The stench hits first, choking many players. No mobs ambush us, though. As if scripted, the Kobold King, dripping rotted blood, yanks the steel beam from its chest, wielding it two-handed.
Re-Illfang the Kobold Lord
"Reborn Kobold King," huh? Like a mindless zombie, it charges, trailing decayed blood.
"Squads A and B, intercept the Kobold Lord!" Dyawolf commands from the rear. "C and D, stand by for switches and keep mobs at bay! E and F, wipe out mobs fast! Archers, fan out and provide support fire! Diavel, you've got frontline command!"
"Got it!" Diavel shouts. "Squad A, you're too close! Tanks, manage stamina carefully! If anyone hits critical, call for a switch, understood?"
Dyawolf oversees the big picture, Diavel handles the front. Splitting command risks chaos, but they've likely coordinated. Archers form a dedicated squad across parties for consistent ranged damage, but the Kobold King seems to have Ranged Decay-like resistance. Arrows hit but barely dent its HP.
Oh well. If ranged attacks dominated, they'd draw aggro and invite a reckless charge.
"Time to do my job," I mutter.
Squad F—just me and Smith—focuses on mob cleanup. Our targets: one-meter floating ball robots. Today, I'm swapping my war pick for a battle axe, looted from that bald PKer. Enhanced to +6 with L3D3 (Lightweight 3, Durability 3), it's optimized for endurance over raw power, ideal for prolonged fights. My new Battle Axe skill, paired with Footwork, complements it. I ditched the war pick—deadly against robots—because the axe's slashing damage is better if we face the Kobold King unexpectedly. Plus, its destructive power rivals the war pick, more than enough for these balls.
"Hm. Their 3D maneuvers could've been trouble, but this is manageable," Smith says.
The ball robots' only attack is a single-eye laser. Smith plays it safe, landing precise rifle shots. Even with severe falloff, close-range hits deal solid damage, like those Dark Rider fights that gave me grief.
"No way I'm losing to you!" I shout.
The lasers are predictable. Positioning to avoid friendly fire is key, but flanking lets me attack freely. We down three of the eight ball robots; Squad E handles the rest. As expected, when the Kobold King's four HP bars drop to three, eight more robots spawn.
These look identical but fire scattered, low-power lasers for wider coverage.
"Ku, aim for their eye," Smith calls. "Hit it, and they can't shoot."
He nails the robots' single eyes with uncanny precision, sharing the tactic instantly. Scattered lasers don't change our approach—keep flanking. Squad E struggles but takes no major HP losses.
Squads A through D chip away at the Kobold King steadily.
"Stay calm!" Diavel orders. "The steel beam has two attacks: wide sweeps and slams! Tanks, keep your distance! Slams drain stamina like crazy! High-DEX players, hit-and-run after slams!"
"Archers, too many misses!" Dyawolf adds. "Aim for the head to stun and create openings!"
"Squad B, switch with C! Finish recovery in 60 seconds!"
"Squad E, your HP's too low! Heal anything over 30% damage immediately!"
The commanders' focus is razor-sharp, steadily whittling the boss's HP. A new attack—spurts of rotted blood—poisons players, but Diavel covers two frenzied tanks, drawing aggro while directing switches with flawless precision. Sinon's arrows, fired from safety, ignite on impact, striking the Kobold King's eyes with terrifying accuracy, constantly lowering its attack precision. Too bad its undead nature prevents stuns.
"Down to one HP bar soon," Smith says. "Hope it ends smoothly."
We finish the second wave of robots and eat phosphorescent herbs to heal minor damage. Even Smith couldn't dodge every scattered laser. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and exhales purple smoke. Seriously, this game has cigarettes? What's next?
"Some boss," he remarks. "Kind of anticlimactic."
"Our levels are high, and those two commanders are top-notch," I reply.
Talking to Smith feels easier—maybe my social skills are leveling up. But he narrows his eyes, chuckling ominously.
"Is that so? I just do my job."
"You some kind of soldier?" I ask.
"Real-world talk's taboo, but sure," he says. "JGSDF officer."
Makes sense. His vibe never screamed "office worker." I nod, impressed.
"But you," he continues, "you're a student, right? Those are some fierce eyes for your age."
"Huh?"
"My line of work, I meet types like you. Eyes of a predator."
I clam up, annoyed. He takes the hint and drops it. As the Kobold King's final HP bar hits, eight more robots spawn—likely the last wave.
"Archers, advance!" Dyawolf orders. "Close the distance and unleash!"
It feels premature, but with one bar left, piling on damage isn't a bad call. As expected, the Kobold King discards the beam, drawing a weapon from its waist—a nodachi…
"No, it's not!" I yell. "This is bad!"
It's a talwar—a curved sword, not a katana! Diavel, expecting katana skills, had pulled back. Smart move, but a talwar means Wind Hell, a rapid eight-hit sword skill. Its low per-hit damage but relentless speed catches a tank off-guard.
"Argh!" the tank screams, stamina drained, shield knocked away.
The Kobold King follows with a crushing press, but Diavel saves him, landing a counterstrike with eerie precision. Did he know? Is this really his first Kobold King fight?
"My arm… my arm!" the tank wails.
"Diavel, I've got the front!" Dyawolf calls. "Get him out!"
"I'm on it!" Diavel replies, supporting the tank to safety.
The tank's left arm is gone, likely severed with the shield. First-time limb loss is brutal—that brain-shredding pain is unbearable. I panic, but Dyawolf's calmer than I expected. Unreliable intel is normal. He shifts from anti-nodachi to anti-curved sword formations, pulling tanks back, stepping forward to boost morale, and letting spearmen chip away with reach. Archers, now closer, deal more damage. The final HP bar drops below half quickly.
"Your shout had me worried, but we're pulling through," Smith says, reloading his rifle after exhausting auto-reloads. Mob cleanup's done—now it's the main force's show.
His cigarette vanishes in a burst of polygons. At that moment, Dyawolf lands a spinning sword skill, Link Spinner, on the Kobold King's side, draining its red-zoned HP.
"Hah… we did it," Dyawolf pants, stamina depleted, kneeling.
"What are you saying?" Grizzly slaps his back. "That was perfect! Victory's ours!"
The room's tension melts. We won. Even Sinon exhales, lowering her bow.
"As expected, I could only get this far alone. But it's all according to plan."
I let my guard down completely.
Kayaba's successor wouldn't settle for a boss this simple. A nastier trap was inevitable. There were clues—take those church paintings. One hinted at the boss; the other should've too. We missed it. The madman littered hints, waiting for us to stumble into his trap.
It happens in a flash. The Kobold King's rotted back bulges, birthing a skeletal insect with a human-skull head, four blue-flame eyes glowing. I remember now—that second painting depicted SAO's 75th-floor boss, the terror that crushed its raiders.
The Skull Reaper.
Sinon mentioned parasitic insects using corpses as hosts. We dismissed the Kobold King's undead form as the developer's bad taste, ignoring the hint. The painting was a dead giveaway, and we paid for it.
No one could protect him—not even Grizzly nearby. Exhausted, Dyawolf takes a critical hit from the Reaper's scythe-like forelimbs. Blown back, his HP plummets to zero before our eyes.
"The fight continues, warriors. The Kobold King is here. Right here! Come, honor-seeking fighters—bring it on!"
It's a game, so of course DBO has it: a boss's second phase. With two new HP bars, the parasite-ridden Kobold King roars for a rematch.