As their quick footsteps echoed in the Eldritch Eye’s chamber, Gwyn abruptly dropped away from the corner of Sorath’s eye. Her face lacked expression, though her mana tossed about like waves in a storm.

“What is it?” he asked.

“One of my Detection enchants was triggered.” Her hands reached into her invisible pouch and took out a crystal ball. “Take a look.”

Shapeless, sparkling green mana became brownish-gray and solidified into a barren flat landscape. Tumbling weeds slowly rolled downhill, the wind blowing eddies of dust up a dry riverbed. But as Sorath looked more closely, it was clear that trotting hooves were kicking up dust and leaving prints. Eight sets of invisible hooves.

Eight manasteeds.

The recording lasted for only eighteen seconds before replaying.

On the off chance, Sorath asked, “Could they be eight Elves coming to back us up?”

“No,” Freya said, “and if they stay on that river, they’ll be here in a few hours. So five to six hours. Not to mention only Humans have manasteed tech. They must have a powerful Arcane Mage with them.”

“Why now?” Sorath mumbled.

Gwyn’s finger bumped his hand. “What do you mean by that?”

“Hyera said they’ve known of this dungeon for three weeks.”

Irritation sloshed Freya’s mana. She blasted him with a fierce scowl. “They’ve known? Why haven’t you told me this?”

He did best to not scowl back. “I assumed you knew. It’s marked on the map he gave me.”

“What map?” Freya gestured at him with her sword, not too threatening.

From within his pouch, he snatched a folded square of parchment. “See. Location nine. I thought you saw this when you searched me.”

The person who had violated his soul while he had been sleeping, Gwyn, fidgeted in rising guilt. “Uh… I was kinda preoccupied with your journal. Haha. Funny how that happens. And you have every last thing you own stashed away in your inventory, Sora. Cyesten has secure Banks. What’s your problem?”

“Bad habit I picked up from my mother.”

Her eyes rolled as she whacked his arm.

“Alright,” Freya said, and a deep sigh calmed her mana. “They must be clearing all known open-world dungeons before winter blankets everything in ice. Bad luck struck us. I don’t think Sorath led them here.”

“I didn’t,” he said in a staunch voice.

Gwyn off-handedly said, “Don’t mind her; she gets paranoid. I know you’re a good boy at heart.” To that quip, she included a teasing thought, With lots of bitter-hearted gooey goodness to give.

Quiet, you. He firmly gripped her fingers.

Hmm? Are you trying to tell me something?

Freya sighed again. “It’s not paranoid to be concerned. Now, we really have to clear this dungeon. Five hours.” A strutting march, she hurried to the iron double-doors, pushed out her left palm. Golden-white mana streamed into embedded crystals for several seconds longer than this floor’s sealed entrance had taken.

The earth shook as though channeling a low-magnitude quake. Rusty hinges screeched in horror. Inside, pockets of frozen hollow mana thawed into viscous hatred and sadness that conjured images of rotting corpses on a scorched battlefield. Sorath fought off shivers, fought off crows and broken, bloody arms reaching for his neck. He had to repeat to himself that he was safe in a party with two others who wore legendary gear. The Eldritch Eye hadn’t been this depressing.

Gwyn’s pretty face entered his line of sight. Her nose was pegged, reminding him. She asked, “What do you sense?”

“Nine in the first room. They’re around our size.”

“Powerful?”

“I can’t tell.”

Her lips wrinkled for a moment. “What rank’s your Telepathy?”

“Intermediate Eight.”

“Goblin poop.” Her tongue clicked. “Let’s go.” She nodded at Freya, whose impatience was bubbling.

Beyond the double-doors, a curved staircase was carved into a blackish-gray rock with a layered cross section. Similar to lead inside pencils, except almost glossy like dull obsidian. The walls and ceiling had a lumpy, smooth texture without a single hard edge; extreme heat magic had built this tunnel.

The staircase spiraled downward for over fifty strides, and at the bottom were three opposite tunnels. Gwyn’s compass was spinning. The moment Sorath’s boot touched the final step, an invasive mana seeped through his skin straight to his heart. Above his health bar, a pentagram icon had a glowing red border.

Magic Vulnerability: You take 200% magic damage of all elements (unlimited time remaining)

Cursed Domain, Sorath thought.

The Elves didn’t insult him by stating that, but Gwyn said, “Sora’s already squishy. Maybe we should give this a skip.”

Freya’s hood shook.

“Fine,” Gwyn said with only half-conviction as she activated Perfect Stealth and took hold of his left hand. Her concern for him was sincere, enough to quell his annoyance at her assumption that he would fall over like a low-quality scarecrow hit by the dullest arrow.

“Which way?” Freya asked, also fading out of view, a thick line marking her body for him.

Sorath pointed to the right, and off they went down a slight incline through a widening tunnel. Forty-five strides brought them to an unnatural cavern that lacked stalagmites, the ceiling just short of a perfect dome. At the center was what looked like cooling lava but, on second inspection, was the remains of a crystal cluster, long mined.

The unaware Eldritch monsters idled about like cattle.

