23:59:59
The final heartbeat of his beloved world was fading.
A man sat upon a massive throne constructed of bleached bones, the armrests carved from the skulls of young dragons.
He leaned heavily to the left, his helmeted head resting against a gauntleted fist. His entire body was encased in heavy, matte-black plate armor, the metal thick with soot and the scars of a thousand battles.
"How many years has it been since we started playing?"
The player let the question hang in the silence for a moment.
"Ten, I think. It was fun."
He let out a bitter sigh, allowing himself to sink into the deep waters of memory.
The guild, The Charred Wardens, had been a sanctuary for the most hardcore of roleplayers.
They had dedicated themselves to the path of the Dragon Slayer and the Monster Hunter.
They maintained exclusively positive Karma, waging war against the so-called "dark" guilds. They sought to do good and enforce justice in a lawless game.
Seven years. The guild had spent seven years preparing for a single, ultimate goal.
They poured in fortunes in cash items. They sacrificed vacations. They burned sick days, ignored their health, and endured fights with family and loved ones.
Galakrond, the Father of Dragons. A World Enemy.
They wanted to be the first to kill him, and they wanted to do it on their very first attempt. That was the role they had chosen to play.
And when the titanic dragon finally fell, the guild fell with him.
Within six months of that victory, more than half the roster had logged off forever, leaving their loot and equipment gathering dust in the treasury. The following six months claimed the few who had remained.
People were simply tired of Yggdrasil. They had burned out. They had achieved the very thing they had played for. Some found new, flashier VR games; others surrendered to the demands of family or career.
00:10:36
00:10:35
The gaze of Algolon, the last remaining member and Guild Master, drifted naturally to the NPCs standing at the foot of the Throne of Skulls.
Gramdar and Reinhart. A Dragonid and a Human who had drunk the blood of dragons.
Only the NPCs stayed with the guild until the bitter end. But where can they go when the servers close?
Rising from the throne, Algolon walked slowly down the center of the hall, his boots thudding against the wide red carpet. He scanned the walls as he passed.
They were adorned with the skulls of defeated dragon bosses. Back then, the guild had paid a premium to the admins for the ability to harvest such trophies.
Beneath each skull stood a wide stone bowl on a pedestal, a brazier. Their flames were the only source of light in the vast hall, casting long shadows and creating an atmosphere of twilight solemnity.
Grief and melancholy began to overwhelm Algolon. With all his heart, he did not want to let Yggdrasil go.
Yes, the game was outdated. The balance was a mess.
But Yggdrasil held his memories. An ocean of them. Every pebble and block that made up the Citadel was a monument to the past. To the time spent with friends, those he started with, and those he met along the way.
And where were they now? Gone. They had abandoned everything they built together over seven years, everything they had poured their souls into.
It was especially painful to look at the NPCs. Their backstories and personalities had been written by the "whole world," as the saying went. Everyone had contributed something. Even if it was just a line or two of flavor text.
"Perhaps..." he whispered to the empty room. "Perhaps all of this only mattered to me?"
00:05:02
The carpeted path led Algolon out onto a massive covered terrace. From here, the sheer scale of the Citadel took one's breath away.
It was truly immense. It had to be, for this fortress was originally raised by the Fire Giants of Muspelheim. It had belonged to them until The Charred Wardens seized it.
The outer walls, constructed of gigantic stone blocks, were eight meters thick and rose another twenty meters into the air, encircling several kilometers of territory. Looking down from the highest towers was enough to give anyone vertigo.
Scanning his domain, Algolon fell back into the past.
When they first captured the Citadel, it had seemed empty and lifeless. It was just another massive fortress, one of many scattered across the nine worlds of Yggdrasil.
A similar example would be the Great Tomb of Nazarick, a dungeon of monstrous proportions that also became a guild base.
It was then that the guild collectively birthed the idea of the "Order of Dragon Blood." They simply wanted to breathe a little life into the dead stone.
Many internal structures were demolished or repurposed. The giants' barracks, for instance, were modified to serve the numerous Dragonids, Humans, Elves, and other "light" races.
Soon, the Citadel was flooded with wandering knights who had heard of the Order's founding, inspired by the feats of its masters.
Warriors wishing to dedicate themselves to the fight against evil flocked to their banner, alongside the destitute and the former slaves of the giants, now saved from oppression.
Beneath the Citadel, a whole clan of Grey Dwarves took up residence, hunters of giants and dragons, master smiths, and artisans.
The inner bailey filled with townhouses, shops, stalls, workshops, and forges.
Warriors patrolled the walls. Wyverns nested in the cyclopean towers. On the numerous training grounds near the central keep, dragon slayers honed their craft.
In the Fiery Depths, the underground city of the dwarves, an ancient mage took up residence, offering to teach any sorcerer with talent.
The guild hadn't just revived their base; they had acquired valuable assistants for farming and dungeon clearing.
And during the numerous guild wars and siege attempts against the Citadel, the NPCs proved irreplaceable.
"It was a golden age," Algolon murmured, closing his eyes.
Twenty seconds remained.
He planned to savor these final moments and then let Yggdrasil go, just as the others had. He would soothe the old wound in his heart and banish the crushing emptiness in his soul.
It was time to say goodbye to the world that had brought so much light to the gray, smog-choked existence of the year 2138.
I'll take my life seriously. I'll try to start a real relationship, maybe find a girl and get married. I'm twenty-nine, after all. It's time to stop living in the ghosts of the past.
The timer at the edge of his vision counted down the final second.
It hit zero.
And stopped.
There was no server disconnect message. No forced logout.
Algolon stood still, waiting. He waited for that incomparable sensation of falling into the void, followed by the jarring return to reality.
He was so deep inside his own head that he didn't notice Gramdar and Reinhart move. They stopped two steps behind him, making no attempt to hide their presence, their armor clanking softly.
It was a smell that finally broke through to his consciousness.
Vaguely familiar. It caressed his senses, stirring memories on the very edge of his mind.
The smell of woodsmoke.
In 2138, nature was a luxury reserved for the ultra-wealthy. But the guild had a few such players.
Once, Algolon had been invited to a real forest. He had sat by a fire and roasted premium meat over charcoal.
It was a sensory experience one could never forget. That was why the braziers in the throne room had always been special to him.
But Yggdrasil doesn't have a scent system.
Slowly, as if afraid of what he might see, Algolon opened his eyes.
He was still in the Citadel. He stood on the terrace designed for giants. Around the cyclopean fortress lay the familiar city, nestled within the outer walls, a place that had become home over the years.
But beyond the walls... the view was wrong. The volcanic plateaus of Muspelheim were gone.
Stretching out as far as the eye could see were plains. Lush green meadows and a dense, ancient forest.
The scents grew stronger. His sense of touch sharpened.
He could feel his tongue moving in his mouth. He could taste the air.
The sentries on the walls and towers had broken their patrol loops; they were looking around frantically, their heads turning in confusion. That shouldn't be possible.
"A predicament," the player mumbled.
"What are your orders, Guardian?"
The response came in a confident, slightly gravelly voice.
Algolon had not expected an answer to his mutterings. His right hand, gripping the guild weapon, the spear Dragonbane, almost twitched.
But he managed to keep his composure, slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder.
The NPCs stood behind him. They had bowed their heads respectfully, hands placed over their hearts.
Since when could they speak on their own?!
The voice undoubtedly belonged to Reinhart, the old knight. He wore a suit of full plate armor forged from Truesilver, which emitted a faint, pale glow, making him stand out starkly against the generally dark tones of the Citadel.
"Tell me," Algolon said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. "Did you feel something?"