Algoritm of oblivion

© Юрий Третьяков, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-6326-1

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

I. Prologue

The last rays of the sun, painting the sky in hues of crimson and violet, vanished beyond the horizon. The quiet suburban neighborhood slowly succumbed to twilight as darkness crept in. A blue delivery truck rounded the corner of the house next door.

Max Gromov, a lanky teenager with tousled chestnut hair, sat wrapped in a blanket on the veranda of his home, visibly bored. Resting his cheek on his hand, he idly watched the old vehicle.

“What a charming relic,” he murmured.

It was an old, rusted pickup truck, as if torn from the pages of a forgotten manga, with sharp body lines and round headlights that resembled eyes gazing at the world with undisguised weariness.

Unlike the standard, bright-yellow, self-driving delivery trucks, this one was driven by a human. And it stopped right in front of Max’s house, even though no one had ordered anything else for the day.

A sturdy man in a crumpled jacket climbed out of the cab, his face weathered and lined, as if marked forever by the imprint of hard labor. Ascending the steps to the veranda, he addressed the teenager:

“Max Gromov? Does he live here?”

“Yes, that’s me,” replied Max, involuntarily tensing.

“This is for you.” The courier handed the boy a small box and a tablet for a signature. The logo of “Dream” adorned the packaging – the same logo that plastered billboards throughout the city, promising unforgettable virtual adventures, relief from sorrow, and oblivion. Inside, it seemed, was a device for immersion in virtual reality, or VR, as it was commonly known.

“Who is this from?” Max asked, feeling like a character in a novel about to unfold.

“I don’t know,” the mailman shrugged. “There’s a note inside.” He pointed to the box, where a small envelope was tucked into a fold of the packaging, then turned and headed back to his truck.

Max tore open the envelope, and a white note fell into his palm, bearing the text:

“See you in the dream.” Signed: Grimnir.

A lump formed in Max’s throat. “Grimnir”… that was the gamertag of his father, who had died five years ago in a car accident.

“Wait!” Max jumped to his feet, but the truck sped away, leaving Max without an answer, only with questions that, like all mysteries, had a habit of accumulating like dust under the bed.

The biggest of which was: “Could he be alive?”

II. CITADEL OF DARKNESS

Five years prior…

The sun, dazzlingly bright during the day in this desolate virtual location, was already sinking towards the horizon, painting the sky in crimson and orange hues.

Above the battlefield, where thousands of players representing the forces of light and darkness clashed, hung a thick pall of smoke and dust. The ground beneath their feet was scarred with cracks and soaked in blood, littered with the shattered remnants of banners and the bodies of fallen comrades. Amidst this chaos, a clear line of defense was visible – the great Bastion of Darkness, rising like an impregnable rock face from the fortress wall around the city at the foot of the mountain, surrounded by countless armies of light.

The dark forces fiercely resisted. The air was pierced by bolts and arrows, like swarms of angry wasps, flying towards both the players and the non-player characters they commanded, driven by computer algorithms. Mercenary dwarves with their crossbows stood upon the city walls and the roofs of tall buildings. Like deadly automatons, they sent one bolt after another into the ranks of the besiegers.

Above them, invulnerable and unreachable as ghosts, elven eagles soared, blinding enemies with their sharp talons, tearing warriors from the fray and rending them asunder with their razor-sharp beaks. Their riders, the finest of elven archers, relentlessly rained arrows upon the enemy, searching the crowd for commanders and standard-bearers.

A roar. It drowned out the din of battle, pierced the heavens, shattered the earth, and made even the sturdiest walls tremble. It was the roar not merely of a beast, but of the very embodiment of fury – the Black Dragon, a colossal shadow eclipsing the setting sun above the Bastion of Darkness. With its flames, it incinerated entire squads. Its scales, like obsidian, absorbed the last rays of the day, turning into burning lava when struck by catapult projectiles and flashes of light magic. Its rider, a demon king, seemed a mere speck against the vast bulk of the dragon in the twilight sky.

