Algoritm of oblivion

© Юрий Третьяков, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-6326-1

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

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?”

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.