YGGDRASIL—the name had once gleamed like a star in a universe of pixels, a shining testament to human ingenuity. It had transcended the limits of technology and became, in the truest sense, something alive. It began in the dying days of 2126, not as a mere game, but as an awakening—a spark in the darkness of a world already beyond salvation. To call it a game now seemed an insult, an injustice, as if the term could ever hope to contain the colossal, living entity it had become. No, it was more—a thing that thrived within the collective minds of those brave, or foolish, enough to enter it.
YGGDRASIL had been the second chance the world had lost. A sanctuary for the broken, for those who had nowhere else to turn, it had promised something that the physical world could no longer offer: rebirth. Freedom. The echoes of a world fractured by war, poisoned by greed, and suffocated by neglect had faded away within its walls. In its realms, the shackles of flesh and bone could be cast aside, the weight of years abandoned. People could become gods, monsters, anything—something more than the limitations imposed by the crumbling world outside.
But that was then. That was the world before it all collapsed, before YGGDRASIL itself began to crumble into memory.
Now… now, the world was a different beast entirely. A beast he could barely recognize, and even less endure. Life, as it was now, had been reduced to a slow agony, a hum of existence barely worth the struggle. Every morning, those words clawed their way up from some deep pit inside him, raw, savage, unrelenting: Life... sucks. The thought echoed like the rattling of bones in an ancient grave. He awoke, the threadbare pallet beneath him offering no comfort, no warmth. The air in his hole—a mere sliver of a room—was cold and sharp, biting at skin and soul alike.
The walls of his prison—cracked, splintered concrete—let in a damp, bitter chill that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. The ceiling? A thin sheet of metal, his “home” nothing but a cell in a forgotten dungeon of a world that had long since given up on caring. There was no light in here, save for a dull, flickering screen that counted off the hours, a cruel reminder of the relentless passage of time. He reached for the ration pack—a miserable, colorless blob of nutrition that barely kept his body from shutting down—and took his morning “meal.” It was an insult to all the senses, a stark mockery of sustenance, but it was the only kind of food left in the world. It was what kept the body alive while the soul withered away.
He moved through his routine like a puppet on strings, each action a mechanical step in the dance of survival. Wipe the grime from his skin with chemical towelettes, a poor imitation of cleanliness. Strap the respirator to his face, the mask that covered the stench of a world so foul, so toxic, that breathing was a gamble. It wasn’t just a precaution—it was a reminder. A reminder of the suffocating world outside, a world he dared not face unless forced. A world where the sky was an endless bruise of smog, the oceans little more than boiling cesspools of filth.
And still, those voices would say, This is life now. They spoke those words as if the pollution was nothing more than a passing nuisance. As if the sun had ever been more than an old fable, a myth whispered to children long since forgotten. They had forgotten what it was to dream, or maybe they’d never known. The hunger gnawed at them, but they were too numb to feel it anymore. The hunger for food. The hunger for something more. Crime had become a shadow, a thing that bled deeper than the skin, a stain on the soul that no amount of cleansing could wash away. The year was 2136, and nothing had changed. Not for the better, anyway.
He was no revolutionary. No firebrand. No visionary ready to lead humanity out of this hellscape. What would that even look like now, anyway? What was left to fight for? The elite, those few who still lived in luxury, breathed in air that didn’t choke the lungs, sipped water that wasn’t poisoned, lived in a world so far removed from his that it might as well have been a different universe. They were the ones who forgot. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care.
Him? He was nothing. A speck in the dust. A cog in a machine that was winding down, slowly but inevitably. He toiled in the dim, sterile light of his little box. When his time came, they’d inject him with something cold and clear, a final shot to bring a swift end to the pain. It would be a release—a final, bitter release. Why fight it? What else was there to live for?
Maybe you’re wondering, then, why someone like him—a man who had already given up on the world—would continue to exist in this manner. Simple. Had anyone seen the world he lived in? It was a festering wound. A place where hope went to die, where dreams were crushed beneath the heel of reality. He lived in ガッターズ・エンド(Gutter's End), they called it. Nestled deep in the belly of the dying Gutter's End was a place where the stench of decay and failure lingered in the air like a disease. His home? A box. A narrow, suffocating five-foot-wide, five-foot-tall, seven-foot-long coffin. It was, at best, a shelter. At worst, a tomb. His bed? A thin, threadbare pad. There was no warmth in this world. Not anymore. Not for people like him.
