“It’s true,” igNoble says. His myrmidons hang their heads or avert eye contact with the crowd. “The Questdeaths legend is true. And those of us who survived it were in VR for ten uninterrupted months. Even one month of continuous immersion can disastrously alter the brain—but we were in for ten months. It’s why I stream so often—why I’m always online.”

“Poor iggy!”

“Who cares!?”

“I don’t like this,” Ad says to me with a look of panic.

In fact, it seems panic is all igNoble is inciting—as I swivel my head around to look at the outer reaches of the audience, which has recovered members and swollen to fill most of the Forum, I see it churning, players murmuring “Questeps?” and consoling each other. On the periphery of the gathering, those chants heard earlier of “We want out!” continue.

Prim is thoughtfully silent, while Rainmaker has a fiery eyebrow raised in shock. They’re both leaning slightly forward as if they’re about to push to the front row.

“Questdeaths was hell,” igNoble says. “We were trapped in a horrifying dungeon, in an AF 1 game—primitive squalor compared to this. The Morgulhost hackers told us we’d only be released if we cleared all of the hundred descending floors.” He makes sweeping, dramatic gestures with his shield while his eyes fix sternly on the horizon. “A lot of players were overcome with despair. A hundred-floor dungeon in an RPG we’d never played? And a game way more difficult than Last Advent’s so far proven, I’ll say. However, my dear friends—”

Based on all I’ve read, he sounds legit. To think igNoble of all people was among the victims! But what’s he getting at?

He points his shining sword up and over the audience toward the sun so that it catches a white sunbeam that scatters across the audience. “We beat Questdeaths. I was in the party that cleared the final floor, killed the Dwarf King, and forced Morgulhost to deliver on their promise.

And together, we’ll beat Last Advent, too.”

Beat Last Advent?

The panic of the crowd erupts into agitation, bickering, and, especially toward the front, some cheers. After some moments of this, a tan bulky man of my stature with dust-gray hair and a polearm on his back blurts out, “Beat it? Kid, we're waiting for a patch, not the main quest line! What is this?” He shrugs and looks around for support, which he gets in an array of shouts.

“Look at today's patch notes,” igNoble responds, staring directly at the interjector with a pressure that makes the latter shrink back. “The patch you're waiting for isn't coming. Whoever's responsible for this—Morgulhost or Nazgul Group or some other copycat—intends to keep us here, and they’ve wished us ‘good luck.’”

“Hey, hey!” Rainmaker shouts, a virtual blood vessel visible on his ruddy dwarfish temple. “Let’s not get the wrong idea here! We’ve already lost too many players, and the consequences of dying aren’t clear yet!” The strident volume of his voice is such as to redirect much of the audience’s attention temporarily to us. When all of these weary and wary eyes, including igNoble’s majestic own, fix on Rainmaker, he chokes nervously, stammering for his next words.

“We marched from the valley yesterday,” Prim tags in, “with a large group of players: some volunteer fighters, many rescuees. Our friends Cynythya, Xenophone, and DimensionZ led the charge and sacrificed their lives to save us, and we’ve inherited their duty as protectors. We should all focus on fortifying—surviving Last Advent until we can log out. Not beating it. Reckless questing is far too risky.” Many players voice their agreement.

“That was brave of you all. I’m sure you saved some vulnerable players,” igNoble responds, slowly directing his eyes back to the skyline and smiling before staring down at Prim. “But based on the intel we’ve gathered—my White Knights have spent the past eight hours in the field—large gatherings of players in the overworld can cause monsters to swarm. Keeps us from ganging up on them.”

Gasps radiate throughout the audience, followed by jeers, as Prim, Rainmaker, Adelaide, and I realize what this means.

We . . .

“. . . attracted that goblin army,” Ad mutters, humiliated. Rainmaker winces and curses under his breath, while Prim stares wide-eyed with anger at igNoble.

“Are you implying we were at fault yesterday? That we had any other options?” he says, fuming. “Swarm or no swarm, dozens of vulnerable players would’ve been left to die if not for our intervention.”

igNoble winks at him, smiling confidently. “Take it easy, hero. I’m just sharing our intel. Should help us all avoid unnecessary casualties.” This enrages but silences Prim, and Rainmaker pulls him back to keep him from saying anything rash. Then the four of us withdraw somewhat in order to avoid the chuckles and judgmental glances being thrown at us from our pocket of the audience.

igNoble goes on: “No—I’m afraid that if we stay on the defensive, if we simply wait to be saved, we’ll end up like the Questdeaths players who went insane holed up on the first floor, or worse. Those who’ve visited the Pantheon know that Last Advent also has a clear main quest line: summit the Trothagren mountains and restore the strength of Losthearth. That’s probably our way out.”

