The studio lights cast a warm glow over me as I leaned back
into my chair, taking a deep breath before speaking to the drone camera
hovering nearby. My outfit today was sleek but casual—a black fitted turtleneck
that hugged my figure, paired with a crimson leather skirt and knee-high boots.
My hair fell in smooth waves over my shoulders, and my makeup was light but
precise: winged eyeliner and a bold red lip.
“Hey, everyone,” I began, flashing a small smile. “It’s your
girl, Nusrat. Another day, another story from Nytherra Unbound. And
trust me, this one’s a doozy.”
I gestured dramatically, leaning closer to the lens. “Let me
set the scene: A foggy village, an eerie scream, and vengeful wraiths that tore
through us like paper. If you’ve already started this quest, you know what I’m
talking about. For those who didn’t—well, let’s just say it didn’t go well for
me. I lost a friend, barely escaped with my life, and learned that normal
weapons don’t do jack against wraiths. Lesson learned the hard way.”
The chat buzzed on my screen with messages of encouragement,
advice, and a few cheeky comments about how “even pros have bad days.”
“But don’t worry,” I said, smirking. “I’ve got a lead on how
to fix this mess, and I’m taking you all along for the ride. Let’s dive back
in.”
With that, I reclined into my gaming chair, slid the
NeuroBand over my temples, and activated the device. The studio around me
faded, replaced by the familiar sights and sounds of Nytherra Unbound.
---
I woke to the muted light filtering through the frosted
glass of my rented room in Snowspire. The bed was simple but comfortable, the
woolen blankets warm against the chill of the mountain air. The room smelled
faintly of pine and smoke from the hearth downstairs.
Rising, I stretched, feeling the satisfying weight of the
game’s immersion settle over me. My armor hung in the corner, freshly polished,
alongside my weapons. I dressed quickly, the familiar process grounding me: the
snug woolen tunic, the hardened leather chest piece, boots, and bracers. My
cloak, lined with wolf fur, was the final touch. My bow and quiver slung over
my back, and my sword hung securely at my hip.
Downstairs, the inn’s common room bustled with activity.
Merchants haggled over breakfast, adventurers compared tales of dungeons and
beasts, and NPCs moved between tables with trays of steaming porridge and mugs
of ale. I found a seat near the hearth and ordered a simple meal: bread,
cheese, and smoked fish.
I was halfway through my meal when someone approached.
“Nusrat?”
I looked up to see a lanky man with a narrow face and a shy
smile. His armor was exquisite, gleaming with gold and inlaid runes that pulsed
faintly with magic. A high-level player, no doubt, likely deep into the game’s
endgame content.
“Yes?” I replied, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m Qian,” he said, sitting across from me uninvited. “I’m
a huge fan of yours. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you here!”
“Well, you’ve found me,” I said, offering a polite smile.
“What brings you to Snowspire?”
We chatted for a while, Qian’s enthusiasm filling the gaps
between bites of breakfast. He mentioned my misadventures in the foggy village,
and I grimaced.
“Rough experience,” I admitted.
He nodded. “Those wraiths are no joke. But there’s a way to
deal with them that doesn’t involve spending a fortune on oils or
enchantments.”
I leaned forward. “I’m listening.”
“There’s a crypt not far from here,” Qian said. “Inside is
an epic weapon—Skirnir’s Blade Stormreaver. It’s enchanted to deal bonus
damage against wraiths. The lore’s pretty intense, but if you can claim it,
you’ll have no trouble cutting through them.”
Before I could ask more, he stood abruptly. “I’ve got to
head out, but good luck! You’ll need it.”
I spent the next hour asking around about Skirnir’s Blade
until I found an old skald sitting by the fireside behind the stable. He was an
NPC, his weathered face and braided beard lending an air of gravitas to his
words.
He recounted the tale of Skirnir the Stormcaller, the
warchief who had stolen the wife of a jarl and paid the ultimate price.
---
The sun hung low in the sky as I made my way to the stable some
distance from the inn. The air was crisp, and the faint scent of hay mingled
with the smell of woodsmoke. Behind the stable, a campfire crackled warmly, its
golden light casting long shadows over a small gathering of children and a few
adults.
At the center of the circle sat an old skald, his fur-lined
cloak draped over his thin shoulders. His braided beard reached his chest,
streaked with gray, and his eyes gleamed with the wisdom of countless stories.
He held a lyre in one hand, his gnarled fingers plucking soft, melodic notes
that punctuated his tale.
I lingered at the edge of the group, my curiosity piqued as
he spoke.
“Gather close, little ones,” he said, his deep voice
carrying an air of authority and sorrow. “Tonight, I shall tell you the tale of
Skirnir the Stormcaller—a tale of love, betrayal, vengeance, and sacrifice.”