The light above him? It was nothing more than a clock—another tool in the machinery of a life that ground on, indifferent to the struggle. And the clothes he wore? Three sets. Nothing more. They defined him, just as much as the concrete walls that closed in around him. The only constant in this world was the watchers. They were always watching. Always.
He belonged to the Fertilizer Class, a label so cruel, so dehumanizing that it felt almost laughable. But it wasn’t. It was a reminder of what they had all become. After decades of corporate greed and political wars that had bled the Earth dry, humanity had become a resource—something to be consumed. The world had been boiled into ruin, the oceans poisoned, the sky itself a cruel mockery of what it once was. The population exploded, and the powers that be had done what they always did—exploited, manipulated, drained every last drop.
And yet, there was a twisted kind of “benefit” to being in the Fertilizer Class. At least they got something—rations. A free place to sleep. Work. A cruel kind of work, of course. Work that had no meaning, no purpose, except to keep them busy. And if they worked hard enough, if they kept their heads down long enough, they might get a crumb—an extra ration on Saturdays. That was the reward.
“Get a better job,” someone might shout from the void, their voice high with contempt.
Better job? He would just stroll right into the corporate towers, march up to the top, and demand a new life. If only it were that simple. A better job wasn’t something you could pull out of thin air. It was something they gave you. Or, more often, something they took from you when you had outlived your usefulness.
Until then, he would keep grinding away. Keep copying the symbols, over and over. And wait for the inevitable end. The rising sun in a world that had forgotten what the sun ever was.
The hours blurred together, each one an indistinguishable repetition of the last. There was no difference between yesterday and today, or the day before that. It was all the same: the numbing, soul-draining grind that kept him tethered to this existence. The screen before him flickered with the dull rhythm of the task at hand—copying symbols into a machine that would likely never notice his effort. Each symbol, each keystroke, was meaningless, another drop in the ocean of insignificance.
He glanced at the clock above him, its glowing digits mocking him with their constant reminder of time's cruel march. The watchers were still there, their presence a constant, oppressive weight on his shoulders. They didn't have faces, no voices, but they were there—always there—like some faceless jury, their cold, invisible eyes scrutinizing every move he made. Their power came from the knowledge that, for all his anger, all his resentment, there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could escape. The system was as vast and inescapable as the sky itself, and he was just another insect caught in its web.
For all his bitterness, there were moments when a strange stillness would wash over him, a brief respite in the storm. He would close his eyes and imagine a different world, one where the air was clean, where the sun had not been swallowed by the ever-hungry smog. A world where people could laugh without the fear of being crushed underfoot by the boot of the corporations. But those thoughts never lasted long. They were fragile things, fading like smoke the moment he opened his eyes, returning him to the harsh, sterile reality of his existence.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft whir of the chute above his head. A piece of paper slid out, its edges frayed and yellowed with age. The task was the same as always—copy the symbols. Nothing more, nothing less. He reached for the paper, the familiar weight of it a reminder of his place in the world. He took a deep breath and began, fingers moving mechanically over the keys as the symbols filled the screen, one after another.
It was always the same. He wondered if the symbols themselves even mattered—if they were just another way to keep him busy. Maybe there was no purpose beyond this. Maybe the task was to create the illusion of purpose, to give him something to hold on to, no matter how empty. The thought almost made him laugh, but there was no humor left in him, no room for it.
His hand paused for a moment, hovering over the keyboard. He thought about Ratville—his home, if one could call it that. The box he lived in. The dark, suffocating reality that was his life. No escape, no change. Just the endless hum of machines, the distant drone of industry, and the constant, gnawing hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was the hunger for something more, something beyond the walls of his cell. But there was nothing. Nothing but the slow, inevitable spiral downward.
The clock ticked, the minutes slipping away like sand through an open hand. He finished copying the last symbol, watching as the screen flickered in response. Another task completed. Another step in the endless cycle.
"Done," he muttered to no one, the word hollow in his throat.
The chute above opened again, and another sheet of paper dropped into place. He didn't need to look at it to know what it was. The same as before. The same as always. The grind continued. And so did he, moving through each task with the same mechanical precision that had come to define his existence.
The truth, he realized, was that he wasn’t even working for a promotion anymore. He wasn’t working for anything. There was no end in sight, no reward to look forward to. He was simply existing, drifting through the motions of life, waiting for the inevitable end. The work was just a way to pass the time, to fill the emptiness that consumed him.
