of armored knights circled the fleeing horde, brass horns blaring, the ground reverberating as they mounted a charge. Shining steel lances pierced rough hide armor and burst through Wode backs in showers of blood and gore. Heavy maces and blunt-headed warhammers smashed bones and caved in steel helmets. Hooves crushed men into the earth and churned their guts into reeking bloody mud. Even knowing this wasn’t real, didn’t make it any easier to watch. Eventually, the cavalry pushed through the dying mob to rejoin the rest of the Imperial troops.

They left a gory trail of dead and mortally wounded in their wake. Their lances dripped red as they wheeled into position.

The Imperial army marched on.

The scene faded, shimmered, and changed as Osmark rose higher and higher above the marching army. He watched in awe as the Imperial forces transformed the untamed wilderness. Roads carved their way across the plains to connect the Imperial outposts that sprang up in strategic locations. As he watched, those first meager settlements swelled and expanded their borders to become villages, then walled towns, then gleaming cities.

“But even as the Empire spread, the natives learned and adapted to their strange and deadly ways.” The announcer narrated as Osmark’s point of view sped east like a steel-tipped bolt fired from a ballista. The scattered forces of the defeated Wodes joined with Murk Elf war bands. They transformed from ragged bands of isolated tribesmen into organized troops with one purpose in mind: Destroying the Empire.

“For even the mightiest armies cannot do battle without teaching their enemies how to resist them. The Empire is a power to be reckoned with, but their enemies grow in strength and numbers with every passing day.”

A great map unfurled before Osmark, showing him the current lay of the land. Crossed swords marked battlefields. Thick dashed lines stitched along territorial borders. Though much of Eldgard had fallen beneath the shadow of the Empire’s banners, the days of explosive expansion had reached their end. Now, every inch was hard fought and soaked in blood. The rebel forces rallied by the natives held the Empire in check. Neither side could risk pushing their advantage in one area, as the enemy was always poised to steal back any territory left unguarded.

“The war continues, but its fires have cooled. Cooled until one side can gain a decisive advantage. But while the Imperials and their enemies struggle for dominance, a greater evil is rising.” Without warning, the scene exploded in a shower of light, and Osmark found himself deep beneath the earth, craggily stone pressing down all around him. Burly, heavily bearded Dwarfs labored in a mining tunnel. Their bodies were slick with sweat and darkened by the powdered rock they created with their hammers and pickaxes.

“In the far north, the Svartalfar ignore the strife beyond their borders. Their illustrious Merchant’s Council pushes them to ever greater feats of engineering. They delve deep into the earth, uncovering riches undreamt of by the other races.” The narrator's tone grew solemn, and a chill cut through Osmark like a winter breeze. “But the dwarves have uncovered something dark. Something which should have remained untouched and unknown.”

A stout man with a massive potbelly lashed out with his pick, sinking it deep in black stone. Chunks of rock crumbled from around the pickaxe, and the earth groaned in protest. The gap widened, and a foul stench gushed through the cleft. The dwarf who’d breached the earthen wall collapsed, his face turning purple, his hands clawing frantically at his throat. The other dwarves backed away in horror as a guttering green light emerged from the crack, dancing in the air like a plume of smoke.

Osmark knew he was watching a scene from the past, but he couldn’t convince himself there was no cause for fear. An eye appeared, glaring at him through the gap in the stone. A venomous green iris, shot through with visceral red streaks, split in half by a vertical pupil filled with an abyssal black.

“A great darkness is coming. Serth-Rog, Daemon Prince of Morsheim, has awakened. The dwarves have breached his long-forgotten prison and woken him from an ancient slumber. The great evil cannot yet escape from the vault that holds him. But his whispers infect the minds of those who worship evil and coax them to work toward his dark ends. Soon, much too soon, he will be freed.”

A malicious grin split the face of one of the Svartalfar. She dropped her hammer and snatched the pickaxe from the hands of her fallen brother. The monstrous demon laughed, a guttural grinding sound like a rockslide, as the pickax took on a bloody red hue. The corrupted Dwarf wheeled around and buried the pick in and the head of the dwarf next to her.

The scene collapsed around Osmark as darkness consumed the dwarves—dissolving the stone around him—and left him standing in a formless void.

The narrator’s voice thundered through the black. “It is an age of heroes. It is a time of great villainy. A new battle looms on the horizon. Imperial. Rebel. Light. Dark. Living. Dead. Which side will you choose?”

The darkness erupted in a swirl of opalescent light and violent motion, wind whipping at Osmark, snatching his breath away, as he tumbled and fell. Down, down, down.