The children leaned in, their eyes wide with anticipation.
“Long ago,” he began, “in the days when our ancestors roamed
these mountains, there lived a mighty warchief named Skirnir. He was called the
Stormcaller for his unmatched ferocity in battle, his sword said to strike like
lightning and his voice to thunder across the field, rallying his warriors.”
The skald paused, letting the weight of his words settle
before continuing.
“Skirnir was a man of great strength, but his heart was not
immune to folly. He fell in love with a woman named Sigrun, the wife of Oddr
the Rune-binder, Jarl of Trollvik. Sigrun was said to be as beautiful as the
first snow and as fierce as the northern winds. Skirnir’s desire for her burned
brighter than reason, and Sigrun, weary of her husband’s cold and brooding
ways, returned his affections.”
The skald’s voice grew softer, as if weighed down by the
gravity of the story.
“One fateful night, Skirnir and Sigrun fled Trollvik under
the cover of darkness. They traveled for days, seeking refuge in a distant
village loyal to Skirnir. But the Jarl was not one to let such a betrayal go
unpunished. Oddr, though a skilled warrior, was also a practitioner of
forbidden witchcraft. His runes foretold the couple’s hiding place, and he
marched with twelve of his fiercest warriors to bring them back—dead or alive.”
The skald’s fingers plucked a tense, mournful tune on his
lyre.
“They came at dawn, their approach heralded by the sound of
war horns. Skirnir and his two brothers, Erik the Redaxe and Ivarr the
Raven-friend, stood against them. The battle was fierce, the snow stained red
with blood. By the time the sun set, Oddr and his twelve men lay dead, but at a
terrible cost—Erik fell to Oddr’s blade, and Sigrun wept over the bodies of the
fallen.”
The skald’s voice turned grim. “But death was not the end
for Oddr. No, his soul was bound by his own dark magic. A year to the day after
the battle, Oddr returned, a wraith cloaked in malice. He brought with him his
twelve slain warriors, now cursed as revenants, and descended upon Skirnir’s
village in the dead of night.”
The fire crackled, and a chill seemed to pass through the
air.
“They killed everyone,” the skald continued, his voice
trembling with sorrow. “Men, women, children—it mattered not. The pregnant
Sigrun, now Skirnir’s wife, begged for mercy, but none was given. By morning,
the village was silent, its people butchered, their souls lost to the void.
Skirnir and Ivarr, away at a folkmoot, returned to find nothing but ashes and
corpses.”
He paused, his eyes gazing into the fire as though he could
see the scene before him.
“Skirnir was inconsolable. His heart, once filled with the
fire of battle, was now weighed down by grief. Ivarr, who could speak to
ravens, sought their counsel. The birds told him what had transpired—the return
of Oddr and the slaughter of their kin. The villagers had tried to fight, but
their weapons were useless against the spectral wraiths.”
The children huddled closer together, their faces pale with
fear and awe.
“Desperate for vengeance, Skirnir and Ivarr journeyed to the
shrine of Tharvak, the Stormbringer. The shrine, carved into the side of a
jagged peak, was a sacred place where few dared to tread. There, they knelt
before the altar and prayed for aid. They offered their weapons, their blood,
and their very souls if it meant they could end Oddr’s curse.”
The skald’s lyre played a slow, haunting melody. “Tharvak,
moved by their devotion, appeared before them in the form of an albino raven.
He spoke in a voice like thunder, saying, ‘Skirnir, you are a warrior worthy of
my hall. If you will serve me in the afterlife, I shall grant you the power to
destroy your enemy.’”
The skald’s voice grew quiet. “Skirnir agreed, for what did
he have left to live for but vengeance? Tharvak imbued his sword with divine
power, making it capable of cutting through the very fabric of the spirit
world. That night, when the wraiths returned, Skirnir faced them alone. With
each swing of his blade, he banished them back to the void, their unholy cries
silenced forever.”
The skald looked up, his eyes shimmering with emotion. “But
a bargain struck with the gods must be honored. When the last wraith fell,
Skirnir handed his blade to Ivarr and knelt before him. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘do
what must be done.’”
A hush fell over the gathering as the skald’s voice
faltered. “Ivarr, though broken with sorrow, drove the blade through Skirnir’s
heart. The warchief’s soul ascended to Tharvak’s hall, where he now feasts and
fights for eternity. Ivarr placed Skirnir’s body on a throne within a crypt
overlooking their village, Stormreaver across his lap, to watch over the dead
he had avenged.”
The skald’s final notes faded into silence. The children
stared wide-eyed, and even I felt a pang of sorrow for the warchief’s tragic
tale.