In moments like these, when the weight of it all pressed down on him, he could almost feel the pull of the screen itself. It was a siren call—a promise of something beyond the grime and darkness. YGGDRASIL had once offered that. The promise of a world free from the chains of reality. But that world was gone now. It had faded, like everything else, into the shadows of a forgotten past. There was no escaping the present.
A faint noise outside his cell broke his reverie. The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoed in the hallway. He stiffened, instinctively glancing toward the door. He knew what it was. The Watchers. They were coming.
They always came when the work was done, when the day was over. They would check the tasks. They would make sure everything was in order. They were the keepers of the system, the enforcers of the status quo. He had bearly seen their faces, outside the time that one of the check his work. but their presence was as real as anything in this world. It was their eyes that haunted him, their silent judgment that weighed on him like a stone.
His heart rate quickened, and his breath caught in his throat. The watchers, had a way of making you feel small, insignificant, like nothing more than cog in a machine. They bearly spoke to him. They didn't need to.
There was a click from the door—just the slightest sound. The watchers were here. He wasn’t sure what to expect now. He did his work, he didn't bother them, he didn't even ask for a raise; such talk gets you 'let go' around here. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe they would just leave him alone, as they had so many times before.
The so called "Productivity Management" was just another name for overseers. The kind that oversee the slaves that work here. They were always watching and coming from upstairs to check the environment and projects of the slaves for the company. They were here for overview and to provide feedback of the workshop worker but that last part didn't happen.
The moment had passed. He let out the breath he had been holding, though it was a futile attempt to release the tension that had built up in him. He had no idea what had happened or why. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
He glanced at the clock once more. Another day, another moment. The grind continued. Time, it seemed, had become the only thing that would never stop.
And yet, deep within him, a question lingered: What would it take to truly escape?
In any case, he had work to do. If he finished at the right time, he could ago home and then face the last day of the last thing that him any joy.
The words hung in his mind. "Joy." It was a bitter joke, wasn’t it? A concept so far removed from his reality that it felt like a relic of a time that had never really existed. But he knew exactly what it was he clung to, even as it slipped further and further from his grasp.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
YGGDRASIL.
The final server was shutting down.
For the past ten years, it had been the last refuge, the final thread tying him to a semblance of meaning. He had played it long after the world outside stopped caring. Long after the great corporations had deemed it unprofitable. The world of YGGDRASIL had shrunk as its players left, their own realities demanding more than the game could provide. He had stayed. Not because he had anything left to gain, but because it was the only place that still felt real.
In the game, he was someone else. Someone better. A man with purpose, with power. He wasn’t "Fertilizer Class." He wasn’t a nameless cog in an endless, grinding machine. He was Eryndor, the Shadowforge Architect—a builder of impossible things, a master of Craft that never existed. In YGGDRASIL, he had carved out a piece of eternity, a monument to the man he wished he could have been.
And tomorrow, it would all be gone.
The announcement had come weeks ago, delivered in a sterile corporate message that made no mention of the players, their stories, their connections. It was just another dead platform being wiped from the servers to make room for the next iteration of profit. The words had been so clean, so clinical: [Final shutdown scheduled for January 27, 2136. Thank you for your patronage. ] As if patronage was the right word for what they had shared in that world. As if anything about it could be reduced to numbers on a balance sheet.
Tomorrow was the last day. The end of everything that had mattered.
He finished the next set of tasks without thinking, his fingers moving in practiced rhythm. The watchers passed again, their presence nothing but a blur at the edge of his senses. He didn’t care about them anymore. He barely cared about himself. All that mattered was making it through the next shift. One last day of drudgery, and then he would log in for the final time.
His screen dimmed as the clock struck the end of his shift. The sound of machinery hummed to life, signaling the arrival of the next worker to take his place in this endless cycle. He rose, stiff and slow, from the stool that had molded to his shape over years of labor. The respirator hissed as it adjusted to the cold, stale air outside his cell.
---------
The walk home was uneventful. It always was. Gutter's End didn’t offer surprises. The only change from day to day was the degree of decay in the walls and the depth of the puddles that gathered in its endless alleys. He stepped over the bodies of the ones who hadn’t made it, their faces blank, their futures nonexistent. He didn’t bother to look.
When he finally reached his box—a five-by-five cage stacked among hundreds—he slid the door closed and collapsed onto the thin pad that served as a bed. The air inside was just as stale as the outside, but at least it was his. The single screen on the wall flickered to life as he powered it on, its glow casting long shadows across the cramped space.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the input. He knew that once he logged in, there would be no coming back. It wasn’t just the game ending. It was everything. YGGDRASIL had been the last place where he could dream, the only world where he could pretend to be something more. The illusion would be stripped away, leaving him bare and hollow.
