автордың кітабын онлайн тегін оқу  Algoritm of oblivion

Юрий Третьяков

Contents

I. Prologue

Max stepped out onto the porch, leaving the guests to their revelry inside the house.

It was his birthday — he was turning fifteen. But this celebration served only as a sharp reminder of the tragedy.

Five years ago, on this very day, his father had died.

He was supposed to arrive that day, for the first time in ages since his parents’ divorce. But the car, operating on autopilot, veered off the highway, breached the barrier, and plunged into the bay.

Ever since, Max had loathed every birthday. Yet, every year, around the time his father was due to arrive, something compelled him to step outside and wait… Wait for what? For his father to miraculously spring back to life and drive up? He didn’t know himself.

Max settled into the wicker chair on the veranda, propping his cheek against his palm, and stared aimlessly at the darkening evening sky.

The last rays of the setting sun were fading beyond the horizon, painting the heavens in hues of orange and violet.

The quiet suburb sank into twilight, and the air filled with the sharp scent of ozone, signaling an approaching storm. Time seemed to stretch out endlessly.

Suddenly, from around the corner of the neighboring house, a brightly painted delivery truck appeared, inadvertently drawing his gaze.

It was an old, rust-eaten van, blue in color, angular with sharp body lines, clearly built long before the age of high technology, resembling a drawing from an anime more than an actual vehicle.

“What a charming piece of retro,” Max mused to himself, “Looks like someone decided to transport grandma’s piano. Or whatever else they ship using such a prehistoric method.”

The vehicle’s round headlights, resembling eyes, seemed to look upon the world with an unconcealed weariness, making the truck look like a living, unfortunate creature.

In stark contrast to the standard, brightly polished, egg-yolk yellow autonomous delivery trucks used for ferrying most cargo through the city, this one was piloted by a man.

And he stopped the vehicle right in front of Max’s house, even though the delivery manifest for the day was empty — everything needed for the party had arrived yesterday, and those invited had either offered their congratulations in person or sent their gifts ahead of time.

A sturdy man in a rumpled jacket climbed out of the cab. His face was weathered and lined, seemingly forever marked by the imprint of hard labour.

Ascending onto the porch, he addressed the teenager: “Hey kid, you know if a certain Maxim Gromov lives here?” “Yes, that’s me,” the boy replied.

Max intensely disliked conversing with strangers and thus felt instantly guarded.

“Then this is for you.” The courier decisively extended a small cardboard box and a tablet for a signature.

Max mechanically took the box. It was light, but the packaging was immaculate, as if something truly valuable was concealed inside.

The packaging bore the logo of the company ‘Dream’—that very company whose intrusive advertising, encountered everywhere — on vehicles, billboards, stickers, and in the subway — promised an escape from reality and complete oblivion in the most realistic VR MMO game of the modern age, one of which Max’s father had once co-authored.

“And inside this box is the immersion device for VR?” Max thought.

“Who is this from?” he asked, feeling as if he stood on the threshold of something momentous, precisely like a character in a novel plot about to unfold.

“Don’t know,” the courier dismissed, “there’s a note.” He gestured towards a small white envelope, then turned and headed back toward his van.

‘Who on earth could have sent this?’ A cascade of possibilities flashed through Max’s mind: ‘Relatives? No, they would have warned me. Friends? Maybe someone who came to the party today? Also unlikely; they would have handed the gift over personally, not just sent a box.

‘Max impatiently tore the envelope open. On his palm lay a note with the laconic inscription:

“See you in the dream.” Signed: “Grimnir.”

Max’s heart began to pound faster, and tears unexpectedly welled up at the corners of his eyes.

“Grimnir”… He knew that name. His father frequently used it online and elsewhere. It was also the username of his character in the very VR game his father had created.

The Hermit, level 32, a hero who had deliberately sided with the darkness.

One of the lead developers of “Dream,” branded a traitor by the company — that’s what they had said back then. He had hidden the game’s key artifact, the one that allowed the alteration of core game rules, deep within the most inaccessible location.

His story was known to everyone familiar with VR technology, or even those who had just heard whispers of it.

But his father could not possibly have sent him this box.

This gift felt like a message from another world, from a past he was desperately trying to forget, but which, it seemed, refused to let him go.

“Wait!” Max shot up from the chair. “Who gave this to you? Who was the sender? Can I know?”

But the truck had already pulled away, obeying the driver’s will, moving along its route, leaving Max without answers, burdened only by endless questions that, like all mysteries, tended to accumulate over time, settling like dust under a bed. The primary one burning loudest was: “How could his father possibly send him this message from beyond the grave?”

II. CITADEL OF DARKNESS

Five years prior…

The sun, dazzlingly bright earlier in this desolate location of the virtual world, was already beginning to set, staining the sky in vibrant reds and oranges. Over the battlefield, where thousands of players representing the Light and Dark factions clashed, hung a thick veil of smoke and dust.

