《To Reap What They Sow》 The Light At The End Of The Tunnel ''There''s nothing to be done.'' Terrible phrase, that, and one that fails to encapsulate all the little details of horror it brings. Doctors wave that phrase around to clean themselves of any responsibility. It''s not that they can''t solve the problem, it''s not a personal failure, it''s something impossible. Must make it easier to sleep at night, being able to brush off the idea of someone''s impending death with a quick, cookie-cutter phrase. To others, though, it makes sleep so much worse... when it''s something attainable at all. Tossing and turning on rumpled bedding, an elderly man jerks sharply from side to side, his eyes frantically sweeping back and forth underneath his eyelids, reliving some unpleasant moment. The damned phrase echoed in his dreams, along with images of hospitals, of treatments, of a small, feminine figure lying in bed with too many tubes hooked up to too many machines. Sweat ran rivulets down the old man''s face, his too-slim chest heaving with the gasping, shuddering draw of breath. He abruptly sat up, shouting a reverberating "NO!" into the darkness of the night, eyes jolting open as an arm outstretched before him, grasping at an illusion, a remnant of his dream. Long moments passed as he slowly came to his senses, aided by the banging of a neighbor in the next apartment protesting at the noise in the wee hours of the early morning. Hands reached up toward his face, and too-thin, bony fingers swept across his features, wiping at his eyes. It was merely sweat from the night, of course. Even here, in the privacy of his own home, he wouldn''t admit to tears. "Lovely to see you, Amanda, as always." A rasping, feeble voice called out conversationally to the empty room, with a sense of familiarity. "Though, I do wish you''d come and visit in the pleasant dreams, once in a while. Yes, yes. We both know I don''t have pleasant dreams anymore. But I''m sure you could manage one if you tried." A sharpclack resounded as a lamp was turned on atop the nearby nightstand, and his gaze lingered on a photo of a young woman, looking to be in her early twenties. Short blonde hair, captivating blue eyes, fair skin. The way he preferred to remember her: at her best, before the treatments made her lose her hair. Cancer is a terrible thing, only made so much worse when it was detected far too late. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, or at least blunt them. That''s what all the do-gooders liked to parrot at him, their chicken-noodle-soup for his bitter, angry soul. How could they understand that each and every day he felt that pain as fresh as the day it first happened. The world felt so much dimmer without her light to shine in it. His heart felt so much emptier now that he alone had to fill it. They tried to tell him it wasn''t healthy, to dwell. To keep talking to her as he always tried to do, to create the smallest comfort for himself in imagining she was there beside him, watching over him. To hell with healthy, then! He preferred the idea of her over trying to conform to whatever kind of health they wanted for him! Malcom Donald was an exceptional example of a crotchety old bastard. He barely managed to scoot himself around the house with a heavy stoop to his back, hunched forward and half propped up by a cane, stumbling along in a Quasimodo-like posture. His limbs were too thin and boney, from a lack of sleep, insufficient eating, and poor health combined. His pale skin was almost stretched taut over his frame, and was growing increasingly vampire-like as he spent less and less time venturing out of his home, keeping the curtains drawn to avoid having to see passerby. After all: he hated people. All of them, as a whole, infuriated him. They didn''t even have the decency to keep their happiness isolated to themselves! Every time he went out, everyone was so damn happy all the time! What was there to be happy about? That, and they always gave him strange looks whenever he had something to say to Amanda. He wasn''t just talking to himself! They just couldn''t hear the other half of the conversation. Heaving himself out of bed with one hand on the nightstand and the other trying to steady his cane underneath him, Malcom started to hoist himself into a standing posture. He took several long breaths and tried to fight off the sense of light-headedness that came with his rise, eventually starting a slow shuffle toward the bathroom. Trying to clear his throat only devolved into an awful fit of coughing, spitting into the sink unceremoniously as he rattled through the medicine cabinet, going for his pill case. Popping open the last of the sections and pouring the entire mix into his mouth like candy, he stared forward at his tired reflection, locking eyes with his own doppelganger on the other side of the glass. "It''s been too long, Amanda. I can feel it. Every day, down in my bones, the tiredness leaves a little more behind. It''ll be soon, I bet. We''ll see each other again." A small smile formed in the mirror, flitting across his expression, the idea the only thing that could manage to bring it to his face. "We''ll dance, like we used to. I can''t wait to see what you''ll look like dancing again, dear. I can barely remember." The very idea had him feeling light on his feet, as if he could dance right here on the spot, borderline-crippled back and all. No, in fact... it wasn''t just his feet. Everything felt light. Dreamy. Like he was about to fall back asleep. Preposterous, he just woke up. Shaking his head, he forced his eyes open wider, as if that would alleviate his tiredness, and started toward the kitchen. "I''ll cook for you, still, though. All those times I cooked for you were pure pleasure compared to cooking for just myself. I could care less what I eat, but I always cooked the best when it was for you. Have to touch up reading the recipe book, though... wouldn''t want to forget..." His voice trailed off into mumbling, then eventually silence, his train of thought fragmented and struggling. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Malcom''s thought process was rather jarringly interrupted by the repeated rapping against his apartment door. "Fuck off!" He yelled at the door with an immediate frown. These people, can''t they just leave him alone? It quickly became clear that whoever was making themselves known wasn''t taking refusal for an answer, the rapping knock easing into a wall-rattling pounding of a fist demanding attention. Continuing to swear under his breath at the idiocy of whoever was bothering him, he eventually shuffled to the door and cracked it open, peering through a narrow crack into the hallway. "What?" Malcom demanded, eyeing the balding, rotund middle-aged fellow standing in the hallway, wearing their pajamas. One of the neighbors he didn''t bother to remember the name of, even if he still recognized the face. "It''s every morning you''re shouting, waking up my kids! It''s three in the morning!Three!" Malcom rolled his eyes, growling under his breath, "Your screaming gremlins kept me up late enough times when they were still on the tit, so I don''t give a shit if they get woke up a few times. Now piss off." He made a move to shut the door again, but the livid man shoved his arm in the open gap and shouldered the door. He was shouting something in response, but the words didn''t seem to register with his ears. Malcom had jumped backward from the sudden lunge, and though the neighbor had never so much as touched him, he lost his balance, feeling his center of mass tipping too far back, arms splaying outward to try and catch on something to steady himself. The angry look in the neighbor''s eyes turned to surprise, belatedly half-reaching toward Malcom as he fell toward a bookshelf. The frail arms caught against the frame of it, doing little besides rattling it in place. It wobbled, then a sharp crack sounded out as one of the lower boards on the overburdened bookcase broke from the jolt. The entire frame and its contents tipped forward, looming over the sprawled elderly man on the floor. Thump. And everything was black. Nothingness. On the one hand, a blessing. All the little aches and pains that Malcom had lived with for so long that they had become an intrinsic part of his day were gone. On the other hand, there was no one waiting for him in the emptiness. That just... cannot be right. She''s going to meet me. Amanda will be there, waiting for me, of course. It''s the only way things are meant to wind up. After all, there''s still... something going on. Malcom had his thoughts, here in the nothing. Does that mean that she''s here, too, somewhere he can''t sense yet? Wait. What''s this? A light? He always thought it to be clich¨¦, the idea that at the end of it all there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. A gentle blue hue, like a clear sky on a summer day. Is this the place in-between? Maybe he was just too impatient, and he was being whisked away to his pearly gates. These things took time, he supposed, though he could hardly be blamed for wanting to see his Amanda again as soon as possible. The light was swelling, growing brighter now, but it no longer looked like an opening at the end of a tunnel. Well, no, that''s not true. There definitely was a tunnel, and the light was at the end of it, but at the wrong end of it. A simple blue sphere was emitting the light, supported by a pedestal about three feet tall and nearly as wide around. The sphere was merely about an inch in diameter, seemingly out-of-place on the huge stone pedestal that supported it. And why was it giving off so much light? It was growing brighter and brighter, until Malcom felt it was the only thing in his vision, like it was engulfing everything he could observe.''Who could imagine the passage to Heaven could be so simple and underwhelming?'' He mused to himself, the sense of tension rising, expecting to find something on the other side once his vision wasn''t dominated by the blue glow. When the intense light faded, he was still in the same place. A semicircle of a dome creating a chamber twenty-feet across, the pedestal in the middle, and the marble-like orb perched precisely in the middle of that. The only new addition was a blue-tinged window that popped itself up in front of his field of vision.
Soul Integration successful. Dungeon core has been stabilized. Please enter the dungeon''s name.
Malcom didn''t have any idea what any of this was supposed to mean, but he latched on to one important keyword. Soul. This blue marble had taken his soul? Become his soul? His soul had become the marble? It wasn''t clear exactly which was the case, but they all led in mostly the same direction. One he was struggling to avoid thinking about.''Amanda... what have I gotten dragged into? And where are you?''The thought echoed in his head. Did he even have a head? Was this sphere his head now? It didn''t matter.''She isn''t here. Where is she?She isn''t here. Where is she? SHE ISN''T HERE. WHERE. IS. SHE?''He could feel that he was spiraling down into an unhealthy place. The only thing that he had clung to for so,so long was the fact that at the end of it, Amanda would be there. Waiting for him. To have his hopes raised so far, only to find them lacking, was almost as if he was losing his wife all over again. No, no. He wasn''t losing her again. He simply hadn''t found her yet. All he had to do was start looking. Embracing Hatred The message floated before Malcom''s vision, waiting patiently for a response that was not forthcoming. How much time passed in his state of insensate disbelief at what was going on, he couldn''t tell, but there was a light forming at the far end of his little tunnel. The gentle hues of natural light, of the sun rising and brightening the day. The narrow slice of view out the hallway connecting him to the opening showed tall, wild-grown grasses and not much more. ''Amanda. I''m going to find Amanda. She''s the only reason I have to go forward. I''m going to find her, or I''m going to find whoever brought me here and make them take me to her.'' His attention finally focused back on the screen obscuring the lower portion of his sight, as it had been following his wandering stare like a child begging for attention. There was only one name there could be, wasn''t there?
Input accepted: Amanda Error. Name incompatible. Adjusting. Dungeon name: Tomb of Amanda
What, no! That was unacceptable! This squalid little hole in the wall couldn''t be her tomb! He simply wanted to use her name to christen the place he had been brought to with her memory. Something that might lighten his spirits, to ease the pain of not yet finding the one light in his world. Now it would simply be a mockery, as if to tell him that he was doomed to merely cherish her memory, rather than ever find her again. Let him change it now, to something with a promise of hope. Amanda''s Beacon, perhaps, to shine through this world and light her way to him? No matter how hard Malcom tried to scream his thoughts at the cold, unchanging screen... it refused to acknowledge his demands.
Please input a primary aspect. Your primary aspect will suffuse through all future dungeon options and choices. This choice is irrevocable.
So kind of this message to warn him of its permanence, while the last was just as uncaring to his desire to change it. Perhaps whatever was speaking to him found this choice to be of much greater importance, but he couldn''t care less about it. This... thing... was toying with him. The world was toying with him. Everything was a mockery to his one desire, pulling him further away from the only thing that would bring him peace. He hated it. Not knowing what was going on, not knowing where he was, not knowing where she is- No, don''t start ranting those thoughts over and over once again already. Yes. If there was one thing he could direct at a world that didn''t have Amanda in it in abundance, it was hatred.
Primary aspect: Hate Adjusting core state.
What that meant to him wasn''t clear, but what followed made any attempt at contemplating the meaning impossible. Pain. So much pain. It was as if he had been shoved into a vat of boiling oil, while simultaneously having it forcibly pumped through his veins. It burned out thought, no, it burned out the very concept of thinking. All-encompassing agony was the only way to describe the sensation, and even that description fell short by an order of magnitude. In a completely insensate state, Malcom was unable to assess the slow changes forming through the room and upon his core. The bright, sunny blue hue of a peaceful summer day upon his core began to dim, to grey out. As if clouds loomed on the horizon, promising rain, no, promising thunderstorms to shake the foundations of everything. From that steel grey to darker, near-black roiling clouds as the shift in color flickered upon the orb''s surface. The cave itself wasn''t immune to the changes, either, as the half-sphere dome of his room began to crack and shift, long crevasses forming in the walls as the smooth edges broke away to jarring, angular formations of stone. Splintering, jagged spurs of obsidian that shone with the faintest inner light pushed outward from these new openings, growing along the floor and ceiling like broken teeth. Those spurs began to spread the shift to the rest of the cave, turning it into a facsimile of some forgotten lava-tube in a dormant volcano. The very aura of the place promised terrible things to any who dared to trespass upon this domain. Not for the idea of punishing them for their transgressions, but merely because it could. To cause suffering for the very sake of suffering itself, without rhyme, reason, or compromise. The now pitch-black core was still perfectly spherical, but it was now covered in ridges and slight hollows. The entire outer surface of the sphere was lined with razorblade-like sharpness at the tips of the ridges that followed some ethereal and arcane-looking patterning, while the indented hollows shone with the faintest silver, the only tint of lighter hue in the pitch-black redecoration of the cavern. The glow of that silver light grew brighter and brighter as the process drew to its conclusion, the light reflecting in a kaleidoscope of shimmering off all the jagged obsidian-like surfaces surrounding it. Slowly, Malcom''s senses returned, such as they were. He could see everything in his domain with perfect clarity, but the moment he tried to view outward past the end of the tunnel where the obsidian stone halted, it was like he was trying to read without his glasses, blurred and indistinct. He could make out a slightly-rolling curvature to the land, and tall, waving seas of wild grasses. A taller blur of greenery in the moderate distance that was likely some form of woodland was the furthest landmark he could make out, with the occasional small copse of trees between him and there. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
Aspect shift complete. Tomb of Amanda has become Tomb of Amanda''s Hatred. The dungeon will now thrive on the energies of hatred. Hatred directed at the dungeon will increase mana productivity in proportion to the strength and duration of the hatred. The intensity of the hatred of the dungeon at a target will increase the effectiveness of actions against a target. Passive mana generation has now begun. Build defenses, spawn creatures, survive.
If Malcom still had eyes, they would have jolted wide at the announcement. This was now the place where Amanda left her hatred to be buried? This was where he was bound! Was this... this... thing trying to imply that Amanda hated him? That he was the thing that was hated and needed to be hidden away? Amanda was a saint, the woman he loved never had any hatred to bury! She was perfection itself! This mockery merely served to bring him closer and closer to blind, frothing rage. If it wanted to drive him to hate whatever had created this prison he was now bound in, it was doing an excellent job. Giving vent to his anger took several minutes, during which the silver glow on his obsidian core pulsed with ebbs and flows akin to drawing and releasing breath. Brightening in intensity, holding briefly, dimming in intensity, and repeating over and over. A sense of slow-building energy suffused through Malcom''s mind. The mana that it spoke of, he could only assume. As he thought about the terms ''defenses'' and ''creatures'', appropriate displays appeared before him, attempting to list an assortment of changes he could make and what it would cost him in mana to do so. From growing more of the spikes that jutted out around the cave, clearing new ground to make for more space, moving things from one area to another. When he focused on creatures, it prompted him to choose an archetype, which he declined to do for the time being. He had an intrinsic sense of his mana, in the same way that he knew exactly how many fingers he had on each hand in the past, as if he couldn''t bring himself to not be aware of this knowledge. It was ticking upward in fractional increments, the moments since generation began not enough to bring him up to even a single point of mana. Plenty of time to brood- no, to think about his options before having to come up with a choice. A shopping list was easy to manage when you were completely broke, after all. He wanted- well, the only thing he truly wanted was well outside his reach. But failing that, what he felt he should do was assess his options, to think, to try and remain calm and perform as optimally with his decisions going forward as he could manage. The other part of him was screaming in the back of his mind, demanding that he start planning where he was going to look for Amanda first. But it was the smaller part of him, now. It was important to him, and he wouldn''t ever bring himself to stop thinking about it entirely, but if there was one thing he had learned through his long life, it was to be patient. Knowing that he couldn''t have what he wanted meant it was time to plan, plot, and scheme meticulously until he was able to manage it. In the end, nothing was going to stand in his way. Nothing. Some distance away, in the midst of a field of tall wild grasses, huddled down by the base of a small cluster of three broad trees, two hunters shared a glance with each other. The first was a portly man who looked as if he was more accustomed to eating than hunting, his threadbare, home-stitched leathers seemingly strained over his figure, designed for someone of less considerable girth. He shielded his eyes with one hand, the other clenched tightly against a bow, "Are ''ya sure that you felt something, Tam?" The drawled words were half-wheezed out, scanning the grassland and seeing little cause for concern. The grass waved in the gentle wind, but naught else seemed to be moving. "I haven''t seen hide nor hair of so much as a hare since we came out today. Are you sure you ain''t just jumpy?" The second man, Tam, shook his head with vigorous aggression to refute his companion. "I''m tellin'' ''ya, somethin'' was watching us! I felt it! I felt it in my bones! Somethin'' dangerous. Mighty dangerous. It felt like it''d kill me just ''fer bein'' near. That''s a dangerous predator, that is, Vern. I got a skill for it, ''ya know that. I wouldn''t yank down and make us hide like that if I wasn''t sure!" He was almost a caricature of an opposite to Vern, being too-tall, too-lanky. The sleeves on his similarly poorly-stitched leathers several inches too short, the leggings suffering from the same ailment. Tam sucked at his teeth, a habit of his when he was trying his best to think about a thorny problem. "Like ''ya said, we ain''t seein'' any game around here... But just to be safe, let''s head back the way we came. We can circle around the other side or somethan''." Vern shook his head with a groan, "That''s gonna mean we ain''t getting back ''ta Kremston until well after sundown, ''ya know. It ''taint safe out in the Valdweald after dark, and we''ll be hittin'' those woods right at sunset as it is." The lanky man reached over and knocked a fist atop his companion''s head, "Then sleep out here in the tall grass with Alderin-knows-what lurkin'', I''m not stayin'' here and I know you''re too cowardly to stay alone. Get moving." Nocking an arrow and keeping his bow at the ready to be drawn, Tam stood up from his crouch and started backing himself away from the strangely malevolent stare he had felt trigger his dangersense. Grumbling under his breath, Vern hoisted himself up from his crouch with considerably more difficulty, following his companion. "I still think yer jumping at shadows..." He muttered, mostly under his breath, but acquiescing to the extra hours added to the hunting route just the same. "Just a big field full o'' nothin''." Bunkering Down Malcom took no action for some time, seething over the various ways he perceived this dungeon situation was slighting him, mocking him. When a human loses themselves in their thoughts, there are things to help keep track of the time or distract them from their brooding. The passage of breaths and heartbeats, making you aware of each moment slipping away. Eventually, they would begin to tire, hunger, or feel thirst. A dungeon had none of these things, and so minutes eased into hours, the light of the sun peeking into his obsidian passage fading away completely. Finally, however, one of the few sensations available to him as a dungeon drew Malcom''s attention toward the present moment. He felt full, totally satiated.
Mana available: 100/100 Mana storage is now full. Please consume mana or create additional storage. Failure to do so in a timely fashion may cause mana overflow.
Whatever the symptoms of mana overflow were, it sounded like it wasn''t pleasant if Malcom was being warned away from it. While the notices didn''t seem to offer much information willingly, they seemed to need to be taken very seriously once they do. ''So. The first thing I should spend mana on is some form of defenses, considering it mentioned a need to survive. Someone or something is going to be interested in a dungeon, and not to my benefit.'' He felt it was obvious, really, considering there was magic at play and he was able to produce the basic resource needed to perform it as a dungeon. He was going to find Amanda, and he wouldn''t be able to do anything if someone tried to siphon mana off him to turn him into a magical battery, or worse. ''I''m not sure I''m confident enough with what sort of defenses I might need, though. If I make pitfalls, my enemies might fly. If I use magic, my enemies might be resistant. The best approach is to try a little bit of everything, to avoid being too set in with one type.'' He was dedicating a surprising amount of thought to this, and yet Malcom wasn''t able to recognize how borderline absurd it was for him to be handling things this well so quickly. It was like an instinct, nudging him toward the process. The closest feeling was like standing too close to a ledge. Your body wanted to instinctively move away from the edge, recognizing the risk, even if you could deny that urge with willpower. The act of defending himself was coming to him with that same primal insistence, and he had been able to ignore it when he set his mind to other tasks, but was led along more readily as he put his mind to the matter. ''I still need to be ready to look for Amanda, so when I decide what type of creatures I want to summon, I should pick something suitable. Ideally, I want something with good mobility and good eyesight, possibly with a good memory. I don''t know if I''ll be able to see through the creatures, or if I''ll need them to be able to report to me somehow.'' After mulling over the decision for some time, he opened the creature menu once again, which prompted him to select an archetype for his summoning. There wasn''t a list to choose from, it simply awaited his input. It was tempting to jump straight into something like ''dragons'' as his choice, but his gut instinct told him that was a bad idea. Sure, a dragon might be impressive, but the fantasy trope generally made them massive as a target for their useful body parts, arrogant and likely hard to control, and more to the point most probably prohibitively expensive. That, or he would be able to create a dragon whelp that might be useful to him after he let it grow up for a hundred years. The flight and intelligence appealed to him, so perhaps he could try to go for a broad category and slip in dragon as a possible option within it? He needed to experiment to see how much he could get away with. It was much easier to work broad and narrow it down than to lock himself into an overly-specific specialty right from the start.