But tonight, at least, he could still pretend.
He keyed in the sequence, and the screen lit up with the familiar welcome. His body fell slack as the neural interface took hold, and the world of cold metal and gray despair melted away.
He opened his eyes to a sky that burned with stars, a land of towering spires and endless plains stretching out before him. The air here was clean, crisp, filled with the sounds of life and the scent of things that no longer existed in the real world. He stood tall, his avatar clad in obsidian armor trimmed with threads of silver light, a testament to everything he had built.
For now, he was Eryndor. For now, he was free.
And for one more night, he would hold onto that freedom like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Because it was.
----------------------
January 27, 2136
YGGDRASIL shutdown date
----------------------
(Muspelheim)
(Time: 22:16:40)
-----------------------
Flames roared along the walls, shattered shields and weapons littered the floor, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh. 5 Knights in enchanted armor formed a shield wall, their blades gleaming with magic, while behind them, 3 mages unleashed a torrent of elemental spells. Lightning showered from the sky cracked, frost spears shattered, and firestorms engulfed the fields, a the combined assault filling the room with an overwhelming cacophony.
“Hold the line! Don’t let him past!” {Captain$Valendir} commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. His silver armor bore the golden crest of the Dawnbringers.
The guild’s efforts seemed to bear fruit. A barrage of fire and lightning struck Eryndor, the monster staggering as the spells exploded across its dark, scaled form. Hope surged through the ranks as mages redoubled their efforts.
But then, from within the smoke and flame, a deep, mocking laugh echoed through the chamber.
“Is that all?”
Eryndor emerged, unscathed and unrelenting. Towering over the defenders, its monstrous frame was wreathed in shadowy flames that twisted and writhed as if alive. Its molten-red eyes burned with malevolent gleamed, its bold head and its claws gleamed like obsidian.
“Your desperation is amusing,” Eryndor rumbled, its voice reverberating like a landslide. “But it’s time I ended this farce.”
With a sweeping gesture, it summoned a tidal wave of molten fire. The inferno engulfed the front line, melting shields and armor in an instant. Knights screamed as their HP bars plummeted, their avatars disintegrating into pixels before they hit the ground.
“Barrier, now!” Valendir roared.
A shimmering dome of light sprang into existence, shielding the surviving knights and mages. The flames battered against it, cracking the barrier with each searing impact, but it held—barely.
---
The defenders regrouped, their resolve unshaken despite their losses. Valendir stepped forward, his sword glowing with a golden aura. “You’re powerful, Eryndor, I’ll give you that. But you’re not invincible.”
Eryndor chuckled, its molten eyes narrowing. “Brave words for a mortal standing on the edge of oblivion.”
“Dawnbringers!” Valendir shouted, his voice rising above the din. “Focus your fire on my mark! We bring this monster down together!”
The knights charged, their shields raised and swords glinting, while the mages unleashed another torrent of spells. Valendir led the assault, his blade cutting through the air with divine precision. His strike connected, carving a deep gash into Eryndor’s side. Virtual blood coating the ground.
Eryndor roared theatrically, its flames flaring violently. “You dare wound me?” it snarled, its voice filled with fury. “Then I’ll show you what true power looks like!”
The battle intensified. Eryndor fought with the ferocity of a cornered beast, its claws and flames cutting through the defenders with terrifying precision. Yet the Dawnbringers held their ground, their teamwork and discipline allowing them to exploit openings and land powerful blows.
---
As the fight raged on, the knights’ ranks dwindled, their numbers falling one by one. By the end, only Valendir remained, his armor scorched and cracked, his sword trembling in his grip.
“You fought well,” Eryndor said, its tone almost respectful. “Better than most. But this is the end.”
Valendir planted his sword into the ground, leaning on it for support. Despite his exhaustion, he stood tall, his golden eyes burning with defiance. “If this is the end, then I’ll make it one you never forget.”
With a roar, he activated his ultimate skill—*[Martyr’s Final Stand]*. His body became a beacon of radiant light, the energy surging outward in a devastating explosion. The force of the blast shook the entire fortress, consuming everything in its radius.
When the light faded, Valendir was gone, his sacrifice etched into the very stones of the bastion.
Eryndor stood amidst the ruins, and let out a low, guttural laugh, impressed.
“Stubborn fool,” it muttered, glancing at the shattered remnants of the knight’s sword as it disappeared. “You were worthy of this fight. But you just had to go and leave the only loot from your corpse worthwhile enough for me watse so many items.”
