suddenly had to learn field medicine. I hissed in pain, cursing the adamant along with Asmodeus. This divine metal needed to be controlled! I wish they’d ban private ownership!
Having a blade of such caliber was like owning a nuke. Good thing there weren’t many adamant smiths. At least I myself knew of only one.
I decided to get a simpler weapon. Rarely was there a need to maim players. Adamant was the last resort when everything else had proven useless. Only then should the bloodthirsty staff come into play.
The ear-choppers finished bandaging me. I sent them away. As I walked in a circle, I avoided looking at my old body, which the warriors now pressed carefully into the sand, face down. My new body had a slight limp. There was some double vision. The tightness of the shoulder belt and the painful sensations made my posture a bit awkward.
Walking the body around like a stubborn horse, I ground my teeth and, gently pressing the wounded arm to my chest, hummed a song,
"Look below, there's our field over there,
With our one motor gone,
We can still carry on,
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer..."
I stopped short, noticing Butterfly singing along soundlessly and slapping her chiseled thigh in rhythm. Elven music lover...
Everything seemed to be working, albeit with difficulty. My consciousness was somewhat blurred and slow. A lack of neurons, perhaps? You were one crafty serpent, Tavor, but not too bright.
I sat down in the lotus position right on the sand and pulled up the virtual interfaces. I greedily browsed through my new goodies.
And some goodies they were! Level 300! How did he manage to get so far, Sungoddammit?! Time trick? Or by the efforts of a whole conveyor belt of slaves?
His stats were stunning: a fortress of a man! 40,000 health, armored like a secret vault and with the muscle-power of a stamping press. I knew this strategy too well: like me, he had chosen the path of the immortal loner...
But his numbers were nuts. Were they even normal for 300-level-players? Would we all get there in some two-three years? I wondered as I examined his gear.
No, his stats were not the result of some miracle. Most of them came from his heavy armor items enhanced with Divine Blood stones. I wasn’t familiar with them, but they filled up all the expansion slots. Tons of bonus stats!
The armor had been crafted. It had a futuristic look like something from a high-budget post-apocalyptic flick. Mithril plates, obscure-looking materials, welding marks, and molten plastic. All of various colors and bearing ancient military stamps; clearly a product of modern alchemy.
I barely made out the faded sign: "Т-51b."
It looked as though Tavor had gathered a bunch of junk from the long-gone titans to throw this set together, loosely consulting the assembly instructions of an ancient teapot. Again, outstanding numbers, but the look...
I mean it wasn’t too bad. After the Wind-Patched Cloak – Grym’s ironic gift – my dress code wasn’t so strict anymore. But alas, all his gear was labeled "no-drop." Could not be sold or lost.
His hefty shell of armor came with a comfortable soft leather lining. Carefully looking under it, I found a homely gray get-up for everyday wear. It was clean, but odd-looking. Homely, I should say.
I was rightly outraged. I mean, WTF?! I was risking so much, trying to beat the office plankton outta myself while carrying out massacres. Then, at the end, I loot a super-cool dude to get nothing! The game algorithms had unfairly sealed everything off with nails of code.
The jewelry helped cool me off. The handful of crimson treasures was worth a few million gold. Mostly amateur work. Awkwardly-cut crystals of Divine Blood on twisted loops and wires.
The interface spurted forth the stats of the divine stones,
Titan’s Ring. Artifact. Indestructible. Crafted by an unknown Barbarian.
Effect 1: +700 Life.
Upgrade: Heavily damaged Blood Crystal.
Enchanting Bonus: Regeneration. +25 HP per
Having a blade of such caliber was like owning a nuke. Good thing there weren’t many adamant smiths. At least I myself knew of only one.
I decided to get a simpler weapon. Rarely was there a need to maim players. Adamant was the last resort when everything else had proven useless. Only then should the bloodthirsty staff come into play.
The ear-choppers finished bandaging me. I sent them away. As I walked in a circle, I avoided looking at my old body, which the warriors now pressed carefully into the sand, face down. My new body had a slight limp. There was some double vision. The tightness of the shoulder belt and the painful sensations made my posture a bit awkward.
Walking the body around like a stubborn horse, I ground my teeth and, gently pressing the wounded arm to my chest, hummed a song,
"Look below, there's our field over there,
With our one motor gone,
We can still carry on,
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer..."
I stopped short, noticing Butterfly singing along soundlessly and slapping her chiseled thigh in rhythm. Elven music lover...
Everything seemed to be working, albeit with difficulty. My consciousness was somewhat blurred and slow. A lack of neurons, perhaps? You were one crafty serpent, Tavor, but not too bright.
I sat down in the lotus position right on the sand and pulled up the virtual interfaces. I greedily browsed through my new goodies.
And some goodies they were! Level 300! How did he manage to get so far, Sungoddammit?! Time trick? Or by the efforts of a whole conveyor belt of slaves?
His stats were stunning: a fortress of a man! 40,000 health, armored like a secret vault and with the muscle-power of a stamping press. I knew this strategy too well: like me, he had chosen the path of the immortal loner...
But his numbers were nuts. Were they even normal for 300-level-players? Would we all get there in some two-three years? I wondered as I examined his gear.
No, his stats were not the result of some miracle. Most of them came from his heavy armor items enhanced with Divine Blood stones. I wasn’t familiar with them, but they filled up all the expansion slots. Tons of bonus stats!
The armor had been crafted. It had a futuristic look like something from a high-budget post-apocalyptic flick. Mithril plates, obscure-looking materials, welding marks, and molten plastic. All of various colors and bearing ancient military stamps; clearly a product of modern alchemy.
I barely made out the faded sign: "Т-51b."
It looked as though Tavor had gathered a bunch of junk from the long-gone titans to throw this set together, loosely consulting the assembly instructions of an ancient teapot. Again, outstanding numbers, but the look...
I mean it wasn’t too bad. After the Wind-Patched Cloak – Grym’s ironic gift – my dress code wasn’t so strict anymore. But alas, all his gear was labeled "no-drop." Could not be sold or lost.
His hefty shell of armor came with a comfortable soft leather lining. Carefully looking under it, I found a homely gray get-up for everyday wear. It was clean, but odd-looking. Homely, I should say.
I was rightly outraged. I mean, WTF?! I was risking so much, trying to beat the office plankton outta myself while carrying out massacres. Then, at the end, I loot a super-cool dude to get nothing! The game algorithms had unfairly sealed everything off with nails of code.
The jewelry helped cool me off. The handful of crimson treasures was worth a few million gold. Mostly amateur work. Awkwardly-cut crystals of Divine Blood on twisted loops and wires.
The interface spurted forth the stats of the divine stones,
Titan’s Ring. Artifact. Indestructible. Crafted by an unknown Barbarian.
Effect 1: +700 Life.
Upgrade: Heavily damaged Blood Crystal.
Enchanting Bonus: Regeneration. +25 HP per
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