At the heart of the battle, like the wind itself, the Emperor of the warriors of light rode upon the back of a giant griffin. His golden armor gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, like a beacon of hope in the all-encompassing darkness. He held in his hand a sword blazing with holy fire, from which demons recoiled and fled in terror. His face reflected the determination to fight to the end and the bitterness over the irreplaceable losses of the NPC warriors of light who, having entered the battle at his command, would never see another sunrise. But he knew that the fate of this virtual world depended on the outcome of this battle.

Beneath him, on the ground, humans and orcs fought side by side, forgetting old grudges in order to battle a true evil. Their swords and axes savagely crushed the dark forces who dared to venture into the open field and give battle beneath the city walls, showing no mercy. They fought against legions of dwarfs, clad in armor as impregnable as stone, yielding not an inch of ground, as if their feet had taken root. Giant demons, summoned by the witches from the rearguard of the dark army, hurled fireballs into the advancing ranks. Their curses withered warriors in mere seconds. Against them, the best mages of the empire invoked the elements. Flashes of lightning, gusts of storm-force wind, and gravitational waves shook the battlefield, claiming ever more lives.

At sea, at the foot of the cliffs, an equally fierce battle raged. The mighty ships of the sea-faring humans, with their tall masts and blue sails, fought furiously against the dark galleys teeming with demonic creatures. Sirens, beautiful and deadly, sang their enchanting songs, luring sailors to embrace the abyss.

A giant, standing on the shore in a desperate attempt to stem the armada of the advancing fleet, turned towards the sea and hurled a boulder onto the deck of one of the ships. The frigate shattered into pieces, but this could not prevent the landing of the remaining troops on the shore. Short warriors with long, curved swords and straw hats rushed forward to aid the orcs and humans, drawing the demons’ attention to themselves.

The battle raged on all levels; the sky, land, and sea were engulfed in the flames of war. This was not merely a clash of armies; it was a battle for the very essence of the world, for the right of light to dominate and the right of darkness to exist in this insane chaos.

Every warrior, be they elf, human, or orc, understood that this battle could be their last.

Of this battle, bards would compose a song. It would be a song of the siege – a song of strength, of hope, of despair, a song that would echo in the hearts of all who fought on this battlefield, a song that would forever remember and tell of the great struggle between light and darkness.

And just when it seemed that a fragile equilibrium had settled on the battlefield, the unthinkable happened.

The massive gates of the Fortress of Darkness, hitherto impenetrable, swung open with a grinding screech. Within, yawned a blackness, like the maw of a monster, ready to devour all living things.

For a moment, confusion reigned among the ranks of the attackers. This was not supposed to happen. It was not part of the plan.

But the confusion quickly gave way to a battle cry. The Emperor raised his sword, pointing the way into the depths of the city.

And the battle, which had until recently unfolded at the walls, surged into the streets of the Fortress with relentless force. Now there were no clear front lines; battles were fought for every house, for every alleyway. This was a fight in the very heart of darkness, the final battle for the world.

The hordes of light, like predatory beasts, surged forward, showing no mercy. The Emperor on his griffin, like a god of war, led them in the attack, his sword burning demons and witches like a fiery scourge. Elves and orcs, united in their hatred of darkness, crushed the resistance of dwarfs and giants. The sea-faring humans, with their long blades, desperately cut down summoned creatures in the narrow alleyways. Eagles, having no other targets, hurled themselves upon the Black Dragon.

Despite the fierce resistance, the forces of darkness gradually retreated, pushed back towards the center of the city, towards their last stronghold – the Castle of Darkness. This was a grim, cyclopean castle, built of black stone, as if grown from the abyss itself. It loomed over the city like an ominous beacon, a reminder of the former power of the dark forces.

Gradually, retreating in combat, the last defenders of the city – witches, demons, dwarfs, and a few remaining giants – began to filter into the narrow passages leading to the castle. Their faces were covered with soot and blood, their eyes burned with despair, but their movements were marked by determination. They covered the retreat of civilians – all those who could not fight: women, the elderly, and children. For the dark forces were not caricatured villains; they had families. Not every one of them was a warrior. Their city had been living its everyday life until the attack of the light forces.

