Borg the Silver-Fang, one of the three Kings of the Starter Zone, ruled Iron Ridge with an iron paw. Among players, this area was better known as Wolf Mount, a mid-to-high-level grinding spot where careless adventurers became wolf food in record time.
As a world boss, Borg was never meant to be easy. But he was not designed to be impossible either. His defeat was woven directly into the Starter Zone's progression. Until he fell, no one could unlock the quest required to activate the regional Teleportation Gate. In other words, this fight mattered.
Early strategies circulating from other zones had already exposed his most dangerous mechanic. Borg's true lethality began once his health dropped below twenty percent. At that threshold, he would enter an Enraged state and unleash a devastating area-of-effect skill known as Silver Howl.
The howl instantly cut every player's stats in half. Health, Attack Power, Attack Speed, Movement Speed, all reduced by fifty percent in a single breath. And the scream was only the beginning. Immediately afterward, he would follow up with Gale Claw.
Gale Claw was a full 360-degree sweep. By itself, the damage was manageable. Combined with Silver Howl's crippling debuff, it became a guaranteed execution for any non-tank caught in range. Even a properly geared Warrior or Paladin could be one-shot by Borg's next basic attack if the Cleric was a fraction of a second late with a heal.
Borg's health finally dipped under the twenty percent mark.
The wolf froze mid-motion, muscles locking tight as if something inside him had snapped. Then he threw back his massive head and released a primal, blood-chilling howl that tore through the clearing.
A thick crimson mist erupted from his fur. His already imposing frame swelled, muscles bulging grotesquely as he grew even larger. His eyes burned with savage light.
"He's Enraged!" the Cleric shouted with a clearly tensed voice. "Warrior, watch your cooldowns. Paladin, increase DPS and be ready to taunt if he slips. Everyone else, throttle your damage. Do not pull aggro. Rogue, Duelist, watch your positioning!"
No one wasted breath replying. The group moved instantly, every adjustment was clean and deliberate.
The Cleric felt a flicker of pride even as he spammed heals. This eight-man squad was technically a patchwork of three separate groups plus Flynn. Four different factions sharing one party. And yet they were functioning like a seasoned raid team. That kind of synergy did not happen by accident. It just went to show that everyone here was sharp. Not just fast at leveling, but players who really knew how to play.
Damage numbers streamed above Borg's head in a constant cascade. His Enraged state had doubled his attack power, but it had also slashed his defense. Under the team's focused assault, his health bar started dropping faster.
Two minutes later, it dropped to four percent. Then without warning, Borg let out a piercing shriek.
Flynn felt the change instantly. His body stiffened, his movements dragging as if the air itself had thickened. His attack speed cratered. His arms felt like they were moving through mud. The disconnect between his thoughts and his character's slowed animations was jarring.
'Silver Howl.'
His health bar plunged to half.
Because the Cleric had warned them, Flynn did not panic. He already knew what came next.
'Gale Claw.'
If both connected, he was done for, and he knew the healer would be too busy keeping the Warrior alive to save a Rogue. Flynn moved without thinking.
"Potions! Everyone drink now!" the Cleric yelled, his hands flying as he forced out another heal. The debuff had doubled his casting time, stretching every spell into a small eternity. At Level 10, Clerics had only their Talent and a basic Heal. Group recovery would not unlock until Level 20.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Cleric caught sight of Flynn.
The Rogue didn't go for a potion. He didn't even turn. Instead, he flung himself backward in a high, arching jump. The Gale Claw ripped through the air right where he'd been standing a moment before, the wind of it tugging at his gear, but his health bar didn't budge.
The Cleric's breath caught. Was that luck, or was this guy just that good?
Silver Howl had no visible cast time. The window between the debuff landing and Gale Claw activating was barely a second. To register the stat drop, anticipate the follow-up, and execute a clean disengage under slowed movement required reflexes that bordered on absurd.
The moment Flynn's boots touched down, he drove forward again.
His dagger shot out like a silver streak, sinking deep into the boss's side. There was no pause between the dodge and the strike. Even slowed down, his motion was fluid and precise. A regular player would have been stumbling over their controls.
Flynn simply adjusted.
Unfortunately, the Cleric had already snapped his attention back to the Warrior, missing the rest of it. If he had seen the smoothness of that transition from dodge to counter, he might have forgotten to heal entirely.
The Warrior gulped a health potion at the last possible second, buying just enough time for the Cleric's delayed heal to land. With the main tank still on his feet, the boss was out of moves.