The same energy that formerly constituted a general panic is gradually being swept into an atmosphere of hopeful excitement as igNoble speaks, but there are dissenters; we are shocked into silence, and Rainmaker is beginning to lead us out of the audience and out of the forum toward the Monkey’s Paw. I see a woman with short, messy pink hair and a white cloth headband passionately conferring with a couple of parties around her before they all head toward the colosseum. That burly interjector from earlier stomps away toward the marketplace with a loose string of followers in tow, whom he seems to ignore. Other groups agglomerate within the audience but remain to listen.

I think I see, in the shade of an awning jutting out from a nearby street that looks into the forum, a flash of the light green hair of my savior from the Forest Hideout area. But after some passersby block my sight, I squint and find nobody there. I rub my virtual eyes.

“So let’s go on the offensive, everyone!” igNoble shouts. “Let’s show Morgulhost they picked the wrong server to hack—that we can beat Last Advent even more quickly than I beat Questdeaths! With our combined might, this shouldn't take more than a single month, if that!”

His retinue reforms around him as a heroic panorama from lvl 2s on the wings up to igNoble’s lvl 4 in the middle as he raises his sword and shield again, clanging the one against the other. Unanimous cheers rise up across the remaining crowd, and as players jump and wave and wildly emote, I can finally make out the shape of the rostrum: the horned skull of a dragon, sun-bleached and weathered by the passage of virtual millenia.

“igNoble! igNoble! igNoble!”

“White Knights!”

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“Fuck Mimmisoft!”

“Fuck Morgulhost!”

“Join our guild, the Adventurers, and together, we’ll speedrun this shitty game!” igNoble says, his white teeth shining like his sword.

The Adventurers’ Guild has sent out a mass invite.

(Join) (Decline) 10 sec . . .

(Join) <= (Decline) 5 sec . . .

. . .

It’s too dangerous. I have to look out for Ad.

(Join) (Decline) <= 1 sec . . .

“Adventurers!” the audience unanimously shouts. “Adventurers!”

We retreat into the Monkey’s Paw as the fervor crescendos.

—

“zrrcare for a free Launch Week Loot Chest?” the innkeeper says. His curly auburn beard brushes against the counter as he stoops to remove a tiny box from a low cabinet and then places it on the counter, tapping it with his pointer finger.

That might even contain one gold coin.

“This is a haggling tutorial,” Prim whispers to Ad and I. “Tell him that's not a chest.”

“You call that lousy little thing a chest?” I say, removing my hood and staring scarily into the chestnut eyes of the innkeeper. “Show me a real chest.”

VRMMOs have mostly done away with social stats like charisma and intelligence in favor of dynamic social interactions like these, where what counts is what a player actually says or does. Even germs are smart enough to compute a bout of haggling. So my intimidation tactic—

“ . . . Saw your pal Prim21 whisper to you there—but sure, big guy,” the innkeeper, marcus mizarunan - lvl 2 innkeeper, replies sardonically, his barrel chest shaken by subdued laughs. He reclaims the original box and removes a slightly larger one from the cabinet. “Here it is: the real deal.” He taps his finger impatiently until I (Take) it.

Launch Week Loot Chest (Small) added to inventory

“Lotta players have already come through here,” says Rainmaker, “so he's pretty well trained by now.”

“‘Trained?’ I've worked this counter since I was a pipsqueak. The Monkey’s Paw's been in the Mizarunan family for generations—since my great-great-grandsire saw Mizaru, the monkey himself, on the road back from Brackenwatch. Made such an impression on him that he changed the family name. Nowadays travelers can't even get halfway to Brackenwatch . . .”

“This'll lead to a quest recommended for levels five plus,” Prim says. “Why don't you try for a box, Adelaide?”

“What's in that back room?” Ad observes, walking up to the counter to point toward a closet door that hangs ajar on its black iron latches. Boxy forms are barely visible in the darkness.