Turning toward the massive door at the end of the corridor, Eryndor’s crimson eyes gleamed with renewed hunger. Behind that door lay the guild’s treasury—the spoils of its hard-fought victory.
“Let’s see if your sacrifice was worth it,” Its said, its voice echoing in the empty halls.
---------
Collecting the loot wasn’t a tedious affair, as the guild he just destroyed had various high grade weapons. Though it took him about thirty minutes and cost him about half his own inventory of items to win the loot, he was still enjoying himself.
He even had to reactivate his Ai special effects that cost a bit to aquire, but playing the villain game have its worth. So a little expense to look like he was bleeding wouldn't hurt. The game was down to fifteen minutes and there one place he wanted to go before the end.
So existing the now destroyed guild base, he took flight and ascended into the clouds then teleported to his destination with a quick use of greater teleportation.
.........
Eryndor stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Obsidian Vale, a land he had molded with painstaking care. The black and silver tones of his armor shimmered faintly under the twilight sky, a reflection of the light that danced across the crystal spires he had raised from the earth. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that didn’t exist in the real world. No hum of machinery, no endless static of decay—just the soft whisper of the wind and the distant call of creatures that were no more than lines of code but felt so alive.
This was his place. His legacy.
Yet even here, the shadow of the end loomed. He had known it was coming, of course—knew it the moment the announcement had been made—but nothing could prepare him for the reality of it. How could you prepare to lose the one thing that made life bearable?
A message icon blinked in the corner of his vision. With a thought, he opened it, the familiar interface appearing as a semi-transparent panel before him.
[
>["You'll logging in For the end?"]
Vynara. His closest ally, his comrade in countless battles, the one who had stood with him when everyone else had abandoned this world. They had never met in the real world—he didn’t even know her real name—but here, in YGGDRASIL, they had been more than friends. They had been a team.
He hesitated before replying, the weight of the question heavier than it should have been.
> [To: Vynara>]
> ["Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it."]
The reply felt hollow, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. But what else was there? What else could he do?
Another message appeared almost instantly.
> [From: Vynara]
> ["Good. Let’s make it count."]
Make it count. He wanted to believe that was possible, but how could you make something count when you knew it was going to be erased? When you knew that no matter what you did, it would all be gone, as if it had never existed at all?
He closed the message and turned his gaze back to the vale. The light was fading now, the stars growing brighter as the artificial sun sank below the horizon. He had spent countless hours here, building, exploring, creating. It had been his escape, his solace. And it would all be gone.
The thought was unbearable.
A soft chime rang out, signaling the arrival of another player. Eryndor turned, his armor catching the last rays of light, to see a figure descending from the sky on wings of golden flame. Vynara, clad in her radiant battle robes, he landed gracefully, the grass beneath her feet rippling as if alive.
“You we're here early,” she said, her voice warm but tinged with the same sadness he felt.
“I couldn’t wait,” he replied, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts. “Figured I’d get one last look before… you know.”
She nodded, her gaze sweeping across the landscape. “It’s beautiful, Eryndor. Everything you’ve built here. It’s… perfect.”
“It won’t matter,” he said, the bitterness in his voice impossible to hide.
“It matters now,” she countered, stepping closer. “It matters to me. And to everyone who’s ever seen it. And maybe the others would clock in on the last day too.”
Her words tried convade sincerity and conviction but was evident she didn't believe it.
They stood in silence for a long time, watching the stars. It was a moment of peace, a moment of connection.
Tomorrow, it would all end. But for tonight, at least, they had this.
For tonight, they were free.
And as Eryndor gazed out at the city he had built, he made a silent vow. If this was the end, then he would face it as he had faced everything else in YGGDRASIL: with courage, with determination, and with the belief that, even in the face of oblivion, what they had created here mattered.
That all he was allowed to do the only chance he had. The only thing he had left was he diminishing pride. Which will be gone as well.
Sighing he stretched, loosening his virtual muscles. He menu open and with a click of his wrist to correct icon, shadowy wings expand and extend behind his back. As wings flapped he ascended into the sky.
Vynara watch him silently for a while. He ascended until he was a couple hundred meters above his city.
He stayed there for away. He would have never done this in the past. Floating above one guildbase no matter how close usually got one sniped. He knew because it was one of the his founding strategies. He didn't need to mine though as the game was end and PKs around his area would be nonexistent and even if it wasn’t, it hardly mattered. At least he would have something to do.
