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After an uncomfortably long pause that makes me wonder if she’s gone AFK entirely, a reply pops up.

SassyLassie

k

Just “k”? Not “Don’t worry”, not “Got your back”, just . . . “k”? Wow, she’s really sticking with this whole “no chatting” thing. Usually we’d spend ages hashing out our approach. She’d poke holes in my harebrained plans, I’d try (and fail) to defend them, then we’d inevitably go with her idea.

There’s no opportunity to dwell on her uncharacteristic coldness because she sprints ahead and opens the massive double doors.

“Right then,” I mutter, once again to myself, as I follow after her.

The chamber beyond is vast, and more green torches line its stone walls, casting shadows that dance across the floor. In the very centre of the room stands our opponent, lit by moonlight that spills from a crack in the far wall.

The thing is enormous, easily three times my avatar’s size, with twisted antlers that curl out from a cracked skull. Its body is translucent and vaguely humanoid, but it shifts and flickers like smoke trapped within an outline of armour. One of the wraith’s hands grips a wickedly curved glaive that glows with a sinister green light, while the other holds spectral chains that drag noiselessly across the floor as it takes a menacing step towards us. The monster lets out a bone-rattling howl.

LochNLoad

All right, big guy. Let’s dance.

No response from Sass, not even a sarcastic “Wow, original” like she’d usually throw at me for such clichéd bravado. She simply takes position behind me and charges her staff with fiery energy.

I edge closer to the wraith, for once resisting the urge to rush in without thinking. A crucial part of any Highland Legacy boss fight is figuring out the thing’s attack patterns. Skip that step and you don’t stand a chance. The key to survival in the opening minutes is observation, not unloading every attack in your arsenal.

The wraith and I circle each other cautiously as I wait for an opening. When Sass sends a series of fireballs its way, I see my chance and lunge towards it, but it darts sideways with surprising speed for something so massive, then lashes out with a wide swing of its glaive. I just manage to dodge the weapon itself, but it sends green shock waves outwards that chip away at my health bar. Great start.

Crap, I need to be more careful. I move further away from it, trying to stay just outside its reach while studying its movements, like how it feints left before striking right. I’m also acutely aware that I’ve yet to see those chains come into play. Knowing this game, there’s zero chance they’re just for show.

Sass casts another fiery barrage at the wraith that lights up the chamber like a miniature fireworks display. One fireball slams into the monster’s chest plate, momentarily dispersing some of the smoke from its body. But, like fog drawn into a vacuum, it re-forms. The wraith lets out a piercing shriek and turns towards Sass, brandishing its chains with a menacing air.

Not today! I dart forwards, drawing its attention back to me, then roll under a swipe of its glaive, but the pulsing shock waves again catch me, dropping my health bar even further. Shit! But at least it gives Sass an opening. She unleashes a crackling inferno that sends flames licking up the wraith’s antlers.

The blast draws the fiend’s focus back to Sass, which in turn gives me the perfect chance to strike. I swing the Claymore of the Clan Chiefs in a wide arc that carves straight through its smoky midsection. For a moment it looks like it’s had no effect, then crimson damage numbers flash above its head: 1200 . . . 1400 . . . 1600. Hell yes!

Confidence surges through me. We’ve got this in the bag! Or so I think. Those spectral chains whip forward and coil around my legs like a cursed lasso. They yank me off my feet and slam me to the ground, taking a massive chunk out of my health bar.

“Oh, come on!” I complain to my screen as LochNLoad scrambles back to his feet, the flashing red warning at the bottom of my display screaming danger.

I wait for Sass to cast a healing spell, but instead she lobs another volley of offensive spells at the boss. What is she playing at?

LochNLoad

Heal!

I dodge another devastating glaive attack by sheer luck rather than skill—that would have been the end of me—but again I’m caught by those bloody shock waves, knocking my health down ludicrously low.

LochNLoad

HEAL!!!

Still nothing! What is she doing?

And then: another swing of the glaive—another desperate dodge—but the shock wave slams into my anyway, draining the last of my health. LochNLoad staggers and drops to one knee, the claymore slipping from his grasp. Then . . . he crumples forwards, faceplanting onto the stone floor.

My screen fades to black, and bold white letters declare: You Have Died. A moment later the game really twists the knife in: Experience Lost: 9450 EXP.

“Brilliant,” I groan, leaning back in my chair and rubbing both hands through my hair. “Just bloody brilliant. Nearly ten thousand EXP gone, just like that.” That’s everything I’d earned since I last levelled up.

Admittedly, it is possible to disable the lose-EXP-on-death setting for a less brutal gaming experience, but any self-respecting gamer knows that’s just not how it’s done. Dying is supposed to sting. And sting it does, because everything I’ve accomplished today—clearing out the bogborn infestation in the ruined village and taking down wave after wave of wretchlings in Dun Speir’s courtyard and tower—has been for nothing. Every bit of experience I earned? Gone.