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051 The Worst Game Ever
🕑 Added 2025-02-21 15:57:28 +0000 UTCLost Legends Online sucked.
Karen had sunk thousands of hours into it, and she wouldn’t be the first to admit it was a terrible game. The player base was abysmally low, and for good reason. It had the most overkill, convoluted skill system imaginable. The penalties were downright torturous. The game’s sheer depth and complexity weren’t a sign of brilliance—they were a sign of poor game design.
And yet, she loved it.
Karen scrolled through her skill list, shaking her head. When fighting, she had to navigate dozens of skills in the heat of battle. Sure, there were hotkeys, but even setting those up was a nightmare. Some skills required prerequisites that reduced stats instead of increasing them. Others demanded long, tedious quest chains before they could even be learned. The AI opponents were borderline terrifying, reading her moves like actual players.
And PvP? No one played PvP.
Why? Because the skill ceiling was so absurdly high that only the most masochistic players would dare step into it. She had fought AI opponents who were scarier than the top-ranked players in other MMOs. If it weren’t for LLO’s next-level graphics and godlike AI, the game would have died long ago.
Well, that was why weirdos exist…
Karen let out a long sigh, resting her chin on her hand.
Her avatar, Joan D’Arc, a battle priestess clad in white and gold, stared back at her from the character menu. The blonde-haired warrior-priestess was her pride and joy. It had taken years to build her. The White Path was a nightmare to master, not to mention to use it as the ‘core’ in a decent build, but she had done it. The perfect blend of offense and support. The ideal mix of raw power and divine resilience.
And now, none of it mattered.
Her eyes drifted toward the announcement at the top of the screen.
[Notice: Lost Legends Online Will Shut Down Permanently]
Karen clicked on it, reading through the usual corporate fluff. Server costs, declining player numbers, and—ah, there it was—the real reason. The perma-death update. The moment they announced that, most casuals quit. Who wanted to spend thousands of hours grinding just to risk losing their character permanently? Even Karen had almost dropped the game.
Almost.
She glanced at her messages, feeling a pang in her chest.
Her online boyfriend hadn’t logged in for a while now. They had talked about meeting up in real life, but that was never going to happen. He was gone. Maybe he had just quit the game after the update, or maybe something had happened. Either way, he wasn’t here anymore.
Karen sighed, leaning back in her chair. What do I even play now?
She reached out, hovering over the power button on her PC.
Unbeknownst to her, Lost Legends Online was more than just a game.
And its shutdown… was only the beginning.
In another lifetime—
The signs were there.
Joan D’Arc had seen them long before the others had admitted it. The sudden disappearances of immortal souls, the slow but undeniable failure of their once-absolute immortality—these were warnings of an impending doom none of them could stop. And then there were the attacks. More frequent, more devastating. The Great Enemy was advancing.
If not for their side’s resurrection spells, the war would have been over already.
Joan stood in the grand council chamber, surrounded by divine beings that had once been revered as gods. The Lost Gods, they called themselves, though it was more a title of circumstance than choice. They had no followers. No temples. No prayers to sustain them. They were remnants of an age long past, bound together by necessity rather than kinship.
Now, survival itself was slipping through their fingers.
"The calamity is upon us," declared Lord Aureon, his golden armor dimming under the weight of his words. "We must retreat to other realms. It is the only way."
Murmurs filled the chamber. The Lost Gods were divided. Nearly half agreed with Aureon, seeing retreat as the only viable option. The other half held mixed opinions—some wished to stand and fight, while others sought alternatives, searching for ways to replicate the ancient sealing of immortal souls that had once protected their kind.
Joan clenched her fists. They could fight. They should fight. But deep down, she knew the truth.
They were losing.
Her gaze drifted to the mural behind the council—a grand depiction of past champions who had risen to fight in times of crisis. Names etched into history. Faces that had once inspired hope. And among them…
David.
Joan’s heart clenched at the memory. If he were here, he wouldn’t have cared about the crisis. He would have ignored the debates, ignored the fear, and done what he always did—throw himself straight into the heart of the problem just to clear the way forward.
"Why are you all hesitating?" she could almost hear his voice, impatient, eager. "We know the threat. We know they’ll keep coming. So let’s deal with it before it gets worse."
But David was gone.
He had perished along with the many champions who had tried to fight back the vanguard of the Great Enemy.
And now, Joan was left in a room full of gods, arguing over whether to flee or fight.
She exhaled, closing her eyes. If you're out there, David... what would you do?
The Sanctum had always been a place of reverence and strategy, a space where the Lost Gods convened to discuss matters beyond mortal comprehension. It was an ethereal hall, suspended in the void between worlds, a place where time itself held little meaning. The walls were formed of starlight, the floor of woven fate, and the great round table at the center pulsed with power.
And yet, for all its grandeur, tonight it felt smaller than ever.
Joan stood among the gathered champions, her arms crossed, her golden hair casting a soft glow against the dim surroundings. The atmosphere was tense, as it always was whenever the gods debated. Their voices echoed through the void, layered and overlapping, as divine beings argued over the fate of a world crumbling under the Great Enemy’s assault.
