The air in the Crypt of Whispering Bones hung thick with the stench of mildew and decay. ShadowStriker, as usual, was bringing up the rear of the adventuring party – Elara the valiant warrior, Bram the stoic mage, and himself, well… himself. A particularly nasty Bonecrawler, its skeletal limbs tipped with wickedly sharp claws, lunged at him. ShadowStriker yelped, tripping over a loose stone. He flailed with his rusty short sword, more out of panic than skill.
Suddenly, the Bonecrawler dissolved into a pile of dust, an arrow protruding from its skull. Elara sighed, holstering her bow. "Verily, ShadowStriker, thou wouldst be monster chow without us."
As Bram began to examine the dust pile for any valuables, ShadowStriker noticed something odd. Nestled amongst the bone fragments was a strange object. It was a smooth, dark band connected to two padded… cups? It looked like a helmet, but flimsy and oddly shaped. He picked it up. It felt strangely light.
The moment the band touched his head, his mind erupted with a cacophony of voices.
"Ugh, massive lag! Is my ping through the roof or what?"
"Dude, that noob almost got one-shot again. Look at his HP bar, it's in the red!"
"Toxic player detected. Report for feeding."
"Is this guy even specced properly? That weapon has got to be bottom tier!"
ShadowStriker stumbled back, clutching his head. "What in the blazes…?"
"Wait, can he hear our VC?" a voice exclaimed, laced with surprise. "Yo, is this open mic?"
"Nah, man, his headset must be bugged. Just mute him!"
The voices, which seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, were overwhelming. His party members looked at him with concern. "Art thou alright, ShadowStriker?" Elara asked.
"Voices… within mine own head…" quoth he, pointing at the headset. He tentatively put it back on. The voices returned, clearer now.
"Okay, this has gotta be some kind of janky indie game," one voice said. "Look at the textures in this dungeon. Kinda retro, but still detailed."
"Yeah, and that Bonecrawler's aggro was totally broken," another voice chimed in. "Seriously, what even is this game's RNG?"
Bram, ever the scholar, peered at the headset. "It is unlike aught I hast ever beheld. Perchance a relic of a lost age?"
"Lost? More like from a different server," a voice snorted. "These devs need to buff their loot tables."
And so began ShadowStriker's strange journey with the voices from Obelus. The gamers, initially convinced they were watching a low-quality stream or playing a bizarre new game, treated his life accordingly.
"Go left! The loot chest is behind that pillar! Easy peasy!" one would shout, often leading him into traps.
"Why is he just standing there? Doesn't he see the minimap? Is he AFK?" another would complain as ShadowStriker got lost in the dungeon's winding corridors.
"Dude, you gotta roll! That attack has a huge wind-up!" they'd yell during combat, their advice often coming too late or being utterly irrelevant to his clumsy movements.
ShadowStriker was constantly confused. He'd try to follow their directions, often with disastrous results, much to the amusement (and occasional exasperation) of Elara and Bram. They couldn't hear the voices, of course, and just attributed his erratic behavior to his general ineptitude.
"ShadowStriker, doth thy health ail thee? Thou keepst bumping into walls," Elara would say, her brow furrowed.
"They did say… a hidden passage did lie here…" replied he, pointing at a solid stone wall.
But as they delved deeper into the dungeon, facing increasingly challenging monsters, something began to shift. The gamers from Obelus, despite their initial mockery, started to pay closer attention. They began to recognize patterns in the monsters' attacks, the dungeon layouts, and even the party's abilities.
"Wait, that mage's spell rotation is actually pretty OP for this stage," one Obelusian commented on Bram's tactical use of arcane magic.
"That warrior's got some serious tank potential if she'd just learn to block instead of just facetanking everything," another observed about Elara.
And even ShadowStriker, despite being the constant target of their "noob" accusations, started to absorb their advice. He learned the Obelusian terms for basic combat maneuvers, even if his execution was still shaky.
"Try to time thine attack after the boss's skill animation," a voice would say. And surprisingly, sometimes, it worked. He'd manage a lucky hit, earning a rare "PogChamp!" or "Nice crit!" from the Obelusian peanut gallery.
Slowly, painstakingly, ShadowStriker began to improve. He still wasn't as skilled as Elara or Bram, but he was no longer a complete liability. He started anticipating enemy attacks (thanks to the constant warnings), finding hidden pathways (occasionally, though often by sheer RNG), and even contributing meaningfully to battles.
The gamers from Obelus, witnessing this transformation, started to treat him less like a character in a poorly played game and more like… well, someone they were grudgingly starting to respect. The trash talk lessened, replaced by more focused and even encouraging advice.
Finally, they reached the heart of the dungeon and faced the final boss: a hulking, multi-limbed monstrosity known as the Shadow Weaver. The battle was fierce. Elara and Bram fought valiantly, but the Shadow Weaver was powerful. ShadowStriker, despite his fear, found himself relying on the countless hours of (often sarcastic) coaching from Obelus.
"Dodge left! It's about to unleash a nuke!"
"Pop a potion now! Thy health is dangerously low!"
"Focus all damage on its weak spot! It's glowing!"
He followed their instructions, his movements still clumsy but now imbued with a newfound sense of purpose and timing. He even managed to land a few surprisingly effective blows, one of which the Obelusians declared a "lucky crit." In the end, with a final, desperate lunge, Elara’s sword pierced the Shadow Weaver’s heart. The beast roared and collapsed, dissolving into shadow.
Victory. The party was battered and bruised, but they had done it. As ShadowStriker leaned against his sword, panting, a strange sensation washed over the gamers in Obelus. A prompt appeared before their mental eyes, as clear as day:
"BOSS DEFEATED! CHOOSE YOUR REWARD TO SEND TO THE VICTORIOUS HERO."
A collective gasp rippled through the Obelusian gamer community connected to ShadowStriker's headset.
"Wait… a reward? For the noob?"
"This is totally nuts… it was real!"
The chat channels exploded with frantic messages.
"Okay, okay, what do we send him? Gotta be epic!"
"A legendary weapon! He deserves a buff after carrying us like that!"
"No, wait! If this is real… maybe we can finally cheese our way into a new world!"
A new wave of suggestions flooded in, no longer focused on in-game benefits for ShadowStriker.
"Send him a portal scroll! Maybe it'll glitch us through!"
"What about a universal translator? So we can actually understand what "thee" means?"
"No, no, send him the blueprints for a top-tier gaming PC! If we can get a stable connection…"
The gamers, a chaotic but ultimately unified force, began to vote and argue, their minds buzzing with the possibilities. Finally, a consensus (of sorts) was reached.
A moment later, near the defeated Shadow Weaver, a series of bizarre objects began to shimmer into existence. A brightly colored can labeled "Energy Potion: +50 Stamina, +10 Focus," a sealed package emitting a strange, savory aroma, a small, metallic device with blinking LED lights, and a rolled-up poster featuring heavily armored figures wielding oversized weapons all materialized on the dungeon floor.
ShadowStriker stared at the strange assortment, his jaw agape. "By the beard of Odin! What manner of sorcery is this?"
The voices in his head, now filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation, echoed his bewilderment. "Did it work? Did he get it? If not, we have to keep this run going boys. You all know what to do."