Sorath was growing used to their sad mana. A mental sweep, he pinned their locations with marker pings. Nine downward bobbing arrows followed each target. He then pinged that everything was set.

Freya’s outline now included a leaf shield. A sparkling solid-white icon appeared under her party entry as she ran along the wall. The instant her sword hit her shield, taunting the first target, her invisibility broke, revealing her diamond-clad form—a skill she hadn’t during the miniboss fights. And the reason was obvious; she was running twice as slowly, weighed down by the diamond mana. Her movements were clunky, far from Elven grace.

The first target chased. No ranged attacks. Sluggish movements.

The second target was also melee.

When all nine targets were rounded up in a close bunch, Freya presented her shield like holding up a tall war banner. Her mana surged, her shield bathing the Eldritch in starry gold light. Every target stopped moving. Stunning Flare. Standard Knight skill.

A ping rang.

Scarlett Freya orders you to attack!

He was already swinging. Psycha-Cres! Shining indigo-white, Vetara’s Reckoning threw a concentrated variant of destructive psionic mana. The front four targets vaporized on touch. The other five lost invisibility, sent to the knees. They were humanoid. Near death, their agonized shrieks were those of tortured rats, but their heads were squid-like. Scales similar to those on the Eldritch Slugs covered their bodies. Thicker, longer, clubbed scales on their forearms converged into sharp maces.

Gwyn finished them off with jade bolts through their chests. “Easy as chocolate milk.”

“What are they?” Sorath asked. “They look almost like a divinely-blessed race.”

Freya muttered, “Trust me when I say they’re anything but. These are Eldritch Walkers, their weakest foot soldiers.” She grumbled a sigh. “As I suspected, this floor is going to be a massive grind. This is a long series of rooms of increasing difficulty. At the end will be a miniboss.”

Sorath said, “A miniboss at the end of each path?”

“Yes, we have to kill all three to unlock a path to the dungeon boss.” Her body faded. “There’s no time to waste. Go.” She ran toward the exit tunnel.

Assuming no traps were ahead, he followed with Gwyn in tow.

The next room was further away at sixty strides, and larger. Similarly, remains of crystal clusters offered dim light, but sixteen targets were waiting, lazing about. Some were unmoving. Others wandered aimlessly. The god who had designed this floor definitely knew how to make a good experience farm. He was already two-third the way to level 43.

Same as before, Freya rounded up them into a tight group, pinged, and Sorath unleashed a maximum-power Psionic Slash while Gwyn rained bolts. One stray bolt nicked Freya’s diamond-encased leg, splashed without a mark, and electricity from a second Slash arced to her arm, also splashing. Just as teachers at Greenwood School had demonstrated—the party’s innate magic greatly reduced unintended friendly damage. By roughly ninety-six percent.

A bolt through the head, the last Eldritch Walker turned to ash.

No loot gems.

Without chatter, they hurried to the next room of this gauntlet. Sorath counted two dozen and four targets. All Walkers. At this point, their mana did not bother him in the slightest. It was pitiful, really. Their entire, ugly existence was pitiful.

Freya did her thing: Diamond Skin into Stunning Flare. Ping. Sorath’s Psionic Slash swept across the room among Gwyn’s bolts. Simple. Easy. No thinking required. Only young school children could mess this up.

No loot again.

Sorath sipped from his flask of apple syrup before sprinting to catch up to the girls.

For the next half hour, they slaughtered through increasingly vaster rooms populated with larger packs of Eldritch Walkers. Rinse and repeat one after another, a blur of purple blood.

Until room seven, which had just under eight dozen Walkers, an increase of a handful. Sorath pinged to stop, carefully inspected targets five at a time, found five larger ones among the pack. Thrice the size. The shape was blurry, due to invisibility magic. “Adult Slugs.” He marked only the Slugs.

“No problem,” Freya huffed, ran along the wall, banging taunts.

Slugs hurled discolored purple sludge, but Temporal Haste rendered their projectile vomit easily missable. Stone dissolved in Freya’s wake, leaving holes in the ground that could trip up a clumsy man. As she swerved at a sharp angle, drops landed on her diamond cloak, sizzled off like boiling water, the diamond unscathed, but the buff’s sparkling icon lost some luster.

Freya leaped a body-length into the air with her shield held high. Stunning Flare caught every last target.

A Psionic Slash took out three Slugs and nearby Walkers as jade bolts finished the other two Slugs. No problem indeed.

He smiled at Gwyn. “Easy.”

“Yup, were were worried over nothing.”

As if the gods punished his arrogance, a droplet landed on his bottom lip. Hot pain ate into his jaw. A second, larger drop splashed his neck. A fountain of blood gushed as his body crumbled. His health bar was flashing, emptying in a split second. His bade clanked, bounced twice.

Hot pain ate into Sorath’s jaw. A second drop landed on his neck. A fountain of blood gushed as his body crumbled. His health bar was flashing, emptying in a split second. His bade clanked, bounced twice.

Gwyn’s core of mana did somersaults. “Sora!” Her scream was metal on glass. She flooded this side of the room with soothing, loving green light.

Bone, muscle, sinew, and skin regrew, itching. Sorath’s haggard wheezes smoothed and deepened into unending gasps while his heart drummed. Sweat dotted his face. He rolled onto his back.

