Chapter: Trapped in the Wolf King's Den
The air burned with the fury of a world at war. Spells ripped across the sky in streaks of searing light, detonating against grotesque creatures that looked as though they had clawed their way out of a nightmare. Explosions shook the ground beneath everyone's feet, punctuated by the shrieks of the dying and the defiant roars of those still fighting.
Men and women hurled themselves into the meat grinder with reckless abandon, their bodies torn apart by claws and fangs that belonged to things no sane mind should have imagined. Yet for every one that fell, two more surged forward, their eyes blazing with a strange feverish intensity.
It was a relentless, brutal chaos, the kind repeated endlessly across this world. An observer might have wondered whether life held any value here at all. Shouldn't death inspire fear? Shouldn't existence be treated with at least a little caution?
Or was this all just some kind of game?
Ask anyone on the battlefield where they were, and they would likely give you a strange look before answering, "Starter Zone #4069, where else?"
Yes, this was a game. Not just any game, but a full-dive virtual reality MMORPG. In fact, it was the game: Age of Conquest. Hailed as a breakthrough in neural interface technology, something far beyond a hyper-realistic simulation. It was a second world, sharper and more visceral than reality itself, where pain felt real, fear felt real, and death was nothing more than a temporary setback on the road to glory.
Far from the chaos of spellfire and screaming players, a narrow path wound deep into the timberlands. It twisted through dense underbrush, climbed along ridgelines prowled by wolves, and eventually led toward a cavern carved into the mountainside near the summit. The closer one came, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
The area around the cave teemed with predators. Wolves stalked lazily through the brush, their silver-gray coats flickering between shafts of light as they moved. Others lunged at mountain hares, snapping their jaws shut with frustrated growls when they missed. A handful of brave players lingered at the outskirts, cautiously farming experience, but none dared approach the cave entrance itself.
There, sprawled across the stone like a living barricade, lay the reason.
[Borg the Silver-Fang.]
The wolf was the size of a small carriage, his massive body coiled as though even in rest he was ready to explode into motion. Half-lidded eyes glinted with lazy menace, and thick strands of saliva dripped steadily from his jagged maw onto the gravel below. Even asleep, he radiated dominance, the unmistakable presence of something that ruled this territory by blood and tooth.
If anyone had ventured deep enough into the cavern to peer into its shadowed depths, they might have noticed a lone figure crouched behind a rough outcrop of stone.
Flynn shifted slightly, his leather armor creaked as he adjusted his stance slightly. At this moment, his jaw clenched tight with irritation. He had logged in expecting a quiet session of exploration and nothing serious. Curiosity had led him into what appeared to be an empty cave, a promising place to scout or maybe grab a bit of early loot.
Then the landlord had come home.
Borg had returned from his hunt, claimed the entrance as his resting place, and promptly fallen asleep. Just like that, Flynn had found himself trapped inside.
Borg the Silver-Fang. Level thirteen. One of the three Kings of the Starter Zone.
Less than twenty-four hours after launch, no one was supposed to be dealing with something like this. Even a level ten player would be shredded without a coordinated ten-man raid. That was simply how the numbers worked, and in this world, numbers were everything.
In the real world, Flynn would not have hesitated. A big wolf was nothing, as he could think of a dozen efficient ways to kill one barehanded without breaking a sweat. But this was not the real world. This was within the Continent of Aetheria, the so-called Second World, and here his body answered to digital statistics instead of instinct and muscle memory.
His Strength was mediocre, his Agility was respectable but capped, his damage output was limited, and his health pool was so small that he sometimes felt a strong cough might empty it. Every movement, every strike and every calculation was constrained by invisible systems running beneath the surface. For the first time in a long while, Flynn was a prisoner of math.
He studied the beast from the darkness, his eyes tracing the slow rise and fall of Borg's chest. He had not tested the wolf directly, but he had fought the lesser wolves outside. At his current level, he could handle two at once without too much trouble. Three pushed his margins and demanded focus.
As their alpha, Borg was in an entirely different category. The boss's attack power was almost certainly high enough that only a heavily armored Warrior or Paladin could absorb repeated hits. As a Rogue, Flynn knew that a single clean swipe would likely send him straight back to the respawn point.
He ran the scenario through his head again, slower this time. Unless he executed three flawless dodges in a row, he would die. And even if he somehow managed to bring Borg down, the surrounding pack would tear him apart before he could even enjoy the victory screen.
"Well," he muttered in a low breath, tightening his grip on his dagger, "guess I'm taking the express trip back to town."
He hated the thought. He might be playing for fun, but pride did not shut off just because it was a game. A man with his background did not go down easily, even in a simulation.
He shifted his weight, preparing to bolt past the sleeping monster and gamble everything on timing, when faint voices drifted up from the trail below.
Flynn froze.
'Wait. Is someone actually coming for this thing?'
Hope flickered in his eyes. By now, the most dedicated players should be brushing level ten. If a raid party was making a move, he could slip out in the chaos. Using other people as a distraction was not glamorous, but it was effective.
He edged toward the cave mouth and peeked around the rock just as Borg stirred. The massive wolf rose to his feet, stretching as silver fur caught the light, the air around him grew heavier with predatory intent.
Eight players stood in formation near the entrance, all level ten. They were obviously the elites of the Starter Zone. Only players with confidence, coordination, and more than a little recklessness would challenge a King this early.
"Go!" the lead Warrior bellowed as they all surged forward.
Inside the cave, Flynn straightened as his muscles coiled. The instant the Warrior slammed into Borg and established aggro, Flynn exploded from cover. He shot past the wolf in a low blur, angling toward the narrow gap between Borg's flank and the cave wall.