I approached the skald after the crowd dispersed, thanking
him for the story. He told me where to find the crypt, his voice heavy with the
weight of its history.
After resupplying with potions and food, I mounted Flurry
and set out toward the crypt, the snow crunching under her hooves. The tale of
Skirnir echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the sacrifices made in the
name of love, vengeance, and honor.
The crypt awaited, and with it, the chance to claim the
legendary blade of Skirnir the Stormcaller.
---
The journey to the crypt was long and arduous. The
snow-covered path wound through dense forests, the towering pines casting long
shadows under the pale light of a cloudy sky. The air grew colder as I ascended
higher into the mountains, and a biting wind whipped at my cloak. Flurry
snorted, her breath visible in the chill, but she pressed on, her hooves
crunching through the snow with steady determination.
I reached the crypt as the sun dipped below the horizon,
painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. The entrance was a massive stone
archway carved into the side of a jagged cliff. Weathered statues of warriors
flanked the doorway, their features eroded by time but their stances still
proud.
The air felt heavier here, thick with the weight of
centuries-old sorrow. As I dismounted and approached, a faint, unnatural chill
seeped through the seams of my armor, sending a shiver down my spine.
“This is it,” I whispered, unsheathing my sword and gripping
it tightly.
---
The interior of the crypt was a stark contrast to the
pristine snow outside. The air was damp and stale, heavy with the scent of
decay. Flickering torches lined the walls, their faint light barely
illuminating the narrow corridors. Ancient carvings adorned the stone,
depicting scenes of battle and celebration, a testament to the lives once lived
by those interred here.
As I ventured deeper, the oppressive silence was broken by a
low, guttural moan that seemed to echo from the very walls. My pulse quickened
as figures began to emerge from the shadows.
The draugrs were grotesque—half-decayed corpses clad
in rusted armor, their empty eye sockets glowing faintly with an eerie green
light. Their movements were slow and jerky, but there was a dreadful purpose to
their approach.
I raised my shield just in time to block the first swing of
a chipped axe. The force of the blow reverberated through my arm, but I pushed
back, countering with a precise slash of my sword. The blade cleaved through
the draugr’s torso, its body crumpling to the ground in a heap of decayed flesh
and broken armor.
The combat was relentless. More draugrs shambled forth,
their groans filling the crypt as I fought my way through the narrow halls.
Each swing of my sword felt heavier, the stamina bar in my peripheral vision
slowly depleting.
The game’s mechanics had never felt so visceral—every clash
of metal, every dodge and counter, felt like a delicate balance between
survival and exhaustion.
---
After what felt like hours, I pushed open a pair of heavy
stone doors and entered a vast chamber. The air was colder here, almost
suffocating, and the torches burned with an unnatural blue flame. At the center
of the room sat a throne, carved from black stone and draped with tattered
banners bearing the sigil of a raven.
Seated upon the throne was the decayed corpse of Skirnir
the Stormcaller. His armor, though corroded with age, still bore the marks
of countless battles. His skeletal hands rested on the hilt of an exquisite
sword, its blade faintly glowing with a ghostly light.
My breath caught as I approached, the sheer presence of the
figure sending a ripple of unease through me. The air grew heavier with each
step, as though the crypt itself were watching, waiting.
I reached for the sword, my fingers brushing the cold metal
of the hilt—
His eyes snapped open, glowing a vivid blue.
With a speed that belied his decayed form, Skirnir’s hand
shot out, gripping the blade. He rose to his feet, towering over me, and before
I could react, he swung the back of his hand. The blow struck my face with
bone-crushing force, sending me flying across the chamber.
I hit the ground hard, my health bar dropping precipitously.
“Okay, not playing nice,” I muttered, scrambling to my feet
and drawing my own iron sword.
---
Skirnir attacked with ferocity, his movements eerily fluid
for a creature long dead. Each swing of his enchanted blade sent shockwaves
through the air, the weapon’s glow intensifying with every strike.
I dodged and parried, my stamina depleting rapidly as I
tried to find an opening. His attacks were relentless, his strength unmatched.
My own sword felt inadequate, its iron edge barely scratching his decayed
armor.
Still, I pressed on, chipping away at his health bar piece
by piece. His movements were predictable—heavy, calculated swings that I could
counter with well-timed dodges and strikes. My health dwindled to half, but his
was down to a mere 10%. Victory felt within reach.
Then, the notification appeared:
“Your world has been invaded by the player Qian.”
“What the—?” I barely had time to process the message before
Skirnir’s eyes flared red. His stance shifted, and in an instant, it was clear:
this was no longer the AI-controlled boss I had been fighting.