She had been summoned here as a representative of the Immortal Champions—not that immortality meant much anymore. The Lost’s greatest warriors, once able to resurrect indefinitely, had begun to stay dead. And if they fell, then even the gods would soon follow.
Among the champions present, Joan took note of a few Destiny-Bound warriors standing apart from the rest.
Unlike the standard Immortal Champions, these individuals couldn’t hear the Voice. They were anomalies, chosen by fate itself rather than by the Lost Gods. Their existence followed paths beyond even divine understanding—some were destined for greatness, others for tragedy, but all of them had their own agendas.
And that made them unreliable.
Joan didn't trust them.
The gods continued their argument, but it was the same cycle as always.
"We must retreat while we still have the means," one of the gods, whose form was a mass of golden light, declared.
"Retreat to where?" another, a spectral figure wreathed in storm clouds, snapped. "We have fought for countless eras! To abandon our station now would be to betray everything we have stood for!"
"Better betrayal than extinction," a third voice, deep and ancient, rumbled.
And so the debate went, spiraling in circles, repeating the same worn-out arguments.
Some wanted to flee to another realm. Some wanted to fight to the bitter end. Others spoke of a desperate gambit—to seal their remaining immortal souls into artifacts, entrusting the future to whatever mortals would rise in the coming ages.
But no decision was ever made.
Joan had seen this happen before. She knew what came next.
One by one, the gods began to leave, their divine forms fading from the Sanctum as they abandoned the conversation in frustration. Soon, only a few remained—watching each other in wary silence.
Joan exhaled, feeling a deep, bone-weary exhaustion settle into her.
So this is it, then. No grand salvation. No miracle solution. Just more waiting. More dying.
The war was already lost.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say the champions of the Lost were losing badly.
Joan D’Arc had long sensed it, but the true weight of their decline only became undeniable when she stopped hearing the Voice.
The Voice had always been there—a mysterious phenomenon that guided the Lost's champions, whispering tactics, strategies, and solutions to seemingly impossible battles. Joan wasn’t the only one who heard it. David had heard it too. Every champion had, at some point. It had been their unseen guide, the reason they could hold the line against the Great Enemy for so long.
But now?
Silence.
Joan strode through the dimly lit streets of Losten, the last bastion of the Lost, making her way to an old tavern where she knew the others would be.
Inside, a low murmur filled the air. The scent of burnt wood and aged ale clung to the walls. Gathered around a massive table were the strongest of the strong—the Top Thirteen.
They were legends in their own right. Veterans. Powerful champions in their own right. Each had reached demi-god status, their names etched into the annals of history. They were the ones who had held back the Great Enemy for centuries.
Joan took her seat at the table—the Sixth Seat.
Her eyes swept across the room, instinctively landing on an empty chair. The Third Seat. David’s Seat.
Once, he had been a force to be reckoned with. The rankings shifted every century or so, but the Top Three had always been in constant flux, fighting over the highest seats. Now, one of those seats remained vacant.
Joan exhaled and turned to the Second Seat, a woman with fiery red hair and an ever-present scowl.
"Where’s the First Seat?" Joan asked.
Fanarys, the infamous pyromancer, leaned back in her chair and scoffed. "Where else? Being a suicidal idiot, as usual."
Joan sighed. Of course.
They didn’t have the luxury for reckless heroics anymore.
"You do remember," she emphasized, "that our immortal souls are failing us. We can’t resurrect anymore from the heart of the world."
Fanarys flicked a spark off her fingers. "Yeah, yeah. He knows. Doesn’t change a damn thing."
Joan glanced at the Ninth Seat, a rogue named Robin who had mastered both the ranger and hunter paths. He was leaning against the wall, sharpening a dagger.
"The Seventh Seat—Yggdra. Is he with him?" she asked.
Robin didn’t look up. "Yeah. Figures a druid would stick around to make sure our resident lunatic doesn’t get himself too killed."
Joan pinched the bridge of her nose. This was a disaster waiting to happen.
The Great Enemy was advancing. The Voice was gone. The champions were dying. And the strongest among them?
Still acting like they had all the time in the world.
The air inside the dimly lit tavern was thick with the scent of aged wood, spiced liquor, and the unshakable weight of impending doom. Conversations murmured throughout the establishment, but the main table—one tucked away in the back, where the strongest of the Lost’s champions gathered—was nearly silent.
Corvus, the Fourth Seat, leaned back against her chair, adjusting her gloves with a slow, methodical motion. Her purple hair, usually left to cascade freely, was tied into a tight bun.
“A lot of us have been dying.”
Her words, spoken in an almost casual drawl, carried a weight that made the others shift uncomfortably. She gestured toward the empty chairs around the table—Twelfth, Eleventh, Tenth, Eighth, Fifth… and Third.
Half of them were gone.
Their Seats would remain vacant.
