Battle for the North (Rogue Merchant Book #4): LitRPG Series by Roman Prokofiev (the dot read aloud .TXT) 📕

down, but my log was miserably empty. Miss! While I reloaded, the second target died as well — not everyone was as inaccurate and slow as me.

Nico cursed and suddenly threw the rook downward. A moment later, I realized why — the enemy was starting to return fire, and a volley of arrows whooshed dangerously close to us. One of them sunk into our birdie’s wing but failed to pierce the rook’s thick feather coat.

Argentum: Assist for next targets! Don’t be a slowpoke, fire when ready!

Evil Mook: Don’t descend! Don’t fall behind! Assist and fire! Healers, pay attention. Why are we losing people?

 

Below, at the edge of the clouds, the battle was already raging. Several of our groups in a suicidal attack rammed into the vanguard of the Lady’s air cavalry, and the area was swept in blazing battle spells. From the looks of it, those were specially trained players — I could see blue spheres of magic shields and flickers of lightning. At least a dozen huge fiery silhouettes flashed into being at once — they released the phoenixes, the deadliest creatures capable of fighting in the air. Woven from fire itself, those birds sowed chaos in the front ranks of the enemy, destroying everything around them.

I finally realized Mook’s idea: lead us at a tangent above the rising drax swarm, drawing them out, and shoot them down while using the advantage in speed and altitude. It was a masterful work, keeping the distance, not getting too close, and preventing the opponents from swarming us and starting a free-for-all. Admittedly, he had done a bang-up job, forcing the enemy to play the role of pursuers. We fired at them downward, while they had to fight against the wind, their arrows losing power. Drax riders suffered disastrous losses trying to get to us, dozens of them dying under the Northerners’ precision fire. They managed to close in on several groups and devour them, but the majority of players followed Mook and successfully held back.

Evil Mook: Lol, they’re made of cardboard. No need for primary targets. Free fire! Mages, wake up! Should I give you a personal kick in the ass? Cut off those who made it through, AOE!

 

A sparkling shower of Ice Needles interspersed with exploding Fireballs substantially curbed the drax riders’ enthusiasm. With hoarse screams, they turned back and stopped the pursuit, starting a front-wide retreat. Someone on their side had decided that the losses were unacceptable. Following a silent command, the depleted host departed, putting distance between the two sides.

The next maneuver was a surprise for me. We pushed through the clouds, descending in a hairpin curve. Green hills loomed below us, covered with a sea of moving enemies. That’s whom we attacked, once again spreading around and raining our arrows and spells on the heads of the Irchi, burning out holes in their midst with Grand Fire. It felt like a shooting range — having lost the air support, the NPCs couldn’t muster any serious resistance. We passed just above their ranks, nap-of-the earth, and shot at them indiscriminately. Great Lightnings, Fire Arrows, Grand Fire, Ice Needles — the raid generously poured AOE spells on the enemy’s heads. There was no need for a second go — our opponents rapidly scattered and dispersed, leaving bodies on the grass.

Evil Mook: Don’t pursue them! Don’t pursue them! [censored], didn’t I say “no pursuit?” Great job. Amazing. Keep following me.

 

* * *

Players. Arrogant sanctimonious visitors from a world beyond her reach, always trying to establish their own rules. Ananizarte hated their presumptuousness and staunch belief in their superiority. Players thought that they were the masters here, that the Sphere of Worlds belonged to them. Many of them contended that Sphere itself, the gods, and even the Balance, the entirety of material and immaterial dimensions, were created by them. Ha! Ananizarte remembered the times when nobody had even heard about players. They came later and suddenly propagated, like bothersome insects infesting houses in the slum. In any case, conceit and arrogance had always been their weakness. It was dangerous to think of yourself as better and smarter than others, especially when there was no basis for this.

What needed to be done required an immense amount of strength and energy, much more than the goddess had herself. Actually, that terrifying magic had only been used once, and the repercussions scared even the gods — such was the pushback of the Balance. It was used by Mesmer, the Lord of Darkness, Ananizarte’s brother-husband, since disembodied, formless, and locked in the nightmarish Astral Prison. He possessed a strange ability to memorize and use any spells he had seen even once. Nobody knew in which hellish dimension, in which world of Sphere he discovered that ritual, but Ananizarte inherited it.

The Ancients had resembled the players once: cunning, self-assured, and inventive, but their power was turned against them. The Ancients fell, and their bloodline ended, fading into oblivion. All that was left were ruins, strange technologies, and mechanisms. The goddess was sure that the same fate awaited players.

As she stood on the green hill, she saw a fleet of astral ships approach her from the Golden Fairs, and the sky turned dark with thousands of flying mounts. Their collective power was tremendous. They even had the ability to harm her — or at least force her to retreat.

Good. That’s what she had strived for — gather all her enemies to finish them once and for all. It was a good time and a good place: The Golden Fairs, the port city controlling the narrow Long Sea, a giant megapolis, the crossroads of trade. The stronghold of her enemies, the seat of their power and resources. The heart of the enemy alliances. That’s where she would strike the mortal blow to them!

The goddess had many forms, all possessing different abilities, ranging from a human avatar to a Blackfire Dragon that dealt astronomical