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  SORTIS ONILNE

  BOOK ONE: DEMONBORN’S FJORD

  A LitRPG Novel

  By

  Dante Sakurai

  Copyright © 2020 by Dante Sakurai

  All Right Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Rowan parried a ruddy blade’s uppercut and decapitated a rotting head, but a broadhead arrow slipped through his guard. Blood splattered. Dungeon walls faded to black

  You have died.

  He gazed into the darkness as a painful chill crept up his spine. Churning fatigue had long ago set into his skull, his vision blotched with shades of white. A debuff icon—a red exclamation mark—atop an empty health bar was flashing every second, counting down from sixteen seconds. He knew what it was.

  Medical emergency.

  His time was up. Long up. These were his final moments in this world, in this fully-immersive virtual reality MMO that he had most enjoyed since his late teens. And also now during his final hours. His last supper of gaming. Playing as the bad guy.

  Oh, he loved being the baddie. The hated troll. Chuckles shook belly as he thought of the raid he had just crashed with Gabrielle. Their shouts echoed in his ears. Their agony curled his lips. Their red faces allowed him some warmth. Dying one last time and enduring the world’s reduced pain was worth it a million times over.

  A shrill beep slapped the smile off his face.

  You are now logging out. Thank you for playing Aeon Chronicles Online.

  Damn. It’s over.

  A dimly-lit hospital room faded in around him, white everywhere save for a potted fern in the corner. Bland as always. Two medical automatons chirped notes in rhythm with his heartbeat and other vital signs. Wireless sensors taped to his skin doubled as heating pads. And an IV fed painkillers into his arm, but it did nothing to help the numb voids in his chest, his stomach, his head. He shifted against the mattress, and a stabbing ache tore into his side—the stitches from the last round of surgeries. A hiss blew through his teeth. The automatons vibrated in alarm while the pain gradually dulled.

  Flaxen hair whipped at the corner of his sight. Gabrielle dropped his matte black VR helmet next to her silver one, then spun around. Her lips wobbled. “Row? Ya okay?”

  With strained effort he barely said, “Yeah. Just fi—” A cough flayed his throat, and sudden weakness blurred his eyes. He tasted blood.

  She rushed over and knelt at his side, her palm on his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  He could just make out her beautiful features. He swallowed. “Nothing.” He tried to give her that coy smile she loved. “But your eyes are red again. Get that checked out. It could be a lump.” Those three sentences sapped whatever life force was left in his body. The corners of the room dimmed.

  “Don’t worry. I will. Do ya see any lumps though?” she mumbled in a tiny voice that was lost to his ears. Her hand took his, and when he didn’t respond after several beats of his slowing heart, she shouted, “Row! Did ya hear me?!”

  His voice came out as a dying wheeze, so he rolled his neck left and right instead. The darkness was encroaching, here in the real world. A part of him, refusing reality, was expecting a pop-up alerting him of his death. The rest of him told that part to shut up, for he needed to sleep. A good, long nap to recharge his batteries, then he could keep fighting his fate. Just a bit of a nap for a few minutes, no longer. He wasn’t going to give up on her.

  Tears streamed down her reddening cheeks. “Come on! Stay awake! The doctors are coming. Uncle Vincent is coming. Stay awake!”

  His fingers twitched against hers. Just a short nap, okay? The darkness demanded it. He needed it. Just for a minute.

  Then she was hugging him. Her pineapple fragrance filled his airways. Her warmth seeped into his numb voids. “Oh my god. Dun’ die! It’s just a little bit of cancer. A tiny bit! Ya can pull through like aways, you and me, Row and Gabby till the end.”

  See you in a minute. Goodbye.

  “Come on! Ya have plenty of years left. Decades! Aeon Chronicles is getting an expansion next month. Don’t ya wanna play it with me?”

  But he was already gone, the automatons silent.

  “Noooo,” she whined into his chest neck. “Ya promised forever. This doesn’t count as forever! Ya meanie! Come—” Her voice broke as grief ripped her in two. She weeped and weeped and clung to his body, unbelieving of how this universe could be so mean.

  1

  Sparrows sang good morning for Rowan as a tight silky sensation around his little finger hauled him out of a dreamless slumber. A yawn ballooned his mouth. He cranked opened his eyelids to the sight of Gabrielle sitting against the padded headboard. She fastened a red string, tying her finger to his.

  This was, without a shred of doubt, a weird false awakening. He rubbed his eye with his free hand, and pinched his face. A spot of warm pain radiated from his cheek, but he did not wake. The birds did not stop singing outside the open window, and she did not stop working on that fancy bow knot. A curtain of hair hid her face.

  Maybe he was awake.

  “Gab,” he mumbled, “what are you doing?”

  Without looking up, she said, “I’m holding ya hostage until my demands are met.”

  He groaned a chuckle. Only her. Quirky as the day they had met. “And your demands are?”

  “You’re getting a checkup with the docs. Blood tests and scans and everything.”