The ground beneath their feet was fissured and saturated with blood, strewn with the wreckage of torn banners and the bodies of fallen comrades. Amidst this chaos, a distinct line of defense was visible — the great Bastion of Darkness, an imposing, unconquerable cliff face of fortress walls surrounding the city, which was besieged by an endless army of the Light.

The Dark forces resisted fiercely. The air was pierced by bolts and arrows, resembling swarms of enraged hornets, flying toward both the players and the AI-controlled characters they commanded.

Humans and Orcs fought side by side, having forgotten their ancient feuds for the sake of battling the true evil. Their swords and axes savagely cleaved through the Dark faction members who chose not to remain behind the fortress walls but advanced into the open field to engage in battle. They fought against legions of Dwarves encased in armor, invulnerable as stone, conceding not an inch of ground as if their feet had taken root. Giant demons, summoned by Warlocks from the rearguard of the dark forces, hurled fireballs at the advancing host. The curses of the High Witches withered warriors in mere seconds. Against them, the empire’s best mages chanted spells, invoking the elements. Flashes of lightning, gales of stormy wind, and gravitational waves shook the battlefield, claiming new lives with every pulse.

Above them, invulnerable and unreachable like specters, soared the Elven Eagles, blinding their foes with sharp talons, tearing warriors from the thick of the fight and ripping them to shreds in the air with their razor-sharp beaks. Their riders, the finest of Elven archers, relentlessly struck down enemies with their arrows, scanning the crowd for commanders and standard-bearers.

At the heart of the battle, moving like the wind, flew the Emperor of the Light Warriors atop a giant Gryphon. His golden armor shimmered in the rays of the setting sun, like a beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness. He held a sword in his hand, blazing with holy fire, causing demons to retreat and flee in terror. His face showed a resolute determination to see things through, mixed with the bitterness for the irreplaceable losses of the NPC Light Warriors who, having entered the battle by his command, would never see the next sunrise. Yet, he knew the fate of this entire game world depended on the outcome of this fight.

A roar. It drowned out the noise of the battle, pierced the heavens, shattered the earth, and made even the strongest walls tremble. This was not just the roar of a beast, but the very embodiment of rage — the Black Dragon, a colossal shadow that eclipsed the setting sun above the bastion of darkness. With its flame, it incinerated entire squads. Its scales, like obsidian, absorbed the last rays of the day, turning into blazing lava when struck by catapult projectiles and bursts of Light magic. Its rider, the Demon King, seemed but a mere pinpoint against the vast silhouette in the sunset sky.

However, despite their incredible personal power and the potential for an aerial duel, the leaders of the Light and Dark forces — the Emperor of Light on his white Gryphon and the Demon Lord astride the Black Dragon — were in no hurry to engage in personal confrontation.

Igor. Bard, Level 27. A regular at the themed bar. Believes that virtual worlds in ‘Dream’ can actually kill players.

“Alright, you bought me a couple more beers, so lean in and listen close. Imagine I’m some seasoned bard at a campfire telling you this tale.

I arrived late, probably after all the top-tier players. Truth be told, I just slept through the start. When I finally logged in, the sun, dull as the eye of a dying giant, was already sinking toward the horizon, painting everything crimson and orange. The warriors were fighting knee-deep in mud and blood, ready to collapse right there just for a moment’s respite, risking being trampled by their own comrades. The sky looked like a piece of torn, blood-stained fabric from the sunset, darkening, signaling that today, it was over. Neither side would claim victory. All around were the cries of the wounded and the bellows of warriors fighting at their absolute limit. You could feel the stench of artificial sweat and rancid oil from thousands of bodies creeping into your nostrils. It made you want to drop everything, turn around, and flee that place.

But down there, lying beneath us, was that medieval city, the citadel of darkness — as coveted by our clan leaders as a lollipop for a child. I’d call it the citadel of monotony, frankly. The stone walls looked as if they’d been violently wrenched from beneath the earth: black, cracked, like the skin of a leper. And what emanated from them wasn’t darkness, but a cheap, worn-out concept of the Light versus Dark conflict.

And set against that backdrop, you see, stood that damned Alex. The Emperor of Light, or whatever they called him… a hero, for crap’s sake. He was perched on his Gryphon like some gaudy ornament on a Christmas tree, all snowy white and gleaming as if he were filming an advertisement for toothpaste. He was the personification of cliché, you understand? A cardboard hero. And his eyes… there was no pain in them, no doubt, nothing human. Just a dull, meaningless determination, like a raving lunatic.”