Choosing creature archetype: Flying. Error, incompatible input. Please specify a narrower archetype, genus, or classification.
Well, it had been a shot at the moon, but you never knew how exploitable something was until you tried it. It didn''t sour his mood, much, but that was only because Malcom hadn''t been having any hopeful thoughts since this entire ordeal began. ''Stupid goddamn thing.'' He swore to himself to vent his ire a little. With what he wanted, he felt some compulsion toward the air in his choice. Sure, he was land-bound himself, but he wanted the mobility and freedom of searching that could only come from the skies. Plus, in any situation where one side could fly and the other couldn''t, the advantage was almost always in favor of the side with superior maneuverability. ''Maybe I''m thinking too much about this, I don''t even know if the creatures I might want to pick are even choices I can make. Plus, I''m actually starting to feel a little over-full, like I''ve had too much to eat. I need to make a decision before something else predictably terrible happens, like I explode...''
Choosing creature archetype: Avian. Input accepted. Level 1 summon unlocked: Picantch
''Right, so, nothing I know anything about then. I hope this thing comes with a summary. Bestiary? Dictionary?'' Malcom''s attempts at conjuring a relevant menu yielded no result, so he resorted to opening the creature menu once again. The Picantch was listed at a cost of 5 mana, so he could call up a small flock of them if he felt the need to do so. For the time being, he opted to create just one to get an idea of what he was working with. When he made the decision, the sensation of being too full faded rapidly, and the silver glow playing around the razor-ridges of his core brightened significantly, a flow of glittering particles seeping from the core to an area near one of the obsidian spikes jutting from the ground. A vague blob of energy gathered, slowly growing more sleek and streamlined as the creature seemed to be molded directly from the mana as if it was clay, the silvery hue fading away to leave a monochromatic bird about two-feet in height perched atop the rocky spire. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The Picantch tipped its head to one side, seemingly displaying curiosity toward the core, intensely staring at the sphere, while Malcom examined the bird in turn. It was a bird that seemed suitable to being stealthy, being primarily black-feathered, with a circular pattern of white on the middle of its wingspan that almost resembled eyes. On a natural bird, this was likely some form of pattern designed to be displayed by flaring the wings out, possibly for mating rituals, or as an attempt to intimidate potential hostiles. As the creature released a surprisingly deep trill in the direction of the core, the parted beak displayed teeth. Multiple overlapping rows of teeth, even, the sharp and pointed design indicating it was carnivorous... or was that merely a feature of necessity, to give the bird the ability to fight to defend the dungeon? The interior of the beak looked more like a blender than anything else. ''Well, I suppose that flying piranha-birds aren''t too bad of a result. Hm. Fly outside?'' At the instruction, the bird flew to the end of the tunnel, circled around outside briefly, and rose leisurely into the night sky. Despite the fact that it almost immediately left his view, Malcom was able to sense the direction of the bird as it circled around the small hill that contained the entrance hallway, as well as a vague sense of distance. Not enough to let him know any specific measurements, just enough to be able to tell the bird was widening its circles each time it went around. Perhaps it took the order as a request for it to patrol? Or it just wanted to stretch its newborn wings. At least he didn''t summon them as little chicks. ''Come back inside.'' Malcom was pleased to find out that the bird, despite being clearly outside of his domain, responded promptly to his orders and returned to its previous perch. Aside from preening its wings with its beak, it didn''t show any reaction to being ordered about. The fact that it was preening its wings at all, though, showed that the creature possessed some level of instinct or intelligence. ''What did you see?'' The bird trilled a pattern of song that lasted a few seconds at the question, but it wasn''t an answer that he was able to get any information from. So getting a magical recording or replay of what his summons saw was out of the question, then, huh? ''Was there anything else outside?'' This time, the bird offered a sharp, singular chirp and bobbed in place, bouncing enthusiastically. ''I''m going to hope that means yes. Was there anything dangerous to you outside?'' The Picantch tipped its beak upward, almost seeming to display arrogance at the question, a sharp squawking reverberating through the cave. ''Don''t you mouth off to me, you feathered bastard! I get the feeling that was bird for something insulting!'' His temper snapped quickly and easily, though it was pure speculation on his part. After all, he was trying to decipher bird behavior he had never seen before. Still, he felt the slightest bit better at getting to vent his ire toward something that seemed sentient enough to form a response. The Picantch ducked its head and huddled down on its perch, tucking its head underneath one wing like it intended to sleep, or was making a show of ignoring him. ''Hopefully these birds are only a pain in the ass when it''s not important...'' Malcom griped to himself, taking the initiative to summon another nine of the birds. That meant he had spent a full half of his accumulated mana on birds, but he didn''t have any better ideas for it at this moment. ''Alright, you lot. Stuff your beaks and pay attention. Five of you can be in here, resting, or whatever else you birds need to do at a time. Build a nest if you need one, I don''t know. One lookout directly outside, flying around the area. If anything dangerous looks to be coming around, try and lead it away. If you can''t, and you think you can beat it with the rest of the birds, fly in here and get them. The other four, I want you to travel the area around and look for people. Towns. Roads. I want to know what''s around me, even if I have to get you feathery jackasses to play charades to tell me later.'' The small flock took a moment and seemed to be establishing something of a pecking order, the one that was summoned first strutting around the others and squawking at them, batting at them with its wings, and generally looking like it was trying to establish itself as the bully. Perhaps it was a situation of older brother pushing the younger brother around, as the five birds sent out to do the job he outlined were the last five that had finished their summoning process. The other birds scattered around the tunnel, finding what they found to be the most comfortable perches upon the assorted jagged crevasses and jutting spires and settling in for the night. ''Now that I have a start on the creatures, I should probably look into managing some sort of expansion. I don''t feel safe just sitting here at the end of the first hallway. Any schmuck with a rifle- or, well, a spell or whatever else either- could just blast away at me down the tunnel the way things sit right now.'' When he thought about expanding his dungeon, a menu popped up in Malcom''s vision displaying ''Rooms'' and the option to excavate ground at the cost of mana and time. The faster he wanted it done, the more mana he could pump into the process. If he didn''t care about speed, he could be thrifty, but it also gave him options for an emergency should the situation arise. That was good to know. For now, he began the process of turning the circular room his core resided into a spiraling staircase that moved steadily downward. He chose a design that left a center column of open air as a gap in the middle, and also around the outer edge as well. The end result looked something like someone had carved a five-foot-wide obsidian staircase and ignored the need for load-bearing supports. The eerie sight of slick-looking black stone forming a hovering staircase spiraling downward into darkness would be rather significant. Add in the fact that jagged spikes of the material stuck out at the edge of the stairs, where it could cause stumbling or even stabbing threats the entire way down, it would take a special kind of bravery to venture down into this dungeon. After about two hours, the ten-foot drop that he had created wasn''t the most threatening-looking, but he had no intention of stopping. Malcom didn''t want his birds to need to hit a vital point to bring down a threat. Even a minor wound that caused flinching in the wrong direction or panic at the wrong time should be enough to send any would-be interlopers on a one-way trip to the bottom of the staircase. He kept himself digging downward, his core constantly descending to be at the lowest point, sinking further and further into the depths of the earth. A Seed of Hate "Why did I let ''ya talk me into taking the long way around again, Tam? It''s colder than a witch''s tit out here tonight, and I''m tellin'' ya, we''re goin'' in circles!" The drawling, whining tone reverberated off the nearby trees, even when the portly man talking kept his voice at little more than a stage whisper. The hunting pair, Vern and Tam, were out in the woodlands known as the Valdweald. Once the sun went down and the directionality of light was lost, this forest was notoriously difficult to traverse. Why was that? Because the trees grew together with unnatural closeness and ferocity, their foliage combining into an intensely tight-knit canopy that made it all but impossible to see the sky. The Valdweald stretched for over a ten-day travel on horse to cross from one side to another even if you kept on the few roads it had. Even keeping to the fringes was enough to make most folk nervous, as one wrong turn was all it took to delve deeper than you expected. There was no going off the stars to orient, and as for climbing the trees to scout around? No one did that if they wanted to get out of the woods alive. Some superstitious folk claimed that the trees themselves would move around when no one was watching them, to coax you into losing a landmark or making a wrong turn, and those were the nicer ones. Some of the tales spoke of trees that ripped men from their paths and buried their bones deep beneath their roots. Still, for all the dangers people whispered of when travelling on the ground level of the woodland, none thought traversing the canopy a better choice. A type of long-limbed, saber-toothed feline that the locals just called ''Vald Prowlers'' liked to make their homes up in the canopy. They rarely ambushed prey that remained down below, for reasons the locals weren''t certain of yet remained grateful for. The deadly felines seemed content to make meals of the birds, snakes, and other creatures that also lived high in the dense foliage zone. "Do ''ya ever bitch about not fallin'' down the stairs because it was slower ''ta walk down em? I swear, Vern, you always want to go huntin'' with me because I''ve got Dangersense, but ''ye always want to complain like ''ye got a sore tooth when I go around the stuff I sense!" Tam matched his companion''s volume level, enough to converse over the ten-or-so feet between them as they picked their way through the tangle of growth, trying to avoid rustling any low foliage or step on any branches. The pair made their way through the dark without much effort, the pair of hunters both equipped with Darkvision skills, but that didn''t mean either of them enjoyed being in the pitch black. The skill had the unpleasant side effect of dulling all colors to bland shades of grey, making it that much harder to pick out threats from the background, emphasizing more on noticing motion. A sudden shudder ran down the lanky fellow''s spine, and Tam felt his pulse quicken with a sudden spike of adrenaline. "Down!" He hissed through his clenched teeth, jumping forward in a diving tackle for cover at the base of the nearest tree, curling himself into a defensive crouch and grabbing at the knife hanging from his belt, drawing it. Vern had barely started to react, turning toward Tam with a question on his lips, when a small figure flitted rapidly around the tree trunks, approaching the rotund hunter. One of the scouting Picantch had traversed to the area, scouting along with Malcom''s orders in search of ''people, towns, roads''. It found people! Now. What was it supposed to do with people? Lacking any further orders on the matter, the avian monster decided to follow its instincts to deal with the situation. The black-hued beak opened wide, and the bird approached Vern from the rear. Sharp-tipped talons latched onto the thin leather padding on the man''s back, the soft leather performing pitifully as an attempt at armor and doing better as a perch. With a sharp, stabbing motion of the beak, the Picantch bit down on the side of Vern''s throat before he could so much as defend himself. In the time it took the man to start a scream, it was interrupted and forcefully turned into a gurgling wheeze of bubbling sounds, a chunk of the hunter''s neck being ripped away as the bird twisted its head aside. Blood gushed from the wound, flowing both down the man''s frontside as well as down his wounded throat, his attempts to breathe causing the awful bubbling sound. "VERN!" The lanky man dove forward, stabbing at the bird latched upon his companion. The bird''s talons disentangling from the leather padding, flapping its wings and shrieking into the night, blood running down its beak as it turned its attention toward the new combatant. Vern latched one hand against his throat, trying to stem the wound and gasp a breath, but he was already looking pale as a ghost, dropping to his knees before falling over in a sprawl. The hunter never stood a chance, his body just hadn''t accepted that he wasn''t going to be able to recover from having half his throat ripped out. Unlike the man who had been caught off guard, Tam managed a steady fight with the bird, receiving scratches along his forearms as he fended off the talons, preventing the bird from latching onto him as it had his companion. The Picantch showed no signs of retreat, or self-preservation, as if its sole purpose was to kill and its survival was merely an optional objective. It began to take knife wounds to its wings, ripping through its frame and making it harder to maintain its flight, let alone its agility. "Mighty blow!" With a sudden surge of strength, Tam backhanded the bird hard enough it rebounded off a nearby tree, sprawled on its back on the grass. Tam leapt at the prone figure, driving his knife into the bird''s chest, pinning its wings to the ground beneath his knees. The bird shrieked and screamed into the night, as the enraged hunter stabbed the chest of the bird again, and again, and again. Even once it stopped moving, he stabbed it a few more times to be sure, before dropping the knife and scrambling across the ground toward his fallen companion. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. It hadn''t been long, but even the attempts to breathe had stopped some time ago. Grabbing at the man''s vest, he half lifted the fat man''s body upward, resting his forehead against his fallen friend''s. "Damn ye'', Vern, why couldn''t ya'' just listen when I tell ye'' to get down... Ye'' always had to know why. Ye'' always had to question it. Why didn''t ya'' just listen to the warning!" He shouted his frustration to the night, tears dropping from his face to fall downward over his companion''s. His heated gaze turned toward the monster''s body, lying sprawled a short distance away, "I don''t know what kind of demon-spawn that bird is, but if I ever see any more of ''em, I''ll kill every last fucking one. I gotta warn everyone else back in town. Vern... I can''t take ''ya with me that far. You''d know that. If I stick around to bury ''ya, I... hell, Vern, I might join ''ya. Don''t haunt me because of this. I''ll try an'' come back with others. I promise." Tam grit his teeth, knowing that as much as he might try to keep that promise, some creature would like as not come along to take advantage of the ''free meal'' well before he could be back. "Alderin, guide his soul to rest, and lay your peace on mine for being such a terrible friend." He touched his left hand to his heart, and his right hand made a swaying gesture to draw out a symbol on the air before him. High and right, across to the left, then diagonally down to the right again, as if he was drawing a backwards seven. Upward half the distance again, then down and to the left once more, completing the gesture. He closed his eyes for a moment after offering the prayer, before stomping over to the Picantch''s corpse, hoisting it unceremoniously by the throat and starting to march into the distance again. The night seemed colder than it had a few minutes prior. As much as he complained about Vern''s whining, the Gods knew he was going to miss it.
Level 1 Hunter Slain - 1 Experience Gained Progress to level: 1/10 Fresh, intense hatred has been directed at the dungeon. Mana generation as been slightly increased. This increase will persist as long as the hatred is maintained at the necessary intensity. Congratulations for your first steps upon your Aspect.
Malcom stared at the alert with mixed feelings, having felt his summon perish a few moments prior. On the one hand, he now had concrete numbers to plan around, considering that one kill had netted him one experience. On the other hand, he was frustrated by the attention this could bring to his surroundings. He had sent out the birds as a scouting force, not an assault force! He immediately amended his orders to avoid combat unless there was absolutely no chance of escaping from a threat, but the damage had been done. Since a dead man couldn''t hold hatred for him, someone had seen his bird kill a hunter, then killed it and lived to tell the tale. Unless his new mana generation vanished in the near future, he could be certain that word was going to spread of this happening. After thinking about it for a moment, though, he found that it didn''t bother him as much as he thought it should. He was frustrated that things happened when he didn''t want them to, but the idea that people might start coming to the area filled him with... anticipation? ''All I have to do is catch one making their way in or out and follow them to find out where they stay. Even if I only find out from which direction they come nearby from, it would narrow things down.'' In the hours that had passed, he had continued to make progress on the spiral staircase entryway he had designed. By now, it was fifty feet from the ground floor of his entry chamber to the base of the staircase, and he continued to dig. He was currently pacing it so that he was using his mana to dig at close to the same rate it was being generated. He had to tweak his speed to increase ever so slightly since his mana generation just recently increased. He planned to go for a solid hundred feet underground before he stopped increasing depth for the time being. He wanted to feel secure even if he could imagine someone dropping a bomb on his hilltop. Once a few hours had passed and he achieved his goal, he began to draw out another long tunnel, pushing his core pedestal further and further away from the entrance. If he was going to potentially have unwanted visitors, he wanted enough space to buffer between his core and any interlopers. The more space he had, the more potential traps he could put in before they could get anywhere near him. He might have commanded his remaining birds to avoid combat with anyone they saw without his express order to attack, so the surface shouldn''t be an issue for visitors. But if they decided to barge into his home uninvited, well... whatever happened next was upon their own heads, now, wasn''t it? Arrival At Kremston An armored man stood atop a wooden palisade, shielding his face as he was guarding the gate toward sunrise. "Always stuck guarding the east side in the mornings or the west side at sundown. I swear, it''s like the Captain takes pleasure in making sure I''m stuck staring into the brightest light he can find..." The fellow muttered under his breath, slouching forward against the sawn ends of the logs making up the wall surrounding Kremston. Across from him, posted on the opposite side of the huge wooden gateway that allowed entry, his compatriot released an amused snort, "Well, you''re the one who got caught sleeping the one time he put you on night watch." "It was one time, and I had to cover double shifts that day because somebody caught sick!" "One time too many. You''re lucky you get guard duty on the wall at all. At least here we can sit around and relax. He could have put you on patrol in market square." The pair bickered and chatted the morning away, the burning ball of fire steadily rising to crest the horizon fully and shed light across the modest frontier town that Kremston was. The town had an air of a military outpost more than a home, with almost half of the town dedicated to the ''market area'', a bustling, noisy place that never seemed to sleep. Even in the depths of the night, torches burned, taverns had fights, smithies hammered metal. Kremston was the last stop on this side of the Valdweald, and so everyone from merchants and mercenaries to lords and ladies made a stop in the town for a last taste of civilization. Still, this place was far enough off the beaten path that it didn''t justify more than a wooden palisade for defense, which was more than enough to keep the beasts of the forests and flatlands nearby at bay. The natural barrier of the Valdweald meant that the area hadn''t seen an army in over a hundred years, and the way things were going it was likely to be a hundred more. The pair of guards were facing one of the two sides facing the Valdweald, as the vast forest crept around the east side of the town and around along the north besides, the town having been built in the crook of space on the inside of the turn to facilitate travel across the wildland in either direction. "Hey, some''at''s on the road over there, headed this way. What idiot''s coming back this early in the morning? Must have been out all night!" "Brave, or a fool." "Or both." "Probably both." The pair chatted between them unconcernedly until the figure got closer, noting the bow he was carrying and the large avian corpse he had slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. "Hail the mighty hunter." One of the guards called out, the tone of amused mockery was clear, as even though the bird looked like a fairly big specimen it didn''t look anything impressive. Even at a distance, the ruffled feathers and the blood over the hunter''s leathers made it seem like it had put up a fight. "Piss off and open the gate, I''ve got important news and I left my friend rotting back there to bring it!" The tired, beleaguered figure that was Tam shouted up the wall with a rising temper. The guards always acted so high and mighty around everyone else but the nobles, like simply being given a job and some armor by the town meant they were made of better stuff than the rest of them. "Shame for your loss." The second guard remarked, with a more moderate tone. Losing someone in the Valdweald wasn''t new, though, so at most he would express his sympathy. "Can''t open the gate until the sun finishes getting over the horizon." Sighing, Tam unslung the bird over his shoulder and waved it at the wall as if it was going to support his argument. "There''s monsters out in the fringes. New ones, and damned dangerous ones. This bird''s got a mouth with more blades in it than a militia armory! I need to report it before anyone else manages to get themselves killed not knowing what they''re up against." "Well, ain''t nobody going out to be at risk before the gate opens, now is there? Sit on the roadside and catch your breath for a few minutes or something. You look like you crawled your way out of those woods more than anything else, and while the blood on you might make the guild take the threat more seriously, I doubt anyone''s going to want to be downwind of you on the way in." The guard wasn''t moved by the persuasion, and his companion had long stopped paying attention to the hunter below. Tam shook his head, berating the rules, the fool that made them, and the guard that seemed to be so rigid he''d expect to find a steel rod rammed up his ass. After a few more minutes passed and the sun had risen just a bit further, the massive wooden girder that barricaded the backside of the gate was heaved aside and the gate was pushed open to permit travel. Tam made an obscene gesture at the guards'' backs as he went inside, before spitting on the cobblestones of the path and heading inward. Aside from a single caravan headed out as he came in, who he spoke briefly to and warned of the bird as best he could, there wasn''t much in the way of travel. Anyone who set out to go in this direction set out early and fast, to cover as much ground in one day of travel in the forest as they could manage. If it hadn''t been for this outgoing caravan, the guards might have not even bothered to open this gate and made him march around to the northern or southern gates instead. There were a fair few folk out and about even at the morning hours. Hawkers roamed the streets trying to interest passerby in a breakfast of pastries stuffed with meat of an undisclosed variety. Sometimes you got something decent, but more often than not you wound up with something borderline-palatable hidden in a crispy shell. Horse, or rat, or even monster meat. It was a gamble that Tam wasn''t going to make, even with his stomach growling at him in protest after the night''s forced travel without making camp. Instead he managed to get a loaf of coarse brown bread almost the moment it came out of the oven, juggling the burning loaf from hand to hand while trying to scoff large bites on his way to the adventurer''s guild. A creature like this bypassed the hunter''s guild completely, as they were mainly responsible for the hunting of mundane creatures. While he hadn''t seen anything magical about this particular bird, it''s complete lack of survival instincts during the fight nudged him on the side of monster rather than simple animal. It was a killing machine, plain and simple, and he could only hope the guild knew what it was. As he neared the adventurer''s guild, the doors propped open wide to let the steady swarm of folk mass inward for missions and assignments then back out to do their tasks for the way, Tam had to all but shoulder his way through to the administration desk for visitors. He drew a few swears for his haste at going forward, and a few more once people saw the large avian corpse he was hauling around, but managed to reach his destination rather quickly. A tired receptionist lifted her head from the stack of paperwork arrayed on the desk before her, sighing at the interruption. "How can I assist you today?" She chirped with a forced politeness and a small, professional smile. That expression stiffened as a corpse was hefted upward and waved about in her view, "I- We-... There was an attack by some new bird-creature, and I came ''ta report it." Tam stammered over his words, trying to make himself sound as proper as he could manage, intent on being taken seriously. "It flew in like a blur an'' took down a grown man inna breath, and put up a decent struggle against me afterward a''fore I managed to kill it. I don''t even know what it is, but if''n there''s a flock of these out there, they could pick a caravan clean in a matter of minutes, without any hope of bein'' able to outrun it." This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. With a skeptical stare that shifted between the body and the man, the receptionist took out a sheaf of paper from a new stack, starting to scribble atop it in neat, precise lettering. After a short time, she handed the paperwork to the hunter and made a gesture at another desk. "Take this... bird... over to acquisitions, and keep the second paper. If anything of value comes up from your warning, you may be eligible for a monetary reward, but for the time being all we can do is take the corpse and attempt to compare it to the bestiary records in our library. Please check back tomorrow, or in a few days at the latest, in case we have any more questions for you." It sounded like they were dealing with the issue, but Tam had the distinct feeling that this was just being added to a backlog of problems to be dealt with later. At least they couldn''t put off some initial examination for too long, else the bird would begin to rot. Following the instructions, he was paid a few silver coins in exchange for the corpse itself, which was more than he had expected given the unknown nature of the creature. Tam didn''t see silver unless he brought down a good-sized deer or something similar. Still, considering the cost of bringing the creature back, the coins felt awful light in his grip. "I''ll give all of it to Vern''s missus. I hope they pay out a reward... her and the brat ain''t making it through next winter on a fistful of silvers..." Now he just had to steel himself enough to go over and deliver the news.