  “Whaaat? Why? You know I don’t like—”

  “Non-negotiable. Agree or I’ll drag ya by the pinky.”

  He smirked, teasing, “With this red thread? Have you been reading adventure-romance novels again?” She had quite the collection.

  “Row. I’m serious.” She gave up on tying the last knot and looked up. Her eyes were red, her cheeks glistening.

  “Have you—” He coughed in alarm and palmed the mattress, sitting up. “Have you been crying?”

  “Obviously.” She sniffed. “Just agree. Don’t be a dummy. Please.”

  Ah, damn.

  His wife was crying. His normally happy-go-lucky (though sometimes crazy) wife was crying. He had only seen her so
upset a few times. How could any man say no here? But he had to weigh down an urge to mess with her. “Yeah sure, if it means that much. But why?”

  She shrugged and looked away, out the window into the sunlight filtering through dense branches.

  He took her chin, gently, and guided her eyes back to him. “I’ll get it out of you one way or another. The handcuffs and straps are just over there.” His head jerked toward the chair. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  A smile gradually diffused across those dry lips. “It’s pretty dumb, actually.”

  “It can’t be that dumb if you’re worried about my health.”

  She sighed, her eyes wandering. She said in a rush, “I had a bad dream where you had late-stage cancer. We were in a hospital room, and we were playing with some of—”

  “I died, didn’t I?”

  Her shoulders sank. “Yup.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “Horrible! You died in my arms. It felt so real.” Her voice squeaked. “We were still young, not even wrinkly.”

  “Yeah, how horrible, but I mean how bad was the cancer? What type was it?” It could be for real—a one in a million chance. He had read online of people accurately dreaming of the future. He had snoozed through documentaries of psychics and remote-viewers working for intelligence agencies. It was best to be open-minded about these things no matter how outlandish.

  “You’re so empathetic.” Her tongue clicked. “But I dunno. Ya know how dreams are.”

  “Then how did you know it was cancer?”

  “Oh, dream-me said it, and dream-you joked about dream-me having eye-lumps.”

  His fingers tingled. “Then you’re getting a checkup too. ASAP. I’ll make an appointment after breakfast for—” The day’s plans hit him like a brick to the forehead. “An appointment for next week for both of us, I promise. But for now, Sortis Online’s launching in an hour.” 9AM sharp. “Unthread me. We have to get moving.”

  Her demeanor uplifted. Lingering distress washed away. “Kay!” She poked out her tongue and started working on the many knots in the ribbon. She was certainly serious about taking him hostage. “Though I’m going to nag if you forget.”

  Rowan chuckled along with the birds outside.

  Their morning rituals carried on as usual with minimal conversation: thirty minutes of push-ups and sit-ups and squats for him on the apartment’s balcony while she huffed and puffed on the treadmill for fewer minutes. She showered before he did, helped herself to breakfast, then laboriously fixed her appearance and outfit for the day. Typical girl and boy things. Normal things. He had long adapted to living together—a very normal couple’s life.

  Soon enough, he was off with her in tow, a two minute power walk through the park. On a pebbly path through willow trees, they strode toward an oblong glassy building, the Hyperloop terminal. The smell of freshly cut grass and lavender was strong to an nearly hallucinatory extent. Rowan nearly mistook a dog playing fetch as a furry monster from a video game.

  While they waited for the next shuttle, he phoned in to the local clinic. He mumbled under his breath, “This better not be one of those AI assistants. They’ve been taking over the world.”

  The call was answered after seven rings. A woman spoke, “Hello. I’m Dakota, an advanced artificial intelligence medical assistant. How may I help?”

  “And it’s an AI,” Rowan said, covering the phone.

  Gabrielle chirped bubbly glee, “Hehehe. Better get used to it. We’re gonna be playing with em in just a bit.”

  “Hello? Are you there? Is this an emergency?” Dakota said in a concerned tone.

  “I’m here. It’s not an emergency. I’d like to make appointment next week for me and my wife with our family doctor.” He assumed Dakota had caller ID.

  “Preferred times?”

  He faked a yawn as he drawled an answer: “Caan yee dooo saaturduh nine aye em.”

  “Next Saturday, nine in the morning?”

  Wow. It understands.

  He swallowed a cough. “Yeah.”

  “Great. See you then. Thank you, Rowan. Give my regards to Gabrielle.”

  “Seeya.”

  The call ended with a plastic click.

  Impressive. He wouldn’t have known it wasn’t human otherwise. No wonder Synaptic Entertainment had partnered with Automaton Corporation in an effort to… What was their catch phrase? Bring new life to NPCs? Something along those lines.

  As the shuttle slid down the transparent tube, Gabrielle said, “Yawned on purpose, didn’t ya?”

  “Dakota gives you her regards. Good AI.”

  “Of course. We’re going to make so many digital friends!”

  Rowan inhaled conditioned air as the shuttle opened before him. “I kind of want to just do raids and gank scrubs in the wilderness.” He shrugged, presenting his plastic pass card to the scanner, stepping into the compact space. Morning passengers occupied five out of sixteen seats, the back vacant just for him and her.

