THE [VILLAIN]

​

BY DAVID DARLING

Without challenge, there can be no triumph. Without darkness, the light has nothing against which to shine. A hero needs something to overcome. A king needs an enemy worthy of his crown. An adventuring party needs a catastrophe that forces them together. History remembers the ones who rose to the occasion.

History remembers the [Hero].

It rarely remembers the one who created the occasion. The one who stood in the darkness so another could step into the light. That was the [Villain]'s curse. To create the heroes the world needed—and be hated for it.

Without the [Villain], there can be no [Hero]. The System needs both.

 

Chapter 1

 

At midnight, the silence was shattered when the northern gate to the orc village exploded in a burst of light and fire. A concussive wave flattened the guard shack, and two [Warriors] flew like rag dolls to land in a heap thirty feet away.

     For a moment nothing happened.

     Then the alarm sounded.

     While the village wasn’t large—barely two hundred orcs—each was well-versed in fighting. [Hunters] readied their bows, as several dozen [Warriors] and [Fighters] drew weapons. [Cooks] and [Merchants] emerged sleepy-eyed from their homes, daggers in hand. Torches were lit as the town prepared to confront an invading army. Children and the infirm were guarded by the elderly still capable of holding a spear.

     However, there wasn’t an army at the gate.

     There wasn’t even an adventure party.

     One man stepped over a burning board and into the village.

     Dressed in chain mail, he brandished a long sword in one hand and a round shield with a stylized falcon clutching an arrow in its claws embossed on the front in the other.

     “The grace of [Lord] Vesper is over. You are trespassers in his lands, and I am here to remove you.” The tall blond [Fighter] yelled, then spat on the ground. “Permanently.”

     The orc’s reply was instantaneous.

     An arrow streaked through the courtyard, trailing light like a comet.

     The [Fighter] blurred to one side, and an arc of steel cut the arrow out of the air.

     For a split second, neither side moved.

     Then chaos reigned.

     An arc of lightning descended from a clear night sky toward the intruder.

     The man in chain mail thrust his sword into the ground and crouched low to the side. The electricity struck the pommel and passed harmlessly into the soil.

     Another arrow streaked through the night, but was brushed aside by the shield.

     The [Fighter] reclaimed his sword and met the orcs charging his position. A spear darted towards his head, and he didn’t bother blocking. His blade sliced through the shaft like it was a twig before going through the orc’s wrist. A fountain of blood sheeted to the hard-packed soil.

     A level 22 [Warrior] brought a two-handed ax down in an overhead chop that should have split the [Fighter] in two, but he stepped under the strike. The [Fighter]’s long sword sliced through the orc’s tendon in a move too fast to defend.

     The [Fighter] danced through the orcs, leaving a swath of blood, fallen weapons, and severed limbs. Screams were left in his wake.

     Until he reached the courtyard.

     The village [Shaman] threw off her cloak. The woman was ancient, her hair white, and tusks yellowed and dull. The necklace of bones around her neck seemed to weigh her down with her hunch, and she gazed at the [Fighter] through a lowered brow.

Old or not, her power was not to be trifled with, and those that were nearby quickly stepped back.

     “Organ’ik tok yun!” Her voice rumbled like thunder as she lifted her staff overhead.

     The staff glowed blue, and white sparks leaped from the end.

     “Chun!”

     The staff slammed into the ground. Dust rose around the courtyard, and those within thirty feet struggled to remain on their feet as the earth beneath shifted.

     Bright yellow hands of light, the size of a wheelbarrow, darted out of the ground and encircled the [Fighter]s waist, lifting him in the air.

     His sword blurred as he attacked the yellow hands, a dozen times in a single heartbeat.

     The blade passed straight through the [Shaman]’s spell without effect.

     Her eyes glowed bright to match the staff’s aura.

     The orcs didn’t waste any time.

     Yard long arrows punched through the [Fighter]’s chainmail—two in the torso, one in the leg. A spear was thrust from behind, and the metal tip punched through the man’s stomach.

     “Arghh!”

     His screams were music to the orcs' ears.

     A sword sliced through the man’s left arm, and the shield fell, along with the limb, but the [Fighter] wasn’t done.

     His right arm extended, and his sword pointed toward the [Shaman].

     “I am only the beginning. My [Lord] will see you and all your kind dead!”

     The light in his eyes faded, but the afterlife had not claimed him yet.