"Fascinating. Completely fascinating. Look here, the teeth aren''t carnivorous in design. These teeth aren''t designed to tear meat for ease of consumption. It''s as if the teeth were maliciously and intentionally created to cause the most damage in a single bite. I can''t even break off a tooth with an iron dagger! It took good dwarven steel to finally break one of them off to examine closer. And let''s not even get into the issue of why a bird has teeth at all, let alone teeth like this." A high-pitched voice chattered on incessantly, barely pausing to breathe or to allow a pause between sentences, as if they had to get their thoughts out as quickly as possible. A figure that was barely taller than the bird, which was sprawled out and pinned to the table like an insect on a cork board, leaned over the avian and poked and prodded at it. The chest of the bird was cut open from neck to the base of the belly, the skin pinned down to either side to allow for easier examination of the organs. Or, concerningly, the lack thereof. There was no heart, no lungs, no liver, and only the most rudimentary example of a stomach. Skeletal structure and musculature was present as expected, but everything else about this bird was very, very unnatural. Brushing bright, noxiously vibrant red hair out of their face, a female gnome stood atop a stool to be at a height to examine the creature on the table. About three and a half feet tall, she was almost mistakable for a human child at first glance, her figure clad in a leather butcher''s apron, thick leather gloves, and dark grey clothing that served to hide bloodstains. "Aside from telling you it''s a dungeon-spawn, I can''t even begin to speculate on its behavior. The report we have indicates a form of ambush predator, but that could be a matter of circumstance rather than a habit of the creature as a whole." A coarse, gruff voice reverberated across the room in reply, speaking in a tone accustomed to authority. "All I asked was if this was a species we had a record on already. A simple ''no'' would have sufficed, Mimzi." With a sigh of exasperation, the gnome threw up her hands, leveling a frustrated stare at the Guildmaster, a serious-looking dwarf. Just barely taller than the gnome herself, at about four-foot in height, he looked like a grizzled veteran delegated to managerial work by age. His heavily-tanned skin indicated he did more than remain behind a desk these days, but his shaggy hair and glorious, braided beard were a pure sheen of white without a dapple of their original color or even greying remaining in them due to his advanced age. The beard fell almost clear to his waist, and the dwarf stroked it repeatedly as he thought, his hazel eyes scrunched into an expression of annoyance as he swapped his stare from the corpse to the gnome. "Fine. No. Happy Erk?" "Not particularly. And don''t call me that." The dwarf''s full name was Erkandirin, but those who could get away with it liked to shorten it to "Erk" to, well, irk him. It was part of the reason he usually preferred to go by ''Guildmaster''. "Do we have anything else to add to the report before I send it off? I''m going to have one of the mages connect through to one of the larger cities, to see if there''s anything similar in their libraries. If we''re lucky, this is just a stray dungeon-spawn that managed to traverse through the Valdweald. Salt and stone, there''s enough space out there we don''t have any information on that a dungeon springing up wouldn''t be that unlikely. The issue is if a new dungeon decides to cause trouble on the roads, we''ve got few enough that''ll get across the wilds safely as it is. Still, I want scouts out with eyes in the sky looking for these new birds. I want anything that even looks approximately right size and coloring reported, and compiled onto a map. We''ll narrow down our area of search based on the sightings, and if it seems like it''s in the deep Valdweald, we''ll just write off the whole area as ''more dangerous'' on the maps and call it a day." Mimzi laughed, a shrill, grating sound to the dwarf''s ears, and rolled her eyes at his optimism. "Oh, sure, just write it off and hope it stays to itself. How many times has trying to starve out a new dungeon actually worked, and how often has some adventurous team of morons given it a quick boost and got it addicted to killing?" Erkandirin sighed, and rubbed at his temples with both hands, knowing full well that the young and stupid were both plentiful and ambitious. "I know, Mimzi, I know. But it''s worth a try. Let''s just find the thing, first. Hopefully, before anyone else does." A Storm Is Brewing At first, there had been a sense somewhere between hope and concern that this new bird-creature would be difficult for the scouts to spot. If they couldn''t find any more examples of it, then it meant that the problem was likely something to be brushed off and pushed to the side for the time being, but Erkandirin secretly wished the scouts would report something so that the issue wouldn''t linger in the back of his mind and nag him. If the dwarf could go back in time to when he had that thought, he''d have slapped himself silly until he couldn''t even begin to think finding these damned birds was a good idea. Three days of scouting had passed without so much as a stray feather on the ground that looked like it came from their targets. The fourth day, though, the church''s bell was ringing out an alarm for the citizenry and non-combatants to hide indoors while a veritable cloud of black-feathered fiends circled the town just shy of bow range. Sure, a few of the higher leveled hunters and guards more capable of the bow might be able to hit them at that range, but they weren''t about to provoke the storm circling them with merely a few arrows. It all began when the latest batch of scouts came back that morning, and had reported sighting several of the birds circling in an oddly regulated pattern. Their paths of flight remaining in sight of at least two others of their kind, but never travelling as a flock. The creatures, or more likely the dungeon that spawned them, was searching for something. Dungeons never went out to look for a fight. They might pursue those who managed to escape the exit for a short distance if they had creatures similar to these birds, but it looked like the dungeon was actively hunting outside its boundaries. ''Of course we try and starve out a new dungeon and we find the only dungeon in history that goes out hunting instead.'' It seems the scouts had been followed back to Kremston, and now the swarming flock was receiving more and more birds by the hour. ''Perhaps they aren''t prepared to deal with a town? Gods above, the very idea of a dungeon sieging a town...'' The Guildmaster stood before a map of the town, giving out orders as more adventurers reported in for assignments, trying to balance the forces around town and keep every area appropriately covered for when the birds decided to make a move. ''Come on, fly away you foul beasts. This is too tough a nut to crack, figure that out. And do it before enough of those birds show up that no longer remains the case...''
''Ah, Amanda. I''m sorry it took me so long. I had felt like a part of me was missing these past few days, but even being able to see you again soothes my soul.'' Malcom stared around the inner sanctum of his core in something approaching genuine happiness, the space arrayed with Amanda. Everywhere, every surface, every statue, arrayed with her image. At first, he had struggled with a way to create a mural of her, wanting to ensure he captured every detail exactly as he remembered, but could only work with this damned obsidian-black stone. The result was that the back wall of the fifty-foot stone box of a chamber he created had a massive portrayal of Amanda out of carved grooves in the surface. Feeling her looking back at him had been a boost to his spirits he had almost forgotten in the chaos of his arrival here, alongside a shallow sense of guilt that this hadn''t been the first thing he had done. Damn those instincts that drove him to push her aside for even a moment in favor of his own safety! He had followed from there, carving more images to his love across the walls and ceiling. Large and small all intermingled in a chaotic jumble that he nevertheless found delightfully pleasing to stare at for hours and hours while he gave vent to his thoughts to her. Now he was working on the centerpiece of his core chamber. At first, Malcom had wanted to create a statue of Amanda holding his core, to keep him close to her image, but he was unable to separate himself from this damned pedestal. All he could do was move it around, with his three-inch sphere perched precisely in the center. Three inches? Yes, his core had been slowly growing over the past few days, and it seemed to have come correlation to the size of the dungeon he had excavated outward. That couldn''t be the only factor, however, as even when he had been trapping the passageways through toward his core, it had still been growing slightly. Whatever force determined his growth seemed to be tied to the state of his dungeon as a whole, while he had been expecting that he would only grow after he gained a level... ''Focus, Malcom! Stop letting the minor distractions break you from your task!'' Instead of having a statue of Amanda holding his core, he had created a statue of her seated on the edge of his pedestal, one hand extended toward him to gently hover a bare fraction of space away from making contact with the whirls of razor-edged ridges that coated his core''s exterior. He kept that slight space to avoid damaging her outstretched hand when his core grew, and the anticipation of her approaching touch each time his core swelled was something that brightened his days. When it happened, he would inevitably lose himself in conversation with her for several hours, before shifting the statue back slightly to create the gap once more. The basics of the statue were completed, but he was carving in such small fine alterations that any other artist wouldn''t even be able to appreciate. He could see every bit of the statue, perceive every slight shift and change, and so he constantly focused upon it to try and make Amanda''s representation more flawless, closer and closer to her perfection... until the damned, predictable distraction happened again.
Mana available: 100/100 Mana storage is now full. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Please consume mana or create additional storage. Failure to do so in a timely fashion may cause mana overflow
''The damned notice seems to be appearing faster and faster! I used to only have to deal with this annoyance once a day, and now I can''t even keep track of how often it bothers me! Perhaps I should create more of this storage... bah! An issue for later!'' With barely a thought, Malcom immediately dumped all of his mana into another small swarm of Picantch, twenty more of them materializing in the chamber before frantically flying toward the entrance to the dungeon at Malcom''s demand. The birds weren''t permitted in his love''s chamber! If he could create the damned things anywhere but his core room, he wouldn''t tolerate them for even the few seconds he had just now. Having immediately dismissed the creatures from his mind to resume his task, he failed to realize that all twenty of the birds had flown out of the dungeon, heading off to join the rest of the flock. A mere five of the Picantch were perched in assorted places around the entrance staircase, as the order to allow rest had only been extended to ''half of them'' when they were created, the rest of the flock never adjusting the ratio of those held in reserve after more and more were spawned. ''Now, where was I...?''
"My lord! The people are in a panic, and it''s getting harder and harder to keep people in their homes! We''ve already had to forcibly restrain people from trying to open the gates to take their chances on the road. They argue that since the birds have restrained themselves for this long, they aren''t going to attack. This idea seems to be growing more popular, and if we don''t change something or find another way to placate them, we''re going to have a full-blown riot on our hands." Saluting fist-to-chest, the armored guard reported to an elderly human man, crowded around a table alongside other figures of importance from the town. The Guildmaster, Erkandirin the dwarf was present. A few of the wealthier merchants, humans all, who were in charge of the smithies and therefore the town''s supplies of arms and armor, were strewn about in various armchairs. The captain of the guards nodded toward the report, waving a hand in dismissal. He was a giant of a man, standing seven-and-a-half feet tall, though he insisted that he didn''t have any giant''s blood in his lineage. His full-plate armor was plain and undecorated, if well-crafted, showing it was far more than a ceremonial piece. The dark blue hue of its shimmer sufficed as a show of wealth anyway, the plate armor made of a majority of mithril in the alloy, if not pure. Frowns had become a permanent fixture of the advising council of Kremston this past week, for obvious reasons. The birds hadn''t stopped amassing their forces, but still refused to make a move. It felt as if the town could hardly see the sky these days, with the hurricane of feathered monstrosities growing faster and faster each day. "Lord Jannis, the partial rations for the citizenry are becoming a problem. They see that the guards are getting full meals to be ready for combat at any time, but aren''t actually having to fight to earn the keep. While I agree that we have no idea how long this avian siege will last, we aren''t short on supplies. Perhaps we should lessen the restriction to provide relief to the worried masses? If nothing else, full bellies might keep them from voicing some of their more radical opinions for a few more days." The elderly man''s face twisted into an expression of displeasure, likely because he had calculated the costs of such a maneuver. In times of war, the town itself was responsible for the expenses and dispensation of food during a siege... so any increase in dispensation from the town''s reserves was being taken almost directly from Lord Jannis'' pockets. "The laws state that half-rations are an acceptable measure for any non-combatants during a siege. I''m aware there isn''t an army outside our walls, but those birds are surely sieging us. If anyone wants full rations, they better be prepared to join the militia and wield a bow when the time comes." A thin, boney hand rapped against the top of the table they were circled around to emphasize his point, striking the depiction of forces arrayed around the town. "With all due respect, we don''t even have enough bows to put in the hand of every able-bodied fighter we have to begin with. We''re equipped to deal with opponents who approach from the ground. No one imagined we would have to face an army that approached solely from the skies. Even if those birds attacked today, the consequences would be unimaginable. How is one supposed to fight a bird with a mace?" Lord Jannis reached into the pocket of his vest, retrieving a pipe and his tobacco, creating a moment''s distraction to prepare and light it as he pondered his thoughts. "They''re still birds. They''ll struggle to deal with armor, won''t they? How are we managing with the smithies to repurpose our metal stores into more armor? It doesn''t have to be the finest plate, I imagine that chainmail would suffice to repel wounds from most of the body, wouldn''t it?" Erkandirin shook his head, speaking up, "It''s not most of the body that''s the problem. It''ll be a matter of a thousand pricks drawing blood. They''ll go for the eyes, the hands, the legs. This isn''t a fair fight, this is a swarm of beasts, and they will bury us with numbers. The only solution I see is to try and remove the source. If we destroy the Gods-blighted dungeon spawning these creatures, they should perish alongside it." The group sighed as one, as the argument had been made more than once as the numbers of birds around them grew further and further, but they still had no idea where this dungeon was. And if it was able to commit this many forces to an attack, one shuddered to imagine what its defenses would be like. This didn''t seem like the appearance of a new dungeon, it seemed as if someone had broken the seal on some great, ancient evil. Lord Jannis waved his pipe toward the Guildmaster, "Find the one who gave the initial report of the creatures. If nothing else, we could force him to try and lead a small, elite group toward the location the bird was first spotted. It may be a suicide mission, but it''s a risk we may have to take for the good of the town. I don''t know if these creatures are intending to starve us out before a fight, but we can''t maintain this stalemate forever. Something must be done, else our deaths only grow more and more certain." Falling Like Rain The flapping. The incessant, maddening flapping. During all hours, day or night, the sound of that damned flapping. The birds didn''t call, or caw, or sing. They just stared, and watched, and waited. All the while circling the town, never seeming to need to land to rest, to deter away to feed. It was more than unsettling, it shook the faith of those forced to endure, wondering when the creatures would make an advance into the town rather than merely circling the walls. It had been days, now. An elderly human man wearing torn black-dyed cloth stood upon a crate in the poorer side of the market district, arms spread wide toward the skies. Loose flaps of fabric hastily-sewn upon the sleeves were painted with white circles, an obvious representation of the wings of the birds that circled the town. "Repent! Sinners, one and all, repent! We pray for a miracle, for reprieve, but perhaps this IS our miracle! We are witnessing the advent of a new power! We are witnessing the first miracle of a rising God! Woe to those who fail to respond to their heralds! Woe to those who do not forsake their previous faith! This is the calm before the storm! This is our chance to avoid falling with this forsaken place!" While many of the passerby tried to ignore the man, more still cursed him, even beginning to throw debris from the street at the man. Still, there were those who were lingering, who were willing to listen to anyone who claimed they had some idea of what was going on. The words brought a scowl to the face of a lanky hunter passing by, Tam. He marched forward, and shoved the preacher from his perch, watching the man topple to the cobblestones of the road, "These things are no miracle! They''re monsters! Don''t go twistin'' words ''round ta'' try and make people praise them damn things!" He spat down at the fallen man, "Ye'' think those birds are from a God? I''ve killed one, an'' they''re nothing but feathers ''n'' hate." In a fit of rage, Tam unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, stepping forward to stand on the man''s stomach. "An'' this is what I think of worshippin'' some fuckin'' monster!" In one smooth motion, he drew his bow back and released the arrow straight into the fallen doomsayer''s face. The arrow slammed through their left eye and a sharp ''clack'' of metal hitting the cobblestone beneath resounded, the arrow piercing clean through the man''s head at such range. Screams sounded from a few of those nearby, and the guards were already drawing their swords and heading toward Tam''s figure. Ever since things had gotten this bad, they were under strict orders to put down the slightest thing that could spark off the powder keg that the town had become. Tam saw the guards approaching with bared steel, and the wild panic in his eyes flared all the more. Too many days without sleep, too much stress building up all at once, "They aren''t a miracle! They''re monsters! I''ll prove it!" The lanky hunter screamed to the crowd, to the flock above, to the heavens themselves. As he drew another arrow from his quiver, the guards broke into a run toward the man. "Put the bow down!" One of them shouted, but Tam merely drew his bowstring back and fired an arrow into the swarming cloud of birds overhead. This time, a shrieking scream came from one of the birds, the arrow having pierced through its neck and caused it to fall. A sickening crunch resounded as it splattered onto the road, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Tam stood there, panting heavily, staring wildly around him. "You see? They''re just monsters! We can beat them. We can KILL them! We-" Tam''s shouting cut off as he was tackled to the ground by one of the guards, "Damned madman!" the burly, armored figure swore, clubbing the hunter with the hilt of his sword, leaving him sprawled on the ground, unconscious.
