A group of Dungeoneers had finally fought their way to the end of the "Special Area" of the Armand Bayou Dungeon. This had gotten rarer, and with reason; word of the danger had spread long ago, and fewer and fewer were braving the depths. According to what these people knew, this area was supposed to have been different--a fake "underwater" biome with platforms on the back of whales, and you descended from one whale-back to another beneath you until you got to the crushing depths, where the boss would eventually await. The enemies were all ocean- and darkness-themed, with the vast majority of enemies based on shadow sharks.

This was a special group, one of a few that had been asked to get as much data about the anomaly as they could. The group itself was a solid team of six, with three military-trained operatives, a sensitive magician, a high-powered but sullen killer, and an eccentric mercenary clad in brass and leather. The magician doing the recording had spent the entire trip complaining, which is the only reason the Knight was so certain that this was a special group--he talked of orders, of what he was supposed to be recording, of how things were wrong, and of course how the others were rude telling him to shut up all the time.

The Knight watched them, as he watched everyone that passed through his territory. It was an odd feeling, one his Queen had told him was a taste of something greater, something other humans would strive for in time; he commanded this region, and had reshaped it in his own image. Regrettably, there were some things he could not change, including the water theme, but he considered that meaningless. He had instead made a far simpler theme than the ostentatious drivel that the Administrator had chosen, and simply made a straightforward path lined with martial artists at every stage.

Their progress was not promising; although they had come to grips with the format of the challenge, they had not yet gotten to the point where the fight was a one-sided slaughter. True, they were not threatened at all at any stage, but none of their fights were impressive, not in any of the stages he had set up.

The magician seemed most peculiarly unhappy with the aesthetics of the last stage transition, where they entered a whirlpool and ended up at the base of a mountain, no longer underwater. To the Knight, as long as it was acceptable to the strange system that held back his ability to control the place, he didn't really care; the Boss Stage could be different as long as the transition was somehow thematic, and so he had imagined a theme and it had been accepted. The whirlpool was wind in the shape of an inverted mountain, and it had taken them to a mountain. He considered his work done, and if they didn't like it, well, they wouldn't likely live to speak of it anyway.

The group of six fought their way up a seemingly unending staircase, rested a while before the doors to his chamber, discussed once more their strategy in hushed whispers (except for the one person seemingly unable to control the volume of his voice), and then entered the room.

Bo sat there, cross-legged in the center of the room, the mask on his face tilted back just enough to let him drink his tea. This had not been his life, before he met the Queen, but it had been a dream, an ideal. His choice to fight the Queen and die, which others might consider a defeat, had let him live that dream. More than that, he had been able to fight far more interesting fights than he'd been fighting as a Dungeoneer. Dungeon monsters had a bad habit of turning to dust with his every strike.

Most dungeoneers he had fought could take at least three hits, and they even dodged sometimes. It was rare, yes, but he had been surprised a time or two. The only thing he felt bad about was the ones who were low-level; he often wondered if, had they come back later with more fighting experience under their belts, if he would have enjoyed the fight more. These did not seem to be low level, for all that they were not elites, as far as he could tell; perhaps this would be fun, in the end.

His highest hopes were the eccentric and the killer, of course. Those would survive their plan being disrupted, while the military types were more likely to panic. They just had that taste of independence to their power, which was something that the others did not.

The three military types moved forward first, one with an oversized shield that had a cutout for his assault rifle, the other two spreading out, one to either side. This formation might have concealed the movements of the back row, if only Bo were not able to see everything within his domain.

He chose to be a little insulted when he didn't have time to finish his tea, although it was meaningless, a bit of play-acting upon the stage. He mostly just needed an excuse to get riled up. He studied his cup, still half full, and let out a dignified sound of disgust as he set it down and pulled his mask down to cover his face. "You do not even bother to announce yourselves, much less wait for permission to enter. I suppose I should not have expected civility from people such as you."

The Dungeoneers exchanged looks, but didn't respond. Bo went from sitting crosslegged to standing effortlessly, not bothering to use his arms to balance even the slightest. Behind the mask, he observed each of the five combatants, plus the useless extra, noting that most of them had seen that the exit was already open.