     The sword blocked an incoming dagger thrust, then leaped from the [Fighter]’s hands and flew across the courtyard and buried deep into the [Shaman]’s chest.

     The staff flickered once, and so did the hands holding the [Fighter] off the ground.

     Before the [Shaman] toppled to one side, a young orc screamed in rage.

     A single-bladed ax whistled through the air.

     The [Fighter]’s head bounced once on the dirt before lying still, eyes wide open.

     “No!”

     The yellow hands vanished, and the headless body crumpled into a heap on the ground. The young orc dropped the ax and raced to the [Shaman]’s side, but he was too late.

     The villagers gathered with fire in their eyes and rage burning like an ember in their chests. [Lord] Vesper’s name stung like poison on their lips.

The young orc stood. “We should send word to the other tribes. They’re not safe.”

     A grizzled [Scout] nodded. “I’ll go.”

     As plans were made, the [Healer] did what she could. The [Fighter]’s body and equipment were dumped in the woods, far from the orc village. Except for the shield bearing [Lord] Vesper’s crest. That was placed as a reminder above the [Shaman]’s hut.

     When the sun crested the horizon, two tribes were preparing for battle. By midafternoon, the total was nine and spread like wildfire across the Tharazin Expanse to the Tyrvane Sea.

     Two hundred and twelve years of peace were over.

     War had come to Zhyrelon.

 

*****

 

The [Fighter]’s body and head were tossed in a ravine like trash, quickly followed by the long sword. The silence was broken by a nightbird, then a cluster of crickets resumed their serenade.

     The corpse jumped once, then a black mist rose from the ground. The [Fighter] vanished, and an unassuming man in dark robes stood in his place. The man was in his mid-thirties, average height, with a short dark beard, a crooked nose, and a lean frame. His robes were a blue so deep they may as well have been black, except for a brilliant silver thread that decorated the cuffs in an intricate design.

     “Ughh…” he clutched his head. “[Feign Death] always gives me a headache.”

     He thrust an arm into a pouch belted to his waist and removed a waterskin. He didn’t seem worried that there was no physical way a waterskin of that size should fit into such a small pouch, nor half his arm.

     Ding!

     “Oh, shit. Here it comes—”

 

[Stir the Anthill quest complete.]

[+1500 XP, experience awarded.]

[Congratulations! Level 52 → Level 53.]

[All attributes have increased: +1]

 

[New Quest: Fan the Flames.]

[Lord] Vesper’s child is being escorted across the Central Wildlands to the Veltharion Capitol City.

Objective: Ensure [Lord] Vesper’s eldest child dies by an orc’s hand.

Reward: Bonus experience if you act quickly.

Do you accept? Yes/No.

 

     Cullen Holt tilted the waterskin back and drank deeply. The familiar rush of energy that made his muscles twitch and mind expand did nothing to quench his thirst. His hand reached into the pouch again and pulled out a piece of willow bark.

     He grimaced at the bitter taste, but it would help with his headache.

     Cullen blinked as he studied the new quest that hung before his eyes on a field of blue.

     “Accept,” he said with a sigh.

 

[Fan the Flames, accepted.]

[You have eight days to complete the quest.]

[Good luck.]

 

     Cullen rolled his head side to side, then took a deep breath.

     “[Glamor].”

     The black mist once again rose from the ground and enveloped his form. When the mist dissipated, a seven-foot-tall orc took his place. The orc’s pale green skin was crisscrossed with scars, and his hair was white with age, but the tusks protruding from his lower jaw were sharp. The dark blue robes were now studded leather armor, and the hob-nailed boots replaced his sandals. He pulled an impressive spear out of the pouch and slid the long sword inside.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, cheeks puffing out.

     Cullen glanced at the stars through the canopy and asked the System, “Why do you need this done? Why me?”

     As usual, there was no reply.

     He darted north through the woods, and Cullen recalled what the System had first said when he accepted the class.

     A [Hero] will create a stronger world, but someone has to create the [Heroes].

     He leaped over a fallen log, then cast a spell.

     “[Long Step],” he muttered.

     He burst out of the forest, and his form blurred across the Tharazin Expanse. Each step was the equivalent of ten, then twenty, once he reached his stride across the plains. The headache eased as he continued to chew the willow bark.

There was no anger chasing him. Only regret.

     Cullen wished there was another way.

     But the System gave him a purpose, and it wouldn’t steer him wrong.

     The world needed him.

     A [Villain].