by J. T. Wright
What mattered most was that Trent’s highest leveled Class was Swordsman. As long as he was wielding a sword, the Damage Rating increased by a third. It wasn’t much when using lesser blades, but with these soul-bound weapons, an extra 25 Points of Damage would be noticeable.
Still, Trent felt a hint of unease as he put Sorrow and Strife into Storage and awkwardly swung the new weapons belt around his waist with one arm. Later he would move all four weapons onto the same belt. It would take experimentation to arrange them properly, and he didn’t have time for that now.
Putting the belt on with one hand was difficult. Taking it back off and switching the swords so that the straight blade, Ash, could be drawn with his left hand was even more of a chore. It was the opposite set up to the one he preferred. Until Minor Regeneration finished pushing his bones into place, it would have to do. He needed speed right now, and Ash could provide that.
He checked the corpse of the Devouring Fiend before he set out. The body was crispy and still smoking. Trent wrinkled his nose at the thought of cutting into it. Still, he hunkered down with his Harvesting knife in hand and a firm grasp on his gag reflex. Drops were drops, and he needed every one he could get.
It was a small mercy that the skin of the Fiend collapsed into powder when his knife touched it. When that powder drifted under his mask and filled his nostrils with the scent of baked Beast, it became less merciful. Between sneezes that further aggravated his healing injuries, Trent spotted a shining sliver of bone and ripped it from the open torso. The smell permeating his nose remained, but the rest of the Fiend dissolved, exposing the Beast’s drops.
“Two coppers and a sprig of parsley?” Trent was tempted to throw the loot aside. “Fifth floor is being a little stingy.”
He spoke to himself. He was not so disgruntled that he would directly criticize a Trial Spirit. Not now that he had accepted his lot in life.
“The Challenger has been grossly overcompensated on prior floor. Drops have been reduced until a balance is reached.”
Trent made no comment to that. He had pushed his luck previously, and he had done it again when he yelled at the omnipotent mini-god of the Trial a few minutes ago. He stored the coins and stood up. The parsley he tucked into a pouch to remind himself that the Trial had ears as well as eyes. A peevish Spirit with the capability to open the ground beneath him and send him falling into a pit of boiling acid was the last thing Trent needed.
Trent used Stealth as he advanced down the tunnel. He had noticed the way the Fiend had licked and sniffed at the air while talking. Camouflage wouldn’t hide him from the Beasts. He hoped Stealth might limit his presence so that he could get in the first strike. An unannounced blow to an enemy who was unprepared was always devastating.
His precautions paid off. The next Fiend he encountered had its back to him as he slipped closer to it. Ash was a blur as it severed its skinny neck and sent the Fiend’s head bouncing away. Trent admired the sharp blade and smiled in self-congratulations. Then the sound began, and his triumph was overshadowed.
A low moan like the creaking of rusty door hinges had Trent assuming the ready stance of Moonlight Banishes Shadows. His sword tip fell when he identified the source of the eerie clamor that was rising in volume.
The sound came from the bodiless head. Trent was at a loss trying to understand how a head without lungs could produce any noise. The why of the noise became apparent while he was still struggling with the how. Even in death, the Devouring Fiend summoned reinforcements.
The corridor came to a T further ahead. First, one Fiend came from the right, rocking as it paused to lick and sniff at the air. Trent’s sword came back up. It wavered when two more Fiends drifted from the left. The three made snickering, tittering whispers as they uncovered him with their senses.
Ash held low at his side, Trent spun and ran, with no thought for Stealth. His feet splashed into puddles and tossed water into the air as he stretched his legs and claimed every extra inch he could. To the Fiend’s sensitive ears, Trent’s breath was broken and gasping, filled with fear. That fear invigorated them, filling the three with desire, and they howled with hunger as they pursued him.
They flicked from spot to spot as their hands reached for Trent’s back. They were unable to catch up to a Swordsman whose speed was enhanced by Skill and enchantment, but their claws ripped at the fluttering fabric of his cowl. The jerks that tugged his head back fueled Trent’s adrenaline. He flew down the tunnel.