That wasn't his choice, but he didn't mind. It was more entertaining when he had any chance of losing. He had only had a few slip by him so far, but who knows? Maybe this group would let one get through. Probably not the recorder; he was a nitwit.

Finally, one of the military triad charged forwards, an attack-motion Skill that was decently fast, but could not be more straightforward in its tactics, a fact Bo had already seen many times so far as they fought their way up. Instead of dodging, Bo moved forward and crouched, so that when the man's broadsword was extended at the end of the motion, it would have missed, and Bo would simply be standing there, inside the man's guard. When that went exactly to plan, Bo simply elbowed him in the side with a twist of his hips, and he was flung away to the edge of the arena.

This left his back to the other flanker, but alas, the man didn't take the bait. It felt so good to combine several impossible moves in smooth sequence, but the man with the assault rifle opened up instead, making it impossible for the other to move in. Bo, of course, watched the rifle turning, and simply long-stepped to stay clear of his aim, letting him waste ammunition. While Bo was "distracted," they studied him, trying to find a hole in his stance. They might have thought he was a mere Dungeon monster, or they might have known the truth, but it really didn't matter; they had to fight like their life depended on it, anyway, exactly because it did.

Finally, the assault let up, and this time, both of the military flankers approached at once, with the man with the rifle closing in, as though that would make it easier. At some subtle gesture, the three mutually agreed on a moment to close in, and Bo smiled as he readied to use his hands for the first time.

There was sudden interference from the killer at the same moment, some kind of ability that dealt damage and made it difficult for Bo to move, and the two flankers each landed glancing blows before Bo, with a moment of actual frustration, batted each away with a fist to the chest, then leaped at the man with the gun and shield, turning his body horizontal in midair just in time to kick the man in the side of the head, and then landed back on his feet, feeling real pain as the killer's ability latched onto him with increasing ferocity.

Bo collected energy to his fist and punched, sending a shockwave at the man's head. He wasn't sure what the ability did, but it had definitely killed his minions easily enough. When the man dodged and dropped the skill, Bo found that the other, the eccentric, was closing in with some kind of steam-powered jetpack and a pair of giant brass Gatling guns.

A single outside ridge hand strike was enough to rend apart one of those guns, while leaving his hand in the right place to follow through with a punch to the woman's gut, which (since she was in midair already) mostly just made her spin end over end vertically, her jetpack now more hindrance than help to the woman. In the meantime, the man with the sword was back, and when he swung down with a two-handed overhand strike, Bo countered it with a hammerhand strike upward with his other hand--not merely meeting the blade, but hitting the edge harder than the one swinging the sword had intended. The man didn't quiet lose his grip, he definitely lost his footing there for a moment.

That moment should not have been enough time for Bo to turn and leap towards the man, putting all his momentum into a blow to his planted rear leg's kneecap, but Bo was far faster than any mortal human could be. Faster, indeed, than most Dungeoneers of his level could possibly be. Every strike, every impossible dodge, was a reminder of how good he was, and he couldn't help smiling beneath his mask.

If he hadn't fought the Queen, he would have thought himself not that much better than these people. It was hard for him to know where he stood without fighting to the death, but now that he could fight to the death, he knew.

A volley of bullets pounded Bo, and he dodged instinctively, not immediately sure where it was coming from. A variety of magical illusions sprung up around him--one of the recorder's abilities--which he wasn't fooled by but still had to see through. It was fair, of course--he'd gotten through the really exciting part of the fight, and now they would be trying to escape, and so he had to kill them. As each realized just how few hits they could endure, bravery would become cowardice, as it always did.

The killer, surprisingly, was the first to say it out loud. "Get the hell outta here, you guys," he snarled in a thick Brooklyn accent. "We're no match for this guy. We gotta get outta here."

Bo studied the man for a moment, long enough that the other flanker, the one with a halberd, tried to sweep his legs. Bo didn't have to kick very hard to counter all the force the man could put into the blow, and with his other foot he turned and stepped on the haft of the weapon, using it as a platform to launch towards the man, landing a very satisfying kick to the jaw as a result. He could have finished the man there, but... well, that would be too soon. He gave everyone had a chance to surprise him, just a very thin one.