And this so-called hero had gathered a whole army of freaks. The Elves, sure, they’re graceful, but behind their backs are probably some fat basement-dwellers chowing down on chips. The Orcs are just pure trash — sweaty, stinking, ugly — I don’t know who even plays them, but hey, they’ve got massive two-handed axes, which is probably cool. And the Humans, as always, are the mediocre ones, grey and dull as the stones paving the streets of this dark city.

And they’re all like possessed maniacs, charging this citadel, screaming at the top of their lungs, waving their pieces of scrap metal, thinking they’re making history. But essentially, they’re just grown-ups playing childish games, and they don’t even feel disgusting about themselves.

And out of the city constantly pour out the same ugly mugs, only dressed in black. The Dwarves there also have axes, but small ones; the Goblins carry knives, and then there are the grim Dark Knights — supposedly the coolest — but if you look closely, you see the exact same generic models as everyone else, both Light and Dark. And so they hack away like madmen, and everywhere, this fake blood is splashing around. It looks like someone just dumped cherry syrup on the pavement.

Above them, like vultures, circle the Dragon and the Eagles; the sea battle is pure epic, too. Storms, cannon fire, battering rams hitting the galleys, and boarding parties engaging. Death is flying everywhere.

But that Alex, on his Gryphon, he’s rocketing right into the inferno. Fighting, slashing everyone left and right. Who fights like that? It’s not realistic! Commanders should be commanding, not wading into the fray. No one would believe that.

The one thing he isn’t doing is even attempting to draw out the Dark Leader and end this whole thing, even though he could. He could at least try. But he just keeps hacking at mobs.

By the sea, at the foot of the cliffs, an equally fierce battle raged. Mighty ships of the sea people, with tall masts and blue sails, fought fiercely against dark galleys filled with demonic creatures. Sirens, beautiful and deadly, sang their mesmerizing songs, driving the sailors to throw themselves into the abyss.

Standing on the shore, a giant, in a desperate attempt to hold back the advancing fleet, turned toward the sea and hurled a boulder onto the deck of one of the ships. The frigate exploded into fragments, but this could not prevent the rest of the assault from landing on the coast. Short warriors wielding long, curved swords and wearing straw hats rushed forward to aid the orcs and men, distracting the demons from themselves.

The battle raged on all fronts — sky, land, and sea engulfed in the flames of war. It was not merely a clash of armies; it was a fight for the very essence of this world, for the right of light to dominate and the right of darkness to exist, balancing order with the madness of chaos.

Every warrior — elf, human, or orc — knew that this battle might be their last.

Bards will one day sing of this battle. It will be a song of will — of hope and despair — a song that will echo in the hearts of all who fought on this battlefield, a song that will forever remember and tell of the great confrontation between light and darkness.

And then, just when it seemed that a fragile equilibrium had settled over the battlefield, the unimaginable happened.

The enormous gates of the Fortress of Darkness, previously impregnable, creaked open. Inside, a void yawned like the maw of a monster, ready to devour all living things.

For a moment, confusion reigned among the attacking ranks. This was not supposed to happen. It was not part of the plan.

But the confusion was swiftly replaced by a battle cry. The emperor swung his sword, signaling the path deeper into the city.

And the battle, which until recently raged near the walls, suddenly burst forth onto the streets of the Stronghold with relentless force. No clear front lines remained; fighting was now for every house, every alley. This was a clash in the very heart of darkness — a final struggle for peace.

Eyewitness recollections.

Milfhanter, 38. Professional game reviewer.

OMG! That was simply… EPIC FAIL! I’ve never seen anything like it! Imagine you’re in the thick of a fierce raid, during the most epic siege of the final boss — the Dark Stronghold — and then everything just shatters, as if someone cut the server cable!

At first, it went as usual, basically. The forces of light pushing forward, smashing mobs, laying waste to gnomes and witches — I was right there in the front lines, of course — and then… surprise! The gates open themselves! Just like that! I was stunned: “WTF?! Did the trigger just activate?!” Nobody saw that coming, honestly.

But, as they say, go-go-go! We stormed inside, and it was pure hell! The roof was collapsing, rocks flying, and everywhere, as if from a cornucopia, icy spells and fiery balls rained down. The monsters seemed to have spiraled out of control! But we kept pushing! Through the horde, we fought our way to the very heart — the final boss — and there…

The hordes of light, like predatory beasts, lunged forward without mercy. The Emperor on his griffin, like a war god, led them into attack; his sword burned demons and witches as if wielded by a fiery scourge. Elves and orcs, united in their hatred of darkness, overwhelmed the resistance of gnomes and giants. The sea-men, with their long blades, desperately cut down summoned creatures in narrow alleys. The eagles, having no other aim, swooped onto the black dragon, forcing the demon lord to abandon the battlefield.

Despite fierce resistance, the forces of darkness gradually retreated, pushed back toward the city center and their last stronghold — the Castle of Darkness. A grim, cyclopean fortress built from black stone, rising from the very abyss. It loomed over the city like an ominous lighthouse, a grim reminder of the former power of the dark forces.