Malcom felt his attention jolt after noticing his summon''s death, even only able to feel it in the most vague of fashions. He had gotten used to ignoring the notifications of his filled mana as they happened more and more frequently, so the sensation was jarring him out of his obsession with his inner sanctum less and less. As he had been lost in his daydreams for days upon days, he had reacted less and less each time. Truthfully, if no new stimuli had prompted him, he might have spent an unknowably long time content to bask in his shrine to Amanda. However, now that he had been prodded, he felt a snarl rise in his nonexistent throat. ''Why can''t they leave me alone? Why can''t anyone leave me alone? I''m tired of being bothered! All I want is Amanda! Amanda. Amanda? That''s right! I have to find Amanda. I can''t get lost just thinking about her. Amanda, where are you? Who''s hiding you?'' Malcom''s fractured thoughts seemed to be having trouble maintaining his focus. How could he have forgotten he actually needed to find Amanda, not just bask in this facsimile of her presence. ''They took her. They took her and they won''t let me find her. That''s right. It''s all their fault. Have to... make them give her back. Have to make them regret taking her. Have to make them suffer.'' The bloodlust he could feel was rising more and more, goaded on by his aspect of hatred. It was as if every negative emotion he had was being amplified tens of times over, feeding in a cycle that pushed away any thoughts of rational negotiation. How could he try and make deals with this... filth? Hiding Amanda from him was unforgivable. Make them pay. Make them pay. Make them pay. MAKE THEM PAY. MAKETHEMPAYMAKETHEMPAYMAKETHEMPAYMAKE- This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The Picantch were circling the town, staring at the fortifications, the masses milling about beneath them. ''Find town, roads, people. Don''t start fight. Found town. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.'' It had been so long, but the great Voice still had no orders for the flock. They strove to obey its command, but they tired of circling endlessly. Still, they were bound to task. However, when that single arrow killed a member of the flock, every bird released a series of oscillating, reverberating callings. It sounded almost like a form of laughter, a deafening sound when thousands of birds were calling together over and over. ''Finally.'' The new orders the birds received was one they were positively delighted to accept. From the skies, murder descended. A shrieking cloud of birds descended all at once, from all sides. Diving down in a swoop, the birds used their momentum to drive their pointed beaks into vulnerable areas, falling like a barrage of beaked missiles. After the initial impact, the Picantch would latch onto a target with their talons. Sinking them deep into cloth or flesh with equal disregard, starting to drive their beaks forward in a feeding frenzy of rending, ripping, and tearing flesh. In the first minute, hundreds died. The guards of the town, or of travelling caravans, survived the best. The birds did have trouble with their armored bodies. But they were merely swarmed over, beaks driving at eye-slits in helmets, talons ripping at the vulnerable areas of the inner thigh. Birds were felled by mace, by blade, by desperate hands snapping their throats, but they were simply too plentiful and cared not for their losses. In five minutes the town resembled a midden, the spaces between the cobblestones drenched in small rivers of blood. Everyone not barricaded firmly in a building had fallen, without exception. While the town had dreaded the birds'' attack, the long wait had dulled their readiness, or perhaps it was merely the fatigue of tension for days upon days. Whatever the case, there were only three places where the fighting remained intense, more than the birds trying to peck their way through stray barricaded doors or windows to get at the civilians inside. The lord''s manor, the guildhall, and the mage''s tower. The lord''s manor had long since barricaded all its entryways, even the chimneys, and sealing the main entrance was a matter of moments. Considering almost all of the town''s few elite were inside, its defenses were superior to what most of the town could manage. The guildhall stood for many the same reasons, as the combat-ready professionals may not have been able to gather enough influence to hide away in the lord''s manor, they banded together. The guildhall wasn''t designed to be a fortress, but it was still built from sturdy stone and mortar. More than enough to keep the birds out. But so what? All they were managing to do was allow themselves a stay of execution. While there was a small storeroom in the guild, there wasn''t enough supplies for anything approaching a prolonged siege inside. The mage''s tower was the most untouched, though it was far from as grand as the name might suggest. It was a circular tower of only four stories of height, built out of a clean-looking pure-white stone. That stone almost seemed to glow with an inner light, and it created the mana-rich environment that facilitated spellcasting for the mages. That light was slowly growing more and more dim, however, as an invisible cylinder of space surrounding the tower was utterly devoid of Picantch, despite their best efforts, leaving them rebounding off the empty space. The manastone was slowly being drained to supply this barrier, but for the time being, those inside were the safest residents of the town remaining. "Did we get a message back yet?" A young-looking blonde-haired human man, or an old-looking boy perhaps, who had barely managed to form stubble on his features cried out in a panic, staring out the window at the creatures battering away at the barrier. "Two days. That''s the best they can do. Damn this hick town! If we were in a half-decent mage''s tower we''d already be teleporting away from this catastrophe!" A voice that was equally as uncalm replied, though far steadier. It was anger that swayed their emotions, rather than fear. A tall figure stood before a podium, staring down at the opened book, letters appearing steadily on the surface as its counterpart was still being written upon. "What sort of sick fool thought that there should only be a single emergency portal-opening device in a mage''s tower! And they took it to deliver a report." The voice was dripping with disdain, and unnaturally delicate features were spoiled by an expression of intense distaste. With a thin, almost fragile-looking figure and slightly-pointed ears, the mage speaking was an elf. "We can do nothing but wait and pray that the town''s other surviving residents serve as effective enough distractions to keep the birds from focusing entirely on bringing down the tower''s shields." With a timid voice, the young man spoke up again, trying rather unsuccessfully to slow his panicked breathing. "Aren''t... aren''t we going to help them, Master Tiar?" With a sweeping wave, the elf flung his hand toward the window, "I must remind you that if we start casting unnecessary spells, we will both draw more attention to ourselves, and exhaust the ambient mana in the air all the faster. So while I would love to try and play the heroes you likely imagine us being, I suggest you focus on not dying first." "O-of course, Master Tiar. I spoke in haste. I just-... it''s..." The boy trailed off into silence, unable to express how he felt knowing that the only reason he was alive was because he had been in the building copying texts for the mage. Otherwise he would have been out there, lost in the chaos the same as the rest. "Don''t start feeling survivor''s guilt already, boy. Save it for after we''re a hundred miles away from this damned town. I''m sure we''ll have plenty of chances to die yet, before this is over." A Sudden Pause
Level 1 Classless Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 1 Classless Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 1 Classless Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 2 Thief Slain - 2 Experience Gained Level 1 Merchant Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 2 Guard Slain - 2 Experience gained. ...
Malcom felt notifications flooding before him in a deluge that wiped his ability to think about anything else, each new notification of a victim of his Picantch popping up like an obnoxious website ad. They demanded his attention, filling his vision with blue box after blue box, despite his attempts to mentally command them to close. It was like trying to bail a sinking ship with a teaspoon, a whole lot of effort to accomplish a negligible effect. In addition to the spamming messages about experience gain, there was an occasional flicker in the middle of the assault where Malcom thought he could make out the word ''Level'' before it drowned back beneath the next surge of alerts. Strangely enough, alongside the tidal wave of notifications, there was a sensation of feeling drained. No, no. Drained wasn''t the right word. Slowed. That was a better way to say it, like the feeling of getting home after a long day and being too lethargic to do anything around the house. His efforts to close the notifications actually slowed as the number increased, only starting to make a headway in removing them as the influx began to slow. Whatever system dungeons had, it fared poorly with so many kills, as if dungeons hadn''t been designed for such a massacre on so grand a scale. Even now that the notifications of experience gained were trickling in compared to the start, he didn''t get a sense of energy returning to him. His mind felt slower, and a rising sense of absence was coursing through his core. He had grown used to the sense of energy that an absurd surplus of mana generation afforded him as a dungeon, and now with the many deaths of those who hated his minions- and by extension, his dungeon- the bonus he had been receiving to his production from their hatred was vanishing. Sure, those who were still alive had probably been driven to new and intense levels of hate for him... but it simply couldn''t compete with the influx of keeping an entire town hostage, leeching off their hate. Malcom felt it manifesting as a supreme hunger, and his desire for the suffering of those before him warred against his desire to stop growing the absence of excess mana flowing through his core. ''Stop! You''re hurting yourself by killing them all!'' - ''But Amanda... they took her from me! They''re hiding her.'' - ''So find a way to get her back. Make them find her. Use them.'' - ''That''s it. I can use them. I can make them find her...'' Malcom''s fractured thoughts seemed as if he was playing both sides of a conversation in his head, one of which was his overwhelming, maddening hatred for all of those filth. The other being his intense desire, no, his need for Amanda in his life, to find her, to have her with him again. ''Stop.'' With a single word, the Picantch all halted their actions, be it pecking at barricades on windows, feasting upon the bodies strewn everywhere, and even those in flight found the nearest perch. The survivors stared out of cracks in windows at the somewhat diminished flock. They didn''t breathe, they didn''t shuffle in place, they perched like statues staring into the sky, as if waiting for the words of a God. The survivors all tensed, worried to feel relief. The unnatural state of these monsters didn''t seem as if they were going to be leaving, and no one was going to venture out of whatever safe holes they had managed to find. An uneasy stillness of false peace settled across the town, silence reigning. While those still breathing in the town held their vigil and tried to plan how to survive the situation, Malcom was busy shoving aside message after message, eventually managing to have a mostly clean view of his inner sanctum. Only a few messages refused to vanish until he had addressed them, all being notifications of his advancement in level.
Level 2 Achieved Dungeon grade raised to Silver-tier. Mana capacity raised to 1,000. Summon adaptation is available. Perk available. Progress to level: 100/100
Level 3 Achieved Dungeon grade raised to Gold-tier. Mana capacity raised to 10,000. New Summoning selection available. Perk available. Please select previous perk to see new unlocks. Progress to level: 1,000/1,000
Level 4 Achieved Dungeon grade raised to Diamond-tier. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Mana capacity raised to 100,000. Summoning adaptation is available. Please select new summon first to see adaptations. Perk available. Please select previous perk to see new unlocks. Progress to level: 5,689/10,000
As Malcom viewed the three notifications, he felt that began to explain the sense of emptiness and desperate, gnawing hunger coursing through his core. His mana capacity had increased to an exaggerated degree, multiple orders of magnitude... but he hadn''t sensed any change in the generation of his mana capacity. It was like he was trying to fill a swimming pool by pumping water in through a straw. He felt empty and it wasn''t pleasant. It buzzed the back of his mind as he tried to think about the information revealed to him through his level-up notifications. Everything seemed to be increasing by a factor of 10 for each level, from his mana capacity to how much experience was required to hit the next level. If he hadn''t massacred so many people in an abnormal fashion, how long would it take for your average dungeon to have over five-thousand people wander into it and die? He must have skyrocketed ahead in stages. Add in that there seemed to be material designations for each level, he assumed that the notifications he had seen about killing level 2 opponents meant they could be graded similarly. The Picantch could swarm opponents a higher grade than them, which he presumed to be bronze, but he hadn''t seen a single notification of a level 3 dying. That could mean that they weren''t able to bring down any level 3, or there simply hadn''t been any present. Still, he needed to know exactly what happened. All Malcom was really aware of was that one of his summons had been killed again, and when he demanded the birds retaliate, there had been some kind of mass slaughter. He recalled one of the birds from the exterior flock, intending to try and interrogate it. Perhaps one of his level-up perks or an adaptation could help him bridge the gap in communications. Selecting the first level-up message, the Picantch popped up into a new message, with three options for adaptation. Advancement, mutation, or hybridization. Advancement was listed as being an all-around improvement to the creature''s grade, raising the summons to a higher tier of their current state. Mutation was listed as being able to select an abnormal change to the creature, such as implanting a new ability. Hybridization was the option to combine the creature with another creature to provide an alternate variant to summon. All of which indicated that he would retain access to his standard Picantch, which was something he appreciated. He wanted eyes in the sky, and he had a feeling that any of his choices would grow more mana-intensive to produce. Was there anything that he wished his birds could do at this moment? While being capable of talking to him would be nice, it felt like a waste to use the mutation option to allow them to speak. It was possible that advancing them could also result in what he wanted, as smarter, stronger, and faster birds might develop the ability to speak to him as well. Still, the strongest choice in his eyes was hybridization. The selection prompted him to provide a species to hybridize with the Picantch. Malcom initially tried human, as that seemed to be the one with the most potential usefulness, but the screen merely displayed ''Error - Prohibited dungeon species.'' and sent him back to the selection screen. The other fantasy races that came to mind were also similarly prohibited, as he tried elves, dwarves, and orcs. ''Really? Not even orcs? Aren''t they supposed to be one of those tribal, hostile, monstrous races?'' He hadn''t even really wanted orcs, considering they had the stereotype of being dumb brutes, but he wanted the birds crossed with something at least humanoid that might be capable of speech. Goblins would have been another race known for being tribal and savage that might be acceptable by the judgement standards of the dungeon''s systems, but he didn''t like the idea of the titchy gremlins. While pondering, he was struck with a thought that he felt like kicking himself for not considering before: why wasn''t he trying anything outside of the normal fantasy tropes? Just how much could his otherworldly nature influence this system? It was accepting inputs from him, so if he had knowledge of it, was it an acceptable choice? Malcom tried to put in something wildly different, seeing if it would accept ''Fighter Jet'' as an input. ''Error - Selection is not a species. Please select a species.'' Alright, so that was a bust. No rocket-powered, gun-toting super-birds that easily. ''Think, Malcom, think. Species. We can make the machines work, think about a mechanical species.'' He briefly cursed that he hadn''t ever had much interest in science fiction, or else he would probably be able to pick out some mechanical species a lot easier. ''That''s it! Why am I struggling so hard to create a new species? Just input what I want!'' With newfound confidence, he turned back to the input. ''Mechanical''. He simply wanted a race of artificial, living constructs, and the system should interpret it as so. That has to work, right? The notification didn''t vanish, but it also didn''t send him an error message for his selection this time. Instead, it showed him an image of the proposed result, slowly spinning to display itself as a three-dimensional image. The mechanical life retained the black coloring of the Picantch, seemingly sized at about human standards, if a bit on the short side. It was displayed as five-feet tall, its face a humanoid visage with a pronounced, downward-curving beak. It almost resembled a plague doctor''s mask, made from gleaming black-hued metal. The eyes were silvered rings of lenses, looking as if they could spin and intertwine or slide aside as needed to adjust the zoom of the vision. Slim bodied, with standard arms and legs that ended in talon-bearing grasping appendages of four talons each. On the feet, they were three forward facing, and one rear facing. On the hands, they bore a configuration of three clawed primary digits and a thumb. The entire figure was clad in- or perhaps simply made of, actually- overlapping plates that were shaped like feathers. They were offset and overlain in a similar fashion as scaled armor might be. Not only did it suit his requirements for a more humanoid option, it also looked... rather exceptionally intimidating. He rather liked it.
Selection confirmed: secondary species set as Mechanical. New summon established. Please select hybridization name.
Oh, he got to name this one? That''s a pleasant change of pace. He was creating an all-new species, after all. Still, Picantch was a mouthful that he wasn''t really wanting to add to his new creation, and he felt a need to contribute something related to the ''artificial creation'' part of the species to reference the mechanical nature of his creation. Eventually, he settled on ''Crowforged'', as the Picantch had always made him think of giant, aggressively-carnivorous crows. His new creation, the Crowforged, came in at a whopping 50 mana each, but that might just be the cost of creating something bigger. Or maybe it was the technology at play? Regardless, 50 mana a piece was a pittance if he could start finding ways to have an influx of mana that would make a dent in his available mana storage. One thing that really caught his eye though, was that it was another factor of ten for this creature level-up as well. Did everything in this damned system run on factors of ten? It was going to get frustrating very, very quickly if that was the case. This system didn''t seem to encourage high levels, or at least them being commonplace. It also meant that he felt he needed to be very deliberate with his choices of things like perks or any other rewards going forward. While he had received a significant windfall, it was likely that further changes were going to be growing increasingly less frequent to a dramatic degree. Welcome Reprieve Satisfied with the new creation, Malcom decided that he would put off summoning one until he dealt with the rest of his leveling notifications. If he didn''t, he would have wanted to immediately start investigating the new summons features, abilities, and everything else. Once he hashed out the rest of his level-ups, he could start working through the new information. Now he just had to select a perk for the completion of the first notification box, and this time he actually was presented with a selection to choose from. Rather than a list, though, he was able to see the roots of an organizational tech-tree of sorts. He was only able to see the basic perk of each category until he made a selection, which explained why the notifications demanded that he go through each of these in turn. The basis of the choice seems to come down to the potential aspects of a dungeon and where he wanted to specialize. An option for summoning being cheaper was one of his options, which appealed to him from the aspect that it might make his initial fantasies of dragon-summoning come to fruition. Another choice specialized in traps and mechanisms. Perhaps an insight into machinery, mechanisms, and the like would allow him to come up with more insight into his mechanical summon? No, no. He refused to let himself be led down a rabbit-hole of what-ifs. The last choice was to delve into magic, allowing him more fantastical options to add to the dungeon. If that option would eventually let him cast spells himself, he felt it would be the strongest. Magic was the greatest unknown to him, and if there was going to be a solution to his problems, it was likely to dwell in the magical arts. Swimming in thoughts of being able to teleport himself around, send magical messages to try and establish contact with Amanda, or simply take a more personal hand in the removal of any pesky intruding scum, he decided to venture into the tree of magic. The perk increased his base mana regeneration, as well as unlocking a slew of bronze and silver-tier rated spells. A broad assortment from the typical burst of respective elements such as ice, fire, and lightning to the more esoteric slowing spell. Of particular note, there was a spell listed as ''clairvoyance''. Surely the ability to see into the future couldn''t be achieved so readily? However, the description merely stated that it was capable of sensing events of grand importance and an approximate sensation of timespan before it would occur, without any insight as to the event being important for positive or negative reasons. Oh well. Going up in ranks was likely to offer the truly impressive magics, so he was hardly disappointed with his new abilities. Or, well, the availability of those abilities. When he confirmed and closed his first level-up notification, he tried to conjure a ball of flame in the area near his core. Self-discipline only went so far, and he had at least completed this level up, right? Who could resist trying actual magic? When he focused on his attempt, he could see mana leaking from his core in a silver string, the flow starting as little more than fishing line before thickening to that of a proper climbing rope. The strand flowed forward at a steady pace, and while he could manipulate the way it moved, he couldn''t make it go any faster or slower. It seems that spellcasting was going to happen at a very specific, fixed pace. A shimmering knot of rather annoying complexity hovered in the air in his sight, in the location he had pictured creating the ball of flames. Intuition was telling him that by arranging this strand of mana in the correct fashion, it would achieve what he wanted and manifest fire. However, it wasn''t even a step-by-step follow-along process, he simply was displayed the end result. This was akin to being handed a painting and being told to duplicate it without any idea of how to form brush strokes. Needless to say, the mana-rope tangled in a jumbled mess, and as it grew further and further from the intended result, a sense of mental strain was building. When the strain became too much, Malcom released the mana from himself, and it burst forth like a coiled spring being released. A vicious torrent of wind swirled wildly around his inner sanctum, eventually puttering out into stillness again. This was going to take a whole lot of work... unless something further in the magic perk-tree was going to make things easier for him. Giving a mental scowl of irritation at the revelation, he turned to his next notice, almost impatient to get through it to see if he could find a solution.
New summon selected via hybridization: Mechanical Perk available. Please make your selection.