She yanked him to his feet, breathing, “Phew! Nearly lost you there.” Her inner turmoil began to settle.

He had forgotten how emotional girls could be over ones they cared about; she did care about him, like caring about her new favorite useful pet, which was more than he could say about most people who knew him. He could only imagine what her face was like under that shrouded hood.

His said wryly, “Nice reaction, again. My health bar had a tiny sliver left.”

“From now on you stay behind me, okay?”

His pride wisely gave way to reason: “Yeah, Okay.” He picked up Vetara’s Reckoning.

A ping.

Scarlett Freya orders you to attack!

This time, he paid full attention to every Eldritch Walker as he cut them down. No more mindless grinding. If a drop of acid had landed on his forehead, it would’ve been the end of Sorath Adanell. A monumental waste of the first psionic in recorded history. What a farce that would’ve been. An embarrassing footnote in the history books. A boring life as a Town Guard would be better.

When the clean-up was done, Gwyn flung off her hood. The whites of her eyes were tinged red, her face puffier than usual. Her hands slapped together, echoing. “Okay! I’ve decided!”

“Decided?” Freya asked.

Gwyn breathed in a lungful, exhaled slowly. “Sora should take the Legendary Loot Gem now. Because there are many, many of those to find, basically infinite, but there is one of him in the whole world.”

Excitement made him stand taller, his fingers tingling.

“No,” Freya said flatly.

Gwyn glared at her. “But—“

“We only have one Luck Potion. We should wait until we’ve cleared this dungeon. It’s worth the risk, especially if the dungeon boss drops two or even three Legendary Gems. It may even drop four, since the potion is excellent-quality.”

The logical side of his head agreed. The impatient boy in him wanted to whine.

Gwyn was having a similar inner conflict. The girl in her won: “If he dies, I’m going to chop you into steaks and feed you to—“

“Alright, I hear you,” Freya chuckled. “How about this?” She tossed something the size of a peanut to Sorath. “One of the Slugs dropped it.”

Reflexively, he snatched it out of the air. An onyx loot gem. A flat perfect septagon. Lucky shape. Lucky color.

“Hold this.” Freya then chucked something small and scintillating with a dull inner glow.

With Telekinesis, he caught a crystal sculpture of a tree as tall as his thumb, chiseled from a fusion of jade and brown gemstone which he didn’t recognize. This was an Elven luck charm, as described in tomes he had read at Greenwood School. Although far less effective than a Luck Potion. And by the intricacy of the craft, he didn’t need to invoke Unveil to know it was less than low-quality. Probably abysmal-quality.

Still, it was something. “Thank you,” he said, trying to sound earnest.

Sheepish amusement wobbled in Freya.

Gwyn said, “She made it last week. It’s abysmal-quality, so don’t expect it to do anything useful.”

“Thought so,” he mumbled, feeding the loot gem ample mana.

The luck charm disintegrated into mana fireflies.

Black light spilled to the edges of his vision as the gem enlarged, split into two blobs that spun into rings. The cold metal elongated into cylindrical objects, the light dimming. The heavily scratched metal was dragonsteel. Three cut onyxes were embedded into both cylinders, five out of six cracked. And the metal was more than just scratched—corroded and cracked in many places but still somehow held together.

“Unveil.”

[Binds on Equip] Vetara’s Reach

It is said these wristbands were crafted by Vetara due to her dislike of gloves.

Durability: 31/10000

+40 Dexterity (Broken)

+10 Strength (Broken)

+15 Vitality

Diamond Hands: Your hands are as durable as the toughest diamond while retaining the softness of flesh. (Reduced Efficacy)

Greater Imperishability: Significantly increases this item’s durability. May also improve its defensive and offensive properties.

Set Effect (6 Pieces): Runic Echo

Another piece of Vetara’s set. Wristbands. Diamond Hands. +15 Vitality!

But Gwyn was scowling. “Gloves? Why can’t it be a chest piece or cloak?”

“Better than coins,” he laughed, stuffed his fingerless wool gloves into his pouch, and threaded his fingers through the bands. The metal shrank to fit his wrists.

Freya walked to him, mumbled an invocation of Unveil under her breath. Her hood tilted one way then the other. “Thirty-one out of ten-thousand durability. I don’t think anyone at my bases can repair something this damaged. You either have the best or worst luck I’ve seen in decades.”

“Better than I’ve had in eighteen years.”

“I guess that’s true.” Freya’s head shook. “Are you two happy? Can we move on?”

Gwyn’s nod was half-hearted. “Yep. They’re good enough.”

He smirked. “I can’t wait to find out what Runic Echo does.”

“Neither,” Freya said, her leaf shield materializing, her body fading. “Now, let’s go, and try not to die again, Sorath.”

He ran in tandem with Gwyn at his side for over a hundred strides. The next room entered his sense, and he counted eleven Slugs and ten dozen Walkers. With 40 more points in Dexterity and 15 more Vit, the chance of him making the same mistake was near zero, but the Dex bonus was broken. He placed himself into a mindset of utmost caution. Both for himself and more for Gwyn.