The Fiend in the lead readied a Toxic Strike. When it was certain of a connection with Trent’s shoulder, it unleashed the blow, eager to see the Al’rashian squirming on the floor, but its hand breezed past Trent’s shoulder as he turned and thrust. His sword sank to the hilt into the demonic creature’s chest.
However, that wasn’t enough to kill the Fiend. It slammed to a halt and was forced backwards by Trent’s greater weight. If it had eyes, the creature would have been staring into its own reflection as Trent faced it squarely. It would have been looking at the wrong place had that been the case.
The Fiend's ears picked up on the fact that Trent’s breathing was easy, and its nose recognized that the scent of fear that lingered on him was an old, stale scent. It missed that his right palm was turned outwards at waist height. It did not miss the word he spat out though, Trent made no effort to be heard.
“Firebolt."
Trent stepped back and smoothly drew his sword from the Fiend's body. His Spell tore through the first creature and engulfed the two that were close behind effortlessly. The air shimmered as it grew hot, and mist turned to steam. Devouring Fiends had no particular weakness to fire, but they were still consumed like dry tinder under the purifying effects of Heart of the Inferno. They drew in superheated air to scream and collapsed as their insides boiled.
Concentrate on one thing.
Learn to walk before you run.
Swordsmen don’t use magic.
A Mage Class will confuse your progress.
All advice that needed to be thrown out. Trent only wished he had done so sooner. How much pain could he have saved himself.
He sagged to one knee, his stomach turning. On the other hand, maybe he needed to learn to regulate his Mana usage. He had overdone it this time, and he was already low from his first exploration into the world of tier-one Spells enhanced by his other Abilities.
While his head swam, Trent took the time to add 4 Points to Wisdom to increase his Mana regeneration. He added 4 more Free Attribute Points to Intelligence for the increased MP pool. He started to feel like a real Mage as his Mana returned at a noticeably quicker rate.
However, he did not forget that his strongest tool still relied on his physical attributes. 2 Points went to Constitution after he rolled his right shoulder, confirming that he was beyond the worst of the damage. He hissed when he moved the tender body-part, but it did not resist him. He resolved not to spend any more Points until he was completely recovered.
That resolution lasted five minutes. When his Mana was a quarter full, Trent stood up and dumped 2 Points into Agility to contrast with his recent Strength increases. Thinking about how his left-handed thrust had missed the Fiend’s heart, 2 more Points went into Dexterity to support the Clever Hands Skill.
With that, he firmly closed his Status and left 18 Points for later. He had to adapt to what he had spent first. Besides, he had five hours left until whatever was going to happen happened. He needed to be quick. No playing around.
Of course, testing whether the sightless Fiends were as blind to his created flame wires as Zombies and Skeletons had been in the Land of the Undying Lord, that wasn’t playing. Trapping the field was a legitimate tactic of war and adventuring.
It turned out that tier-one Spells work even better than Charms when Fiends ran into them. It wasn’t enough to make Trent dismiss his first love as petty, everyday magic like so many others. Though it did convince him to spend his last 2 Skill Points for the Spells Earthen Spikes and Flame Wall.
He honestly had no idea why he ever thought to save them in the first place.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Devouring Fiends weren’t the only occupants of the fifth floor. Pit Hounds, monstrous canines covered in scabs and weeping sores, joined the Fiends and Winged Devilkin in spreading destruction and pestilence.
With no Keeper in place, the inhabitants were free to roam. Not confined to set areas, they maintained their sense of self-awareness. The mindless violence of Trial Beasts was absent, and in its place was the natural cruelty and cunning of species that lived for the kill.
Bound together by a mild telepathic field, the Abyssal Fiends heard and felt the death of their kind. They relished in it as they moved to punish the interloper responsible. There was no desire for vengeance in their actions. Their motivation was purely a lust to torture and drain the life from a foe.
