Chapter 1 - The Hour Unspent

  Robert awoke on his old straw bed, drenched in cold sweat. The wooden frame groaned beneath him as his frail body struggled to rise. Clad only in grey linen braies, he shivered as icy air seeped through the dilapidated stone walls of the cottage. Robert had long neglected necessary repairs, and the lime mortar between the stones had grown porous with age.

  He sat up, pressing his dirty bare feet against the deerskin hide that covered the cold cobblestone floor. His stomach rumbled as he thought of the dried meat from the deer he had hunted three months earlier.

  What I’d give for a full meal again, he thought.

  For a moment he lingered there, as he always did at the break of dawn, perched on the edge of the bed, shivering from the cold, waiting for the cursed sight to appear.

  [The Hour Unspent: 2 days remain]

  The green script flared across his vision as he shook his head, trying to drive it away. Yet this was one of the few visions of the sight beyond his command, beyond anyone’s command, for it ruled the world now, he thought grimly. When its words finally faded, he opened his eyes and glanced at the two empty beds against the wall opposite his own. Robert stared at the small beds, waiting for the tears, but none came. He had none left to give. It had been a full year since the Reaping, a full year since the sight had revealed itself like some grand curse upon humanity.

  Robert rose from his bed and crossed the small room to the oak kitchen table beside the cottage’s unlit hearth. Atop the finely crafted table he had built long ago were small scraps of old food, some spoiled and others still barely edible, or so Robert thought. Picking up a stale piece of bread, he settled into one of the four oak chairs around the table and chewed the hardened crust as he waited for the day’s next vision to arrive.

  [Choose Class]

  He dismissed the green script without a second thought, as he always did each morning. He wanted no part of the wicked quests the sight offered. Instead, Robert lingered in the crumbling place he still called home, waiting for his time to run out. He was all that remained, both of his household and of the small hamlet of Shearford, and he was content in his solitude and with whatever time he had left in this cursed world.

  It was true he had been spared what so many were not, granted a year of life while countless others perished in the first days of the Reaping. Yet Robert never shared the belief of his wife and friends who had once called it a blessing. He was ready now. He longed to leave this world as his children had, clinging to the hope that he might find them again in whatever life awaited beyond.

  Robert knew his wife had thought him a coward for his decision, yet he did not share her belief that he was taking the easy way out, as she had once said. His eyes fell to the rusted bread knife resting beside the last of the old loaf on the table.

  [Bread Knife (Common)]

  The vision hovered just above the rusted steel of the blade, and he dismissed it with a thought. No, I have not taken the easy path, Robert thought, though he acknowledged he had not sought more time either. His neighbors, and even his wife, had embraced the quests from the beginning. And where are they now? Dead, or waiting to die as he did. The difference was that he refused to humor whatever god sent these visions, whatever cursed deity had stolen the innocents from this world.

  Robert slouched in his chair as his long, unkempt brown hair brushed his shoulders and his bushy beard, dusted with old crumbs, draped down to his chest as he leaned back. His weary brown eyes stayed fixed on the rusted knife lying on the table when a sudden loud bang shook the front wooden door.

  Robert’s heart leaped as he jolted backward from the sudden shock. The chair toppled beneath him, and he crashed onto the stone floor. His head struck hard against the rock, and the sight flared across his vision. A red line pulsed in the corner of his view, shrinking steadily as warm blood trickled from the back of his skull.

  Dazed and with fuzzy vision, Robert lifted his head in time to see the cottage door burst inward. A blur of black shot through and slammed into the old wooden cabinet opposite the entrance. The figure collapsed to its knees, human in shape yet strange to his eyes as they regained focus. Adrenaline surged through his veins long dulled by despair, and Robert forced himself to his feet.

  Robert crept forward toward the figure in black that knelt against the broken cabinet, facing away from him toward his old bed. A heavy cloak draped to the ground, concealing most of their form, though one outstretched leg was bare. Black leather trousers clung tight to the figure, and glossy boots gleamed faintly in the dim candlelight of the cottage. The clothing was finer than anything anyone in Shearford could afford, Robert thought. A marauder, perhaps?

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  “Hello? Sir, are you all right?” he asked cautiously and he slowly advanced forward on bare feet.

  “Robert,” a weary voice rasped. “It’s me.”

  That voice. It couldn’t be, could it? Eight months had passed since he had last heard it.

  “Merelda?” he whispered with a tremble in his voice.

  The cloaked figure tried to stand but collapsed again to a knee. A curl of red hair slipped free from beneath the hood, and Robert’s heart lurched. He rushed forward.

  “Merelda!” he shouted.

  He caught her from behind as she fell back into his arms, her bright green eyes locking with his. The sight flared across his vision, leaving no room for doubt.

  [Merelda Ford (Assassin, Level 26)]

  He dismissed the vision and pulled her into a tight embrace, but she cried out in pain as he did. Robert loosened his grip, feeling a warm substance smear across his hand. He lifted it toward the dim candlelight and saw crimson colored blood dripping down his thin fingers.

  No, he thought, as a surge of panic gripped him.

  Scooping her up in his arms, Robert carried her towards their bed. His emaciated legs, long stripped of their strength, trembled beneath him as he struggled to cross the short distance through the room.