Slowly, fighting every step of the way, the city’s last defenders — witches, demons, gnomes, and a few remaining giants — began to slip through narrow passages leading to the castle. Their faces were covered in soot and blood; their eyes burned with despair, but their movements betrayed resolve. They covered the retreat of civilians — those who could not fight: women, the elderly, and children. And the dark forces weren’t the caricature villains; they had families too. Not everyone among them was a warrior. Their city had lived its usual life before the attack of the light.

The Emperor of Light, noticing the retreat, ordered a renewed push, hoping to finally crush the resistance of the dark forces. However, the warriors of light faced fierce, almost suicidal resistance from the last defenders, who fought on despite knowing that their inevitable doom was at hand.

When the last of the retreating dark forces crossed the threshold of the castle, the massive gates thundered shut behind them. The defenders, realizing there was no way back, began barricading them from the inside, dooming themselves to certain death. The Emperor, filled with rage and fury, ordered an assault on the castle, though he knew it would be a long and bloody battle.

Imperial scouts reported that civilians, shielded by the retreating troops, were slipping away through a vast network of tunnels beneath the city. An ancient passage leading toward the mountains and deeper into the dark lands — a route the city’s defenders decided to use in their final hour.

Trapped within the castle, the last defenders of the Dark Stronghold understood they were doomed, yet they prepared to make a desperate stand — to buy time for their fellow citizens. Their sacrifice would be paid with their lives, but they knew it was the only way to save at least some of their people.

Eyewitness Memories

Igor. Regular at a themed tavern. Bard level 27.

Alright, let’s rewind this crazy tape. The battle is over. Well, kind of — one pile of pixels toppled another, and now, on the battlefield’s remains, only stench and virtual blood linger. The Empire, the one called the Golden Gryphon, has won. Although, if that can even be called a victory. It’s just that the White Side has fewer corpses than the ones in black. Though casualties on both sides are simply immense. On the field before the city and on the streets leading to the castle, there’s nowhere to set a foot — everything is covered with bodies of the dark and light alike, tangled in a grotesque mosaic. Now, it’s impossible to tell who’s where.

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter — someone always wins, and someone falls. All of this is just a farce, a game. When you shut off VR, all this disappears.

And here, the last remnants of the defenders, like cornered rats, hide within this temple. I don’t know what they’re thinking in there. Probably, they believe that gods will protect them, or some other nonsense. They cover the retreat of those who didn’t make it to become fertilizer, but where are they retreating to? Pixels?

In the chaos of battle, where screams of the wounded clash with the grind of metal, the roar of dragons, echoes of street fights, and the thunder of strikes on sealed castle gates — where the air smells of gunpowder, blood, and magic — a figure appeared against the backdrop of the battlefield noise. On the wall of the Dark Castle, stood a tall figure dressed in black armor, wearing a helmet adorned with horns, face twisted with rage and contempt. That was Lord of Darkness, Grimnir, the last mighty ruler of the dark realm. In hand, he wielded an ancient staff from which dark, thick energy flowed.

Suddenly, high above the castle walls, hovered the Light Emperor on his griffin. And this was no NPC — but one of the most experienced and powerful players, whose name echoed across worlds of virtual reality created by Dream.

Alex, holding his fiery sword, brought the griffin to a stop. His voice, amplified by magic, cut through the tumult:

— Grimnir! I demand you cease this senseless resistance! Surrender the Book of Destiny and surrender now! Your army is broken, your city fallen!

Grimnir chuckled, a bitter, piercing laughter that echoed through the smokey, fire-scorched streets:

— Alex, you still haven’t understood! This world is built on the law of balance, and neither side can achieve ultimate victory! — he bellowed, hatred and contempt filling his voice. — You think you can command me? You and your pathetic allies are nothing but virtual ghosts, marionettes in the hands of the corporation eager to seize the Book! It will never be yours! The blood of my warriors will stain these stones, but the Book will remain untouchable!

— You know this is pointless, — Alex answered calmly, his gaze unwavering. — Your forces are broken, you are doomed. Moreover, you don’t realize the danger the Book poses in your hands. A single person cannot wield power to change worlds at will; it’s an temptation impossible to resist. Hand it over to me, and transfer your shares to the board of directors, and I guarantee you and the remnants of your army a safe retreat through our lines.

Grimnir sharply swung his staff, made from the bones of an ancient dragon, and black tentacles erupted from the ground like writhing snakes, attempting to seize the griffin and throw the rider.

— Your promises are lies forged from hypocrisy, like the loyalty of your army to true ideals of the light warriors! — Grimnir spat. — The Blood of the dark will pour until the last drop, defending this city, but I will never give you the Book of Destiny. Better that it burn in flames, turn to ash and dust, than fall into your hands!