Under ordinary circumstances, they would have held the upper hand. Tales of a Trial going dark would be the nightmares that brought Adventurers bolting upright in their beds if any had survived such an event to spread the stories. Trent was as ignorant to what he faced as any would be, and the Fiends never got the chance to tell him how scared he should be.
With a minor talent for telepathy, the Fiends had it the worst. Their sense of smell and keen ears led them to their prey. Up close, psychic abilities outlined a target’s physical status and hinted at the power of their magic. They saw no threat in a Swordsman, much less a Mage with three tier-one Spells and a handful of charms.
Finding Trent standing in front of a tunnel filled with flames, they might have paused in their pursuit. Seeing Trent turn and dash through his Spell, they scoffed. They could taste his inexperience. They knew he was no Pyromancer. A Mage was as susceptible to the effects of a miscast Spell as an intended target was. The first group that came for Trent rushed after him, confident that anything he could resist was no threat to them.
It was only when they had all entered the Wall of Flames, cast lengthwise to crowd the narrow tunnel, that they discovered how wrong they were. The Spell’s intensity increased, and white-hot flames melted their skin. They were robbed of the chance to scream as the oxygen in the air was ripped away.
That aspect of the Trap had made Trent sweat. A natural cave with no ventilation would have no way to replenish the air he wasted roasting the Fiends. He trusted that, like all else in a Trial, the Spirit would replace and restore what was lost. Eventually.
That eventually concerned him. He cut his Spell as soon as the last Fiend crumpled to the floor as a charred husk. The Trap had worked, but he intended to try a different tactic on the next group just in case.
The second wave was more cautious in their approach. The loss of fifteen Fiends to a single Level 21 Adventurer was unnerving. They sent the Winged Devilkin and Pit Hounds to scout the way. Those lesser, sighted creatures moved erratically as they charged and were quickly cut down by the Swordsman. But the Fiends felt nothing off about the way Trent eliminated their forward line. His swordsmanship was the most dangerous aspect of this insignificant bug. The pitiful Hounds were only supposed to spring any hidden dangers. Confident the way was clear, the Fiends charged, already tasting the sweet warm blood that would temporarily sate their unending hunger.
The Fiends impaled themselves on stone skewers and bled out, never knowing why. They were intimately familiar with the Trial’s layout. They knew every corner and twist. They were aware of each dip and hole in the floor as the rightful rulers of the dark. Every breath they took informed them of active magic in the air. There was no need for caution.
Earthen Spike, when cast, did hold the signature of an active Spell. When held in place by Earth Manipulation, it was inert. The Hounds and Winged scouts avoided the six-foot spiked obstructions that erupted from the ceiling and rose from the floor. The Fiends did not. Their uncanny speed served to drive them so deeply into the spikes there was no hope of crawling off. If they did, the gaping holes in their thin torsos would spill their withered organs to the ground.
Trent ran down the corridors tossing severed heads in front of him so Fiends would be drawn to his Traps. He was not aware of it, but that sound was the last Skill of the species and was meant to rattle their foes, not bring aid for the fallen. His actions did outrage the Fiends, though, and so, in a way, accomplished his purpose.
Trent struck fear into the empty hearts of beings that had only tasted the sensation on the air, absorbing it from their prey as part of their sustenance. He brought slaughter to the slaughterers, and they let him travel uncontested for a time.
He slipped through the winding passages, searching for the Guardian’s chamber. One wrong turn led him to a dead end, and when he turned, the Fiends seized their chance, flickering toward him with their swaying motions, cackling and hissing at the dead man they had cornered.
Trent drew Blood to assist Ash. With both swords in hand, he lunged into the steps of Moonlight Banishes Shadows. For a second, pale drifting light illuminated the tunnel and coated his blades. One step brought Trent twenty feet forward in a modified Long Slash. The Fiends gnashed their teeth when they saw their signature movement mimicked.
Bodies fell as the frail forms of Fiends were split in two by the subtle light of Trent’s sword form. Trent twisted, a slash from Blood cleaved through one Fiend, and the point of Ash broke through the roof of a second’s mouth, piercing its brain. Another step and Trent flashed through the last of the assembled creatures, an unstoppable force leaving the slain in his wake.