Skirnir, now possessed by Qian, moved with a new precision.
His strikes were faster, his feints more deceptive, and his aggression
unrelenting. The familiar pattern of his attacks was gone, replaced by
something unpredictable and terrifying.
My health plummeted as I struggled to keep up. With a
flourish of his blade, Skirnir disarmed me, my sword clattering to the ground.
He grabbed me by the throat, lifting me off the ground effortlessly.
I gasped, the edges of my vision darkening as my health
dipped to 5%.
Skirnir’s grip tightened, his skeletal fingers digging into
my neck. He slammed me against the cold stone wall, the impact rattling through
my bones. His eyes, once a vivid blue, now burned with the malicious glow of
Qian’s soul. With a snarl, he tore at my armor, the hardened leather pieces
clattering to the ground one by one. Each piece of my protection fell away,
revealing my soft, feminine form beneath the warrior’s guise.
He shoved me against the cold, damp stone, his icy fingers
digging into my flesh. My breath was ragged, the anticipation of what was to
come making my cock stir. Skirnir’s eyes narrowed, taking in my soft form with
a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He grabbed the fabric of my
tunic, tearing it away to reveal the smooth expanse of my stomach and chest.
The sight of my bare chest made him pause, his skeletal gaze
lingering on the soft mounds of flesh. His grip tightened, his thumbs brushing
over my erect nipples, eliciting a gasp from my lips. The heat of his gaze
burned through me, a stark contrast to the icy grip that held me against the
wall.
With a flick of his wrist, he tore at the laces of my woolen
pants. The material gave way, revealing my shapely hips and the bulge of my
cock beneath my panties. I felt a strange mix of fear and arousal—my body
responding to the primal, inescapable dominance of this ancient warrior.
Skirnir’s eyes widened with lustful surprise at the sight of
my intimate form, his skeletal hand moving to grasp the fabric of my panties.
With a violent jerk, he tore them away, revealing my diminutive cock, standing
erect with anticipation. The stark contrast between the power of his decaying
form and my vulnerable, yet aroused, state sent a shiver of excitement through
me. His grip around my throat loosened slightly, his gaze traveling downward,
drinking in the sight of my nakedness.
With a twisted grin, Qian-Skirnir leaned in, his skeletal
features distorted by malice. “You’re not what I expected, Nusrat. But perhaps
you’re exactly what I need—a prize to claim, a story to tell in the taverns of
the living and the dead alike!”
He dropped Stormreaver with a clang and reached for the
remnants of his own tattered loincloth, ripping it away to reveal a monstrous
cock—pulsing with unholy power, the size of which was unmatched in the mortal
world. It stood at attention, a mockery of the manhood he had lost in his
mortal life, a symbol of the dominance he sought to exert over me.
I knew what was coming. I offered no resistance, playing the
part of the helpless maiden—though my own desires betrayed me. My voice
trembled as I begged, "Please, Qian, I'll do anything you want. Just don't
hurt me."
Skirnir's skeletal grin grew wider, his eyes glinting with
amusement. "Ah, but what fun would that be, my dear Nusrat?" He
leaned closer, his breath cold against my cheek. "Where's the thrill in
conquering something that doesn't fight back?"
I swallowed hard, my heart racing. "I-I'll do whatever
you want," I whispered, my voice a mix of fear and desire.
"Just...please."
Skirnir chuckled, the sound echoing through the crypt. He
grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, pushing me against the cold, damp stone
wall. His skeletal hands felt like ice on my skin. He spread my legs apart with
his own, the tip of his monstrous cock nudging against the cleft of my ass.
Despite the horror of the situation, my body betrayed me, my hole quivering
with anticipation.
The massive phallus pressed against my entrance, the
coldness of it making me gasp. It was unlike anything I had ever felt—both
terrifying and thrilling in its sheer size and power. The room grew smaller, my
world narrowing to the feeling of his shaft against my skin, the promise of
unparalleled pain and pleasure.
With a brutal thrust, Skirnir impaled me, filling me
completely. A scream tore from my throat, my body struggling to accommodate his
monstrous girth. His skeletal hands held my hips tightly, his nails digging
into my flesh as he claimed me without mercy. The frigid stone pressing against
my breasts was the only anchor in this nightmare of pleasure and pain.
My ass was stretched to its limits, the sensation of his
cock invading me both terrifying and exhilarating. Each thrust brought with it
a wave of agony and ecstasy that seemed to resonate through my very soul. His
movements grew more frenzied, his grunts of pleasure echoing through the crypt.
“You’re so tight, so warm, Nusrat,” Qian-Skirnir groaned in
my ear, his voice a chilling mix of the warrior’s rasp and the player’s
smugness. “Your body was made to be used, wasn’t it? A whore’s hole for the
taking, no matter the world you hide in.”