The griffin roared, flapping its wings fiercely, evading another attack from the dark tentacles. Alex, never taking his eyes off Grimnir, raised his sword, wrapped in shining flames:

— Then all that’s left for you is defeat. And you know it well, Grimnir. Your pride has blinded you, and you refuse to see the obvious.

— Every defeat contains a seed of future victory! — Grimnir roared, his eyes blazing with madness. — And even if I fall, darkness will rise again!

A tense silence settled, like a storm on the verge of breaking. Alex and Grimnir faced each other, embodying the eternal struggle of light and darkness, good and evil — with the fate of not only the virtual world but possibly all reality hanging in the balance, dependent on the equilibrium of forces in Dream World. The wind howled, tearing through cloaks and banners, as the sense of an impending climax grew.

With a wild cry, Grimnir swung his staff, summoning a fiery barrier of flames into the sky, blocking himself from the legion of light. He plunged into the depths of the castle with a desperate, mad scream. Alex, with a heavy sigh, realized that further negotiations were pointless — wasted time that could cost his soldiers’ lives. He signaled to his troops, raising his sword high, and the assault on the castle resumed with renewed force, with unprecedented savagery. Gates, reinforced with magic and steel, were battered down by mighty rams, and the army of light surged inward, like a furious river.

Despite fierce resistance, the forces of light, led by the rushing Emperor wielding his flaming sword, advanced inexorably, conquering hall after hall. Each inch of territory was fought for, blood and sweat spilled in the process. The last defenders of the Dark Stronghold fought like madmen, driven by dark power and Grimnir’s command, but their ranks thinned like snow melting under the hot sun. Every step was hard-won; every swing of the sword brought pain from their wounds, yet they did not surrender, willing to die for their lord and ideals.

Shouting curses, they retreated deeper into the labyrinth of stone and shadow that was the castle — until finally reaching its heart, an ancient temple built long before the Stronghold itself. A dark, majestic structure with walls covered in runes and sinister symbols. The air reeked of sulfur and decay, shadows lurking in the corners, seeming to possess their own will. In the center stood an altar of black obsidian, pulsating with dark energy — like a nexus of evil itself.

Grimnir and the remaining defenders — the last handful of warriors, witches, and demons — burst into the temple. The massive doors slammed shut behind them, reinforced with dark magic. Light forces encircled the temple from all sides, but breaking the magical barrier was no simple task.

— Alex, stop! — shouted Grimnir. — You know that on this level, any of us could die. In this world and the real one!

Alex stood before the temple. He saw hatred and despair in the eyes of the last retreating defenders, yet he understood that this battle was not over… He knew that inside the temple, alongside Grimnir, might be the Book of Destiny — the mysterious artifact whose every record could change the very fabric of the game and allow the company’s leadership to reshape the world.

Now, in the eerie silence that had fallen over the battlefield, it was clear that forces of light and darkness must face each other in one final confrontation.

Igor. A regular at the themed tavern. Bard.

And then he, the Emperor, descends from his griffon-horse. Looking pristine, as if he hasn’t been in battle — as if he’s just stepped out of a spa — though in truth, he should be covered in mud, blood, and filth up to his ears. But this is a “virtual world,” so no one even bothers to scratch themselves.

From the castle, like a devil out of a snuffbox, hovers some Grimnir. Master of the city. Looks like a stereotypical lord of darkness, ripped straight from an old book about hobbits. Stooped, scarred, as if bitten by the local fauna. And in his eyes — you know — not hatred, but weariness, like a taxi driver after a night shift.

And so, the dreaded dialogue begins.

“Grimnir,” — intones Alex, like a stuck record. “Hand over the Book of Fates, and I will spare your people.”

As if anyone had been spared in this virtual world.

And then… In the game, immersion and role-playing matter, you understand? But they start arguing like office drones by the cooler. Spouting about company affairs, old gripes. Who didn’t share stocks, who’s holding back the bonus… Okay, I get that you — the players of the company’s role — aim to pit good against evil in an epic battle, staging a grand event. But follow the script, read the lines, no sidetracks — you’re not playing solo here, not for your own evening drinking beer.

Finally, Grimnir, with a hoarse voice, brushes him off as if swatting away an annoying fly. “The Book of Fates will never leave this place,” he says.

Of course it won’t. It’s part of the plot — you can’t change that.

“So, you leave me no choice,” — Alex responds, his voice as emotionless as that of a robot. — “Kill everyone in the temple! And take the book!”

And then Grimnir spouts some nonsense about death in real life if you die at high levels in the game. I watched that scene recorded dozens of times but still couldn’t quite grasp what he meant. It was obviously not in the script either. Besides, their levels are astronomical — they’ve been in the game since day one.