  With an agonizing final step, he reached the bed and laid her down on the old mattress they had once shared. Robert’s panic rose as he watched a red stain flower outward beneath her, the dirty white linen turning crimson under the spread of Merelda’s blood. In a rush, he snatched a rag from the broken cabinet and pressed it to the wound. Lifting her black linen shirt, he found a single circular puncture pulsing small spurts of blood. The skin around it had already begun to blacken.

  “My God,” Robert whispered. “Poison? How?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Robert,” Merelda gasped. “Hear me… I have little time.”

  Despair began to claw at Robert, as he watched as the poison spread outward from the bleeding wound.

  “How do I save you, Merelda?” he pleaded.

  “You can’t, my darling.” Her voice was faint but urgent. “Listen to me, Robert. You have to fight. You must move forward. It’s not what you think… our children won’t be there at the end. Please, Robert…” Her words began to falter, each breath more labored than the last.

  “Please, Merelda, don’t leave me again. Please, you can’t!” he pleaded, grief beginning to grip him.

  But the truth was written on her body. Black spiderwebs crept along the veins of her neck. The poison had reached her heart and was spreading fast, as if some dark wildfire had erupted within her. He held her tightly, refusing to let go even as her breathing slowed, until at last it stopped, and she passed from his arms.

  [Status Update: Merelda Ford (Assassin, Level 26) - Deceased]

  He clutched her tightly, closing his eyes to shut out those cursed words, if only for a moment. Where have you been, Merelda? What did you mean, our children wouldn’t be there at the end? How could you know? His thoughts raced, grief twisting into confusion, until a faint clicking sound reached his ears from outside the cottage.

  The door, he remembered, turning back finding the broken front door still swung open next to his oak table.

  Robert shoved his grief aside, laid Merelda gently on the bed, and sprang to his feet. As he rushed to slam the door shut, a brown blur shot through the gap.

  “Cursed!” he cried, dragging the wooden table across the floor and shoving it against the broken frame, bracing it in place.

  He spun around to find a massive roach perched on the wall above Merelda’s body. Its armored brown carapace gleamed in the candlelight. The creature’s body was larger than one of Robert’s boots, and the pincers on its nose clicked rapidly, making a hollow rattle as it searched the room for food. He knew this species well, he thought. They had ruined his meager carrot crops, leaving his land barren since the beginning of the Reaping. They had come through the portals scattered across the land, portals that spilled forth evils from unknown realms to curse his world and all who remained in it.

  [Giant Roach (Level 1)]

  He dismissed the sight and snatched the rusted knife from his oak table. Holding the dull blade out in front of him, he crept toward the bed where the roach perched just above. As he stepped onto the mattress beside Merelda, the creature struck. With a rapid buzz of wings, it shot forward in a blur toward his face. Robert swung wildly in response, but the dull edge of his knife cut only air.

  The giant roach struck Robert’s face with a heavy thud, his head snapping back from the impact as he stumbled away from the bed in a clumsy retreat before crashing through the cottage’s only window. He caught himself on the frame with both arms, stopping his fall, but not before the roach’s pincers clamped down on his cheek. Robert screamed in pain and fumbled to seize the creature’s thrashing wings as they beat wildly against his face.

  “Cursed bastard!” he shouted as he ripped the roach from his face by a grasped wing. With a violent swing, he smashed it against the stone floor, then drove his rusted blade into its twitching body.

  Blood dripped from the wound on his cheek as he staggered forward, his legs trembling as the last of his meager strength left him. He collapsed into a sitting position beside Merelda on the bed as the sight returned.

  [Status Update: Giant Roach (Level 1) - Slain]

  [Tutorial Guide: No experience points will be accumulated for slain mobs until a class has been chosen. Open your Class Selection menu to proceed.]

  He dismissed the words and looked down at his body. His bony legs trembled, his skin hanging loose over thin limbs where a strong farmer’s muscles had once been. Raising his arms, he saw the same story, veins bulging beneath slackened skin, bones protruding as if he had not eaten in a year. What have I done? he thought. Remembering his children, Merelda’s warning echoed in his mind. Had he wasted all this time wallowing in pity while she fought for their family?

  He lowered himself gently beside her on the bed, and at last a single tear slipped free. “Okay, Merelda,” he whispered. “Okay. I won’t give up like this. I’ll fight on for you, for our children. And when my last breath is spent, may we meet again in whatever final victory awaits us.”

  Solborn: The Eternal Kaiser

  Kaiser Dios never tolerated weakness. He waged war on it.

  To him, mediocrity was not failure but betrayal. While the world clung to comfort, Kaiser brought fire. He didn’t rise above the weak, he erased them. Behind him lay fallen kingdoms, broken legends, and the ashes of those who once dared to call themselves kings.

  Sabel Stoorm.

  Not only a rival, but a reflection. They trained side by side, bled together, and once shared the same dream. Kaiser’s strength was built on conviction, Sabel’s on control. And when the mask slipped, what emerged wasn’t a man, but a crowned monster. He struck Kaiser down, not for justice, but to prove he had outgrown the dream they once shared.

  Now Kaiser walks a world even harsher than the one he left behind.

  A world where the skies howl with unnatural life, where the seas choke on corpses, and where gods carve their names into the bones of creation.

  They will summon their horrors.

  They will cast him down a thousand times.

  And a thousand times, he will rise.

  “Fate cracked. History wept. And I walked through both.”