The Demonic Games (Disgardium Book #7): LitRPG Series by Dan Sugralinov (iphone ebook reader TXT) 📗

“Scyth, undeservedly declared worst player of the day yesterday, began the day surrounded by enemy contestants and with a debuff, ironically called Sloth’s Blessing by the game designers. Yes, yes, I know. Undeservedly, but to my greatest disappointment, the viewers’ choice cannot be overruled! No, don’t argue with me,” he said, although nobody was planning to. “It is written into the core of the Games! But let us speak of happier things! Let’s see whether Scyth managed to save himself this time..!”

The gamesmaster devoted most of his overview to the battle in the clearing, then moved on to what happened next, as if forgetting all about me. When Meister’s pentagram killed Destiny, the girl got camped in at the graveyard. Quetzal took out his anger on her, and Hellfish rabidly pumped her full of bullets with sadistic pleasure. In the end, Des dropped four levels, and the process was bloody and cruel: Hellfish’s bullets turned her face to mush and tore her body to shreds, and Quetzal crushed her skill.

Then reinforcements came, and the sides swapped places. Now Destiny, surrounded by powerful allies and her own people, stalked the edge of the graveyard, not letting any of her foes slip by. Everyone got it in the neck, including Meister’s raid. The craftspeople got distracted hunting Destiny, realized too late that they’d been surrounded by Marcus’s people.

In the end, Quetzal and Hellfish lost just two. All the other victims were from Meister’s group. The fighters managed to slip out and spread all across the Cursed Chasm. We weren’t shown who went where, but apparently there were contestants hiding even on already cleared floors.

Marcus and Destiny didn’t spread out their forces too much. Some of their fighters guarded the graveyard while the rest cleared the village and combed the forest in the hope of finding not only runaways, but also me. They didn’t bother checking through the Pitfall — that would have taken too long.

“Today, despite a somewhat botched morning, was a successful day for the groups of silver ranger Destiny and bruiser Marcus,” Octius summed up. “The viewers might be inclined to name one of them the best player of the day, but let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Aren’t you interested to hear what Scyth was up to while the rest ripped out each other’s throats above?”

The master of the Games cast a sly glance across the hall. The holocube above the stage froze at the moment I disappeared in the pentagram.

“I don’t care!” the man with the red nose shouted.

“It’s boring!” I shouted.

“No it isn’t!” others argued.

“Then look,” Octius said, laughing.

He showed everything, and thank the Sleepers that he limited it to only my long run and the taming of Despot. The improvements to my skills remained behind-the-scenes.

The image froze in the moment when the demon knelt before me, holding his halberd-arm to his breast.

In dead silence — and Octius was in no hurry to break it, smiling with a twinkle in his eye, — I clearly heard a shout from Bloomer:

“That son of a bitch got himself an imba pet even here!”

“Our son of a bitch, remember,” Meister corrected him, laughing.

I felt the eyes of my enemies on me — thoughtful, stunned, shocked, even angry. But without a trace of their former mockery.

The viewers were stoked too. Beating Marcus by 42%, I became the best player of day five.

Destiny was declared the worst.

 Interlude 2. Destiny

PRIZE TURKEY Guy Barron Octius chuckled in self-satisfaction and declared, with clear pride in his voice, that Sheppard was the best player of day five of the Demonic Games. That was the last straw — the anger in Destiny’s heart exploded, rolling out like a blast wave, her fingers clenching tightly all on their own. The neck of her champagne glass shattered, piercing into her palm. Blood poured from the cut, but the girl didn’t seem to notice.

“Bastard!” Destiny hissed, glancing up at Sheppard’s somber face on the holocube.

The boy frowned out from beneath his eyebrows, as if he’d never learned to smile. Couldn’t he have forced one out for his profile, at least? Well, what could be expected of a low-class mongrel? He was brought up wrong from the beginning.

Two hundred years ago, Alissa Dezire Destiny Sophia Sommerlat-Windsor would have been considered a princess, or at least a lady of royal blood. Even in the first half of the century, she would have been called Her Royal Majesty.

But after the Third World War and the formation of the one-world government, purity of blood no longer played any kind of role in citizenship status. On the contrary, a new aristocracy emerged, gaining its rights not through inheritance, but through service to society. But what did the 99% of society represent? That’s right. A gray mob. Cattle. Those who live only for short-term gratification, for pitiful, pathetic dreams. Like those of this boy on the holocube screen.

“My God, Des, what a disgrace! Did you hear that? Sheppard? Best player? Whatever for?”

Bella, aka Isabella Christina de Paula, went on complaining and kept touching Destiny on the arm:

“Tell me, Des, am I wrong? Since when do they reward kiting a boss all day?” Bella rolled her eyes, then looked at her companion and shrieked. “Oh my God, you’re bleeding!”

“Shut up!”

Destiny loved her childhood friend, but right then, Bella was getting on her nerves.

“Calm down, Des,” Ezekiel-Urkish muttered.

“Do you really not see Destiny’s condition, Bella?” Messiah snapped. Turning, he called over a waiter droid and asked it to bring an autodoc, a compact version of the Home Doctor.

“And now…” Octius said, walking around the stage and pausing for effect. “We will start the viewer’s vote for the title of worst player of the day! Remember, every adult citizen can vote in any of the following ways…”

The waiter brought over the