His skeletal fingers dug into my hips, holding me in place
as he mercilessly pounded into me. Each thrust sent waves of agony through my
body, but with every sharp pain, an unexpected thrill followed. My mind reeled,
trying to reconcile the horror with the perverse arousal that was building
within me.
"Your ass is a perfect fit for my blade," Qian-Skirnir
taunted, his voice a chilling blend of the ancient warrior's grit and the
player's sadistic glee. "Do you feel it, Nusrat? The power of a legendary
hero filling your whorish hole?"
I whimpered, my voice cracking with a mix of pain and
humiliation. "P-please," I begged, my voice a tremulous whisper that
echoed off the crypt's cold stones, "not so hard."
But Qian-Skirnir paid me no heed. He continued to pummel my
ass with his monstrous cock, each thrust driving into me like a frozen spike,
filling me with a burning cold that seemed to spread through my very essence.
Despite my pleas, I felt the sickening thrill of being claimed by something so
powerful, so beyond my control. It was a feeling I'd never known before, even
in my wildest encounters outside the game.
My body began to adjust to his size, the pain morphing into
a deep, primal ache that resonated within me. Each impact against the stone
wall sent a jolt through my body, mixing with the relentless penetration of his
cock to create a symphony of agony and desire. The coldness of the stone and
the heat of our coupling were a stark contrast, a dance of fire and ice that I
never wanted to end.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, my body trembling with the
effort to remain upright as he claimed me. I could feel my ass stretching,
accommodating the monstrous intrusion, my muscles clenching and releasing in a
futile attempt to ease the discomfort. Yet, with every thrust, a strange warmth
grew within me, a warmth that seemed to be born from the very core of my being.
With a final, brutal push, Skirnir pulled out, leaving me
gasping for air. He tossed me aside like a ragdoll, and I landed with a painful
thud on the cold, dusty floor next to a burning brazier. Its warmth radiated
against my bare skin, a stark contrast to the frigidness of the crypt. I lay
there, my ass feeling both empty and violated, my body trembling with the
aftershocks of his brutal assault.
Skirnir, now fully under Qian’s control, knelt between my
legs, his skeletal form a macabre reflection of lustful intent. The massive
cock that had just ravaged me stood tall and proud, its size and girth a
testament to his dominance. It was a thing of nightmares, yet my eyes were
drawn to it, taking in the intricate detail of its unearthly veins and the
thickness of its shaft. The tip glistened with a combination of my juices and
the unholy power that coursed through it.
With a rough jerk, he grabbed my ankles and spread them
apart, forcing my knees to touch my chest. His cold, bony fingers dug into my
flesh, the strength behind them surprising despite his decayed state. I felt a
twinge of pain mingle with the lingering pleasure, my body still reeling from
the assault. My ass throbbed, a mix of bruised and aroused, yearning for more
despite the fear that clutched at my heart.
Guiding his monstrous cock back to my ravaged hole, Qian-Skirnir
lined himself up, the tip nudging at my entrance. I could feel the anticipation
in the air, the tension that came before a storm. His eyes were locked on my
face, watching for any sign of resistance or pleasure. I gave him none, my
expression a mask of stoic acceptance.
With a savage growl, he slammed back into me, filling me to
the brim. The sensation was overwhelming—his cold, unyielding flesh stretching
me open, the feeling of his skeletal frame pressing against mine as he claimed
me once more. I bit my lip to stifle a scream, my nails digging into the stone
floor. The pain was a white-hot flame that threatened to consume me, but I knew
better than to show weakness.
My ass clenched around him; the muscles still tender from
the initial assault. Each thrust sent a shiver of pain up my spine, yet it was
a sensation that was oddly thrilling. I could feel my own cock, jutting out
from my shaven crotch, growing harder with each pump. The sight of Skirnir’s
massive, spectral member disappearing into my tight, quivering hole was almost
too much to bear, a twisted mix of fear and arousal that clouded my thoughts.
As he took me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at
the sheer power and dominance he exuded. Despite the horror of the situation,
there was something undeniably erotic about being claimed by a creature of such
legendary might. My body responded in ways that surprised even me, my ass
begging for more of the punishment it was receiving.
The room grew hazy as the pleasure took over, my mind a
whirlwind of sensation. Each thrust was a declaration of his victory, his power
over me. Yet, in my submission, I found a strange kind of strength. This wasn’t
a mere game anymore—it was a battle of wills, a dance of lust and power that
spanned the boundaries of life and death.