  “Ya meanie.” She giggled connivingly, skipping along.

  “I also want to see if I can burn down an entire town or city. Ultra-realism, right?”

  “Is someone feeling violently nihilistic again?”

  He sat on the clean seat. The shuttle was accelerating smoothly. “A bit.”

  She plopped down with her posh leather handbag on her lap. “Why? Cus of university?”

  His professors were insufferable, but… “Not really.”

  “Our tiny cramped apartment?”

  “Nah. I still think it’s cozy.”

  “Our Mytube channel which isn’t doing so well?”

  He shrugged.

  “Hmmmmmmmm. It can’t be cus of sex. So what’s really the matter?”

  He stared out into the endless perfectly aligned rows of parabolic solar panels. Imagination painted a meteor falling from the heavens. “I just feel like watching it all burn, you know? I’m bit tired of life. This game better be worth the money.”

  Her eyes rolled. “No, Row. I’m not a pyromaniac.” Pyro was in fact a possible Fate out of hundreds.

  Fates, a unique twist the game designers threw in, spiced up how and where players entered the game world based on their personalities and desires though randomized to a limited degree .The AI was to grant each player three to pick from on top of a default Mundane fate.

  He said, “I didn’t say I was.”

  “Uh, yes, you did. I’m gonna have to hide the matches and lighter now.”

  He patted her knee thrice. “And you? Noblewoman? Trader? Have you decided?”

  Her grayish-blue eyes met his for a long moment, somewhat dousing his inner flames. “Row’s master.”

  A chuckled breath rasped from his lungs. “Come on. Be serious.”

  “Hmph.” She flicked his earlobe. “I am serious. I think I’ll just tag along with whatever you choose, unless I get a legendary. Cus then you’ll be taggin’ along with me.”

  Each Fate allowed for various numbers of tag-along players to promote team-play and flexibility. But most legendary Fates allowed one at most, some none at all, and legendary rarity was truly legendary in this game—one in five thousand on average according to the devs.

  And also according to the devs…

  Rowan said, “Why legendary? They don’t give that big of an advantage. Remember what the lead designer said? Negligible. Some of them make it harder. It’s mostly for the story and roleplay. I heard a few could make the game unplayable if you choose them.”

  She smirked, licking her slightly-crooked teeth. “Silly Row. We could be instantly famous. Our money problems would be solved.” They ran a slowly-growing MyTube channel with a few thousand subscribers. Neither he or she, however, was up for live-streaming—too much pressure while playing. Edited highlights were more than fine.

  “Game’s not even out yet. It could flop.”

  “Nyaa. Dun’ say that. You’ll jinx it.”

  “Nine out of ten MMOs flop. Probably more than that.” His s
tomach clenched as the shuttle zoomed into Capitol City, already decelerating.

  “I’m not listening.” Because she had saved for weeks for an extended-immersion spot at Synaptic HQ. Regular players were stuck with VR helmets. “And Sortis Online is the first of its kind. It has the first-mover advantage in the gaming market.” She was studying economics as a minor.

  The shuttle slipped into an offshoot, into a terminal, with a tacky whirring noise coming from below the seat. That didn’t sound very safe either.

  He said, “We’ll see. This fate system is already risking it.” He stood, taking her smaller hand.

  “Grouchy Row can be so pessimistic.”

  “I’m not grouchy,” he almost snarled. “I’m realistic.”

  “I’m not grouchy,” she mimicked, making a face.

  He exhaled. “Let’s just go.”

  “Hehehe.”

  He flashed his pass by the scanner, the clunky box beeping green. His arm slipped around hers, and they strolled through the dense weekend shopping crowd within this gargantuan hall of mirrors and ivory, the morning sun reflecting harshly on the closest twin skyscrapers. Synaptic HQ was… a few hundred meters that way. Eastward, by the fields and... He sniffed, stopped a sneeze with a swallow. He could smell the flowers from all the way over here.

  Compared to the surrounding greenery and skyscrapers, the campus was unimposing, comprised of a dozen buildings two-to-three stories high. But a fearsome ebony statue of a stereotypical green-skinned orc riding a wolf greeted visitors. An oversized, cartoonish red sign pointed toward player housing to the right. And no pollen here. How quaint.

  Gabrielle yanked him by the fingers, giddiness exploding. “Come on! Come on! We’re already late!”

  Late for fate-sorting. Those who pre-ordered gold editions of the extended-immersion subscription were treated to these social events throughout the world. Everyone else was sorted inside virtual reality.

  Inside the lobby Rowan’s boots squeaked on polished marble tiles, and a sparse crowd of a couple hundred lingered by a dozen hologram-projecting stations. The aroma of catering was thick with baked flavors. Rowan’s mouth watered as a lady cross-checked his ID on a laptop. Smiling, she said, “You’re just in time.” She passed him an access card, and waved him through.