“Why, that's just an old bunch of supplies. Hard to stay organized when you're serving so many visitors each day.”

“No—I think those are the real Launch Week chests,” Ad says innocently but pointedly. “Mr. Mizarunan, are you lying to your patrons?” Her avatar's light brown eyelashes flutter, and she places a hand on her chin. “It'd be terrible for business if everyone knew the innkeeper of the Monkey’s Paw was a big, bearded liar.”

The three of us chuckle at Ad's ploy, but a pang of jealousy makes the muscles in my virtual face feel stiff.

“Blackmail, ah? Fine, miss. You'll get your chest. But I'm no liar, and I'll call the guards if I hear another slanderous peep.” He opens the closet door to remove a fuller-sized chest, which he heaves onto the counter, and which disappears with a small dust cloud in its place when Ad pockets it. “. . . ‘venturers,” he grumbles.

“Well done,” Prim says, leading us over to an area in the lobby with a few small green couches with scuffed, stubby wooden legs. A black wood stove smolders in the corner, and an open doorway seems to lead into a longer room from which soft voices echo and a warm, savory aroma wafts.

The four of us collapse onto the couches and into a tense silence, our momentary distraction by the innkeeper having passed.

“. . .”

“. . .”

“. . .”

As if Pen’s and Xeno’s deaths weren’t enough weight, now I can’t help but blame myself for failing to recognize the swarming mechanic. I was so close to figuring it out—I noticed the unusual increase in monster levels and numbers . . .

“. . . Don’t let what he said get to you guys,” Rainmaker says. “We didn’t know. And like Prim said, a lotta people would’ve been slaughtered out there if not for us. igNoble’s just-”

“Rain,” Prim says, “let’s put that aside for now.” He cracks his virtual knuckles and attempts to crack them again, nervously clenching his jaw. Seems knuckle-cracking has a cooldown. “What we just listened to was an effective power grab. Whether or not this game can be ‘beaten,’ igNoble’s rallied a whole crowd to his cause, and that’s probably just the beginning. We may be too late.”

“No way: it’s only day two. I mean, if we’d known ahead of time that the White Knights were grinding to make that announcement today . . . then what? We can’t be hasty—our plan is for something way bigger than a stupid stream-chat rally. Just makes things a little more complicated.”

“I’m not saying we should’ve rushed—but our authority depends somewhat on our promptitude in appearing before the server with a structure. Damn it!” He slams his gloved fist on a rickety reddish table between the couches. “I thought that in the worst case, we’d get a divisive message from Mimmisoft or Morgulhost a few days in, but this? Patch happened overnight, and igNoble had that speech prepared from the jump. We’ll need to fast-track—find Craw, nosferatu, and Kit, and—”

“Uh, guys?” I say.

“Slow down, Prim. These two aren’t looped in, and this probably isn’t the place . . ." He suddenly leans toward Prim. "Do you think igNoble’s a plant?”

“How could he not be? He’s sponsored by Mimmisoft. But then again, I’ve gone down the Questdeaths rabbit hole, and I’ve never heard an account so detailed or delivered so passionately. Maybe he is a survivor and just thinks he’s the chosen one since he’s been trapped in a second VRMMO. Even I would get superstitious.”

“Hello?” Adelaide says.

“He’s always thought he’s the chosen one—damned Excalibur-wielding show-off. So maybe, in his immaculate mind, he felt he had to be the one to unite everyone early. Not the worst idea in the world, given his influence. And, hell, maybe he’s right about the hack and seriously believes beating the storyline will satisfy Morgulhost. Either way, his Adventurers’ guild’s only one out of who-knows-how-many being chartered. Players who get swept up can always leave. It’s about making sure they don’t feel like they have to join and providing room for alternatives.”

“Yeah . . . maybe. We still can't sit back and let them send players on suicide missions. I hope Craw’s got our charter and-”

“Guys!?” Ad and I say in unison. “What are you talking about?”

Prim and Rainmaker stare skeptically at each other and then at us—then back at each other.

“OK?” Rainmaker asks.

“OK,” Prim says.

Rainmaker beckons us close with a stubby finger, and Prim scoots nearer, his arms crossed and his expression blank as he gazes around the room. Some spent wood in the nearby stove crumbles into charcoal and embers with a crshhhhhh.

“We’re . . . forming a sort of government,” Rainmaker whispers.