"Look at you, Nusrat," Qian-Skirnir sneered, his
skeletal face twisted into a macabre smile. "So eager to take a legendary
cock, aren't you? You're nothing but a whore for pleasure, aren't you?"
I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the harsh words. His
monstrous shaft plunged into me, filling me with its icy girth. It was a
sensation that was both terrifying and exhilarating, a dance of agony and
ecstasy that seemed to go on forever.
"Is that all you've got, Qian?" I taunted, my
voice shaky but defiant. "Is this what legends are made of?"
Skirnir's grip tightened, his skeletal face a mask of rage.
"You think this is a game, whore?" He thrust harder, his monstrous
cock splitting me open like a frozen axe through soft wood. "Your cunt is
nothing compared to the battles I've won, the lives I've taken."
I bit back a scream, my eyes watering with pain and
indignity. Yet, as he claimed me with each brutal stroke, I felt a twisted
thrill. It wasn't just the power of the legendary hero filling me—it was the
power of the player behind the specter. Qian's voice, so smug and self-assured,
was a reminder that this was a world where the strong ruled the weak, where the
only law was might.
Skirnir leaned in close, his icy breath hot against my neck
as he whispered, "Your pathetic whimpers are music to my ears, Nusrat.
Your tight, little ass was made to be conquered by a real man."
I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of
a response, my eyes focused on the flickering shadows cast by the brazier's
flames. Each word was a knife, cutting through the haze of pleasure, but the
fire in my eyes grew stronger with every insult.
The draugr's warlord’s monstrous cock plunged into me
without mercy, his skeletal frame a grim reminder of the power he wielded.
"Your ass is too eager for a hero's cock," he jeered, his voice a
chilling blend of ancient malice and modern arrogance. "It's clear you
crave the attention of those who can conquer the unconquerable."
With every thrust, my prostate was pummeled into submission,
sending bolts of pleasure through my body. My cock, still standing at attention
despite the fear, grew slick with precum. His grip on my ankles was ironclad,
the bones digging into my flesh as he claimed me with a ferocity that seemed to
echo through the very fabric of the game.
"Your body betrays you, Nusrat," Qian-Skirnir
whispered, his skeletal face close to mine. "Even as you beg for mercy, it
craves the touch of a true hero."
My cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation. His
words were a slap in the face, but I knew better than to let him see my pain. I
had faced worse in the real world—the taunts of those who didn’t understand,
the sting of rejection from those who feared what I represented. This was just
another battle, one I could win with silence and endurance.
His monstrous cock pounded into my shameless ass, the
sensation a mix of agony and ecstasy. The coldness of his spectral form seemed
to penetrate my very soul, a stark contrast to the warmth that had begun to
coil in my stomach. I knew what he wanted—a reaction, a cry of pleasure or pain
that would feed his ego. But I was Nusrat, the unbroken, the Fated. I would not
give him that satisfaction.
Instead, I focused on the rhythm of his thrusts, the way his
massive shaft filled me to the brink with every plunge. The pain was a
crescendo, building to a peak that I knew would end in a climax of my own. I
closed my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me, willing my body to
respond.
With a final, brutal thrust, my cock erupted without
warning, spurting hot cum across my breasts and stomach. The orgasm was
intense, a silent scream that echoed through my body. Skirnir’s eyes widened,
his grip on my ankles momentarily loosening in surprise. His cock didn’t
falter, the relentless pounding continuing, the frigid shaft dragging against
my prostate with every withdrawal and plunge.
My climax was a declaration of victory, a silent "fuck
you" to the player who thought he could break me. My body spasmed, my ass
tightening around his monstrous shaft, milking him for every drop of power he
had. The warmth of my cum was a stark contrast to the coldness of the crypt, a
symbol of life in the face of death.
Sensing his momentary surprise, I took advantage of the
brief lapse in concentration on his side. I bucked my hips, pushing back
against him with all the strength I had left. The movement was sudden, catching
him off guard. His skeletal hands slipped, giving me the opportunity I needed.
With a swift twist, I rolled out from under him, my body
moving with a grace that belied the agony I felt. As I stood, my legs trembled,
for a moment I locked my gaze on his monstrous cock, still standing tall and
proud. It was a challenge, a declaration that I was not yet defeated.
Qian-Skirnir roared with frustration, his skeletal form
lurching after me. I danced away from his grasp, the flaming brazier now
between us. His eyes narrowed with fury, his jaw clenched in determination. But
I had found my weapon, my means of reclaiming power in this twisted game.
With a swift kick, I sent the brazier toppling towards him.
The fiery contents spilled over his decaying body, the flames licking at his withered
flesh with hungry enthusiasm. He howled, his skeletal hands reaching out to
ward off the heat, but it was too late. His old, tattered clothes caught fire,
and with a roar of rage, Skirnir was aflame.