The Emperor of Light, noticing the retreat, ordered an intensification of the assault, hoping to finally break the resistance of the dark forces. However, the warriors of light encountered fierce, almost suicidal resistance from the last defenders, who fought even knowing that inevitable death awaited them.

When the last of the retreating dark forces crossed the threshold of the castle, the massive gates slammed shut with a thunderous crash. The defenders, realizing that there was no turning back, began to barricade them from the inside, sealing their own doom. The Emperor, in anger and fury, ordered the castle to be stormed, but he understood that this would be a long and bloody battle.

Imperial scouts reported that civilians, under the cover of the retreating troops, were withdrawing through a sprawling system of tunnels beneath the city. This was an ancient route that led to the mountains and further into the dark lands, a route that the defenders of the city had decided to use in their final hour.

Locked within the castle, the last defenders of the Fortress of Darkness, knowing that they were doomed, prepared to put up a desperate fight to buy time for their fellow citizens. Their sacrifice would be paid with their lives, but they knew that this was the only way to save even a few of their people.

And in this cacophony of battle, where the cries of the wounded mingled with the clash of metal, the roar of the dragon, the echoes of battles in the streets, and the thunder of blows against the sealed castle gates, where the air reeked of gunpowder, blood, and magic, a figure appeared against the backdrop of the raging battle, at the center of the last bastion of resistance, on the wall of the Castle of Darkness. Tall, clad in black armor, with a helmet crowned with horns, and a face contorted with fury and scorn. It was the Dark Lord, Grimnir, the last of the mighty rulers of the dark realm. In his hand, he held an ancient staff, from which streamed dark, dense energy.

Suddenly, on his griffin, the Emperor of Light hovered right before the walls of the castle. This was not merely an NPC, but one of the most experienced and powerful players, whose name resounded throughout all the virtual reality worlds created by the “Dream” corporation.

Alex, reining in his griffin, lowered his flaming sword. And his voice, amplified by magic, thundered across the battlefield, drowning out even the noise of the fight:

“Grimnir! I demand that you cease this pointless resistance! Surrender the Book of Fate and yield! Your army is broken, your city has fallen!”

Grimnir laughed, a bitter, piercing laugh that echoed through the surrounding streets, smoky and scorched by the flames of battle.

“Alex, you still understand nothing! This world is built on the law of equilibrium, and neither side can achieve a final victory!” he snarled, his voice full of hatred and contempt. “You think you can command me? You and your pathetic allies are merely virtual ghosts, puppets in the hands of a corporation that craves to possess the Book! It will never be yours! The blood of my warriors will stain these stones, but the Book will remain untouched!”

“You know that this is futile,” Alex replied calmly, his gaze firm and unwavering. “Your forces are broken; you are doomed. Besides, you do not understand the danger that the Book represents in your hands. No single person can wield such power; it is a temptation that cannot be resisted. Surrender it to me, and transfer your shares to the board of directors, and I guarantee you and the remnants of your army the opportunity to retreat, a safe passage through our ranks.”

Grimnir abruptly brandished the staff, made from the bone of an ancient dragon, and black tentacles burst from the ground, like living, writhing snakes, trying to seize the griffin and throw its rider from its back.

“Your promises are lies, woven from hypocrisy, much like the adherence of your motley army to the true ideals of the warriors of light!” Grimnir spat out. “The blood of the dark forces will be spilled to the last drop, defending this city, but I will not give you the Book of Fate! May it rather burn in the flames, be reduced to ashes and dust, than fall into your hands!”

The griffin roared, flapping its wings powerfully, evading the attack of the dark tentacles. Alex, never taking his eyes off Grimnir, raised his sword, enveloped in radiant flames:

“Then you leave yourself no choice but defeat. And you know it perfectly well, Grimnir. Your pride has blinded you, and you cannot see the obvious.”

“In every defeat lies the seed of future victory!” Grimnir roared, his eyes burning with a wild fire. “And even if I fall, darkness will rise again!”