His final sliver of health evaporated beneath a coordinated burst. The massive wolf staggered, fixing the Warrior with a glare heavy with hatred.
"Cursed humans," the wolf rasped as his voice came in a low grind of sound. "I will return… and next time, I will tear you to pieces."
Then his body fractured into a column of white light. The crimson mist vanished. In its place, items clattered onto the stony ground.
The Warrior laughed, relief breaking through his composure as he rested his axe against his shoulder and knelt beside the pile. "Alright, let's see what we got."
Borg had not been stingy.
A green-tier shield lay near the center. Beside it rested a green longbow and a green dagger. A Quest Scroll for the Teleportation Gate glowed faintly beneath them. Scattered around the edges were torn pelts and cracked fangs, vendor trash worth only a few copper each.
As party leader, the Cleric took over distribution. He glanced at the group circled around the loot. "We'll do Need before Greed. You take one piece of gear, you pass on everything else; no scroll, no cut of the sellable stuff. Fair?"
The question was directed primarily at Flynn. He had joined mid-fight, and loot rules had not been discussed beforehand.
With four major items and nine players, it was the cleanest solution. One by one, everyone nodded, Flynn included.
"Warrior, Paladin. Roll for the shield."
In Age of Conquest, only those two classes could equip defensive shields. Anyone else winning it would simply flip it for profit, which would be a waste when the tanks clearly needed upgrades.
The Warrior rolled first.
Twenty-five.
The Paladin's number followed.
Eighty-four.
The shield went to the Paladin.
The Warrior's expression darkened immediately. He had absorbed the brunt of the damage, and anchored the entire fight. In most MMOs, Main Tanks enjoyed a quiet, unspoken priority. Losing the roll did not sit well.
"I'm the one who took most of the damage," he muttered. "Shouldn't that count for something?"
"You agreed to the roll," the Cleric replied evenly.
The Warrior exhaled through his nose but said nothing further, though the look he gave the Paladin suggested the conversation was not over.
Next came the longbow.
Amy and the other Ranger rolled. Amy won. For a brief moment, the cool, distant mask she usually wore cracked, and a genuine smile surfaced as she equipped the new weapon.
Finally, the dagger remained.
Several classes could technically wield it. Even the Warrior could strap it on if he wanted. But only a Rogue could fully capitalize on its stats.
The Cleric did not bother rolling. "This goes to Flynn," he said.
Flynn turned the weapon over in his hands.
Compared to the basic white-grade blades he had been using, the difference was immediate.
—
Borg's Fang (Bronze)
Attack Power: 18 to 23
Agility: +7
Attack Speed: +7%
Durability: 60/60
Requirement: Level 10
—
Equipment in Age of Conquest was divided into two overarching categories: Common and Divine. Common gear enhanced raw stats. Divine gear granted active skills alongside massive stat boosts.
Common gear ranked from White to Bronze, Silver, and Gold. Bronze items typically carried one or two additional bonuses, Gold pieces could have up to four. Divine equipment, classified as Epic, Legendary, or Mythic, was the stuff of rumors and forum speculation.
Bronze was technically the second-lowest tier. But on launch day, when most players were still wrapped in white starter rags, holding a green item meant something.
Flynn was not a loot fanatic, he did not chase rarity for its own sake. But he was not foolish enough to decline a clear upgrade.
He equipped Borg's Fang, gave the group an easy nod, and started down the mountain path. He had no interest in the scroll or the crafting materials.
Before he reached the ridge, two friend requests popped up.
Amy.
Let-There-Be-Light.
He accepted both without comment, lifted a hand in casual acknowledgment, and disappeared into the trees.
"That guy's something else," Light muttered once Flynn was out of earshot.
Amy folded her arms. "You don't put out that kind of damage with white weapons unless you know exactly what you're doing."
Light hesitated. "Did you see him use any skills?"
Amy blinked. "Now that you mention it… no. I wasn't paying attention."
"That's what I thought," Light said slowly. "What if he hasn't even unlocked his Level 6 Rogue skills yet?"
Amy pulled up the damage meter.
Night-Stalker ranked third overall.
Excluding the two tanks and the healer, he was effectively near the top, trailing only slightly behind the Rangers who benefited from range uptime and better gear. And yet, it was not just the numbers that stood out.
It was how he moved.
His positioning had been flawless. His dodges felt tight and economical. Every strike placed with intent rather than panic.
"I don't think it's about the gear," Amy said quietly.
Light followed her gaze toward the trees where Flynn had vanished.
"Yeah," he agreed. "It's not the gear."