I took a deep breath, my eyes on the prize—Stormreaver,
gleaming in the firelight, discarded and forgotten on the stone floor. As the
flaming Skirnir stumbled back, I dove for the sword, my heart pounding in my
chest. The weight of the weapon was surprising, a reminder of its storied past
and the power it contained.
I rolled onto my back, bringing Stormreaver up in a
defensive position as Skirnir, now fully engulfed in flames, stumbled towards
me. His skeletal features twisted in a mix of rage and pain, his monstrous cock
shrinking as the fire consumed his decaying flesh. I braced myself, ready to
face the legendary hero whose very essence was now a twisted parody of the man
he had once been.
The heat of the fire washed over me as he approached, but I
felt a strange, cold calm. This was my moment, the culmination of a quest that
had taken me from the gleaming streets of Dhaka to the frozen crypt of a
legend. The blade felt right in my hand, a part of me that I hadn’t known was
missing until now.
Skirnir’s fiery form stumbled, the flames dancing in a
macabre dance of death. His withered hands reached out, the bones creaking with
the effort of his rage. Yet, I saw something else in those burning sockets that
were once eyes—fear. The fear of a creature who knew the touch of the fire that
had consumed him could also be his undoing.
With a surge of strength fueled by adrenaline and defiance,
I rolled away from his flaming grasp. My body was a canvas of pain, a testament
to his brutal claiming, but I pushed myself to my feet, my grip never loosening
on Stormreaver’s hilt. It was a weapon of legend, a symbol of the power I now
wielded in this twisted world.
Qian-Skirnir staggered closer, the fire consuming his shriveled
flesh, his skeletal frame a terrifying sight to behold. The massive cock that
had claimed me just moments before had withered, a sad, charred reminder of his
dominance. Yet, the fear in his eyes grew as I held his sword, a silent threat
that I knew how to use.
Sensing my intent, Qian-Skirnir lunged, his jawbone snapping
at me with a feral snarl. I ducked, the heat of his breath searing the skin on
my neck, and brought Stormreaver around in a vicious arc. The blade met
resistance, biting into his neck with a sickening crunch. His eyes widened with
shock and pain, the flames that had engulfed his body flickering with the
realization of his impending doom.
With a final, desperate surge of strength, I swung the sword
upwards, slicing through the rest of his neck. His skull toppled to the ground,
rolling away like a macabre die, the flames on his body dying down to reveal
the charred mess of his corpse. The room grew still, the only sound the crackle
of the dying embers and my harsh, ragged breath.
A faint blue light rose from the war chief’s crumpled body—a
Blight Crystal, its sickly glow pulsing with dark energy.
I didn’t hesitate. I brought the sword down, shattering the
crystal into a thousand pieces. The room fell silent, the oppressive atmosphere
lifting as the crypt’s torches returned to their normal flame.
---
I sat on the cold stone floor of the crypt, my breath coming
in ragged gasps as I stared at the shattered remains of the Blight Crystal. The
glow of Skirnir’s Blade pulsed faintly in my hand, its weight heavier than I’d
expected, both in substance and significance.
“What just happened?” I muttered, the silence of the chamber
pressing in on me.
The moment replayed itself in my mind: Skirnir’s predictable
attacks suddenly becoming erratic and relentless, his movements no longer
following the patterns I’d memorized during the fight. And that notification—“Your
world has been invaded by the player Qian.”
I shook my head, trying to piece it together. In the heat of
the moment, there hadn’t been time to think. Now, with the battle over, unease
settled into my chest.
Was it possible for another player to control a boss? How?
And why would Qian—a self-proclaimed fan who seemed genuinely friendly—turn my
fight into such a nightmare?
I rose slowly, wiping dust from my posterior. I gathered the
tattered remnants of what had once been my clothing and donned them as best I
could. Once I returned to Snowspire, I'd have to visit the armorer for repairs.
The crypt was silent again, the air no longer oppressive, but a faint chill
remained. With Skirnir’s Blade in hand and the crypt looted of its valuables, I
made my way back to the entrance.
---
The snow had started falling again as I mounted Flurry. The
ride back to Snowspire was quiet, the soft crunch of hooves against the frozen
ground the only sound accompanying me.
My mind raced with questions. The idea that another player
could invade my game felt both thrilling and terrifying. The unpredictability
of it added a new layer of challenge, but it also opened the door to all kinds
of harassment—something I was already too familiar with after my brutal
encounter with Qian-Skirnir.
---
After settling back into the warmth of the inn, I made my
way toward the Fighters’ Guild, hoping someone there could explain what
had happened in the crypt. The guildhall was as lively as ever, the sound of
weapons striking training dummies mixing with the low hum of conversation.