A tense silence fell, like the calm before a storm. Alex and Grimnir stood facing each other, embodying the eternal struggle between light and darkness, good and evil, upon which hinged the fate not only of the virtual world but also, perhaps, of all reality dependent on the balance of power in DREAM WORLD. The wind howled, whipping capes and banners, and the approach of an imminent resolution could be felt in the air.

Grimnir, brandishing his staff, created a fiery barrier, soaring into the sky as a wall of flame, cutting him off from the army of light, and with a wild cry, full of despair and madness, he plunged into the depths of the castle. Alex, with a heavy sigh, realized that further negotiations were pointless, merely a waste of time that could cost his warriors their lives. He signaled his troops by raising his sword above his head, and the storming of the castle began anew, with a ferocity never seen before. The gates, reinforced with magic and steel, were smashed open by mighty battering rams, and the army of light surged inside, like an enraged river.

Despite the fierce resistance, the forces of light, led by the dismounted Emperor, banishing darkness with his flaming sword, relentlessly advanced, capturing one hall after another. Every inch of territory had to be won in battle, spilling blood and sweat. The last defenders of the Fortress of Darkness fought like possessed men, under the influence of dark forces and the power of Grimnir, but their ranks dwindled before their eyes, like snow under a scorching sun. Every step was taken with difficulty, every swing of the sword brought wounds and pain, but they did not surrender, willing to give their lives for their lord and his ideals.

With screams and curses, they retreated ever deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the castle – a maze of stone and darkness – until, finally, they reached its very heart: an ancient temple, built even before the creation of the Fortress. It was a grim, majestic structure, whose walls were covered with runes and dark symbols. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and decay, and shadows, seemingly possessing a will of their own, lurked in the corners. In the center of the temple stood an altar, made of black obsidian, like a concentrate of evil itself, pulsating with dark energy.

Grimnir and the surviving defenders, the last handful of warriors, witches, and demons, burst into the temple, and with a thunderous crash, the massive doors, reinforced with dark magic, slammed shut behind them. The forces of light surrounded the temple from all sides, but breaching the magical barrier proved no easy task.

“Alex, stop!” Grimnir cried out. “At this level, the death of any of us could be final. In this world and in the real one!”

Alex stood before the temple. He saw the hatred and despair in the eyes of the last retreating defenders but understood that this battle was not yet over… He knew that within the temple, along with Grimnir, could be the Book of Fate, a mysterious artifact, any entry in which could change the very world of the game and make it as the company’s leadership deemed fit.

Now, as an ominous silence descended upon the battlefield, it became clear that the forces of light and darkness were about to clash in a final showdown.

From the ranks of the warriors of light, an NPC mage in white robes stepped forward and stood before the emperor:

“My emperor, attacking the temple is forbidden,” he bowed before the leader of the light forces. “Blood spilled on sacred ground will turn into a curse. We will incur the wrath of the gods!”

Alex carefully examined the temple, its grim majesty, its ancient runes, and frowned. He knew that this was a sacred place of the dark forces and also knew that, according to the rules of this world, it was forbidden to spill blood on sacred ground. However, the desire to obtain the Book of Fate had blinded him. He stared at the sealed doors of the temple, knowing that Grimnir was inside. His hand, clutching his sword, trembled with excitement, but his will was as firm as a rock. He decided to go against all the rules.

“Take the temple!” he roared, his voice, filled with authority, thundered across the battlefield. “Spare no one! Let blood be spilled, if necessary! The Book of Fate must belong to us!”

For the first time in history, the warriors of light, in their fanatical pursuit of victory, began the assault on the shrine of the dark forces. And so, blood flowed onto the sacred stones of the altar and the planks of the temple floor. Red and thick, it spread across the ancient runes, staining them and simultaneously imbuing them with its power, summoning the demonic forces slumbering within the depths of the temple. And just as the final blow struck Grimnir’s body, the unleashed dark magic, gushing out from within him like a fiery wave, threw back the attackers.

