Nero shot a stream of flames at the goblins, then sprinted the opposite direction, his heavy armor clanging. He tagged another group and rounded them together until a frenzied mob clambered after the templar. The ogres of the grass plains had no love for their small neighbors, and watched with amusement.

“That’s enough,” Nero said, the words echoing within his full helmet. He admired his pulling, and dared to claim he was the best in Viarem.

[Union] Viper: Nero, you busy? We need a DPS.

[Union] Nero: Sorry, training.

[Union] Viper: You? Leveling? Is that a joke? Half the time you’re just trolling in global chat.

Nero popped a wind scroll, and his feet hastened as he craned his neck back. A crude spear with a stone point whizzed by him, narrowly missing his leg. He scoffed as it bounced off a boulder. Goblins were simple creatures. Ugly, too. Their ingenuity had brought them to the stone ages of technology.

Maybe they thought he was God? Creating fire would be unbelievable to simpletons. Unsurprisingly, a few fireworks gathered the entire tribe after his shiny metal ass.

And shiny it was. He had spent a fortune dyeing his armor after spending a bigger fortune on the plate itself. Nero told those that asked that it was red to represent the cleansing flames of the templars, the final shield against impurity. They were said to burn the shadows away — a rather dark, fanatical group, some said. In reality, he just thought red looked cool.

With one last burst of speed, Nero dashed to the closest group of adventurers he spotted earlier. A small party of four, and from the looks of it, low leveled, Nero’s lips formed a crooked smile, and when he got into range he shouted, “Help!” and waved his arms at the unsuspecting group.

The party turned his way with puzzled expressions, but their faces twisted at the cloud of dust trailing Nero. An army of goblins grunted, and pumped spears into the air as they chased.

Nero reached them in a blink and knelt on the ground in front of them, like a knight bowing to his king. The sun shined down upon the noble templar. Then, he became divine. Great, white wings sprouted from Nero’s back, leaving a gust of wind with each flap as he floated. The symbol of the strongest templars, and the ones closest to righteousness. Or so the lore claimed. Nero laughed and said, “Toodles,” then shot through the air. A sonic boom followed, and the sweet sound of startled cries sang in his ears.

With the sun to his back, the templar looked more like the devil blotting out the light, and he looked down on the players and goblins like ants. It was the right of the strong.

[Union] Viper: We really need someone to fill this raid spot.

[Union] Nero: Sorry, friend, still stretching my legs, you know?

The party died in minutes. Their tank fell quickly to the goblin assault. The numbers alone overwhelmed him, and he was unable to control the mob. His lightly-armored companions were sent to the graveyard soon after.

Red really was a beautiful color. Nero believed he looked best in it. Others, too, but only with blood.

Red worked with everything but his name. It wasn’t meant to mar his beautiful name. A name he took great pains to get. Staking out late at night, Nero pre-ordered the game and downed caffeine until launch, grabbing the best name of all. He even skipped character creation.

Nero landed by the corpses after the goblins dispersed and took off his helmet. A generic human face appeared. Dark brown hair, average eyes, and a jaw that no woman would caress with batting eyelashes, Nero was the epitome of normal. Not only in-game, but out, he regretted every night that he did not tweak it. He knew of no alchemists capable of brewing an appearance changing potion yet. He consoled himself with his fantastic name, and ranked it by its simplicity and how smooth it rolled off the tongue. It was perfect.

Dollar signs appeared in his eyes when he rummaged through the bodies. He ignored the few goblins reaching up into the sky, as if their lives mattered. Nero didn’t spare the time to grant them death. They dropped nothing but trash. Players were different. Their levels were low, but crafting material stayed valuable. Nero swiped not only raw mats, but also began stripping the players of their gear. Not everything was lootable. Red players risked everything, but normal players still bet their equipment at a low percentage. As luck would have it, Nero easily slid the paladin’s boots off. Steel wasn’t worth much, but leaving the body bootless for the owner to return to was a reward itself. He couldn’t strip the pretty priest’s robe to his dismay, but her wand was loose, as were the weapons of the remaining members.

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Nero closed his eyes. “Boredom officially relieved,” he said with satisfaction. He inhaled through his nose. Equipping his helm, the image of a cool templar returned to mind. “I look the best this way.” And with another flap of his wings he took flight before an angry party returned for vengeance.

Not that they could do anything to him.

Nero returned to the town of Malkav with [Recall], a convenient spell that relocated the caster to the nearest friendly village, town, or city. Malkav was a low population village that most players outleveled in a matter of weeks. It was hardly a hub that mattered. But it had the necessities. Skill trainers, a warehouse, stores, and quests, it was a short stop, but one many players made.

Church bells rang through the town square. Nero respawned inside, with holy men and women crossing their hearts. The stained glass windows above made a brilliant array of colors dance across the otherwise dull building. Thou must throw away greed, or something like that. At least, it sounded like a holy thing to him, though he wasn’t certain it was an actual saying. He ignored the NPCs, but took care to peek out the large temple gates before exiting. He had his fun and left it behind already. Nero found that his fun tended to take it personally.

He deemed it safe and waltzed out. Hiding in plain sight, it was called. The village was dead. Few players roamed about, but most had a clear goal in mind and likely were leaving soon after a quest was turned in, or a rare item was banked.

A scruffy player near the warehouse squatted by the entrance, hawking goods. “Sculptures for sale! Handmade!” the man said. Sculpting was an uncommon trade skill. Nero sneered at its uselessness. Crafts! What was the point? Downing a raid boss gave access to the best equipment. Creating objects was time-consuming, and they broke even at best. That was why his bag was filled with materials to sell, not to forge or tailor.

“A weed,” Nero mumbled. “That’s what that man is.”

[Union] Viper: Nero, done yet?

[Union] Nero: Still waiting? That desperation.

[Union] Viper: If you’ve got time to type you’ve got time to wipe. Let’s tackle this raid boss. We’ve got a solid three hours before Jack has to go.

[Union] Nero: Jack is a jackass, who cares? But fine, shoot me an invite in ten minutes and summon me, I refuse to walk. AFK.

Terry ejected from the game and sat up, stifling a yawn. His dog Patches, a small, gray Corgi, snored in the corner of his room. Video game posters, figurines, and an assortment of school books required for his high school curriculum filled the gaps in his room and lent itself to a claustrophobic feel.

He pondered whether he had finished his homework, but shrugged. Terry rarely bragged, but he was skilled in cheating, an undervalued art form that walked the line of competent leisure.

At least it sounded smart.

Terry set aside his headset and walked to the kitchen. His mother was still up, eyes glued to the television as usual. Her only child’s presence never registered, and she continued to be sucked into trivia no normal person could answer. She tried making Terry answer alongside the contestants before, but he lost her interest soon after.

The colors of the television set painted his mother red.

“Late night TV is a blast,” Terry said loudly, sifting through the fridge. He grabbed a can of Cola and returned to his room, shutting the door until the excited dinging of a winner was drowned out. Resting his back to the door, he rolled the can between his hands and let the soothing cold wash over him. He didn’t drink soda. The fridge merely lacked choice.

Terry bumped the back of his head against the door and closed his eyes, exhaling. He placed the drink on top of his desk, nuzzled the furball’s head, then adjusted his headset for injection. His union was waiting.

His physical body went limp as his mind uploaded.

It was the weekend, and the weekend was his time.

Nero the Tyrannical

Level 93 Human Templar

Reputation 8661