But it doesn’t matter to the second — he wins anyway; it won’t affect him. The enemy is caught — advantage in numbers, right? And here comes the most “heroic” move! Kill everyone to get the book. That’s no petty cash for cat food in a crowdfunding campaign — this is a brutal virtual combat!

And you know what? All those “heroes” in shining armor, that “empire” with its white flags — they gladly execute the order. Like it’s exactly what they’ve been waiting for. Forget that they set out wanting to “save the world,” not slaughter people. But, hey — it’s just a game, so nobody really cares.

They charge at the temple like hungry dogs to a bone. Cutting down everyone indiscriminately — old men, women, children who haven’t had time to escape. No morals, no meaning.

And it’s all happening just like that — a snap of fingers. We watch, and supposedly we’re meant to feel something. But what is there to feel? Nausea from the pointlessness? Disgust with ourselves for allowing this to continue? I don’t know. But surely, that’s not heroism. And certainly not glory. Just another chunk of trash in this cursed, virtual world, so much like the real one.

From the ranks of the Light Warriors steps forward and stands before the Emperor — an NPC mage dressed in white:

— My Emperor, attacking the temple is forbidden, — he bows before the leader of the Light, — spilled blood on sacred ground will bring a curse. We will invoke the wrath of the gods!

Alex surveys the temple carefully — its grim grandeur, ancient runes — and scowls. He knows this is a sacred place, of dark powers, and he also knows — according to the rules of this world — bloodshed on holy ground is forbidden. Still, the desire to seize the Book of Fates blinds him. He gazes at the sealed doors, knowing Grimnir is inside. His hand, clutching his sword, trembles with excitement, but his will is steel. He’s decided to go against all rules.

— Take the temple! — he roars, his voice infused with authority, piercing the battlefield. — No mercy! Let blood be spilled if necessary! The Book of Fates must belong to us!

For the first time in history, the warriors of the Light, in their fanatical pursuit of victory, begin storming the dark sanctuary. And on the sacred stones of the altar and the temple floor, blood flows — rich, red — spreading across ancient runes, staining them, and at the same time, imbuing them with power, awakening demonic forces slumbering within the temple’s depths… And as soon as the last blow strikes Grimnir’s body, the dark magic pouring out from within, like a fiery wave, throws back the attackers.

Through the cracking boards and the howling of demonic spells — repeated by the very walls of the temple — screams of the wounded, agonizing and dying soldiers, engulfed in flames and darkness.

Milfhanter 38. Professional Game Reviewer. Warrior.

Grynner, that bastard, set up shop in some temple, like just loitering on a bench, and then our guy, Emperor Alex, with the words “I’ll wipe everyone out!” decides to go straight in. Ha-ha, noob! Looks like no one had proper guidance before this fight — even the top players!

When I heard his order, I immediately understood — this is some kind of bug in the matrix. You know, it’s common knowledge that blood shouldn’t be spilled on sacred ground! But this donor power-user, shouting “For the Book!”—you understand what happened next — charges in. And, of course, triggers a hidden trap!

And at that moment, the world trembled as if struck by an unprecedented earthquake. An deafening roar shattered the sky, as if the heavens themselves were cleaved open, revealing an abyss filled with chaos and darkness. The wind intensified into a hurricane, tearing tiles from roofs and uprooting trees. Everything around darkened, as if the sun had forever abandoned this world, plunging it into an eternal semi-night.

With a scream of horror echoing from the advancing soldiers, the unimaginable began. The wounds of the temple’s last defenders started closing, and their eyes shone with red light. Their bodies became rotten, feeding on necrotic energy seeping from the sacred ground of dark powers. Those who fell that day — both dark and light — rose from the dead, transforming into undead, obsessed with blood and flesh. Zombies, risen from oblivion, recognized neither friend nor foe, and attacked anyone still breathing.

Panic seized the warriors of light. Horrified, they recoiled from the shambling corpses of their former comrades, with whom they had fought side by side, and fled the city. The battle turned into chaos — living fighting the dead, shining fighting the darkness they had themselves unleashed.

Alex, realizing the horror of what was happening, silently watched the nightmare unfold. He understood that ignoring the game’s rules had led to this catastrophe. He tried to turn back, pushing through his soldiers, but the bloodthirsty zombies began swarming him like flies. Reaching his gryphon, he took off, but the risen creatures, like a swarm of vile insects, encircled his mount. Twisting claws tore at him — ripping flesh from wings — until the gryphon, losing altitude, crashed onto the stones.

Eyewitness accounts.

Igor. Regular at a themed tavern. Bard.

But suddenly, this world quaked as if someone kicked the server. And from the temple, like from hell, these… undead crawled out. Not the stylish zombies from Hollywood movies. No, this was full chaos. Rotten corpses, missing limbs, with eyes full of hatred and stupid animalistic rage. And the smell — oh, it was terrible, like it wasn’t even in the game.