For a heartbeat, it looked clean, then Borg's head snapped toward him.
The wolf's focus was on the Warrior, but something about movement inside his own den triggered a violent instinct. With a furious snarl, Borg lashed out blindly with a massive claw.
"Seriously?" Flynn cursed.
He twisted mid-leap, feeling the rush of displaced air as the claws sliced past his ear. He hit the slope outside the cave and rolled, momentum carrying him several yards downhill before he came up in a crouch, gravel skidding beneath his boots.
Behind him, the Warrior shouted another taunt, wrenching the boss's attention back to the main fight.
For a brief second, the entire raid froze. Why had a player just come flying out of the boss's lair?
Several of them even stopped attacking, staring as Flynn brushed dirt from his leather armor. He was clearly a Rogue, his movements were too precise and controlled to be anything else.
But how had he been inside?
Stealth was a high-level skill. No one in the Starter Zone should have unlocked it yet.
The Cleric recovered first, keeping one eye on the Warrior's health as he tossed out a healing spell. "Is the boss still locked to us?"
The Warrior checked Borg's name. It was still red meaning it was still tagged for their group. "Yeah, it's ours. But what the hell? Who is this guy?"
"Doesn't matter," the Cleric said. "Amy, check him out. If he's decent, bring him in. We can use more damage."
His reasoning was practical rather than generous. In Aetheria, players above level ten could flag for PvP. A Rogue capable of surviving inside a boss den was not someone you wanted wandering around while you were committed to a high-risk fight. It was better to pull him into the party and keep an eye on him.
A Ranger named Amy disengaged and jogged over with a bow slung across her back. She gave Flynn a quick once-over, openly impressed.
"Hey," she said. "Want in? We're short a Rogue."
Flynn rubbed the back of his neck, still faintly annoyed at having been held hostage by a snoring wolf for half an hour. If there was a chance to settle that score, he was not about to walk away.
"Sure," he said. "Send it."
The party invite flashed into existence, and he accepted without hesitation.
The Wolf-Slayers, as they apparently called themselves, relaxed almost as one. Anyone who had played long enough knew how ugly third-party interference could get during boss fights. Turning a potential wildcard into an ally was a relief.
"Nice exit, Night-Stalker," someone called. "That leap was straight out of a movie."
Night-Stalker was the name floating above Flynn's head in the party interface. He moved into position behind Borg, as a faint, cold smile touched his lips.
"It wasn't planned actually," he said. "That oversized mutt had me pinned in there for thirty minutes. I'm going to enjoy returning the favor."
"Thirty minutes?" Amy blinked. "You were trapped that long?" She checked his level again. Level Ten.
If he had been stuck that long and was already capped for the zone, he must have reached level ten well before most of them.
"I thought Rogues leveled slower," the Warrior grunted as his axe bit deep into Borg's flank.
He was holding aggro cleanly. Aside from the occasional wide swipe, the boss's focus stayed locked. Flynn slipped into rhythm behind the wolf, his blades flashed as he carved precise strikes into vulnerable joints and tendons.
"Do they?" Flynn replied lightly. "Feels fine to me."
"The damage is good," the Cleric said between spells, "but your health pool is terrible. You're all glass cannons up close. Without a tank, most Rogues spend more time drinking potions than fighting. You need really good gear to solo. What's your Talent, by the way?"
In Age of Conquest, there were seven primary classes: Warrior, Paladin, Duelist, Rogue, Ranger, Arcanist, and Beastmaster. Upon character creation, every player received a unique passive Talent.
Flynn's was called Retribution Strike.
When his health dropped below twenty percent, he gained a chance to perfectly evade an incoming attack and immediately counter with a guaranteed critical hit.
After he explained it, someone let out a low whistle. "That's busted."
Talents were already being ranked on the forums, and something like that would sit comfortably near the top. Flynn, however, looked unimpressed.
"Is it?" he said. "It hasn't triggered once since I started."
The Cleric laughed. "We could always let your health dip a little and test it."
"I'll pass," Flynn replied dryly. "With my HP, this thing would probably delete me before the system even notices I'm low. And knowing my luck, the trigger rate is awful."
They chuckled, assuming his rapid leveling must be the result of clever Talent abuse. Flynn did not bother correcting them. The truth was simpler.
He did not get hit.
A Rogue with his reflexes did not need a large health pool if nothing ever landed.
The fight pressed on, and Borg's health steadily fell under coordinated pressure. The silver wolf thrashed, it's claws tearing into stone, and jaws snapping inches from the Warrior's shield.
Then the Warrior's tone sharpened. "Twenty percent! Get ready everyone, watch for Enrage!"
In Age of Conquest, monsters became volatile at low health. Many tried to flee or summon help, but bosses were different. For a creature like Borg, Enrage was almost guaranteed. His damage would spike, his attack speed would increase, and the fight would become twice as dangerous.
It would also dramatically improve the loot.
Around the clearing, the Wolf-Slayers tensed, their faces showing that mix of raw greed and pure fear.
—
Author's Note:
A quick heads-up for everyone diving into this story. While this novel is set in a fantasy world, it will occasionally feature the names of real-world countries and may explore themes of conflict between different groups and nations within the game.
Please remember that this is a work of fiction. The use of these names is purely for world-building and storytelling purposes, and any events, alliances, or conflicts depicted are not a reflection of real-world politics or relationships. This story is meant to be an escape and an adventure, so please enjoy it as such! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the journey.