Aren did not make it very far into the new, cave-like tunnel, before crossbow bolts and javelins started hounding his shadow. Broken wood and twisted shafts splintered ahead and behind him, and it was perhaps just blind luck that one of those weapons did not hit him. Considering the situation, it may as well have been divine providence — like an invisible hand of some deity, turning down the difficulty for him.

Whatever it was — morale, luck or fate — Aren had no intention of questioning it, only appreciating it.

Damien turned a corner and Aren eagerly followed the assassin — anything to break line of sight from his pursuers and it sounded like there were dozens of them. Aren was not stupid. He knew that in these tight quarters, he stood no chance. Even with [Flash] he might kill five or six orcs at once, but then he would be the one with no chance of dodging or evading. The orcs and goblins would most likely happily throw themselves at him, and then their “allies” would take the opportunity to spear friend and foe alike.

Aren could not afford to fight in the tunnels.

He got lucky once, with that bolg-orc that resisted his fatal blow. Perhaps it was because the bolg-orc was an important figure that his ally, the spear-wielding orc did not stab Aren through the obnoxiously loud orc, and instead tried to get a clean hit. It was a mistake that cost that orc his life, but even then, the bolg-orc used that opportunity to inflict damage on Aren.

Simply put, there was no winning scenario if Aren got swarmed and his previous experiences proved that. Orcs and goblins — now weak shadows of what they once were — were terrifyingly effective if they could outnumber their prey.

The only time Aren would stand a chance was in the open, like the King’s Plaza, and this was only largely due to his mobility. That is most likely how Nissa survived the ambush. She was really good at climbing and sneaking around. They likely both thought each other to be dead, so didn’t communicate their survival, but if they grouped up earlier, perhaps it would’ve been entirely possible to win the battle of the King’s Plaza.

Aren ground his teeth angrily. This was no time to be thinking about could’ve been, would’ve been. The situation was vastly different now, and everything changed. It was like Fang said: The rewards and risks are greater.

Instead of just liberating Rakab, they now had the opportunity to kill a Calamity and earn exciting rewards. On the other hand, failure no longer meant they had to come up with a new plan, but that Aren might have to create a new character. And all the group’s investments would then go up in smoke.

[Group] Fang: Abort mission. Lots of flyers are landing near Rakab. Some groups have already made it into the tunnels.

Aren frowned, but consciously avoided thinking about things that would lower his morale. Even so, the initial sting of Fang’s words proved to Aren something that surprised even him. He didn’t want to lose. Now that Aren thought about it — and this was a safe thing to think about, in regards to morale — he could not remember the last time he felt this way, or if he ever felt this way at all.

Aren’s life never had a set path or goal that one could win or lose. Sure, he wanted to be a Colonist, but that was an optimistic wish, not a goal. If that failed, he considered being an AI Technician, or Cyber-designer. Those jobs weren’t something one could win. It took luck, and being noticed. Cyber-designers, in particular, were as simple as deciding to do it. Whether success came of it or not was up to the individual’s skills and luck.

But this was different. Aren had never fought so hard to obtain something. He and his group had spent days scouting, preparing and executing a plan; they poured countless resources into it and even died to obtain it. They created a Calamity, as a stepping stone towards their fame, glory and fortune.

And now, he was supposed to run? To give it all up for someone else to benefit?

His stomach tied itself into knots. The vitriol and venom of losing burned like a scorpion’s sting. He didn’t want to lose. In some partition of his mind, he even thought being distraught over this was excessively childish. Fang, for example, seemed perfectly reasonable and calm about the situation. Just give it up, he was telling Aren.

And a part of Aren — another calm partition of his mind — understood why. It was their efforts that sunk their lifeboat to begin with. The margin they had for killing the One-Eyed King existed in the vacuum of theory where the creature does not become a Calamity. Now, every faction close-by wanted to kill it and obtain the rewards. It was a race to the finish line, and the resources these factions poured into this task would make what Aren’s group spent look like a joke.

[Group] Damien: We can do it.

Damien’s words brought Aren back to reality. You don’t want to lose either, Damien? Aren thought, and then it dawned on him — the grander scope of things. None of them wanted to lose. Not even Fang. This was their plan. Of course none of them wanted to set up someone else’s success.

Not to mention, Fang was probably trying his best, even now, to keep the alliances out. Even while writing that heart-breaking message, and seeing several groups make it into the tunnels, he was probably trying to hang on to the dream, tooth and nail. At least, in Aren’s version of events happening outside, this was true.

The confirmation of Aren’s suspicions came shortly after.

[Group] Fang: Use your own best judgement. If we lose, we lose. We still have the Catacombs.

The Catacombs and the door that was never opened before. Fang was absolutely correct in his assessment that the One-Eyed King was not as important. The Catacombs, and the door, would no doubt have more impact than clearing Rakab of orcs. There were countless ruins in the world, each with their own set of problems. Liberating one city would be a monumental task, but it would pale in comparison to clearing a dungeon that no one has ever seen before.

But it was a risky proposition. First of all, how would they get into the Catacombs if someone else liberated Rakab and decided to make a permanent outpost or base here? Second of all, how could they guarantee that they can clear this never-before-seen dungeon? Lastly, why were they so certain that it was a dungeon, and not just some useless treasure room or, worse, an empty chamber? It had a guardian, true, but that wasn’t a guarantee of anything, only a suspicion.

Leviathan’s voice pierced through both doubt and certainty. Its will was so overpowering that every kernel of doubt and certainty fractured under the pressure and disintegrated. In Aren’s mind, its voice was louder than all his thoughts combined, and in its wake it left a hard vacuum of silence and focus.