"You take him, Henry," said the man with the shield, which he suddenly discarded. "Susie, you too, get out of here. We'll hold him back."

Bo considered that a challenge, and grinned under his mask.

To his surprise, the man who had so far only shot a gun at him proved to be the only one with a decent grasp of martial arts, and although his reaction times were good enough to block two relatively gentle punches from Bo, he didn't have the strength to deflect all the damage--nor did his weapon. Why he thought that a complicated item made of thin steel would suffer better than a solid steel sword when Bo punched it... well, maybe he simple thought it was better than taking the blow directly, which was certainly true.

The other two did well timing their strikes to come while Bo was busy with him, but Bo's abilities were not an anomaly, they were not him guessing or being lucky. When he sensed the strikes coming, he moved to where they wouldn't be, and countered with simple blows to the shoulder of the halberdier and the solar plexus of the swordsman, and then immediately vaulted over the gunman's head to dash after the ones trying to escape.

The steampunk woman cut him off, a brass knuckle-duster on her left hand making a surprisingly successful dent in Bo's jaw, and also his mask, as the weapon took him by surprise when it accelerated towards him. She tried to immediately follow up, but the shock wore off too soon; Bo gave her the honor of taking three fast strikes all in a row, the first time he'd devoted that much attention to one of this party, just to make sure that she wouldn't pull some other trick out. To his surprise, even after four strikes, she was just barely alive.

That only took a moment to fix.

"NNOOO!" The scream by the exit drew his attention, but the loud-mouthed magician was forced down the hole by the killer, cutting off the yell partway. If the man had had his way, he would certainly have rushed to death to try to help, or perhaps avenge, the woman. The sound of agony in his voice stirred some old thought in Bo's head, something painful and old, but he had no time to dwell on it.

He started to move towards the other man by the exit, but the blade of the halberdier's weapon was fast approaching. He could simply charge towards the target and forget the insult that the attack represented, but... well, he just wasn't the kind.

He turned and met it, blocking the shaft of the weapon with two fingers, inwardly disappointed that he had let two opponents go. At least, now that he was between the other three and the exit, it wouldn't be any more than two. The swordsman swung horizontally, and Bo batted the blade straight downwards with another hammerfist, advancing forwards to deliver a straight punch to the man's throat, one that finished him off. The halberdier also made a sideways chop, and Bo broke the weapon with another ridgehand chop.

The gunman wrapped Bo in a big bear hug from behind, screaming for anyone listening to escape. Bo simply let spiritual energy accumulate and explode off of him to kill the man. He expected to see the Halberdier running, but was surprised to find that he wasn't.

No, he was blocking the way forwards for Bo. The killer had gone to fetch the steampunk woman's body, and was now trying to flee, running with every scrap of strength he had in him. The halberdier had good eyes, ready for death.

And Bo obliged. Even if three escaped, he only failed to kill two of them. That would have to do for his pride. As the last body turned into an item and fell to the floor, he watched the quiet, sweaty man in a stained white sleeveless shirt dive at the ground and disappear, mentally aware that he could probably have landed a blow on him if he'd tried.

For reasons he couldn't put into words, although he loved his Queen and his Duty, he simply wasn't motivated to try that hard. For all the excitement, for all the rewards, for all that this seemed to be his dream, some part of him was quiet, subdued. He was often like this after a fight, and he found it odd. Perhaps the same subtle malaise was why he punched so softly, moved so slowly. Was he missing something? Some part of his past life that he'd discarded? Something now buried by his loyalty to his Queen?

He took the collected essence of his foes and sat back down to cultivate, forcing his mind away from such disloyal thoughts. In time, those thoughts would vanish as they always did, especially if he saw his Queen again, though he knew she was unlikely to ever leave her realm to visit. No, after being remade by her, he had no complaints. This was his Duty, and he would fulfill it.

This was what it was to be a Knight, and he intended to be the best Knight that his queen would ever have.