No one spoke for a long moment. Even the tavern’s usual clamor seemed distant.
Across the table, Ivan, the Thirteenth Seat, ran a hand through his long white hair and let out a heavy breath. His pale blue eyes flickered toward Corvus before settling on his own drink, swirling the dark liquid in his cup.
“Then maybe we should make sure we die in a blaze of glory,” he said, voice dry yet carrying an edge of finality.
Joan turned to him, arching a brow. “That’s quite something to hear from a necromancer.”
Ivan smirked, the expression filled with wry amusement. “What? You think I’d want to linger? Some deaths are too good to be undone.”
The statement should have been morbid. Instead, it felt like a challenge.
Corvus exhaled through her nose, crossing her arms. “You make it sound like we still have a choice.” She motioned toward the tavern entrance, where the streets beyond flickered with dim torchlight. “We can pretend all we want, but let’s face it—immortality doesn’t mean much anymore. We fall, we stay dead. The Great Enemy has made sure of that.”
The words weren’t new.
But hearing them said outright settled like iron in their chests.
Joan looked around the table again, at the ones who were left.
The Top Thirteen had once been an unshakable force. A gathering of legends.
Now?
They were just survivors, clinging to the last threads of a war they had already lost.
The door to the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. The dim candlelight flickered as heavy, deliberate footsteps entered.
Arthur had arrived.
The First Seat and the strongest of them all.
His dark blue hair was windswept, his plain-looking armor scratched and dull—unassuming to the untrained eye. But those who knew better understood. That was legendary armor, one that had seen countless battles and refused to break.
Behind him walked a woman with thick, wild green hair, her presence just as striking as his.
Arthur stopped at the table, sweeping his sharp gaze over the remaining Top Thirteen. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried something they hadn’t seen in a long time.
Purpose.
“We have a path forward,” he said simply.
Corvus arched a brow, but before she could respond, another figure strolled in behind Arthur, drawing immediate attention.
Alice.
The Infamous Vampire Princess.
She was a relic of a long-lost kingdom from the Dark Ages, one of the few who had survived through the downfall of her kind. Her striking pink hair, unusual even among vampires, was styled elegantly, cascading over her shoulders. A delicate parasol rested against her shoulder, a mockery of the night that surrounded them.
Her crimson eyes gleamed as she stepped forward, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.
“Oh my, such dreary faces,” she mused, voice carrying the lilt of amusement. “You look as though you’ve already accepted death.”
No one answered.
Alice’s gaze flicked around the room before she finally dropped the real bombshell.
“David is still alive.”
Silence.
Not the stunned, immediate kind of silence.
No, this was heavier. A stillness so thick it felt suffocating.
Joan, who had barely reacted through the entire exchange, felt her fingers tighten around the table’s edge.
David.
The Third Seat.
The one who had definitely died.
Hadn’t he?
Joan’s fists slammed against the wooden table, rattling the empty mugs and plates.
“Explain,” she demanded, staring Alice down.
The vampire princess remained unfazed, tilting her head with a teasing smile. “Oh my, so demanding. But very well.” She twirled her parasol before leaning slightly forward. “David had an unfinished quest with me.”
Joan narrowed her eyes. “What kind of quest?”
Alice’s smile deepened. “He promised to cure my vampirism... for a certain favor.”
That caught Joan off guard.
David? A Paladin? Making a deal with a vampire?
“That doesn’t make sense,” Joan said, her brows furrowing. “David wasn’t the type to—”
“To mix with the likes of me?” Alice finished for her, laughing softly. “Oh, how little you knew of him.”
Joan clenched her jaw.
Alice continued, her tone turning more serious. “When I heard of his… supposed death, I searched for him. Not just his body, but any trace of his soul. And guess what?” Her crimson eyes gleamed. “I found him.”
The room tensed.
Arthur, standing near the entrance, finally spoke. “We’ve scouted the area where he was last seen. It’s no ordinary battlefield—it’s a dungeon. And not just any dungeon, but one that devours immortal souls.”
Joan’s breath caught.
Yggdra, the druid of the Seventh Seat, nodded. “I sent a familiar deep inside. We found traces of magic still lingering in the ruins. Something was used there… something powerful.”
Alice stepped forward, folding her parasol. “And I can use it.”
Joan’s head snapped toward her.
Alice’s expression turned completely serious, all traces of teasing gone. “I can hijack the spell that was used. If my guess is correct, it was a planar shift—one that doesn’t just kill but transports.”
Joan’s heart pounded.
Planar shift. That meant David wasn’t just dead. He was somewhere else.
“I can bring one person with me,” Alice continued. “Someone to jump through planes and retrieve him.”
Arthur crossed his arms. “I wanted to go.” He exhaled. “But I know Joan is the better choice.”
Joan’s breath hitched.
She stared at Arthur, then at Alice, then at the rest of the Top Thirteen.
Few things in this world meant anything to her.
But David?
David was definitely one of them.
Her teeth gritted, her grip tightening.
“…When do we leave?”