''Lovely. Just one more thing that these alerts refused to forewarn me about. Ah well. I''m still satisfied with the Crowforged, even if I have to spend my second selection on it. I was looking forward to picking a dragon just to see what the mana cost and options were like...'' At least Malcom could get on to selecting his next perk, and he noticed that the only option that appeared was the higher level of his current magic tree. Whether the other options were gone forever or not, for the moment they were no longer available. He hadn''t planned on dipping his toes in all of them regardless. The next level of options branched off into three paths once again, and he could go for a strict mana-generation increase, unlock the next tier of magical spells, or unlock the ability for his minions to become spellcasters. Frustratingly, they all appealed to him. The first because it simply would help relieve the gnawing hunger he was still feeling from his abysmal mana-generation rate compared to his gargantuan mana pool, while unlocking more spells would let him peek behind the curtain at even more powerful options. It was likely to be even more devilishly complex, though, so he reluctantly put his curiosity aside. The last option, though... he had an adaptation available for the Mechanical due to his next level up waiting in the wings. If he unlocked the ability to create a spellcasting robot, wouldn''t the issue of precision and accuracy of spellcasting be resolved without him having to deal with it? A smart man uses his tools, rather than try and brute force everything by themselves! He locked his perk into the spellcaster unlock, and completed the level. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Now, with only one notification hovering in his face, it was time to select his base Mechanical adaptation. As odd as it sounded to be ''mutating'' a machine, that was the selection required to add in the spellcasting ability he had just unlocked. As before, an image hovered onto the screen to allow him to preview his new creation after his choice. This summon lacked the avian features that his hybrid creation displayed, merely resembling a human man with full-plate armor grafted onto their body. It seems some of the ''bonus'' of the hybrid''s union was lost, as this machine-man lacked the series of zoom-capable lenses over the eyes, and the natural weapons of the talons and claws. Instead, the grey-steel surface of metal was intricately inlaid with arcane carving, sigils, and flowing lines that moved from one sigil to the next in a formation that very nearly resembled circuitry. In fact, it might well have been some form of mana-circuitry. Now that the Mechanical Caster adaptation was complete, it was listed at a cost of five thousand mana each. ''I never thought I would complain that the increase wasn''t a factor of ten this time... it must have something to do with all those symbols. Still, as long as they can handle the spell-casting for me, it will be worth it. I want to make one right away, but at the rate I''m gaining mana, I won''t be able to start one for several more hours unless something new changes.'' With one more perk selection, he would be done with the process of selecting his upgrades, thank goodness. The previous two options of his tree remained available, while above the last choice three more were added. The first was called ''conduit'', and allowed him to cast his spells through his spellcasting-capable minions. ''Wait, I can''t do that already? Great, some new complication to find out later.'' The other options were to increase his magic-capable summons magical offense and defense, respectively. ''Well, I can''t cast anything through my summons if I can''t cast it myself, so that seems a little premature. I don''t need any of these at the moment, I need more power.'' He dropped back to the previous level, and took the selection to increase his mana generation. This time, he was oh-so grateful for the factors-of-ten. It applied when it was giving him benefits too, thank goodness. Now, instead of trying to fill an Olympian pool though a straw, he was at least provided a hose. It was still slow, but at least now there was an appreciable difference from moment to moment, as if time was actually decreasing his ravenous, distracting hunger. ''Much better. Give this an hour or so, and hopefully I''ll be able to think without having to ignore the gnawing in the back of my mind. I''d better wait for the reserves to fill a bit before spending, else I''ll end up right back on empty again.'' A shrill caw reverberated off the walls, ruining his relief almost immediately. Shooting a mental scowl at the Picantch perched on the edge of his pedestal, staring at him. It had just arrived after being called back to be questioned on the goings-on outside. Malcom had completely driven the incident from his mind, and pushed his command through the mental link in a rush, ''Quiet! Ugh. Get back to the roost and don''t move unless I tell you to!'' The mental demand was all but shouted, and the Picantch took off so fast that a pair of its dusky feathers drifted slowly to the floor from its departure.
At the same time, hundreds of birds that had sat and stared up into the sky without so much as a twitch shrieked into the air like missiles, frantically cawing and jockeying each other to try and reach the head of the flock as fast as possible. ''Roost! To the roost! Hurry to the roost! The great Voice demands!'' Like a demon was on their tails, the entire flock flew off from the east side of town. It was long moments before anyone dared to unlatch a door and make a move outside. The ground was strewn with black-feathered Picantch corpses and mangled meat of townsfolk ravaged to the point that a mass grave or pyre was going to be the only option. In many cases, it was difficult to discern which parts were supposed to accompany which body. Even the hardened soldiers in the lord''s manor were feeling ill. They''ve been to war, but it was different seeing neighbors, friends, or even family strewn about so gruesomely. Without rhyme or reason, those devilspawn birds were gone. After days of lingering, silence was finally allowed to settle over the town instead of the continual flapping they had been enduring for days upon days. The first sound to break the new silence was sobbing. Was it relief, or grief, that brought one survivor after another to tears. Both? In the end, it didn''t matter. The issue of clean-up alone would be a tremendous task, one that if not handled properly and promptly could envelop those that remained with an awful ''bout of disease. After everything else, a plague might just be enough to wipe Kremston off the map, if there were any folk willing to remain at all. The mage''s tower powered down the shields, and a few robed figures began to head toward the lord''s manor, furtively glancing at the skies with a hunched posture that seemed ready to dive for cover or break into a sprint at any moment. There were times when one could maintain an aloof, carefree image of superiority, but treading through the assorted ankle-deep piles of scattered remains littering the road was not one of them. The front doors of the manor had been swung open, several armored men standing in ranks on either side, while the hulking figure of the captain of the guards strode out into the open. A gauntleted fist tightened, the leather of the joints creaking as he surveyed the damages. When the mages approached, he barked a demand at the leader of the small group to get inside and prepare for a magical message. He had some old companions he needed to get in touch with... Hunger Pangs After spending a few hours finding ways to continue busying himself, mostly with further embellishment to his inner sanctum, Malcom felt he was running out of ways to distract himself from summoning his new spellcasting unit. With the increased generation, he was able to produce a single one, but he felt it was a bad idea to immediately tank his mana reserves right away all over again. To give himself something to focus on as a compromise with his instincts, a small amount of energy flowed from the core to create one of his Crowforged. The mechanical avian soldier took longer to form than the Picantch had. ''Is that because the summon is physically larger, or is it simply because there''s more magic involved in the process? It could also be an issue of complexity. Hmm...'' While the Picantch formed in seconds, the Crowforged took several minutes to materialize. With the added curiosity of a new question, as well as the concern that he would need to have the spellcaster prepared well in advance of actual need to use it, Malcom began the creation of a Spellcaster Mechanical alongside the Crowforged, trying his best to ignore the returning intensity of hunger the lack of mana forced back onto him. More silver-hued mana flower from his core to begin forming the summon, but the energy simply swirled in place nearby without taking the first steps to form into the new unit.
Please select spells. Each spellcasting-capable summon may know a single spell of each tier. Spellslots of higher tier may be occupied by lower-tier spells. Current summon tier: Diamond-Tier
Malcom devolved into angry swearing, cursing choices he had made during the level-up process he had been so pleased with prior. ''Fuck! If only I had been more patient, I didn''t strictly need the mana generation increase. It''s nice, but now I''m left without any spells higher than silver-tier! I could have had access to something incredible now if I hadn''t been pressured by the damned hunger.'' In the midst of his raving, the Crowforged completed its summoning process, the mechanical avian-man dropping to a knee and bowing its head toward Malcom''s core. "Ready to serve." The voice was noticeably synthesized, and pitched just a little too deep to be comfortable to listen to. Almost as much deep humming in the tone as there was actual words. It didn''t seem to display any impatience as Malcom didn''t initially respond, scrolling through the list of available spells. It merely waited in its kneeling posture. ''At least it''s not a total waste, I can put in a larger variety of spells due to the caster being of a higher rank, even if those spells may not be as powerful or have as much utility as higher-ranked spells. I hope that I get to re-do selection for each summon, but just in case these are the only spells that the Mechanical Casters get as a whole, I should make sure I give myself options. Now I don''t have enough mana to summon another to check! Damn it! Should I learn from my impatience and wait to finish this selection until I can summon another caster? But the mana from this summon is still connected to my core. It''s hasn''t separated just yet... will I lose the mana if I try and cancel the summon?'' Circles of worries and logical guesses plagued Malcom''s thoughts, worried that any decision he would make would be sub-optimal. The glowing light of his core intensified, held, and then dimmed again as he took the mana equivalent of a deep breath. ''Relax. What''s the hurry? It''s not like anyone''s banging down my door, and I''m not even in a rush. I''ve already started this process, let it finish, and deal with the other issues as they come.'' In a calmer state of mind, he returned to making his selection from the spell list. ''I don''t want to lean too heavily into a specific elemental attribute, do I? I could pick a variety of elements, but with only four spellslots to work with, I want to leave some available for defense and utility. I''ll stick with something neutral and hope for the best.'' He was required to take a single bronze-tier spell, as the first slot only accepted spells of that level. He decided to go with ''Force Bolt'', which seemed akin to the magical equivalent of shooting a crossbow at someone. Now that he had three slots capable of accepting silver-tier spells, Malcom went with ''Mana Shield'' to give his caster some ability to resist damage beyond merely its metal body for the second slot. ''Lesser Blink'' took the third slot. The spell allowed the caster to teleport short distances, but required the caster to remain completely still for a minute, and could be interrupted. It wasn''t going to see much use in the middle of combat, but he felt that the possibilities it gave for element-of-surprise ambushes or terrain traversal were worth it. ''Offense, defense, and at least some mobility are covered. What should I pick for utility?'' The final spell Malcom eventually settled on was ''Mana Meditation''. It required the spellcaster to constantly engage their mana to follow a changing pattern to attract the local ambient mana in the air to them. It was listed as a way for a mage to recover after a battle, but he had high hopes that by seeing his spellcasters put this spell into use, it would help him learn the magic himself. It would give him a way to more actively deal with his mana-hunger, to feel like he had options beyond sitting there grumpily and waiting. With the selection finalized, the strand of mana connecting his core to the construct separated, the summoning process beginning properly. This seemed to be progressing significantly slower than the Crowforged had, so it was likely the amount of mana that determined summoning length. At least that''s one curiosity addressed. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Malcom''s attention redirected to the kneeling Crowforged, and just now realized it was kneeling toward him. ''Stand up. There''s no need to kneel. Tell me what you are capable of.'' As the figure rose from its kneel with a nod, the deep, bass-laden synth-voice reverberated through the room. "My current skills are as follows: Farsight, darkvision, talon fighting, uncanny precision, natural armor, and overcharge. I am a capable scout, skirmisher, and if need calls for it: sacrificial combatant." ''God, it''s so nice to be able to ask a question and get an answer. This beats playing charades with the bloody birds a hundred times over.'' Malcom wanted to know exactly what the hell happened to the massive influx of experience he had received, though it was clear that some kind of massacre had taken place. With the dregs of his mana, Malcom summoned another four Crowforged, his core sending a pulse of near-blinding hunger through him in protest, to an absurd degree. It was so distracting that the new summons had time to form and kneel toward his core before he came back to his senses. ''Take the new summons with you. Take a Picantch guide if you need it. Scout the site of the massacre. Are there survivors, or did they kill them all? Find out what happened. Quietly, if possible.'' Jarring, short sentences ripped from him in frustrated hunger, nearly blinding his ability to think. ''More mana. Bring back the mana! I need it. I need more mana. Force it from them. Take everything with mana. Everything. Everything. I''m so hungry- No, stop. Just scout. Find out. Come back. Quietly. GO.'' The warring sense of opposing thoughts came to bear again, and Malcom just barely managed to side with rationality. He was sending five scouts, he wanted information. Everything else could- would- wait until later. The Crowforged rose and strode from his core room, the sharp clicking of the metal talons resounding off the obsidian stone at an increasingly rapid pace as they sped up their pace once out of his inner sanctum.
"The Lord suffers to bring us into being. He is willing to give of his last for us, so we must give all of ourselves in return." The lead Crowforged spoke as they traversed winding tunnels, each leaping stride carrying them forward a half-dozen feet at a time, despite the casual posture of the upper body of each member. Aside from slightly leaning forward into the massive, leaping strides there was no sign of effort to their haste. The following members nodded in agreement, having felt the desperation of their Lord as they were called into being. "He stands upon the brink of drawing too far upon himself. We must ease his burdens. Our Lord should be a font of mana for our home, not wring himself dry due to the interference of those Outside." The rumbling voice distorted slightly with that last word, placing special emphasis on those not belonging to the dungeon. Multi-lensed eyes whirred as the view focused more intently on the tunnel before them, lenses overlain with each other, expression narrowing into a violent glare. "Our Lord suffers. It is only right they bear greater than they inflict. We must simply do so in accordance to our Lord''s wishes. Quietly." Upon reaching the spiral staircase upward, the surrounding walls were packed to the brim with roosting Picantch. Every jutting spike of obsidian stone, every fractured crevasse in the walls, the birds roosted quietly, watching and waiting for further orders from their Voice. All but one of the Picantch, at least, which was circling the upper reaches of the staircase and waiting for the Crowforged to reach the apex, taking to wing out the entrance tunnel with them following closely behind. Despite the speed of flight, the ground-bound mechanical forces following managed to keep pace simply by leaning more into each sharp leap, talons digging deep furrows into the ground with each heavy thump of impact. They dashed forward in leaps that grew longer, faster, crossing the sweeping grasslands in surprisingly short order, and vanishing into the opposing line of trees.
Smoke billowed high into the sky above Kremston as the clean-up efforts began. Wagonloads of bodies- or at least parts of bodies- were carted out the gates in a steady stream. The contents unceremoniously dumped into one of many growing piles, waiting to be lit up like the rest once enough had amassed. The roads inward were still all but dyed black with the blood of the fallen, the substance drying between the cobblestones. Hopefully the next fierce rain would help wash away the stains upon the town, but the memories of the demon-flock were going to linger for far, far longer. The worst part for the common worker was not knowing where they had left, and if they were coming back. The only way that Kremston had prevented a mass exodus the moment the skies were clear was by maintaining a vice-like grip on the food supplies. If anyone wanted to leave the town, they were going to do so with empty packs. The reserves served out just enough for every working member to have a satisfying enough meal, but never any excess. No one was able to build up any stores of food without resorting to stealing from others, and the guards were coming down on the few attempts with savage harshness. Despite the attempts to clean up the town, there was one corpse that lingered, dangling from a noose. It was clear the corpse was a victim of the bird''s assault, more fortunate than many as it was still intact enough to hang, but it was being displayed in the town''s gallows regardless. Beneath the blood and beak-wounds, the figure wore poorly-fitting leather armor, stretched across its lanky figure. The left arm was missing in its entirety, and the eyes had been pecked out by the birds during their scavenging, but the face remained otherwise mostly intact and recognizable to the few that wanted to find him. A hastily-made sign dangled around the figure''s neck from a loop of rope, with black-painted letters. ''Crowcaller'', it read, and many who passed the figure spat in disgust, or leveled glares at the corpse swinging slightly in the wind. After all, he had brought the first of the damn things into the town, and folk needed a place to direct their anger and sorrows... The Pyre of Kremston Night fell over a weary, mostly-broken Kremston, torches lighting the roads and lashed to carts as they continued to travel in and out of the town''s gates. The bodies and cleanup needed to continue through the night, with the folk working in shifts, before proper rotting set in and disease began to truly fester. Folk were worn from the stresses and lack of sleep of the days past, numbed by the tragedy of loss. It''s no surprise that a few more figures dressed in blood-drenched rags shuffling along through the crowd went mostly without notice. These five figures seemed to belong to particularly hard workers, likely coming in from tending to the pyres. After all, why else were their clothes singed and reeking of smoke more than the rest of the workers? The group of Crowforged marched right in through Kremston''s wide-sprawled gates in their disguise, their short stature making it easier to not stand out from the masses, all gleam of metal concealed beneath tattered, stolen cloth. Keeping their heads tipped downward in the flitting, intermittent light to avoid revealing the pronounced bump outward in their masks from their beaks. Fortunately, the gruesome work seemed to have all the other workers similarly trying to cover every bit of exposed skin, and covering a mask with a hand was far from uncommon. No one paid close enough attention to catch the group''s discrepancies. Once inside, they all separated from one another, slipping into crowded side-alleys and narrow passages between structures. These had become the main highways for people walking through the town, as the fewer occupants during the attack had meant less of a mess for folk to have to trudge through now. Lensed eyes watched the main group of people returning heading straight to the center of town, lining up to receive their portion of food for their labor of the day. A large number of armored men stood guard over carts laden with food, strolling up and down the line with scowls, trying to project authority and confidence to put off any problems before they could begin. Not a good place for a Crowforged to try and infiltrate, but the fact that food was being so carefully restrained indicated a weakness to be taken advantage of. Minutes passed as the group wandered and listened, merely letting the comments and complaints of the populace provide some of the sought-after information. What they discovered was savagery as to be expected from Outsiders. The longer they lingered, the greater the risk, as well as the greater distaste they felt for the chaos and lack of cohesion found in the Outsider settlement. Warring against one another for materials, for space, for achievement. Bribery. Theft. Violence. Inefficiency. Disgusting. Where was their sense of unity? Did they hold no value to the ideal of striving together for the betterment of a whole? These people are those who are wholly lost. They are no longer anything but a shallow layer of civilization poorly concealing utter chaos. Could these lost ones be brought back into the fold of unity? Is it possible for those Outside to find adjustment to the light that comes from Within? More importantly, would it be worth the effort of their Lord to spend his grace upon those so far lost? "There is naught worth saving, here. If our Lord seeks to know what resides within these lands, it is naught but a primitive group of savages, and we shall ensure we emphasize them as such. There will only be value here if the Lord claims it, and makes it through his own means. But before our Lord can extend his reach, we must cleanse this place of the taint that yet dwells. The one thing the savages have gotten mostly correct, though they lack the appropriate scale, are the pyres. However, they should include this entire hive of filth." Sending off one of their number to the gates to head outside as an insurance to be able to report what they have discovered thus far should their following efforts fail, the remaining four spread through the town once again. This time, however, each carried a torch taken from the supplies left amassed for the pyres. These supplies were left almost entirely unguarded, as who would expect anyone to steal wood, lamp oil, or straw? It was much more important to have a show of force where the food was being dispensed, of course. Two bored men standing at the entrance to a warehouse all but half-asleep were dealt with by a single swipe of metal talons across either throat, quieting any disruptive noises they might have made. After each of the Crowforged had amassed a small bundle of flammable material, the stockpile and the warehouse that held it were lit ablaze, the foursome scattering in cardinal directions. The next few moments before anyone realized what was really happening were where the greatest opportunity for chaos lay. As the figures ran down the streets, every torch they passed was ripped from its lashings and thrown haphazardly around. Some were pitched through open windows, while others were flung at carts half-laden with bodies where they lingered on the roadside. While the first shouts of ''Fire!'' were still ringing out from the direction of the nearby warehouse, and the guards were making a move toward the torch-flinging arsonists sprinting down the road, a multitude of small fires had already begun. Many might be put out by the quick-witted who caught them in the early stages, but many more would spread to the point of no return before anyone could address them. Guards rushed toward the chaos, demanding passerby form fire brigades and draw buckets of water from wells. Others tried to sprint toward the mage''s tower in order to try and find a magical solution to the issue. Yet none commanded, it was merely a group of confused figures of small authorities trying to work around each other rather than with one another. People were pulled from running messages and strong-armed into bucket brigades, only to have a full bucket spilt when another demanded they drop what they were doing for some other task. With all the guards rushing toward the chaos, it was obvious that many would spot the Crowforged and attempt to bar their path. Most didn''t even bother with an attempt to capture, as for the crime of arson during such a time, there could be only one punishment given. Drawn blades swung in lethal arcs, before battering in deafening clangs off the metal bodies of the Crowforged. Metal dented as blades bent, but their bodies continued on heedless. Talons extended to slash long lines of wounds across any body part they could reach on the offending guards, adding screams of pain to the confusion as arms dangled limply and weapons fell from shattered hands to the stones below. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Forcing through the guards, the bundles of oil-slicked materials the infiltrators had stolen from the stockpiles before setting them ablaze came into use. They were hurled into the various storehouses and granaries, before a torch followed them in to try and destroy as much of the food supplies as the small band of Crowforged could manage. Without sticking around to try and encourage the burn or prevent it from being extinguished, some of the food might be saved, but much of the supplies almost immediately went up in smoke. Dried grain, or rather the dust involved with it, was particularly flammable, and one of the storage facilities actually burst in a cascading fireball with an explosion that reverberated through the night. Rather than head toward the gates, the Crowforged merely leapt upward onto the rooftops of intact houses as they headed for the palisade wall, dropping their torches atop the last thatched roof inside the boundaries for good measure, and leapt from the wall to dash off into the night, leaving the town ablaze behind them.