Peering into the distance made him wonder what would if he could stay in this world forever. It would sertainly be better that the alternative. His attention was brought from the horizon back to Vynara, he saw her gaze was on him and he began floating downward toward her.
"It took you long enough, I thought you were going to stay up there forever", Vynara said, her voice tinged with friendly bashfulness.
"Just wanted to admire the view one last time." He said a smiling emote above head.
Vynara look at their guild base the beautiful obsidian city. Her gaze sweeping it and he floated beside her.
"Its beautiful isn’t it." His voice.
A moment later she responded.
"It is, I don't think we get to create something like this again."
Silence.
"There rumors about YGGDRASIL two."
"Only rumors, who knows if there true."
"In any case, we'll have to find something else to enjoy. I could send you a link to the new game I bought. We could create another guild too"
Vynara went silent waiting for Eryndor to answer.
"No thanks. I don't really want join a guild again"
VVynara was silent for a few seconds. Before she voice out.
"Oh, alright", her voice hiding emotion. "if you change you mind just contact me tomorrow or anytime you like"
He wouldn't contact her. He wouldn't even here after Tomorrow. He gave everything for this game. He gave it his virtual blood and sweat and everything in between. He couldn’t do it again and lost it. It was too much. It didn’t matter nothing mattered. He would close this hell that what his life after the end.
"Anyways, I'm taking out the the army base for a parade, you coming."
"No, I wanted walk through our base again."
"Suit yourself"
Flying fast he ascended quickly head into the down to the surface.
Eryndor had always avoided the direct confrontation with the other players and had remained alive for years thanks to it. He formed the guild Obsidian Vale with some heteromorphic players in exchange for certain amount of time until they reached level 100 on their own. Together they conquered a city and Eryndor made it the fortress it was tonight while supporting the others to reach Level 100 as well. It was not sad at all. It was simply buisness for Eryndor. One side requested something, the other side delivered it and got something in return. He didn't even remembered most of their names, well only those he was close with to an extent Like Vynara for example.
He mainly focused on adding more things to Obsidian Vale and put everything he had gained in this game into this project. This was his own little kingdom with him as the sole ruler. Vynara was somewhre else within the castle probably playing with her creations or something, it didn't bother him in any case, as he was already prepared to stay untill the game shut down himself, its was mementos of himself in this world that so many people had left by now.
"A shame really. If I had more time I'd could probably go to Midgard or probably kill some PKers or do some Pking for old time sake. Those roleplayers should already quit the game so it's would be wasted to look for them. It seems I nothing left as usual." Eryndor thought loud. Since he had mostly worked day and night. He could only blame the world and gouvernment for what he had become, but he didn't really held big feelings for the people around him or anyone in general. He had himself and that was more than enough in such a twisted world.
It was just a game at first. After beginning with YGGDRASIL 10 years ago, Eryndor felt some kind of relief whenever he entered the digital plane of existence. It had become something more when he could be anything he wanted and played a large contribution to his mental health. It gave him something to feel better about himself and situation even his real life better after this. And all of this was going to end in less than 5 minutes. He had chosen a formless entity race for a couple of reasons. One of them was the large variety of them in all different kinds of mythologies. Also formless entities can like the one which he was (shadow reaper) could negate all sort of physical attacks and possessed large amounts of magic resistance, aided with nigh intangibly was a perfect fit for his classes. He could pier this with his false life and false mana, and with his high teir natural invisibility, boasted with his items, form regeneration. Made him a calamity, and terror for most players, even within the top 1 percent. Also when when one thought about it this was the perfect choice for fantasy assassin. However due the fact that there was no penality for killing a heteromorph player, there were only few heteromorph players chose this, and limited amout of heteromorphic players in general. For Eryndor this was rubbish. Why making so many possibilities when the players couldn't even enjoy it. He had worked hard to get where he was now and he wouldn't quit even with the PKers racism that tried discourage him. It was almost scary how fast some news spread. Still, merciless as he was. After some time the PKers had learned from their mistakes and eventually gave up as he was an opponent that couldn't be easily defeated. But some of them couldn't learn, so he destroyed them.
Browsing through the NPCs names that he had created, before checking their positions inside the dungeon. All of them had still full health and they were at their appointed positions. That was a very important factor if a guild of players would have try to attack Obsidian Vale. Sighing to himself, He dismissed the console.
Eryndor looked at the clock. For some reason he smiled inwardly. He couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment as mental and physical exhaustion slowly took over his mind.
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