The room was filled with adventurers of all levels. Some
were sparring in a cordoned-off area, their wooden practice swords clashing
with sharp cracks. Others stood in groups, discussing tactics or admiring the
wares of a traveling weaponsmith who had set up a temporary shop in the corner.
I approached the notice board, scanning it for quests when a
voice called out.
“You look like you’ve had a rough time.”
I turned to see a broad-shouldered man leaning against a
pillar, his armor gleaming with intricate engravings and faint runic patterns.
His badge marked him as one of The Fated.
“Understatement of the day,” I replied, giving him a tired
smile. “Ran into something…unexpected in the crypt outside of town.”
He chuckled. “You’re not the first. Let me guess—boss
started acting weird? Attacks got smarter? More aggressive?”
I nodded, intrigued. “How did you know?”
He motioned for me to follow him to a quieter corner of the
hall, where a group of players sat around a map table. Pulling out a chair, he
gestured for me to sit.
“You, my friend, just got hit by the Invasion Mechanic,”
he said, his tone both amused and sympathetic.
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning forward.
He rested his forearms on the table and began to explain,
his voice steady and patient.
“The Invasion Mechanic,” he began, “is one of the most
controversial features of Nytherra Unbound. It’s available only to
players who’ve completed the main storyline. Once unlocked, they can invade
other players’ game worlds by taking control of certain dungeon or world
bosses.”
“They control the boss?” I asked, my mind racing.
“Exactly. When you were fighting Skirnir, the system flagged
him as an eligible invasion target. That means someone—probably a high-level
player—possessed him and used their own strategy to fight you.”
I frowned, memories of the fight flooding back. “That
explains why he suddenly got so… unpredictable. It wasn’t like anything I’d
seen before.”
He nodded. “That’s the whole point. The bosses retain their
stats, abilities, and general attack patterns, but when a player controls them,
it adds a layer of unpredictability. No more memorizing moves and waiting for
openings—you’re fighting a real person.”
He held up a hand, ticking off points as he spoke.
1.
Unlocking
Invasions:
“Players have to beat the game first. Only then do they gain access to the
Invasion menu, which lets them pick specific bosses to control.”
2.
Invasion
Notification:
“When your world is invaded, you’ll get a warning: ‘Your world has been
invaded by Player X.’ The boss will also emit a faint red glow. Didn’t you
notice that?”
“I saw it,” I admitted. “But I didn’t know what it meant.”
3.
Gameplay
Mechanics:
“The invader mimics the boss’s abilities and patterns, but they’re free to mix
things up—focus on specific targets, bait players into traps, or exploit
weaknesses. It turns a standard boss fight into a high-stakes PvP match.”
4.
Anti-Frustration
Features:
“To keep things fair, invasions are limited to one per dungeon, and players
don't carry over their level and stats to your world, but assume the level,
stats and skills of the boss you're fighting. Plus, you can disable invasions
entirely in the settings menu if it’s not your thing.”
5.
No Rewards for
Invaders:
“Invaders don’t get loot or XP. It’s all about the thrill of the fight, proving
you can outplay someone else using the tools at hand.”
I listened, trying to absorb the implications. “So, it’s
like… competitive trolling?”
He laughed. “Pretty much. Some players love it—it’s a test
of skill, and it adds replayability. But others hate it, especially when it
feels personal. If you’re worried about being targeted, toggle invasions off.
No shame in it.”
I shook my head, more determined than ever. “No. If it’s
part of the game, I’ll deal with it. I just need to get better.”
He smiled, a glint of respect in his eyes. “That’s the
spirit. But word of advice—watch your back. Not every invader plays fair. And
some…” His voice trailed off; the jovial tone replaced by something darker.
“Some take it too far.”
---
Later that evening, I returned to the inn and settled by the
hearth, Skirnir’s Blade resting across my lap. The weapon felt almost alive in
my hands, its faint glow a reminder of the battle I’d won—and the fight I
nearly lost.
The Invasion Mechanic was ingenious, I had to admit. It made
the world of Nytherra Unbound feel even more alive, turning what could
have been a predictable fight into something unforgettable. But it also opened
the door to chaos, especially for players like me—women, trans players, and
others who were already easy targets for harassment.
I tightened my grip on the hilt of the sword, the firelight
casting flickering shadows across my now repaired armor. This world was
beautiful, but it was also dangerous. And if I was going to survive, I needed
to be ready for anything.
As the flames whispered in the quiet, I made an unspoken
vow: the next time someone dared to trespass into my world, I wouldn’t merely
endure. I would triumph—decisively, with far greater resolve than today.
---
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