"How much longer is the preparation going to take, Tiar? It''s a message ritual, surely you''ve done this a thousand times, if not ten times that!" Pacing through the room, a figure in blue-tinged armor waved a hand aggressively through the air, gesticulating wildly. In fact, the captain of the town''s guard was gesturing with more than merely his hand, as he still held an opened, half-emptied bottle of wine as he ranted at the mage. "In case you''ve not realized that there''s about a dozen tasks that require my near-immediate attention, it''s rather important I get this done with quickly." A dour-faced elf continued to carefully drag an ink-bearing brush across the surface of a mirror, tracing delicate, intricate patterns upon the surface with a steady hand. "Sir Vayne, if you know of a mirror that is already bearing the appropriate enhancements to cast a long-distance scrying link while simultaneously transmitting sound, please fetch it to hasten the process. Failing that, it would be the utmost delight if you would keep your mouth closed lest you risk annoying me enough my hand slips. Might I suggest going out to do one of the many tasks that urgently await you, rather than hovering over my shoulder whilst I work?" "I''m not letting you out of my sight until that mirror is ready and my message is sent. Don''t think I''m not aware you sent some of your followers to prepare supplies for a journey, against the direct standing orders of the Lord." A sloshing sound accompanied another swig of the bottle, the hulking man''s face reddening slightly from his drinking. Mage Tiar''s brow quirked as he spared a moment to glance toward the bottle, noticing the delicate engraving and the fine-quality crystal that it was composed of. ''And the man is swigging fine elven wine like cheap mead.'' Tiar''s expression grew more exasperated, carefully dabbing the brush into the mana-infused ink, coating it evenly and wiping the excess carefully on the rim of the inkwell. "And yet, as a member of the Mage''s Circle, those orders restrain me far less than your brutish presence. And I will be voicing an extremely in-depth complaint about your forceful attitude on this matter. This town will be lucky if it sees a mage of any measure in the future!" "This town will be lucky if it still exists in the future, mages or no. I couldn''t care less about your complaints, I''ll ensure the Circle has a trunk-load of coin delivered and they''ll be happy to keep doing business. Shut up and paint." Vayne hefted the bottle and tipped both it and his head backward, long swallows of the wine trying to drown the man''s fears, sorrows, or whatever other demons he felt it would keep at bay. When the glass ran empty, he carelessly tossed the fine crystal container aside, a delicate clattering of shattering resounding as it burst into countless pieces upon the hardwood floor. "Mithril armor or not, this is as far as I will be pushed. You will maintain at least a pretense of respect, or there will be consequences-" Mage Tiar was not a particularly patient elf, and under the continual prodding, he was already trying to weigh the pros and cons of forcing his way from the Lord''s manor and leaving town immediately. His thoughts were jarringly interrupted by an armored figure bursting through the doors of the dining room with unseemly haste. Lumbering forward, they only came to a halt when they hit the end of the dining room table, gasping for breath. The entire table shifted ever-so-slightly and the motion of a fraction of an inch was enough to foul Mage Tiar''s painting. The bumbling dolt who ruined his work seemed unaware, merely shouting "Arson! Sir Vayne, it''s arson! Crazed folk set the warehouses ablaze! We''ve lost many of the stocks, but the worst part is-" A deep rumble burst in the distance, as well as a flare of light, the moment when the town''s grainary exploded. "-they... also set fire to the food stores." The man finished, lamely. With a moment''s consideration, Mage Tiar took in the miniscule flaw in his nearly-completed work, and with a few quick swipes hastily closed the last of the connection he had been painting on the mirror, making no mention of it. ''Strong-arm me, will you? I hope it explodes in your face.'' Tiar mused to himself, "Then I had better see what I can do to try and control the fires. Don''t worry, Vayne, I''ll find my apprentices on my own." ''And then I''ll leave this town the moment I find enough food to jam into a pack, even if I have to fry what''s left of the town guard to leave. Just try and stop me when you aren''t hovering over my shoulder!'' Without waiting for a response, Mage Tiar headed out the door, leaving a shell-shocked, half-drunk giant of a man gaping out the window at the rising light of many, many fires. Let Hatred Flow
Level 1 Guard Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 1 Classless Slain - 1 Experience Gained Level 1 Guard Slain - 1 Experience Gained ...
After a series of notifications, Malcom felt his mood falling, his mental state slipping back into a glower. ''I told them to scout! I told them to go, find information and return! They''re killing even more!'' - ''It''s helping, though, isn''t it? They''re not killing as many, and the mana... feel it flow faster...'' - ''It doesn''t matter how nice the mana feels when my summons aren''t obeying! They''re going to make everything harder! Every single person they kill is one less lead toward Amanda! I was going to interrogate them, or force them into finding her for me!'' - ''And how was that going to happen? They won''t obey. They''re so deep in delicious hatred. They would die before they listened. They might even try and find Amanda themselves, only to keep her away from us, or worse.'' The mental argument with himself resumed all over again, that argumentative rebel that sought to strip his rationality away. ''Is this still my voice? My thoughts? Am I going crazy?'' Malcom felt his confidence waver briefly, pondering if there was more to this system that entangled his soul. Trying to analyze his decisions, he felt that several of his choices were things that made sense to him in the moment, but didn''t seem to be furthering his goal. Why did he even feel the need to seek out people from nearly the first moment he came into sentience in this sphere? He had rationalized his scouts as a way to find Amanda, and yet his first orders hadn''t been for them to locate her. He just went trying to find people in general, like he was being driven to task. ''Who are you, whispering in my mind? Are you real?'' Silence was the only response Malcom received. Was he really struggling to keep his mind from fracturing, and simply created a fanciful excuse for his odd decisions? As if to mock his analysis, a rush of euphoria drifted from him, much larger than before. There was a new surge of mana coursing through his core, and if he still had a body, he would have shuddered in delight. His core actually expanded in a slow, steady stretch, diameter growing inch by inch. The hard surface of his core pressed against the statue of Amanda that perched on his pedestal, the touch of the statue''s hand against his core growing firmer and firmer, until the statue''s hand released a low groaning crackle of complaint. Fractured lines formed across the hand, his core continuing to expand, and the noise brought momentary confusion to Malcom''s distracted mind. ''What? No! My love, I''m so sorry! I lost myself in the moment!'' Hastily, he dumped mana outward to shift the statue away, in severe excess. The mana that flowed in silver-hued lines from his core nearly launched the statue away, catching it only a moment from shattering it against the opposing wall, over twenty feet away. It was as if he no longer knew his own strength, and mana coursed through him like a raging river. ''What''s going on? Why is this happening? Stop! I just need a moment to think, I need to... need to... gather...'' So much mana, faster and faster. It was as if each moment the rate at which it was flowing into his core was increasing more and more. An instinct tickled at the back of his mind, telling Malcom it was due to his aspect of hatred. What had happened that made so much hatred flow around him?
Mana Available: 100,000/100,000 Mana storage is now full. Please consume mana or create additional storage. Failure to do so in a timely fashion may cause mana overflow.
How? His mana reserves had felt titanic! There was no way that he was going to be able to fill it for a very long time. How was he supposed to spend all that mana to compete with the deluge that drew in faster and faster. Picantch weren''t even worth considering, Crowforged would barely make a difference either at the amounts of mana involved. While mages required the largest amount of mana to summon, they also required his attention and deliberation to do properly. ''Summon Mechanical Caster. Force bolt. Mana shield. Lesser blink. Mana meditation.'' Malcom chanted the repeated orders of the first of his casters he had created, over and over and over, as fast as he could manage. One after another, thick blobs of mana arrayed in his core room, starting the process of forming. It wasn''t enough.
Mana Available: 126,242/100,000 Mana storage capacity significantly exceeded. Emergency mana overflow is now proceeding. Warning: Uncontrolled venting of mana may have unintended side-effects.
The strain of the mana influx stabilized, no longer growing significantly worse, but certainly not improving much. Malcom couldn''t even summon any more creations, as his core room was completely occupied, and he couldn''t summon anything beyond his core room. Where to spend the mana? Where to spend the mana? A dense, silver-hued vortex began to form in the skies over a small hill in the midst of the grasslands. It was almost an inverse tornado, the silver-laden wind rising in a spiral from the ground where the dungeon was beneath and heading for the skies overhead. Pure, silver-sparkling mana formed into raindrops in the skies, flinging themselves outward from the spiral in a desperate bid to head anywhere else, to lessen the mana density in this location. The showering, glimmering rain was flung for miles and miles in every direction, the spire of silver wind rising higher and higher, like a pillar connecting to the sky. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Where the mana-droplets hit the ground, the dusty browns of the earth darkened heavily, and a fragrant sense of life emerged from the soil. The grasses that were soaked by the droplets shot skyward, inching upward at a visible pace. The greens deepened, growing more lush and vibrant. A few stalks even thickened and no longer resembled grasses, but stalks of corn with their thickness and firmness. Tree branches whipped in the wind, waving desperately for the mana to shower down upon them. Emerald-hued leaves had veins of silver coursing through them as the mana was drawn inward toward the trunk of the tree. A virtual paradise was being created by the mana, as if nature itself rejoiced at the power provided freely and in abundance by the raining magic power. However, changes quickly began to manifest upon the land. This river from the heavens poured from a poisoned chalice, after all. The earth''s deep browns continued to darken, well beyond what could be explained by the increased vitality and nutrients of the soil. Deep, earthy browns faded darker and darker, stained black like oil had been soaking the soil. The taint grew upwards along the grasslands, the blades of grass becoming true blades as their surface darkened to black obsidian, waving threateningly in the breeze, clashing against one another with a sound like drawn swords gently caressing down one another''s length. The leaves of the trees lost their deep greens, hardening similarly to the grass but to a lesser degree, with silver sharpness playing across the edges of each leaf and continuing to run down the veins toward the branch. Branches flexed and curled, whip-like. No longer content to beg the heavens to provide more mana, they aggressively swept through the air, fighting at the falling mana-rain in defiance, trying to grasp at it and draw it in by force. Tree trunks blackened, cracking and fragmenting as obsidian, spiraling spires forced outward from within. The trees no longer radiated any sense of nature, of peacefulness. They seemed to be daring any to come and try and fell them, to meet the jagged spikes ringing each trunk in defiance, palpable malice filling the area. Like a cancer, the changes slowly spread as far as the mana-rain could reach, a threatening circle of blighted hatred-drenched lands growing for miles and miles. Malcom struggled from his stupor, his mind grasping for ideas through a thick fog. ''I remember... I could spend more and more mana to expand the Dungeon! If I expand as fast as possible, maybe I can control the mana... Just... dig deeper. Spread wider. Make tunnels into labyrinths, delve deeper, deeper, shove the earth aside, claim, claim. The land is mine. All I can grasp is mine. I will take it all. I WILL HAVE IT ALL BACK.'' Malcom descended into a maddening rant, the words flowing from him as mindlessly as the mana he sought to expel to useful purpose. The showering mana from the skies petered out to a halt, the silvered tornado slowly receding back into the ground as the excess mana was channeled to other purposes, but the damage to the surrounding areas had already been done. In fact, infusing his mana into the surroundings had fostered a sense of connection to the lands. It was already inundated with the same mana as the Dungeon. As a matter of fact, the flock of Picantch had already flown from their cramped, overpopulated roosting on the initial spiral staircase and taken to the mutated trees without hesitation. Making several new nests in each, the near-sentient swaying and grasping of the branches seemingly showing no objection to housing the new occupants. Ever deeper, ever outward, the dungeon expanded in every direction. If any observer had been down in these boring tunnels, they would see the hive-like assortment of expansion progressing fractions of an inch per minute. This didn''t sound very impressive, but the sheer size of the expansion was mind-boggling. Every direction that the half-sphere of underground that was reachable was being steadily intruded upon, spreading the domain of the dungeon without care. Now that the vast income of mana was being channeled to useful purpose, Malcom looked out over the dozens of forming Mechanical Mages crowding his inner sanctum. ''What the actual fuck just happened...?''
A small, mana-painted mirror with a slight flaw was being used to deliver a report. Sir Vayne knelt in his mithril armor, his helmet removed as he bowed respectfully toward the mirror. "My Liege, Kremston has devolved into utter chaos. If something isn''t done, we''re going to lose the foothold for assault. All our preparations are going to waste. The secret food stockpiles have all but burned away, the reserves intended for the offensive have all but evaporated in a single night of madness. I can''t even begin to imagine how far back this will put back our plans of assault across the blasted Valdweald. This must be the work of elven spies. They''ve hidden themselves in the deepest reaches of the wild for too long, their natural barriers protecting their arrogant frailty. They took advantage of the chaos of some new manner of dungeon-spawn assaulting the town to sow chaos, and even the secret warehouses were burned away. They know some measure of our plans." A snort of derision replied from the mirror, but Vayne refused to lift his head, shuddering at the thought of the consequences that would come if he were to be blamed for this disaster. He had to convince His Majesty that things were progressing in ways that no one had predicted, to lay the blame on another. "It is solely because of the weakness in readiness that occurred because of this new dungeon''s interference. Who could have predicted a dungeon forming that hunted outside its boundaries? My Liege, we must deal with this issue swiftly and quietly. I must request elite forces to intrude upon the dungeon and eliminate the growing risk as quickly as possible. Then we can resume our advances toward the elven lands without worrying about a new threat striking us from behind, or laying chaos to our supply lines." Fingers tapping against a hard surface answered him, leaving Sir Vayne stewing for long minutes, sweat running down his face and dripping onto the hardwood surface beneath him. "Very well. We have decided how We will handle this issue. We shall send the adamant-rank royal guard team to handle this threat to Our domain. It may also help vent some ire at the disruption of Our plans." A steely voice used to absolute authority reverberated through the room, and Vayne struggled to keep his relief from his voice in reply. "Thank you, Majesty. Your will shall be done, the dungeon will cease to exist. I shall find the location and be prepared prior to their arrival. We will handle this swiftly, lest any prying ears discover this momentary diversion of forces the issue requires." Unfortunately for Sir Vayne, this entire discussion was not quite as secure as he might have thought. The method of enhancement to the mirror was a secret, handed down for emergency contact to the royal family, provided to a mage who was unaware of its importance. It was a secure, private connection designed to bypass any listening ears, and avoid any enchantments that sought to pry into magical communication. It''s such a shame the mirror had a small flaw that had not been brought to attention, and thus the message was all but shouted to the heavens for anyone trying to listen in. Quite a few forces would be very interested in the movements of the highest-level troops of a kingdom being maneuvered around, and the vulnerabilities such a movement might create. And that''s not to mention the elves, who now had concrete evidence of forces being amassed to assault them. The fragile peace that the land had enjoyed in recent memory was about to have some very... interesting changes. Plans years in the making being disrupted, tensions between the races being escalated by the revelations, it seems the world was poised to let vent a little hatred, with the spark of impetus being a newly-formed dungeon. A Secondary Goal Now that the surging excess of mana had been dealt with, Malcom tried to gather his thoughts. Something big happened, and his peaceful time of being able to tinker around in the dungeon uninterrupted might be coming to an end sooner rather than later. It was time to kick his defense and readiness into overdrive- ''Is it? Well. Yes, it''s a good idea, but does that mean I want to listen to it? I just calmed down to try and catch my breath and think for a minute, and I''m already getting these urges to get back to doing something else.'' The mana was being channeled, albeit rather sub-optimally as he was just digging outward without focus, so Malcom calmed himself and peered out over the densely-packed masses of mana doing their best to form into mages, eyes locked on the first that was created. ''I can''t wait to try and experiment with spells, but I hope that my summons come with some idea of what they''re doing. They better, for all I picked a perk for that very purpose. If they have to fumble around for it too, it''ll be slow going before I can get things rolling. They do have a limited selection of spells, though, so I can only hope that''s due to the related information being imbued into them. Now, I can''t summon anything else because... because... I''m being stupid, that''s why.'' He had limited his core room to a fifty-foot box and thought it would be more space than he would ever need, then merely settled in and made it his shrine for Amanda. If he could just expand the space, he would be able to summon more creatures, obviously. So how did he expand the core room without having to give up his inner sanctum he had built up so far? ''It almost looks like I''ve made a proper temple to you, Amanda.'' Malcom noted with amusement. Grand murals across the obsidian stone of the walls, multiple statues arrayed around the area, his raised podium that held his core in the very middle of it all felt almost altar-like. ''Perhaps that''s not the worst idea I''ve had. A temple. I can only have one room as a core room, but a room is defined by the walls, is it not?'' With his mind thinking about temples he had seen in the pact, particularly the Greek temples with their pillars, it seemed right to him and gave him architecture he could try and imitate. Thick pillars formed an open-aired perimeter around what he had already created, ringing it and giving some sense of boundary from the growing room outside of them. He drew mana inward from his outer reaches, focusing on pouring as much mana as needed toward this task to complete it. The stone evaporated away as quickly as cotton floss meeting water, the construction effort billowing outward. The location of his core podium seemed to soar upward by comparison, as surfaces in all directions were dug downward, leaving a sloping, pyramid-shaped approach to climb upward. It lacked any staircase or way to approach easily, barring perhaps flight, and jagged crags in the surface were once again broken further apart as spikes of the obsidian forced upward, the approach to the new ''temple'' bristling like a defensive hedgehog. As if that wasn''t enough, whirls of silver curled and tangled between the spikes like playful snakes, intertwining and entangling around one another. The edges of which were tingled with razor sharpness, a glistening silver hedge of bladed wire to make forcing up the slick, smooth surface of the pyramid even more agonizing. ''Only fitting for others to have to trudge through hell to reach you, Amanda. Then they might feel the smallest sliver of what I endure every day without you.'' Now for the areas for summoning. He carved deep trenches in the pyramid around the base in each cardinal direction, creating deep wells where his summons could form up as necessary and march outward, or use as a last line of defense. As these formed, Malcom took the time to start another mage''s summoning, packing these trenches as much as he could manage. ''Good, I am allowed to summon out here, even with the pillars. Though, I don''t see why a doorway stops me from expanding where I can summon but pillars don''t. Is it something symbolic? Bah.'' The questions behind ''why'' mattered little, as long as it worked. The end result of his trenches filled with forming Mechanical mages was somewhat akin to the clay soldiers he had heard of being buried with some important figures back in his previous world. Was it clay? He knew it was something like clay. Terra... something? ''No, focus! Stop letting your mind wander. ¡­ Why? Actually, why do I need to stop letting my mind wander? It''s you again, isn''t it? Toying with my thoughts? Trying to force me down a path without thinking on it, hm? I''m onto you.'' Nothing responded. With a mental grumble, he shifted his attention back to the room- the temple- he was creating. Outside of the entrenched, dug-in lines he expanded his reach further, with grander pillars as thick as houses roughly interspersed through the space, slowly growing into a forest of columns that held up the mass of weight overhead. He might have been able to work some levitation effect into the entrance staircase, and he still wasn''t sure exactly how that worked, but when it came to not having his core crushed flat, he wanted to at least feel secure thinking there was some sort of physics at work holding everything up above him. Stretching further and further, until he had created a vast chamber to spawn his armies in. ''Armies...? Hm. I suppose I will need a lot of troops. Calling it an army should suffice. I''m only preparing for an eventuality, that''s all.'' Around the midpoint of each of the towering support pillars for the wider cavern, platforms formed where more Picantch could roost or be summoned in great numbers. They cost him next to nothing at this point, pure pittance, and the greater cost of creating them was the momentary attention they each required to demand to form than actual mana. The moment he stopped expanding the cavernous room, the mana swelled inside Malcom''s core, the ache of over-fullness overtaking him immediately. The mana generation seemed no less vehemently aggressive now than before, so he hurriedly channeled it into thousands and thousands of forming figures. Crowforged appeared in ranks a hundred across, their feather-plated figures starting to form in mere minutes. Non-mage baseline Mechanicals started to appear in alternating patterns, leaving either of the troops in blocks a hundred ranks deep. Ten thousand troops, and he was dropping them as quickly as he could in block after block, surrounding the temple with a growing force. Each troop took only a flicker of his attention to start the process of, and silvery mists of mana fogged from his core like a tide as it rushed out to the appropriate locations to form. Entire flocks of Picantch were created for each pillar, forming a slow-growing cacophony from subtle noises caused merely by shuffling around on the hard stone. A hundred thousand talons clicking with their shuffling. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ''More. More. This isn''t enough. Send them forward, claim their places in the tunnels. Flood them like a tide and make room for the next. The troops will shake the earth in march. The flocks will blind the heavens from peeking. I will not be stopped. I will grow freely, I will take greedily, I will crush them all. They will suffer. THEY MUST SUFFER. I hate them. I hate them all. I hate IT all.'' Vision and thought alike turned red, Malcom struggling to form a coherent thought. Once more, the words flowed through his mind as unstoppable as the flood of mana had been, and just as overwhelming. The first of the soldiers had finished forming, and knelt toward the raised temple in unison. Each new rank that formed followed suit. The Picantch grew agitated, flapping their wings and cawing repeatedly, almost in unison, but in a cacophony that reverberated off the walls. The kneeling mechanical troops saluted fist-to-chest, bashing their metal hands off plated chests, forming a deep, thumping rhythm of metal clashing against metal. It was hypnotizing. Intoxicating. This. This was how things were meant to be. Unbidden words rose into Malcom''s thoughts, caught in the frenzy, or by something else. A chant, and it made his non-existent blood boil, with visions of violent suffering forming in his mind. A hallucination? A revelation? He saw battles of armies, on scales that covered continents. Great gouts of flames that poured from the earth like bursting volcanoes reaching for the clouds above. Of shadows dancing in the flames, formless. No, merely... free-flowing? A flap of something that was definitely wings cut through the fire, rising with the blast of flame as it had propelled the blurred figure skyward. Vaguely humanoid, it burst into the clouds with such force it punched a massive hole through them, before the mental picture shattered into fragments, a blinding ache all but overwhelming Malcom''s thoughts. The chanting, however, lingered in his mind. It was not his thoughts, but it remained nonetheless. Break. Burn. Slash. Churn. Soon the heretics shall learn. Blood. Hate. Death. Fate. Mighty Gods made supplicate. Hunger. Fear. Purpose. Clear. All my foes shall disappear. Rise. Tall. Over. All. False divinity shall fall. It merely repeated the stanza of the poem, over and over, the intensity behind the words growing heavier. It felt like every word was being yelled, then screamed, and then it was no longer a sound comparable to a verbal relation. At that point, it was merely reverberating through Malcom''s entire being, the vibrations pulsing through him, then echoing back. ''Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP. Get out of my head. Get out of my mind. I can''t stand the way you try and push me to purpose! I know you''re out there! Toying with me! Playing with my mind. What do you want? WHY DO YOU BOTHER ME? I hate you. I hate you. I HATE YOU.'' This time, however, Malcom no longer felt the sensation tickling at the back of his mind that he was merely screaming at himself in the void. Cold coursed through his core, through his very soul, as he felt as if he had drawn the attention of something else. Something vast. That blurred, winged figure wrapped in shadow formed in his mind again, facing directly toward Malcom''s view. It was pitch black, and had only a vague shape resembling a human face, the shadows constantly flicking and swirling to deny even a hard outline of features. It was impossible to see, but somehow Malcom felt that it opened its eyes only after he had screamed his hate toward the creature. There was no change in what he saw, but the cold jolting through him intensified, the sensation of being eyed by a predator too close to do anything about. A single word pounded at his consciousness like a blacksmith hammering his work. Good. The urge to snarl like a beast rose in him, trying to war against the cowardice he felt around his soul in icy grasp. It was real. It was real. He hadn''t hallucinated, he hadn''t been imagining it. Something was toying with him. It knew he was here. ''Why? Why? Why am I here? Why did you drag me into this fucking hole? Why do you try and force my thoughts?'' No response, this time, as the figure blurred further, fading from his mind, as if another had turned away from the conversation, losing interest. A final scream ripped from him, the most important question he had to ask before the shadow vanished completely. ''WHERE''S AMANDA?!'' The fading paused for but a moment, solidifying a miniscule amount as if a glance over the shoulder of one departing. Again, despite seeing no face, Malcom felt the smirk beneath the blurred shadows that concealed expression. Malcom felt hope pulse in his heart. He had its attention. It must know something! It wouldn''t react like that if it didn''t know. ''Tell me! Damn you, tell me where she is!'' The sensation of a smirk only grew, and the figure began to fade once more. ''Stop! STOP! You know! You know! Tell me. TELL ME OR I''LL KILL YOU. I WILL HUNT YOU TO THE ENDS OF THE WORLD. TELL ME OR I SWEAR ON ALL I KNOW I WILL END YOU.'' The illusion shattered, and Malcom was left staring around his inner sanctum, the statues, the images, all of Amanda brought him no comfort, now. They were but facsimiles. False comfort he shouldn''t lean on. But he couldn''t bear himself to change a thing about this temple to her. A reminder, then, mocking him to find her, to ensure that no matter how distracted he grew, or how much anyone tried to press him, he merely had to look around himself to be reminded of his goal. Now, however, there were two goals. While Amanda came first, and was obviously the most important, the lesser goal lit a fire in him almost as intense. Someone needed to die. Slowly. Painfully. Hatefully. Discovery and Analysis Carefully stepping forward, a group of bow-wielding hunters tread around the boundary of blackened ground and transformed plant life, the boundary of the transformation an almost unnervingly clear separation. There was about two strides of distance where the black ground slowly lightened toward the normal earthen hues beyond the changed zone and the grass was merely grey and stiff rather than blackened and sword-like. Roughly a dozen figures comprised the group, mostly humans, but there were a trio of shorter, bearded figures of dwarves clustered furthest from the phenomenon. All had an arrow nocked and hands ready to draw, eyes flickering rapidly between examining the ground of the boundary, and the twisted treetops that lay within. Within a stones throw, the unnatural stillness of those blight-birds calmly stared at the group, heads rotating on a swivel to follow the motion of the group. They didn''t make any threatening gestures, or even caw with annoyance as they were observed. Every able-bodied man was being sent out to try and gather food to deal with the desperate lack of it following the chaos of the burning that had happened just a few days ago, with strict orders from the lord of the town to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. If this didn''t count, who knows what would? "We should go. We should go right now. We found something, we can go back and report it, get the reward rations. I don''t know what the rest of you intend to do, but I''m taking my family and going to a big city to hunker down. I''ll never venture into the wilds again, Sevarth take me if I lie." A particularly pale-looking man rubbed at his face, trying to keep the cold sweat from his eyes. "We''re all going to die if those things act up." His bow aimed slightly higher, directing his remark toward the Picantch that stared back at him, impassively. "Easy, easy. That''s why we need to stay calm. No screaming. No running. And for the sake of your soul don''t fire an arrow unless they attack first." Another man tried to bring the panicked mood back down, speaking in an even, calm tone. There was a round of vehement nodding at that, everyone having been firmly told about how the Crowcaller had started the tragedy of Kremston. It was pounded into their skulls again and again: if you want to see another day, do not provoke the flocks of the blight-birds. If they attacked you, pray to your preferred God and try to take some with you, but never, never fire the first shot. "We''re gone as soon as I finish marking this on the map. We might get more credit if we stuck around and followed the edge to see how far it goes, but I doubt anyone wants to take the risk." A gruff snort rose from one of the dwarves, thumb caressing along the bladed edge of a small hatchet, eyes locked firmly on the ground beyond the barrier. "Burn my beard, anyone who takes a single step on that tainted land willingly is a madman. I''ve nae felt earth and stone so... wrong. The ground''s twisted. I cannae feel a bit of the call of the earth in it. That''s bad land, and I ain''t talkin'' about farming. Nothin'' about that''s natural. It''s like someone took all the natural out of it, on purpose, and filled it in with sommat else." He spat to the side in disgust, taking another step back from the boundary. "That land''s a sin, I cannae think of another word for it." The other dwarves made murmuring noises of agreement, and several of the human men nodded along besides. Every man stiffened in terror as a deafening cacophony of cawing sounded out, a flight of three birds sweeping from a nearby tree to descend with rabid violence on a rabbit that had crossed the boundary of the blackened lands, then twisted in a panic and tried to dart back. It didn''t make it more than a bounce as the birds seemed to take almost malicious pleasure in tearing the poor creature into parts and ravaging the remains with their razor-toothed beaks. Once the rabbit resembled minced meat and shredded fur, the bloodied birds returned to their perch with an almost casual slowness to their flight, settling back into their perch, and directing their attention back to the group of men. They almost seemed to be daring the men to cross that boundary, as obviously it wasn''t a lack of willingness to fight that seemed to be keeping them from assaulting the men. "Somethin'' be holdin'' them back." A dwarf muttered darkly, slowly backing away and keeping his gaze firmly on the flock. "An'' that''s all I need to know to leave, right now. That map''s gonna be good enough as it is. Maybe we''ll get more credit for saying they don''t want to leave that damned dark-land, but we go. Now." The group seemed to agree, and began their retreat backward, keeping their attention on the threat as they backed away. Seeing their intent to leave, a sound that haunted the dreams of those present echoed. A reverberating cawing, the laughter-like calling of the birds. Every man knew that sound in their bones, despite having heard it but once before: right before the flock had attacked the town. "RUN!" one of the men screamed, losing all composure. He dropped all pretense of calmness and began to sprint away, shoving several of his fellows out of the way in the process. The terror spread through most of the group, as all the human men broke away in their mad scramble. The dwarves were the only ones to remain steady, seeing the birds hadn''t taken to wing. They almost seemed to be... mocking the hunters, chasing them away in as cruel a fashion as they could without actually attacking. "We aren''t going back to Kremston it seems, brothers. Can''t trust the humans to keep this one in hand. They might deal with the monsters, eventually, but it''s going to take dwarves to deal with the earth. Even if we just need to wall it up to be sure it doesn''t spread." Knowing that the town was keeping a strict leash on those who tried to leave, they started to back away and vie further southward than the humans had ran. The Stonecrowned Circle, the ruling council of dwarves, needed this report more than anything else. It was a long trek back across the human lands to get back to their home in the mountains, but it''d take more than a long walk to keep a dwarf down. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
Malcom fumed to himself, trying not to let his anger overwhelm his rational mind. Whoever, or whatever, had been toying him was doing so with a purpose. His actions had clearly been influenced up until this point, but he wasn''t sure that this wasn''t still happening, even right now. Why, after the deception of pretending to be an argumentative tone in the back of his mind, had things come to such a direct conflict? Was it trying to make him lash out without thinking? He very nearly had, the moment after the vision vanished from his mind. Looking out over a massive number of troops he had felt a strange compulsion to make, his knee-jerk response had almost been to send them all out in a rage to track down any information related to the contents of his... hallucination? Instead, he decided to give an order to his summons to defend the dungeon''s territory and not a step further. If anything came to him, he didn''t want to be bothered giving orders, but he didn''t want them causing any more problems with their interpretations of his orders, either. Anything that came in? Deal with it so it didn''t bother him. What Malcom felt he needed most was time to think, uninterrupted and ideally uninfluenced by any outside sources. ''What do I know for sure? Well, the system and the voice seem to be completely separate influences on me, but that could simply be another way to influence me. Still, the system has been pressuring me to defend my core and build defenses around myself, both of which make sense. It''s the other influence that bothers me, as it seems to pressure me any time I stop moving forward or reaching outward for goals. It seems to be driving me more through my aspect of hate, amplifying my negative emotions at times that drive me to purpose. I need to find a balance between making sure I''m not being manipulated, and holding myself back too much and putting myself in a dangerous situation.'' The shadowy influence seemed to want him to press outward, to expand and grow aggressively... but why? What did it gain from pushing him to do so? Certainly, there had been benefits to the dungeon as a result of his blind expansionist urges, and an absurd head-start of experience that skyrocketed him ahead in the levelling process. It gave Malcom more options, but he secretly worried that he was going too fast, not having time to adjust to the increased power. Like a novice driver being told to race a supercar, he was bound to make mistakes... and he just hoped that none of them led to a serious wreck. The lapse in judgement that led to the emergency mana dump into the environment came to mind as the largest potential problem. Malcom may have been able to be relatively unnoticed as a hole in the side of a number of low, rolling hills in a nondescript grassland... but now that the changes that had been wrought on the surroundings were taken into account, anyone who wanted to find him was going to be able to do so, and quickly. The claimed area was just too small, a circle of a few miles of radius, compared to the vast wilderness that he might have been lost in before. Was he finally going to have his first visitors to his dungeon? After all this time, no one had so much as stuck their head in the door, and there was a certain amount of stress that he wasn''t able to tweak his traps and preparations. Sure, he could come up with new ideas, new theories, but without seeing delvers actually trying to make their way through his dungeon, it was all guesswork. He had an impression of being strong, from the ease at which his Picantch had caused a massacre, but was that a false sense of strength? He had summoned thousands upon thousands of troops, built up a labyrinthine tangle of tunnels to try and slow intruders, but would all of it work? He was only level 4, but was that impressive? The amount of experience it required was a lot, sure, but he had no point of reference! Malcom''s mood continued to spiral downward as he continued to doubt himself, nervousness gnawing at his mind. An awful, lingering sense of foreboding hovered over him ever since the first surge of experience from the massacre, and it had only grown much worse after the tremendous surge of mana attributed to hatred coursing through his core. Too much, too fast, with too little information. All he could do was mentally go over any holes in his plans, assess his traps for flaws, arrange his summons in the appropriate spaces through the tunnels. The form of the first mage he had started days ago was finally solidifying, a clear human-sized lump of silvered mana steadily gaining more and more definition. Likely a few more hours, and he would be able to see just how good his Mechanical Casters lived up to their name. It would be some time before the rest of the mage armada finished forming, since he only started them after the mana surge, but give it another few days and he felt like things would be much more secure around the dungeon. Hopefully nothing serious would go wrong before then. The First Test "I can''t believe we''re getting dragged out here for a swarm of bronze-rank threats. Sure, they tore up some piss-ant frontier town, but so what? That means they''ve gotta teleport us over first thing in the morning? It''s like dropping a lightning bolt on a cockroach. It isn''t worth the effort." A bare-chested man in a leather kilt, who looked like he spent all of his free time either lifting weights or getting into fights, complained loudly. His companions looked at him with varying degrees of amusement to frustration. Walking down the cobblestone road of Kremston alongside the barbarous man were an assortment of other humans, and their gear seemed to proclaim their roles. One man wore a bright red robe and used a long, gnarled and twisted staff as a walking stick, hand curled around a red, glassy orb at the top. A large tome rest against his hip, bound in red leather, and it knocked against his hip with each stride. "You knew we were heading out today, and went drinking anyway, Manfred. I''m not listening to you complain about being hungover the entire trip out to this dungeon." Another man was clad in dark leathers possessing a subtle sheen of enchantment glowing around the edges, with an assortment of small knives and pouches strapped across both his arms, hips, and chest. He was the shortest of the companions, but not so much as to be mistaken for any of the other races, merely enough to be almost hidden in the midst of his compatriots. The roguish fellow flipped a trio of small, tapered blades that were sized to fit in the palm, juggling them as they strolled down the road. "Lighten up, Noel. This is going to be a piece of cake. Treat it like a vacation. As long as he stands in front and flails about with that huge freakin'' axe of his, I don''t care if he''s seeing triple. It''s not like he aims where he swings, anyway." "I do too! Just because I can hit more than one target at a time doesn''t mean you have to be so snide about how you''re ''the precise blade in the dark''! You''re such an edgy drama queen, Flint! ''Oh look at me, I''m juggling knives in public because I think it makes me look mysterious!'' Why I-" The last member of the group studiously tuned out the argument of his companions, walking at the lead position. An older man, the crown of his head completely bare and shaven while a ring of hair circles around the sides of his head. It was a pale white from age, as was the scruffy, modest-length beard they wore. A simple brown robe adorned his body, cinched at the waist by a belt, with a dark-metal mace strapped upon it. One hand clasped against the medallion of a necklace, caressing it with his thumb, while he muttered prayers for patience under his breath. While the group was, individually, some of the strongest troops in the kingdom at various tasks each... teamwork was not something that came easily when strong egos were pushed to the same purpose. Eventually, the man in the lead spoke up. "I expect you to finish this argument before we''re out of town. You''re allowed to make a scene before we''re technically on-mission, but once we''re in the wilds I will be expecting professionalism from all of you. I agree, I feel as if there are better uses for our attention than dealing with a new dungeon, however orders are orders. It''s behaving abnormally, and needs to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. They don''t want to send a mediocre team in and feed the thing. The sooner we destroy the core, the sooner we can stop dealing with each others presence." The mage nodded in agreement immediately, and silently. It was the argumentative barbarian and thief who took their time to get a few more remarks in, while the man''s fingers strayed toward the handle of his mace. Like reluctant school children, the pair chimed up a "Yes, Rodney." It didn''t stop their argument, however, it just dropped the volume of it. It would have to be good enough. The map they had was only barely acceptable, and it had been scrawled on afterward by whoever had tried to track down the dungeon''s location none-too-neatly. It was the best map that had been available in this backwater hole of a town, and at least indicated the direction they needed to travel. After reaching the gates that had been readily and hurriedly opened once their approach was spotted, the group strode past the guards without so much as acknowledging their existence. Rodney spoke up, folding the map and tucking it into a pouch upon his belt after determining the bearing and direction they needed to walk in. "So, to confirm, all the information we have is that there''s a large number of aggressive birds at bronze-rank. They attack with swarming tactics, and prefer to engage in tangling close-range with opponents rather than disengage and hit-and-run. The location of the dungeon proper hasn''t been explored, but is being thoroughly watched, so we can expect to get engaged in a fight the moment we breach the perimeter they''re calling ''blighted lands''. The lands themselves have altered plant life, and it''s possible that animal life was affected, though I doubt such a population of birds were naturally present to be corrupted. What are all of your thoughts?" Manfred took a long draw from a skin hanging at his own waist, the scent of alcohol drifting through the group before he hurriedly stoppered it once again. "It''s not like they''ll be able to do anything to us. They''re still bronze-rank. Do we even need to deal with them? Just push through them and smash the core. It''s a lot faster to cut off their mana supply and starve them out than try to sit around and hit each and every bird we come across. Unless Noel is volunteering to cook the whole area. I haven''t seen you pump out any really impressive magic for a while." The mage maintained his walking pace without a shift in expression at the remark. "If the birds become more of a nuisance than merely keeping up a mana barrier and walking through them, I am not opposed to removing the problem." This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. "You know, for a fire mage, you''re the least passionate person I''ve ever met when it comes to magic." Flint chimed up, expression hidden away in his cowl, but his poor impersonation of the mage''s voice made his amusement blatant. "I am not opposed to removing the problem." It was higher pitched and nasally, before he returned to his own normal voice. "You''re a walking, man-made volcano and you''re not the least bit excited to blow some shit up? God you''re boring." A crass snort of amusement escaped Manfred, and he reached over to bump a fist against Flint''s shoulder, chuckling softly in agreement. "Don''t be too hard on him. You never know, maybe he''s trying to save up his ''spark'' for the bedroom. Speaking of, Noel, I don''t remember the last time I''ve seen that woman you fancy hanging around. Didn''t scare her off did you?" As much as the pair ragged on the mage for a response, he merely trudged along in firm silence, albeit with a steady downturn of his lips. Of course, this only encouraged the pair to try and make further crass remarks. Rodney rubbed at his temples, head shaking slowly from side to side. "This is going to be a long walk..."
Several hours later, the group was standing at the edge of the darkened lands, eyeing the black-hued sword-grass, the trees that twisted and lunged without wind, and the smattering of black-feathered birds staring at them from their nests in the branches. "So that''s it? I guess it''s enough to spook the locals. Alright, Noel, it''s time to do your thing. Unless you want to traipse through that meadow as-is. You know, frolic about, get your fancy robes all cut up on that grass?" Flint took a few measured steps back, wanting to be further away from any heat. With a sigh, Noel hefted his staff and planted it firmly before him. "Fine. But I''m not going to be the one doing all the work. I get to sit in the back and relax during the rest of the dungeon, unless something big happens." The glassy red stone at the head of the staff began to shine, pulling in mana from the surrounding environment to assist in fueling the spell. The staff worked in a slow circle as Noel began to chant, flinching slightly at the sensation of mana entering the spell. "Mana''s tainted." He remarked, and the rest of the group took significantly larger strides away. The local mana could influence magic if you tapped into it, and they had no idea how this was going to affect it. Without further remark, the channeling of the spell seemed to draw to a climax, the gleam in the orb flashing brightly as Noel called out, "Greater Firestorm!" Immediately, a swirling vortex of heated wind erupted from the staff, growing larger and larger. The air ignited, forming a roaring bonfire that was sucked into the man-sized tornado, and then it launched forward. He had intended to use it to clear a path in a straight line toward their destination, but the fire almost seemed to have a mind of its own. When the trees leaned away from the heat and flames, the tornado actively swerved aside to smash into them, igniting the trunks and sending flames licking up into the leaves. It bounced back and forth off each like a pinball, zig-zagging from tree to tree like it was determined to hit as many as possible. "Whew, how much mana did you put in that, Noel? It''s downright angry. Are you sure we want to get rid of this place? It almost seemed to make that fire stronger, damn!" Flint chimed in, while the mage''s eyes narrowed. "I suspect I will need to utilize primarily my own mana going forward. Certainly for any precise spells. If they all go out of control like that, the risk of friendly fire increases dramatically." A spitting sound emitted from Manfred, who had been mid-swallow from the flask, and he coughed in amusement. "Friendly fire, heh..." Noel gave him a scathing look, eyeing the drink in his hand pointedly, before giving a dismissive sniff and not dignifying the childish ''humor'' of his semi-intoxicated companion with further response The Picantch in the nearby trees all took to wing, cawing and calling, working themselves up into a frenzy and drawing in more and more birds from further away. "And here comes the birds. At least they seem happy enough to gather up for us." Each had their weapons at the ready, and the mage''s staff was glowing dimly again in preparation. Then the flock surged forward. Saying it happened endlessly would be an exaggeration, but it felt as if the birds were trying to suffocate the group with their own bodies. Any talons that tried to find purchase scraped off each of the adventurers without harm. Even the bare-chested Manfred was only receiving small lines of markings that didn''t seem to even break the skin. The teeth fared no better, but the group found it hard to advance from the sheer fact that every bit of space around them was occupied by flapping, cawing, very angry birds. "I can''t cast like this! The spell would blow up right in my own face!" Noel shouted above the cacophony, the group huddled in a vague square as each dealt with the birds closest to them with any means they could. They weren''t taking damage, but they couldn''t even tell which direction they had initially wanted to walk in. It was a storm of crows, no, a hurricane. For every bird that was crushed, slashed, or otherwise dispatched, there was immediately more to take its place. "Just keep it up, there''s got to be an end to these birds eventually!"
