Chapter 1: The Last of Oscorp
The year was 2126 when YGGDRASIL shattered the boundaries between reality and digital dreams. It wasn't merely a game—it was a living universe, a realm where mortals could ascend to godhood. The most ambitious DMMO-RPG ever conceived, promising infinite possibilities: weapons that defied physics, worlds that bent to your will, races beyond imagination, skills that rewrote reality itself. Players didn't simply log in—they transcended.
Among the millions who plunged into this digital cosmos was I: Taylor Bennett.
I had devoured every promotional trailer, consumed the endless forums buzzing with theories, and absorbed every whisper about its revolutionary customization. The combat was breathtaking, the world-building sublime. But none of that captivated me like one groundbreaking feature—the NPC system. You could forge anything. Not hollow avatars, but living beings: race, appearance, abilities, equipment, even complex personality matrices. You could breathe souls into code.
They weren't truly alive—they couldn't think or feel as humans do. But with meticulous design, with carefully woven backstories and nuanced traits, you could make them seem utterly real. That possibility consumed my every thought.
Players unleashed their wildest fantasies. Some crafted ethereal beauties, perfect digital muses to command and adore. Others birthed nightmare incarnate—horrors dripping with malevolence and terror. But I harbored a different vision, one rooted in nostalgia for something magnificent yet forgotten.
Marvel's Spider-Man.
Once, it was legendary. A superhero gaming saga that defined an era, swinging into hearts in the early 2000s and dominating screens through the 2020s. Spectacular, emotional, unforgettable. But the franchise faded into memory, its final webcast in 2025 before vanishing into history's vault. Only archived games remained, preserved in dusty servers for the devoted few who still remembered.
I wasn't there for its golden age, but I ached for what I'd missed. So I resolved to resurrect it—not through ancient files, but within YGGDRASIL itself.
I would rebuild its legends. The heroes. The villains. The symbiotes. Every character that once made hearts soar and pulses race. But such an ambitious undertaking demanded more than solitary devotion. So I took the only logical path—I founded a guild.
I christened it Oscorp Industries. Because what else would a true believer choose?
The charter was sacred:
- Your avatar must embody the Spider-verse—heroes, scientists, or the enhanced beings they study.
- Commitment was absolute. This wasn't entertainment; this was resurrection.
- Most crucially, you needed knowledge. Deep, passionate understanding of Marvel's Spider-Man: lore, characters, scientific principles, everything that made the web-slinger's world breathe.
With those principles established, Oscorp was born. Our mission blazed clear: to weave Spider-Man's legacy into YGGDRASIL's very fabric.
From countless applicants, only thirty proved worthy—thirty souls who shared my obsession, who grasped the magnitude of our calling. They became the foundation of Oscorp.
We organized into research divisions of five. Each team was assigned a specific Spider-Man saga, tasked with recreating its wonders—every spectacular power, every memorable ally and enemy that once captured imaginations. The scope was staggering, almost impossible. But our determination burned unshakeable.
Word spread like wildfire through the digital realm.
Soon, we transcended guild status. We became a phenomenon. Streamers analyzed our progress, forums debated our methods, and gaming news chronicled our every breakthrough. Our vision inspired imitators. Guilds materialized everywhere, attempting similar resurrections of beloved franchises: Batman, X-Men, countless others. But one by one, they crumbled. Dissolved before achieving progress, abandoned when passion cooled.
We teetered on the same precipice.
The brutal truth emerged: recreating Spider-Man's science-based powers in a world built for arcane magic proved nightmarish. Every attempt felt wrong—web-slinging behaving like spells, enhanced strength mimicking enchantments, spider-sense functioning as divination magic. It murdered the authenticity we craved, and guild morale plummeted. We stood moments from total collapse.
Then destiny intervened.
A developer reached out—not just any programmer, but one of us. A Marvel's Spider-Man devotee who believed in our sacred mission. He offered something unprecedented: a private customization framework. He called it Bio-Enhancement Mechanics.
For months, he labored alongside us, coding, testing, and perfecting algorithms. Together, we forged something that felt genuinely real. Bio-enhancements affected NPCs exactly as in the original games—spider-bites granting proportional strength, symbiotes bonding with hosts, and scientific accidents creating powered beings. Finally, authenticity lived.
But such gifts carry a price.
When the Bio-Enhancement race debuted—exclusive to Oscorp—it revolutionized everything. Our creations possessed incredible power. Perhaps too incredible. Enhanced beings who could overwhelm magic-users through sheer physical superiority and scientific innovation. Other players screamed, "Broken!"
Outrage erupted immediately. Forums ignited. Streams burned with fury. The developer imposed restrictions:
Bio-Enhanced NPCs cannot wield traditional magic. Their strength flows from science, mutation, and technological augmentation.
We accepted without hesitation. We never sought dominance—we pursued authenticity. But the community's hunger remained unsated. They demanded democratization. They wanted Bio-Enhancement mechanics made public.
Eventually, the developer yielded. The system became universally available.