And our clean-cut hero, Alex, realized he had seriously miscalculated. He leapt onto his gryphon — the same white, shining one — and tried to escape. Like nothing had happened.

But these undead swarmed his gryphon, plucking feathers, biting into its flesh — this virtual flesh that probably doesn’t even have a smell — but just seeing it made him want to vomit.

The gryphon, that white steed Alex rode, collapsed as if shot. Disintegrating into pixels, and our hero just disappeared — swallowed by hundreds of dark monsters. As if he’d never been there.

Emperor Alex I, founder of the empire, scourge of dark forces, once a dazzling hero — was buried under a wave of corpses, his fiery sword extinguished like a spark in the night.

Eyewitness Accounts

Milfhanter 38 — Professional Game Reviewer:

And then… the real chaos begins! Zombies, the undead — where did they come from?! I was in shock! Definitely a bug, the developers messed up the patch! Poor Emperor with his griffon — how those walking corpses swarmed him, it was honestly heartbreaking… Well, I mean, not really, you get the idea!

And then suddenly, bam! Everything plunges into fog, like someone cut the lights — pure chaos. We, the newcomers, panicked and scattered in all directions, praying to our god of randomness because — where else would you see this? What guide can prepare you for such an encounter?

The most epic battle turned into a horror show, just like in some creepy alpha version! Bugs, glitches, crashes, zombie apocalypse! It was simply… surreal!

The city was shrouded in gray fog, enveloping it as if in a shroud. It became a place where eternal twilight reigned, where the past and the present merged in agony, and light and darkness blended into the original gray gloom.

Once illuminated by the sun of the desert, the city sank into endless dusk. Thick fog, wrapping the streets, swallowed all sounds and screams, leaving only silence and terror behind. The forces of light, in panic, fled, leaving behind fallen comrades and a city gripped by fear. All who died that day were turned into the undead, filling the streets hidden within the eternal, stretching fog.

Eyewitness Accounts

Stepanik, Elf Level 26:

The fog was everywhere — thick, cold, piercing to the bones. Something ancient, evil, as if it were a living creature. It wrapped around me — heavy, sticky, infused with the smell of blood and… other things. It was horrible, but I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t move.

I hid in a narrow corridor, pressing my back against the damp, cold wall. Just a few meters from me — ghostly figures dissolving into the fog, whispering in some incomprehensible language. Fear — it’s not just a feeling, it was a living, cold entity squeezing my soul.

But even more intense was the pain. Sharp, burning, echoing through every fiber of my body. I clenched my hands, trying to drown it out, to focus on something else, anything but this overwhelming horror.

Right now, I just needed to survive. Just keep breathing.

Someone touched my hand — cold, sticky contact. I shuddered, ready for the worst. It was… horrific. But not deadly. Just strange.

I looked into the fog. In the half-light, I saw a figure. It was unnaturally tall, movements slow and awkward. Its clothes were tattered, and its face — its face was shrouded in a delicate, unearthly veil of white fog, which I felt very close. Suddenly, the creature screamed — opened its enormous black maw — and I ran, blindly, away from this city. One thing I knew for sure — I’d never come back here.

Milfhanter 38 — Professional Game Reviewer (continued):

And now… I am trapped in this twilight city, and everything around seems frozen. And I think: “What’s next?!” It’s awesome! Surely, the developers have prepared something very cool for us! What level? What quest?! I can’t wait to find out!

So, I, as the last surviving rookie, am waiting for my epic rescue quest! But there’s nothing. I just stare into the walls with dead eyes, and nothing happens — my character has become a mob, everything’s stuck in a loop, only messages and game invites pop up. But who needs that? I wouldn’t recommend this game to anyone. I spent so much time leveling up — and it all turned to dust…

Igor — The Frequent Guest at the Thematic Bar:

And the city… the city was cloaked in gray fog. Like someone turned off the lights on the stage — everything became gray, dull, dead. Eternal dusk. Or maybe the server just crashed. I don’t know…

But the strangest thing — it started later, in reality.

They both died. Shortly after those events, as Gromnir predicted. I saw articles online — one played as the emperor and died in a plane crash, and Gromnir’s body was never found after his car fell from the bridge.

And Dream company refuses to comment at all, even hiding behind a veil of mystery to promote the game. But two people have disappeared — does it matter to you?

And after that, I stopped playing these games altogether.