Below, Malcom was aware of the fire that tore through his dungeon, and he felt a spike of anger tear through him in much the same fashion. When the birds began to swarm, he sent off the battalions of birds that were perched around the pillars of his central chamber. While many Picantch had been roosting outside, a much greater number roosted here. As they flew through the tunnels to join the assault on the intruders, Malcom flicked his eyes across his other troops, pondering if they needed to be sent up as well. ''No. Not yet. I don''t know enough about this. You, you, and you.'' Malcom mentally designated three of the Crowforged, who knelt upon receiving his attention. ''Get out there and try to scout out the intruders, then report back.'' After giving his orders, he started re-summoning Picantch as quickly as he could, replacing the platforms of birds, sending them out, then replacing them again. He didn''t even have to divert much mana from expanding his tunnels, as he had so much excess that it was his attention on starting each summon that was the real chokepoint. ''Let''s see if the Picantch can handle it. Or at the very least, let''s see how long it takes for the intruders to get tired of facing unlimited birds non-stop. I can do this all day.'' A Mismatch of Power The stalemate that the birds created managed to keep the adventuring party mostly in the same area, though it had rapidly devolved into a charnel pit of avian corpses. They were mounding up and leaving the adventurers fighting in a vague crater of bird bodies, with higher piles surrounding them. All the information was relayed second hand, as when Malcom had received the first report from the Crowforged he had sent out about the low number yet high skill of the intruders, he organized a rotation where the Crowforged periodically sent out recurring troops to check on the progress of the fight every few minutes. It was the only way Malcom could get reliable intelligence, as even though he felt a connection with the tainted land that surrounded his dungeon''s entrance, he still couldn''t perceive anything besides positioning his viewpoint at the cavern entrance and staring out into the blurriness. If anything, his vision was actively worse than before now that almost everything was a uniform black, making it hard to determine shapes in the distance. The Mechanical and Crowforged troops had thoroughly spread through the tunnels below by this point, and he was in the middle of debating sending them out to join the assault. The confines of the dungeon would work in the intruders'' favor, as it would be harder to gang up on their small number with the narrow passages he had created. On the other hand, if he kept his troops back until they started pressing in, he hoped he could trap them with bodies and overwhelming numbers. One could argue he had overplayed his hand the moment the Picantch started swarming, but that had happened due to his standing orders. Nothing he could do about it now but use it as a chance to gather intelligence.
The fighting had stretched on for minutes, then an hour, then two. The adventurers were growing more and more frustrated, and while they still took no physical damage... it was hard not to feel a psychological effect of endless birds and the chaotic noise of the fight for so long. "If this place has so many birds, I''m starting to see why they couldn''t send anyone else in! When we get out of this, I don''t think I''ll be able to so much as think about eating chicken for a month." The hulking figure of Manfred joked out with his teammates, not even sounding winded. Truth be told, they had almost become accepting of the birds assault, and were putting a lot less effort into doing more than keeping them away from their faces while they tried to plan a way through the situation. Flint chimed up in a shout that barely made it above the chaotic noise, looking at their mage, "Are they enough of a nuisance you''re going to get off your fat magical ass and do something about this yet? You''re the one with the best wide-range attack potential here!" Rather than respond immediately, Noel pulled out a blue-hued, glowing flask of liquid and handed it to the thief. "Be ready to pour this down my throat in a moment. Rodney, protection from fire on the party, if you would." The mostly-bald figure complied, holding his necklace''s pendant forward and aiming it at each member of the party in turn with a murmured chant. An orange hue came to life, flickering across the group''s members, "Ready!" Flint tucked the bottle he had been given into one of his pouches, and promptly gave up any form of offense to stick his fingers in his ears, hunching down into a crouch to make himself a smaller target. While not as exaggerated, the other members struck a defensive stance, while Noel brandished his staff above him as if holding a lightning rod to the skies. If the gemstone had been shining before, now it began to glow like a second sun. The smell of burnt feathers was starting to linger in the air as the Picantch closest to the mage began to burst into flame from the mere build-up of energy the spell was forming. Noel''s body paled even more than his natural hue, and he wavered in place, dumping every last ounce of mana he could muster into the spell. Considering he was arguably one of the greatest fire mages in the region, this was quite a lot. With a short flourish of a pointing forward gesture and a shout of "Maximized Meteoric Strike!", the staff slammed the gemstone into the ground like a mace. Rather than shatter, a blast of wind and fire burst outward from the point of impact. An intense blast of dirt, plants, and birds burst away from the area even before the heat of the blast wave could hit. The next moment, all flying debris immediately was reduced to ash, that ash burst into flame itself, and was practically evaporated from existence. Picantch, sword-grass, the mutant trees, everything aside from four straightening figures of the adventurers rising had been blasted to the ground. If one were to look at the blighted area of the altered lands from a birds-eye view, it now had an off-centered circle blasted into it, making it resemble a crescent moon. Everything in that circle was reduced to charred, blackened earth that was glowing like coals in a hearth. Flint released a low whistle, plucking the blue-glowing potion from his pocket and promptly pushing the bottle to the mage''s lips, forcefully feeding it to him. "Remind me not to make you angry, at least before you''ve spent all your mana." He joked. Noel, after his part, had hit the ground after his display of magical might, and had a miniscule amount of color return to his face after the potion''s effects kicked in. Rodney stepped forward and gave a murmured blessing of "Restoration" and "Replenishment", and in mere moments the completely spent mage was standing up and looking nearly as ready for combat as before, albeit with more sweat upon his brow. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. "Let''s get moving. We''ve got a core to smash, and I''m going to enjoy this one slightly more than the rest, I imagine."
Marcus didn''t need a scout to tell him what had happened with that burst of fire, as all the birds he had built up over a matter of hours of dedicated attention were removed from the battle in a single instant. Sure, there were a few left in the tunnels that hadn''t made their way to the surface yet, but he would have to hold back for a while to amass the numbers he had been sending at the adventuring party. If he didn''t send enough, they would just be ignored or swatted from the skies as they could flow into the battle. In truth, a rising sense of panic was making it hard to think clearly. When he had burrowed down into the earth, he had jokingly thought that he wanted to be prepared for someone dropping a missile on his head, and that was practically what had happened. He had felt that quake actually shift the ground around the dungeon after that strike, and even if he hoped that the other individuals were mere cheerleaders for the spellcaster behind that blast, he wasn''t that optimistic. Malcom was in real trouble. He had planned his dungeon to be traversed by strong people, yet people who were still human, or human-adjacent enough that spiked pits, arrow-traps, and good old-fashioned violence was going to be a threat to them. He might be able to stall them out with the mixed labyrinth of tunnels he had dug out, but eventually all his stalling, all his plotting and planning, meant nothing if he couldn''t find a way to inflict damage on the adventurers. He needed a new plan, and fast. He only hoped the Mechanicals and Crowforged would stall at least as long as the Picantch had.
"There it is!" Flint called out, pointing at a raised lump with a conspicuous cave entrance lain bare, since all the tall grasses and trees around it had been obliterated. The group approached the hole, and as one took a long, deep breath of the mana-dense air. "Whew, feel that? This place is positively oozing with mana. Bronze rank? You''re kidding me, this is at least a gold rank, maybe even a diamond rank! It should still be a walk in the park, but we''ll actually get some measurable amount of experience for smashing it up, I expect!" Manfred hefted an axe that was almost as tall as he was in disappointment, before strapping it to his back and drawing out a more modest pair of hand axes. "Man, can''t I ever get a break with a dungeon that likes wide hallways and tall ceilings? I never get to use my favorite axe until the final chambers. It''s like dungeons all universally agree that it''s necessary to be cramped and claustrophobic until the final boss or something..." "It just means you''ll have an easier time doing your job as a frontliner, instead of having an excuse as to why things keep getting past and bothering me in the middle of my spellcasting. And what I said before still stands, unless you can''t handle it, I don''t want to deal with the trash monsters. Big spells are such a bother to prep for." The mage leaned more heavily against his staff as the group entered the tunnel, Flint leading the way to look for traps, with Manfred, Noel, and then Rodney bringing up the rear. When the group came across the levitating spiral staircase of black stone, only Noel eyed it appreciably with a murmur of interest. The rest merely assessed it for danger. "Think it''ll collapse as soon as we touch it?" Flint murmured, tapping the first step down with his foot and pushing experimentally, only to find it refused to budge. "How deep do you think it is?" The moment the question left, there was the sound of whooshing as Manfred simply leapt down the center gap of the staircase, the rest of the group sighing and hearing him start to count as he fell. "One... Twoooo..." It faded briefly before there was a resounding thud, and the barbarous man called back up, "It''s barely a drop, so hurry up. It won''t kill ''ya even if it does collapse. They didn''t even put spikes at the bottom!" Noel slipped a pair of gold-glinting coins from his pocket and passed them over to a broadly-grinning Flint, "Told''ja he''d jump as soon as I asked." With a sigh as he watched his coin disappear, Noel started down the staircase. "I keep hoping he''ll learn. That, or I''ll be paying out my coins with the delighted knowledge that he finally managed to kill himself with one of his stupid stunts." Rodney followed the mage, mirroring his sigh, "As much as I agree that he could use more restraint, you know very well if that happened then I''d have to exhaust most of my energy reviving him. He wouldn''t even learn a lesson if he did manage to kill himself. I think that''s half the reason he behaves like a giant man-child." "The other half?" "That''s just because he knows it bothers the rest of us." The group was surprisingly unbothered by the jagged spikes of rock that circled the eerie appearance of the staircase, and met the bottom in short order. Rather than a continuation of a single tunnel, the circular room had eight different doorways arranged equidistant around them, heading in all possible directions. "Great, we''ve got one of those dungeons..." Manfred whined in complaint as the rest of the party rejoined him. "It thinks it''s being clever to wear down adventurers or something. A dungeon at this level should know better than that though, unless it''s already learned to shield its core. Noel?" The mage pulled out a compass-like device, though the needle was blue and wasn''t pointing in the direction of north. "Nope. Greatest flow of mana is coming from the second door to your left. The rest are decoys. It''s possible the dungeon has a treasure emitting more mana than the core and is using it to mislead us, but in that case, we''d want to make the detour anyway."
With his viewpoint hovering all but directly overhead of the group, Malcom was left gaping. Of all the tricks he had expected, them being able to detect the right direction toward his core wasn''t one of them. This immediately cut off a vast amount of traps and distracting tunnels from their path, and even the twists and misleading turns on the correct path were likely to be ignored. It was time to send in the rest of his troops and hope they could pull off a miracle, because he was rapidly running out of ideas. Dangerous Signs "Well these sure aren''t birds. Looks like this dungeon might have something interesting in it after all." The boisterous roar reverberated off the walls of the dungeon tunnel, Manfred swinging both of his hand axes in a wild frenzy. Each casual-seeming strike screeched with the protest of sheared metal, as Crowforged and Mechanical soldiers continued to march forward into the man''s swings. Behind him, the rest of the adventuring party seemed almost relaxed as they watched the fight. Flint looked disinterested, having decided that it wasn''t worth interrupting Manfred''s fun in order to score a few kills for himself, and leaned against the dungeon''s wall. "What, did this place get sealed up or something, and someone just happened to open the front door? This place doesn''t feel like a new dungeon at all. Maybe it''s an old dungeon, only rediscovered. What''cha think, Noel? You''re the walking library, you know anything about the metal men?" The fiery mage shook his head, aiming his staff at the amassing piles of scrap metal that cluttered the hallway around Manfred''s sides. If they didn''t do anything about the wreckage, there wouldn''t need to be a need to send more troops to block them, the passageway would merely fill with damaged detritus. A modest jet of flame swept back and forth across the remains, the magical fire igniting the metal and causing it to melt down into a lumpy pile of slag. The fire actively consumed the metal, though, and the piles were slowly growing smaller and smaller, clearing the way for them to follow after Manfred''s slow advance. "I''ve never seen anything like this before. That fact alone makes me suspect that it might not have been complete overkill to send us in for the job. After all, if this is a totally new dungeon that grew this fast, in another half-year it could actually have developed into something resembling a threat." The rogue sighed with a dramatic flourish of his hands that seemed to encompass everything around them in the gesture. "Alas, you could have been a place to get stronger. You just had to get too big for your breeches and all but wipe a town off the map. Such a waste." The mostly-bald priest swatted the rogue on the back of the head with a firm thump, "Stop clowning around and focus on the task. With this much combat going on in the hall, there shouldn''t be any untriggered traps for us to worry about, but that doesn''t mean there won''t be any. Pay attention to the ground and the walls, and less to gabbing." "Piss off, Rodney, I''ve got the skill active. If anything were going to happen, I''d know. Has my trap sense ever let you down?" It was at that moment that a side passage opened a short distance behind the group, with Mechanical and Crowforged troops pouring out from the new opening. Rodney hefted his mace, and took up a rearguard position, as he didn''t think that the rogue''s knives would be of much use against these bloodless creations. "You were saying?" The older man asked, scathingly. Flint raised both hands palms-out as if to profess his innocence. "That''s a secret passage, not a trap! Not my job, not my fault!" "Less trying to weasel out of blame and more doing something useful, Flint!" "What do you want me to do, throw poisoned needles at them? I came prepared for birds!" "Oh you useless-"
Malcom sighed in relief as the sheer weight of numbers had stalled out the party, the mage needing to divide his attention between the front and the rear of the party. Unfortunately, he kept using his flame magic with wild abandon, so the plan to see if he could starve out the oxygen in the tunnel and take care of his unwanted guests that way wasn''t going to produce any results. So, what was plan B? In fact, Malcom wasn''t even sure he had one. Hope that he could channel enough mana into troops to create a ceaseless tide of them to keep the group engaged in combat until they were exhausted? They didn''t seem to be putting forth that much effort into combat. They would get tired eventually, sure, but given the way they had blasted the surface, he wasn''t convinced that they wouldn''t just do so again if they were pressed too hard. Down here in the tunnels, a firebomb like that would likely scour every defense he could muster for a huge distance. Maybe the confines of the tunnel would cook them too if they tried? No new levels, no new units. The first of his mages had finished up in the meantime, and while he had a flash of hope at that revelation... it simply wasn''t going to be enough. Even if he had his entire spawning regiment of mages at the ready, he didn''t think it would be enough. The only offensive spell he had assigned to his mages was "Force Bolt". Unless it was a whole lot more force than what he expected from the name, he didn''t think it would do much. These people fought like they could shake off a direct impact from a ballista. ''Damn it, think, Malcom, think! There''s got to be something you''re forgetting, some way to turn this around? What aren''t you seeing?'' Malcom turned his ''stare'' toward the statue of Amanda, trying to calm the frantic emotions coursing through him, only to have them burst into an even more intense rage. There, manifesting in his mind instead of his attempt to stare at the statue, was that figure. That damned, shadow-wreathed figure. It was that wisp-concealed smile, mocking him, taunting him with his failure. He twisted his view, shifting it from side to side, but it followed. It was tormenting him further. Could he have no solace? Gaze roamed the chamber, but each time he sought to see an image or statue of Amanda, the shadow-wreathed figure took her place, overlaying itself upon his vision. He knew it wasn''t really there. He could sense that the chamber was empty. But he saw it all the same, and he knew that the expression beneath those swirling black-hued mists was one of amusement. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ''Must you take even the last bit of solace from me? Who are you? Why? Why? WHY? WHY!?'' The rational part of Malcom''s brain was refusing to listen, emotions running raw and wild. He stopped the expansion of the dungeon. He stopped producing more troops, though their absence would not be felt for some time given the massive numbers he still had at his disposal. Instead, he poured it into his magic. The magic that, to this moment, he still didn''t know how to use. It was no longer a string of mana that meandered from his core, it was a river. It flowed from him in a rage, battering the illusion of the figure. The stones of Amanda''s statue began to glow a brilliant silver, inundated with his mana, and the statue itself began to melt. The force of mana caused the mosaic arrangements depicting her face to blur and melt together. The entire room shifted, as if on the verge of collapse, as the supporting pillars sagged in a less-than-solid state, the ceiling overhead askew and slanting in a downward angle. ''GET OVER HERE!'' Malcom''s insensate scream made the mana condense, pulling it back in, and the fanciful visions of the smirking figure were drawn with it. It was almost as if this was something that his core was familiar with, drawing the energy back in, and the figure was swept away along with it. His core felt... satisfied. Not that he acknowledged it as more than a tickle in the back of his mind, an instinct brushed aside. The mana pulled harder, harder, his core glowing like a silver sun. Even the normal pitch-black of his razor-edged surface was shining silver. For a moment, his entire core was lit with effort and an intense abundance of mana. ''Crush it. Crush it! Smash it into nothing!'' Malcom roared into the void, condensing his mana as deep into his core as he could manage, as if he wanted to will some sort of mana-singularity or black hole into existence just to force that shadowed figure into it. You won''t keep me much longer. There it was again, those words that crashed against Malcom''s consciousness like a hammer. In his fury, he barely reacted. The mana swirled in his core, a hurricane of magical might, and encircled around the shadowy figure. The mana-whirlwind blocked further thoughts from reaching Malcom, but it also took a large chunk out of his mana production to seal that taunting figure off. ''I''m not alone in this... Core...'' That voice had always been real, and its influence had been growing stronger the more and more he grew. Something was trapped in here with him. Something that was influencing him, and seemed to very much want to be let out. Malcom cast his gaze around his destroyed sanctum. ''Amanda... I''m so... so sorry...'' The sight of the damage he had inflicted in his rage left him staring for longer than he could probably spare, vaguely sensing the adventurers moving much faster now, but... he couldn''t just shake off the image of her half-melted visage.
Noel''s eyes went wide at the same moment that the Mechanicals and the Crowforged almost seemed to stagger, their motions slowing as an absolutely absurd, illogical amount of mana gathered in one place. The compass in the mage''s hand was all but vibrating with intensity, and the glass casing containing it actually cracked. "Get to the core. NOW!" The normally calm, collected mage had an expression of overwhelming terror. His eyes were wide spread, and he actually pushed past the burly figure of Manfred and shot a lance of fire that filled the entire width of the hallway, sprinting desperately down the hall before the stone had even finished smoldering. "What the-" Flint jumped in surprise at the heat on his back, but was roughly pushed by Rodney. "Go! Manfred and I follow you! Questions later!" The older priest didn''t seem to be any more aware of why the mage had been triggered into a frothing panic, but he had never seen him act like this before. Not even in the most dangerous moments had the mage screamed with such intense fear in his voice. Rodney knew it had to be bad. They shouldn''t split up, so all they could do was trust that the mage knew what he was doing when he demanded they abandon all else and get to the core as fast as possible. "Manfred, rearguard!" The barbarian nodded, losing his carefree demeanor and starting to back down the hall after the other two, the group listening to the slowly-retreating clattering and clanking of the metal men in the hall behind them. Now that they were really running, the troops simply couldn''t keep up. Far ahead of the party, Noel was accelerating faster and faster. He actually used his magic to create small explosions of fire under his feet, posture held low, using the blasts to launch himself forward faster and faster. If anything showed up in his path, it was removed with overwhelming firepower, the mage seemingly caring little for drawing on the reserves of mana around him. That made each spell more and more aggressive, which suited him at the moment. The blasts launching his feet sent him further, the magic devoured all before him as he desperately followed the needle toward the core. The others could just follow which corridors looked like they had been recently set aflame. He couldn''t wait for them, not with the amount of mana he felt gathering in one place. "It can''t be ascending. There''s no way a core can be ascending. The Gods won''t permit it! But there''s no other reason that much mana would be concentrated in one place. I have to get there now, before it''s too late. If the core ascends, it''ll be a war of Divinity. All over again."