The Kobold King's rampage begins.
Skills
Tracking: Enables tracking of a target's movements.
Construction: Allows creation of simple structures, requiring material items.
Cold Resistance: Increases resistance to cold and slightly boosts ice attribute resistance.
Items
Club: A primitive wooden stick carved from a thick trunk, designed to bludgeon enemies. Lacking special powers, its raw, simplistic force is fearsome.
Merchant's Seven Tools: Seven essential tools for merchants. Those who live by trade are often envied, resented, or despised.
Dragon Shield of Unknown Origin: A shield likely crafted from dragon scales, with a faintly reddish, iron-like hue. Hard as steel and subtly warm, it speaks to the grandeur and terror of dragons, though not forged from legendary scales.
Diavel watched the scene unfold as if in slow motion, like a movie played frame by frame.
His body moved before his mind could catch up, sprinting toward Dyawolf, who'd been slammed to the ground in a parabolic arc. A rusted gear deep in Diavel's chest screeched: Don't get close. You might lose something precious. But his heart, racing to catch up, refused to accept the inevitable end of a cherished ally.
Dyawolf's armor shattered, scattering red-black light. Diavel lifted his upper body, desperately trying to force a phosphorescent herb into his mouth. But Dyawolf silently stopped him, as if he—more than Diavel, more than anyone—knew his time was up.
"No. No, Dyawolf, you can't die," Diavel pleaded.
I'm a coward, Diavel thought. Too weak to peer into my own abyss, too scared to seek truth. Tears streamed down his face. Dyawolf had been steadfast, spotting Diavel's leadership potential early—maybe because he was a teacher in the real world, or maybe because he was captivated by Diavel's charisma.
But Diavel didn't care about praise. This death game needed someone like Dyawolf, a beacon of strength to lead others, not a frail soul like himself.
He prayed to a god that didn't exist in this virtual world, begging to take his place. But only the cold laws of the game ruled here.
"Please," Dyawolf rasped, his expression resigned to death, gripping Diavel's hand.
Something clicked. A buried vision—something Diavel had sealed away, tried to forget—began to surface, developing like an old photograph, overlapping with the present.
"The boss…" Dyawolf whispered.
Once, Diavel had been like Dyawolf. But unlike him, Diavel's ambition to prove himself as a leader, to cement his place, had blinded him. Ignoring beta test changes, chasing last-attack bonuses, he'd fallen to his own hubris. He'd failed his team, who believed in him, because he doubted his own strength and craved rare items.
"Defeat it," Dyawolf urged, his final wish hanging in the air as he shattered into red-black light, like spilled blood.
Diavel froze, paralyzed. He wasn't worthy. How could a coward like him bear such a burden?
Dyawolf's death hit me, but I accepted it with surprising ease. This is a death game—a slaughter. Expecting no losses is a fairy tale. It's just bad luck that our commander fell so dramatically.
With the Kobold King's empowered return, new ball robots appeared, zipping around with unprecedented agility, switching between focused and scattered lasers. Squad E, reeling from Dyawolf's death, is in chaos, while Squads A through D, fighting upfront, are crumbling under the boss's pace.
"Tanks, get in front!" a player shouts. "Block its attacks!"
"Archers, support us! Hurry!"
"No way! Fall back… take distance!"
No strategy, just reckless attacks driven by fear, easily countered. The Kobold King, with The Skull Reaper sprouting from its back, swings its talwar, shattering what little formation remains.
"Should we join them?" Smith asks.
"Clear these mobs first!" I reply.
Smith, calm as ever, seems reliable but almost callously composed. If that's the clarity of someone used to life-and-death stakes, I could learn a thing or two. My battle axe lands precise hits on a ball robot, staggering it for Smith's rifle to finish. Without words, we sync, taking down one, then another. But a stray scattered laser nearly hits, and I curse, realizing these things multiply over time.
Another scream pierces the air.
I turn to see Kingliger, unhinged without a leader, caught by the Kobold King's steel beam slam after it swapped its talwar. His HP plummets to the red zone. Pinned under the beam, he's crushed by the boss's massive foot, shattering into red-black light amid a final scream.
"Calm down!" Layfox cries. "Retreat to the exit!"
Her order's logical—the door to the church safe zone is still open. Escape could save us. But…
"Terrible move," Smith sneers, slicing a robot with his scimitar. "A deputy commander choosing flight over holding the line?"
He's right. The archers, safest among us, break first, one player sprinting for the exit. Squad E, meant to clear mobs and cover retreat, abandons their fight too. Players swarm the door, and the Kobold King watches, sneering, as if toying with rats in a trap.
"Don't go near the exit!" I scream, sensing a trap.
My warning falls on deaf ears, consumed by panic. The first player reaches the door—and a violent lightning strike hurls him back. A translucent barrier seals the exit.
"No… the exit…" a player gasps, dropping his bow as he stops short of the barrier.
A second later, he's minced, vanishing in red-black light. The Kobold King slices a candelabra with its talwar; The Skull Reaper grabs it, whipping its body to hurl it. The mass attack obliterates the DEX- and TEC-focused archer's low HP. That's three down.
I can't join the front yet. With Squad E gone, ball robots swarm freely, attacking relentlessly. We have to thin them out to avoid a wipe. But the Kobold King's onslaught doesn't stop. It lacked ranged attacks before, but now The Skull Reaper spews bile-like projectiles, hitting Grizzly, shielding allies, and fleeing players. The damage is low, but ranged attacks at this stage hurt.
"Don't fear!" Grizzly roars, raising his greatshield. "I'll take every hit! Two bars left—shave them down!"