III. THE PARTY WASN’T A SUCCESS

When Max entered the house with the VR box in his hands, his friends, invited for his birthday, were in the same poses he had left them in when he had left. Artem, the 15-year-old son of Aunt Olga, sat on the sofa in the living room with the projector remote in his hands, and his gaze was fixed on the broadcast on the wall, where footage from a documentary-entertainment show dedicated to retro-battles in virtual worlds was unfolding. “Legends of Online Battles” was one of those shows that constantly inserts analytics from VR experts and archival interviews with eyewitnesses. The red-haired girl next door named Daria sat here nearby in an armchair, staring at her phone, as if trying to find salvation from the boredom of the surrounding world in it. Today, she was the personification of the apathy that seemed to have infected the entire generation.

“What’s that? What did you get?” Artem, who had recently celebrated his fifteenth birthday, whom Aunt Olga and Max’s mother had repeatedly tried to befriend by bringing them together, jumped up from his chair, his brown eyes sparkling with curiosity, seeing the gadget. He had dark hair and swarthy skin, inherited from his father, Aunt Olga’s husband, Vladislav.

“Is that VR? So you can join us in the raid on the ‘cursed lands’! Join us while it’s not too late, we need everyone. Of course, you won’t be of much use, but you’ll still get an achievement as a participant. Such global events rarely happen. So don’t miss your chance. This time, the light forces will definitely reach the castle and destroy the Twilight King!”

“No, I don’t think I’ll be playing this. I don’t want to be a zombie stuck online for days. I want, you know… to still be in reality,” Max put the box on the table.

“What are you talking about, it’s the best game of all time, okay, before you couldn’t play because of parental controls and age restrictions, but now what? Have you heard who leads the clan ‘Mercenaries from the North’ — Boris and Vic! Bullies from our school! Maybe we can start a acquaintance, we will raise our social rating at school. And such events are rare. Come on, they gathered all the adventurers, received help from the imperial bot-legion, and all the kingdoms of light sent their best warriors. What’s the point of living if not for such battles? Daria and I would first help you level up your skills, take you through dungeons, raise a couple of levels together. And into battle!” Artem seemed to be a little hooked on games. Even today, when he came to visit, he spent half the day in the game chat and on forums dedicated to the game. Like Daria. “The whole summer is ahead, what will you do if you don’t play?”

“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll sign up for the archaeological expedition with our historian Fedorov. It seems like he’s recruiting people again now,” Max replied.

Daria, who had been staring listlessly out the window, cast a fleeting, interested glance at Max. A spark flickered in her eyes, as if she had momentarily seen in him something different from the rest, something deeper and more real. But she immediately returned to her contemplation.

“To that old alcoholic? Hauling stones all summer? Give it up, there are only losers and nerds there.”

“The cake will be ready in 5 minutes!” Max’s mother’s voice came from the kitchen.

“You go ahead, I’ll catch up, I’ll just take this upstairs.” Max pointed to the VR.

Max’s room was in such a state of disarray that even the most experienced chaos researchers would probably have given up upon seeing it. Things were scattered everywhere, each seemingly trying to tell its own story, but like Max himself, they weren’t too sure what exactly they wanted to convey.

In a place of honor stood a trophy with figurines of fighters, won at a martial arts tournament where Max, as usual, took not first but third place. It was a pretty impressive achievement, except that his persistence in training lasted only until he realized that martial arts lacked magic and dragons. The trophy seemed to know about his short-lived passion and looked at its owner with bitterness.

The computer, on which an unfinished program was open, reminded him that Max had once dreamed of becoming a great programmer like his father. However, as often happens with dreams, he soon lost interest in them, leaving the project in a state of “still in progress.” In this place, technology and inspiration met to exchange glances before parting forever.

A small green tree — a bonsai — stood in the corner, like a wise elder who, despite all the chaos around, remained calm. Max sometimes came to it to reflect on life, but in the end, he often just forgot to water it. The bonsai seemed to know that its fate was to witness the strange reflections of a young philosopher who didn’t always remember his responsibilities.

A poster from a NASCAR race that Max had once attended with his father hung on the wall, as a reminder of a happy day. It always smiled when he looked at it, as if trying to say: “Here, this was real fun, not all this…”.

An electric guitar, standing on a stand, waited like an unnoticed muse who knew that her time would come, but was in no hurry. Music was his passion, but, like everything else, it often remained in the shadows.

On the bookshelf, among textbooks on mathematics and astrophysics, a mythological encyclopedia and treatises by ancient military leaders peacefully coexisted. Max, as a true seeker of knowledge, believed that one day all these books would tell him something important, although for now they were just gathering dust, waiting for their time.

This whole room created an atmosphere of constant searching, where each passion became just a stop on the way to something more. Max knew that sooner or later he would find something that truly captivated him, and then his room would become a reflection of his true “self” — or, at least, would become a little more organized. But, as the classic said: “Everything comes in time for those who know how to wait.”

All this accumulation of objects left very little space for life, so the furniture in the room consisted only of a bed, a table, and a wardrobe.

Gifts, given personally and passed through mutual acquaintances, lay here in the corn