But here lay the irony—almost nobody could master it. Players created weak, generic "mutants" that crumbled in actual combat. They craved instant gratification, not intricate systems requiring deep understanding. So they abandoned it entirely.
Oscorp flourished. Because we weren't chasing power—we were chasing perfection.
Years flowed past. Our dream crystallized into reality. Every hero, every villain, every supporting character from Marvel's Spider-Man had been painstakingly recreated. Oscorp had achieved the impossible.
But our ambitions reached further still.
Our reputation spread beyond creation into domination. We entered guild wars, competing for World Items—legendary artifacts capable of rewriting YGGDRASIL's fundamental laws. We never fought for glory or recognition. We battled only when victory served our greater purpose.
Despite our supposed limitations, one truth blazed undeniable: the heroes and villains we'd forged were unstoppable. Guild after guild fell before our scientifically-enhanced legions. This time, none could cry unfair—everyone had access to Bio-Enhancement mechanics.
Only we had mastered their secrets.
The gaming world learned a harsh reality: power didn't reside in systems—it lived in the minds that shaped them. And we had shaped ours into flawless precision.
Raids. Sieges. Dungeons. Wars. Repeatedly, enemies crumbled beneath our enhanced champions. Few guilds could stand against us. Foremost among them was Ainz Ooal Gown—a collective of veteran strategists who embraced death magic and undead armies, wielding overwhelming arcane knowledge and tactical brilliance.
When Oscorp clashed with Ainz Ooal Gown, the entire server stopped to witness. Those conflicts became legend. Some battles crowned them victorious, others blessed us. We were titans locked in eternal struggle—science versus sorcery, innovation against tradition. Every other guild understood one immutable law: oppose us, and face obliteration.
Our headquarters embodied our identity perfectly.
While others erected grand castles or mystical towers, we constructed a marvel—a towering research complex styled after Oscorp's iconic skyscraper from the Spider-Man universe. Gleaming laboratories stretched across multiple floors. Advanced testing chambers housed our creations. Holographic displays showed genetic sequences and enhancement formulas. Underground levels contained containment units for our more dangerous specimens. It wasn't traditionally beautiful—it was magnificently functional.
Most guilds positioned their treasuries on uppermost floors, protected by layers of guardians. We engineered something far more elegant. Our ground level appeared welcoming—corporate lobbies and reception areas that lured intruders into false security. Then began the ascent through scientific horror.
Floor after floor of enhanced nightmares. Each level became a monument to fallen raiders, torn apart by our Bio-Enhanced defenders. Some floors housed symbiote swarms that bonded with and controlled invaders. Others contained spider-themed guardians with proportional strength and reflexes. Higher levels featured tech-enhanced villains wielding advanced weaponry and armor. The true treasury resided at the peak, guarded by our greatest creation—a perfect fusion of science and power that embodied everything Spider-Man represented.
From our command center, we observed every intrusion with scientific fascination, documenting how intruders fell to our carefully crafted ecosystem of enhanced beings. Those were our golden days.
But golden eras inevitably fade.
When development ceased, excitement withered alongside it. Members drifted away, seeking thrills in more active guilds, chasing events that promised fresh adventures. From thirty devoted researchers, we dwindled to five. And now, as the servers prepare for their final shutdown...
Only one researcher remains.
Me, Taylor Bennett. Founder. Visionary. The last guardian of Oscorp's legacy.
Yet in these final hours, I find myself caught between two identities. The real me—a nostalgic gamer who simply wanted to preserve something beautiful—and the roleplay persona I'd crafted over the years. Dr. Taylor Bennett, Oscorp's enigmatic CEO, is brilliant and morally ambiguous, driven by scientific curiosity above all else. The lines had blurred so gradually that I sometimes forgot where Taylor the player ended and Dr. Bennett the character began.
Tonight, as I sit alone in this digital monument to forgotten dreams, both versions of myself feel the same crushing weight of solitude. We built something extraordinary, something that mattered. And now it dies with the servers, taking our passion project into digital oblivion.
The laboratories around me hum with simulated life—NPCs continuing their programmed routines, unaware that their world ends at midnight. My enhanced creations patrol their designated zones, maintaining their eternal vigil over empty halls. They're perfect in every detail, more real than many actual people I've known.
But they're still just code. And when the servers go dark, even these masterpieces will cease to exist.
I lean back in my chair, gazing through the massive windows of Oscorp Tower at the sprawling city below. YGGDRASIL's skyline glitters with lights that will soon extinguish forever. Somewhere out there, other players are saying their goodbyes to digital worlds they helped create.
The irony isn't lost on me. Peter Parker always fought to save his city, to protect the people he loved. But I can't save this one. I can only watch it die, taking with it years of dedication, creativity, and dreams made manifest in pixels and code.
In a few hours, Oscorp will fall silent. The last web will be severed. And Dr. Taylor Bennett—both versions of him—will fade into memory alongside the heroes and villains we fought so hard to preserve.
The city lights blur slightly. I tell myself it's just eye strain from staring at screens too long.
After all, even scientists are allowed their quiet moments of grief.
So, here it is.
Suggest the characters you want to be NPCs here.