Through the cracking of splintering boards and the roar of demonic incantations, seemingly echoed by the temple walls themselves, came the screams of wounded, agonizing, and dying warriors, consumed by flame and darkness.

And at that moment, the world shuddered, as if from an earthquake of unimaginable power. A deafening roar ripped through the city, and the sky seemed to split apart, revealing an abyss filled with chaos and darkness. The wind intensified, turning into a hurricane, tearing tiles from roofs and felling trees. Everything around grew dark, as if the sun had forever abandoned this world, plunging it into eternal twilight.

With a cry of horror erupting from the ranks of the advancing warriors, the unthinkable began. The wounds of the last defenders of the temple began to heal, and their eyes glowed with a red light, their bodies began to rot, saturated with the necrotic energy seeping from the sacred ground of the dark forces. The dark and light forces who had fallen that day rose from the dead, turning into animated corpses, possessed by a thirst for blood and flesh. The zombies, risen from oblivion, recognized neither friend nor foe, throwing themselves at all who still breathed.

Panic gripped the warriors of light. They, recoiling in horror from their former comrades, who had been transformed into walking dead and with whom they had fought shoulder to shoulder, fled the city. The battle devolved into chaos, where the living fought against the dead, and light clashed with the darkness it had itself spawned.

Alex, realizing the horror of what had happened, silently watched the unfolding nightmare. He understood that he had disregarded the rules of the world, and this had led to catastrophe. He tried to turn back, running and pushing his warriors aside, but the zombies, driven by their bloodlust, began to swarm over him like flies. Reaching his griffin, he took flight, but the risen dead, like a swarm of vile insects, clung to his mount. Evil hands reached for him, tearing flesh from its wings, and the griffin, losing altitude, crashed to the ground, smashing against the stones.

Emperor Alex I, founder of the empire, scourge of the dark forces, once a dazzling hero, was buried beneath a wave of dead bodies, and his flaming sword was extinguished, like a spark in the night.

A gray mist descended upon the city, shrouding it like a shroud. It became a place where eternal twilight reigned, a place where past and present were intertwined in agony, light and darkness mingled in a primordial gray haze.

The city, once illuminated by light, was plunged into impenetrable twilight. The thick fog, enveloping the streets, swallowed all sounds and cries, leaving only silence and horror. The forces of light, in panic, fled, leaving behind their fallen comrades and a city gripped by terror. All who had perished on that day were turned into the undead and filled the streets of the city, hidden in the eternal fog.

Recollections of those who witnessed the events:

Stephanie. Level 26 Elf.

The fog. It was everywhere – thick, cold, piercing to the bone. Something ancient, evil, as if a living creature. It enveloped me, muffled sounds, leaving only the dull, agonizing beating of my own heart. A heart that pounded like a trapped bird.

I couldn’t see anything but the fog, but I felt it – heavy, sticky, steeped in the smell of blood and… something else. Something putrid, sweet, disgustingly alluring. It was terrible, but… I couldn’t tear my gaze away from it. I couldn’t move.

I was hiding in a narrow passage, pressed against the cold, damp wall. A few meters away were others – ghostly figures, dissolving into the fog, whispering something in a language I didn’t understand. Fear was not just a feeling; it was a living, cold entity, constricting my soul.

But even stronger than the fear was the pain. A sharp, burning pain in my chest that echoed in every cell of my body. I clenched my fists, trying to suppress it, trying to concentrate on something else, on something other than this relentless, all-consuming horror.

Right now, all that mattered was survival. Just to keep… breathing.

Something touched my hand – a cold, sticky touch. I shuddered, preparing for the worst. It was… horrible. But not deadly. Just… strange.

I peered into the fog. In the dim light, I made out a figure. It was inhumanly tall, its movements – slow, clumsy. It wore tattered clothes, and its face… its face was as if covered in an unearthly shroud, a white fog that I felt so close. Suddenly, the creature screamed opening a huge black yawn and I rushed to run without looking back away from this city. One thing I knew for sure that I will never return here again.