Trent fell to his knees at a split in the tunnel. His arms shook and his chest heaved. One more Fiend could have snapped his neck as he dropped Blood, laying his palm flat on the stone. He had put too much into his last attack. His Stamina and Mana were gone, and he was defenseless.
But there were none left to take advantage of his weakness. He had killed them all. A white line on the front of his armor, where a Fiend had accidentally landed a scratch, was all the resistance they had managed to present.
Trent’s shoulders sagged as he rummaged in his pouch and withdrew a vile filled with a mixture of green and yellow powder. Coppers, parsley, and Witch Toe, a type of root, had been the drops on the fifth floor. Trent would have complained if he thought it would do him any good. It wouldn’t, so he collected them and tried to show a cheerful demeanor.
That act turned to genuine gratitude when he took the time to appraise the Witch Toe. He did so more on the off-chance Appraisal would level up than out of any hope the ugly hunk of yellow root would prove useful. What he found reminded him that all items in Trials had value whether inside or out of the Trial itself. There was no trash to be found here.
Witch Toe, when chewed, increased Mana regeneration. Not by a lot. A Mage with a good supply of potions would reject the root every time. To Trent, who was expending precious energy at an enormous rate, that tiny amount was a life saver. A closer look at Parley led to the revelation that it had a similar function for Stamina.
Trent had filled empty vials with ground Parsley and Witch Toe shavings to replace his lost potions. His Herbalist Profession increased the potency of the concoction and earned him considerable XP.
Pulling the cork from the vial with his teeth, Trent dumped the chunky powder into his mouth. He chewed with determination before swallowing the mixture that tasted of dirt and fungus more than anything else.
His churning stomach settled, and the gong in his head lessened its racket. Trent gathered up his swords and staggered to his feet. The effects of the powder were immediate, slow but persistent. It had made the difference in the last few fights.
He consulted his Map before he set off. There was one tunnel left to explore. It would require a lot of backtracking, but as long as the tunnel didn’t split, it had to lead to the Guardian’s chamber.
It would be the last place he looked. On the first and second floors, Trent had insisted on checking every inch of the Trial. On the Fifth, speed was all he was looking for. Somehow, he still managed to
cover all the corners and turns.
Trent sighed in self-reproach. He sheathed his swords and stretched his wrists. They ached a bit from exertion. He had overdone it in that last attack. Minor Regeneration would ease the strain in a few minutes or an hour. He could still fight, though maybe he would get lucky and he wouldn’t encounter more than one or two opponents for a while. Few enough that he could deal with them with Spells instead of steel.
It was a hollow daydream, and Trent kept it from his lips as he forced his feet to trudge back the way he had come. Successful ambushes with overconfident Trial Beasts did not make him a great Mage. Resourceful, maybe, but a long way from great.
Endurance and his powder showed their worth. Trent picked up the pace from a crawl to a jog. When he had the energy again, he drew Ash for the added speed and left Dash deactivated. He would save his active Skills until his Stamina was full. Maybe not even then. He had drained it so often lately, its recovery was suffering. He needed a potion or a good night’s sleep to fix that. Neither of those promised to be in the works anytime soon.
**********
“Blood and Ash. An ending.”
Whether he had finished the last of the Beasts or the Trial’s denizens had decided to leave him to their boss, he couldn’t say. Either way, no ugly faces had spoiled his journey to the arched opening he stood outside of.
He hadn’t made the best time. Of the original six hours, fifty-nine minutes were left. It had taken him over an hour to reach this place from the dead-end where he had last fought. Thankfully his Health, Stamina, and Mana were all full now. According to his Status, he was in top condition, ready to fight for days on end. Unfortunately, a person was more than the numbers in their Status.
Trent felt a fatigue that went beyond bone-deep. There was a stitch in his muscles that minor Regeneration couldn’t seem to touch. The shackles on his legs and the mountain lying on his shoulders were no less real just because he couldn’t see them. All he could do was pretend they weren’t there, telling himself he was fit and limber.