Aren’s final step, on the threshold of autonomous action and guided direction, floated across the unpaved, stone cave floor. His movements changed entirely, from wasteful steps, to long, effortless bounds.

His breathing slowed down, his heart-rate fell to below sixty, and his peripheral vision opened. He caught up to a surprised Damien within seconds and took over the lead.

In his wake, the faint torchlight flickered.

Aren felt as free as a bird, despite the gnawing threat of having no control over his own actions, while simultaneously feeling in control. And somewhere, subconsciously, he thought he didn’t know which was the greater lie: That he had control, or that he didn’t.

It was all his will, of his own agency, but his body reacted in ways that it had never done before. It was like the blurring line of reality and the virtual world, in the moment of waking. It was no different from waking in general, on that threshold between wake and dream. When one dreams, they are in control of their actions, and act according to their beliefs, but it is only when one wakes that they realize that they would have — or should’ve — done things differently.

But it didn’t matter. With Leviathan’s guidance, and Priscilla’s will — crystallized and enshrined in the Lightning Blade class — Aren was certain of victory. It was not a question of if, but when. And for the first time, the sensation floating on the fraying limits of his consciousness, he felt the effect of supreme morale.

Every turn and side-passage Aren took was free of enemies. Every other choice he could’ve taken was swarming with orcs and goblins, which he could hear shout and roar after him as they launched themselves into pursuit.

The bolts and javelins fired after him deviously curved away from their deadly path, and glanced off the floor and, in one case, his shoulder armor. Even Damien, who was following Aren’s trailblazing path, must’ve felt the benefits of morale become luck, as he followed the Lightning Blade, as if Aren was a prophet, and this was their Exodus.

The sound of fighting came from ahead; in the distance, metal on metal reverberated through the corridors, shouts and warcries, alongside explosions also filled the space of silence between strikes and parries.

As Aren came around the final corner, and Damien also shortly after him, Aren could see a large chamber opening up in front of him, paved with stone tiles and littered with decorated columns. At the far end of the chamber was a raised dais, with an obsidian throne, and a large, massive orc, surrounded by heavily armed and armored guards, stood with a two-handed sword raised.

The One-Eyed King.

The King was surrounded by both his royal guard and a dozen adventurers. At the entrance to the chamber, a blonde elf in a green tunic watched the approach of Aren and Damien, and raised her hand to them.

The death line appeared out of Aren’s outstretched left hand. It wound itself around the elf in his path, and into the corridor and chamber ahead. It swirled, spiraling around the columns and flanked the large number of adventurers, crawling over the royal guards and towards the One-Eyed King.

And the King truly deserved the moniker. He was twice as large as the bolg-orc next to him, and his massive head was scarred to the point that one could not even see facial features on the left side of his face. His eye was gone, ear also. Somewhere in the past, the creature must’ve nearly died in a fire, and another scar over the burned area must’ve made unrecognizable whatever remained, for someone slashed it afterwards. Or perhaps the sword that marred him was on fire and created both scars? It was hard to tell with these things.

“Halt! This one is—”

The elf in Aren’s path began to speak, but Aren launched himself forward, his bounding leaps bringing him closer to the elf and then over her shoulder. She watched in horror as Aren’s shadowblade left a trail of lightning in its wake, and, more importantly, a motion-blurred line of light.

The light the shadowblade emitted smeared out across one’s vision, malevolent red mixed with electric-blue, and as Aren passed over the elf, the line smeared out further, bathing the elf’s outstretched arm as she tried to grasp Aren and snatch him out of the air.

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Serious. Right hand amputated.]

The elf’s face twisted into an impending scream of pain, but before she could even get a sound out, Damien’s crossbow bolt silenced her permanently. The elf was the a victim of Lightning Blade’s [Fade], a technique that could cut and cleave with lightning in the wake of one’s sword.

The elf wasn’t the first victim of [Fade]. It was both a passive and active ability that worked in tandem with [Flash]. [Flash] itself was just a movement technique, and although Aren could cut and strike during it, with some difficulty, doing so against multiple targets was excessively difficult. The goblins on that rooftop in the Plaza, and the orcs in the tunnels earlier — they were all victims of [Fade].

The burst of light drew the attention of several adventurers, including an elfin archer who immediately reacted. She pointed her bow at Aren and let loose a screaming arrow that was haloed in blue, arcane light.

Without thinking about it too much, Aren sheathed his shadowblade and lowered his center of gravity. He closed his eyes, pouring his internal reservoir of planar Lightning energy into his buffer, attaching amplifiers, and manipulating logical constructs. He had begun to learn what some of those symbols meant, beyond just a frail intuitive understanding. A symbol he knew represented the target self appeared, encapsulated by flanking amplifiers, fed into outward channels of tremendous sequences which he could not make heads or tails of.

This was not a macro or alias contained within the shadowblade. This was his own creation.

Lightning exploded from his body, similar to [Halo] but instead of a ring, it was a full sphere.

[You have discovered a new Lightning Blade technique: Surge]

A tongue of lightning lashed the ceiling, causing molten blobs of superheated stone to drip off and splash around the room. Another whip of lightning carved into the floor, and then across a column, with similar effect. But most importantly, a full sphere of lightning emitted from Aren, bathing the area in sound and light.

The arrow heading towards Aren’s chest disintegrated the moment it touched the lightning. It didn’t just burn, or twist, or explode from the heat, it disintegrated into nothing, letting loose a miniscule puff of smoke.

“Lower output on the boss! Engage the adventurer!” Someone shouted, guiding the adventurers towards their new, more important target, while the boss in question roared its own instructions in a language Aren did not understand.