God of the Game (Dreamstate) by Kit Yan Read Free Book Online

impulse, and rolled, first to escape the pound of its fist, then the stamp of its feet.
        Rogol turned; but instead of facing o’ dear me, its flaring nostrils met a stunned whitey who was trying to creep up for a mystical thwack. The European had hoped to take the Beast down by surprise from behind while it was busy erasing me from the face of this virtual ambit. But my tumbling actions spoilt everything for him. From the corner I could see his lips form, “Shit,” under the shades. He accepted his end calmly by whatever methods Rogol may have planned up its sleeve; but praise be to my skidding efforts, I lost control of my motions while evading the colossal creature, and knocked the Westerner off his stoic stance and to the side, just as fire flared once more from the mouth of the Beast to the spot his intended victim was first rooted.      
        The impact knocked his shade s off, and I saw Pacific blue irises. But immediately, it was on him again. I expected a “thanks,” but I guess the urgency of the moment provided no exchange of words, as danger still lurked.              
        We were disorientated; but out of thin air, Rogol roared. It was a cry of anger and ache. For the first time it hurt. High in the sky, the mysterious dark man fired a thunderbolt at the monster’s back. I was amazed at his talents. The streaks of energy seem to appear from his opened palm. He threw caution to the wind, sweeping down low, constantly bombarding Rogol with calculated accuracy. This gave me time to check out the knife. It still glowed green, though weaker now. My AI guide provided info rmation. It was an artefact created by Leper and the Gunk, developers of the game. The source of its potency was from its innate connection with Hell; and depending on the vigour of the wielder, it could possibly kill the Beast.
        I , however, was not about to use something so precious so early, especially as I’d not discovered its full potential, and how it reacted to me. I belted and hid it, then ran closer to the battlefield. The East-European eyed me; perhaps in jealousy I got to the jewel studded dagger first.
        The other man was impressive. I think he was the only one who could match Rogol’s strength. The Euro pean and I ended up sharing a seat on a boulder, enjoying the carnage. I bet we were both scheming how to steal the head after that third fella had done the job. He unexpectedly popped an apple; I took it. We both stared, munching on our fruit, an unspoken alliance. 
        I was yet waiting for the thanks that never came. Not even till today.
     
     
     
    13
     
        Rogol seems to be regaining its composure. Each stroke was more confident, and that meant its challenger was now on the back foot.
       “C’mon, I think he needs help,” my East-Western compatriot mouthed. I saw my own reflection; still look good despite the adversity. My forehead was wrapped in a bandana, and from it grew spiky hair like a garden of alfalfa grass. I’m handsome, boyish and manly simultaneously, and clothed in a denim jacket. I exuded a carefree spirit, an opportunist willing to take advantage of situations whenever a plump carrot dangles.
        He walked off toward s the war zone, jogging, as if to warm up like a substitute football player. I didn’t share his enthusiasm, but I didn’t want to be tagged a coward either.
        R eluctantly I followed, copied his movements. When at close proximity, he unveiled a blaster, which he kept firing. It was a sight to behold; airborne, the dark-eyed warrior who had now sprouted alloy wings from his ribs shot electric currents; whilst on earth, the fair-skinned sportsman in sunglasses blasted a mean array of lazer beams at the Beast.
        They were succeeding. I now had to devi se my part to play in the offence. I checked my stamina. The battery level was nearly full. I won’t run out of steam any time soon unless I obtained a walloping of