Inside the twentieth room dwelled only a dozen Eldritch, but a couple off to the far-left side had mana so hateful, so abrasive like sandpaper, that Sorath shifted uncomfortably in his boots, his toes chafing against dented steel tips. If he had to guess, these two were on a different level of power entirely.

He marked their locations, communicated via a ping that they were unknown enemies. Unknown to him. He then marked locations of Slugs, nine of them.

Freya’s outline nodded and ran along the right-side wall, breaking Stealth as she cast the first taunt. Slugs threw acid gunk, and suddenly one of the unknown targets vanished and appeared beside her in a distorted twist of mana—a blink ability. At the closer distance, its form was clear to Sorath’s sixth sense. Mana flowed through arteries in a humanoid form a head taller than the Walkers. Its arms were tapered into blades.

Telenka, Sorath invoked and broke Gwyn’s Stealth. He shoved the thing onto its back. Furious resistance punched air out of his stomach, stronger than that of an ox. His half-empty stamina bar flashed green. He let go of his hold.

Freya had reeled, faced the thing’s marker arrow. A quick Stunning Flare held it in place before she dashed ahead while the Slugs and Walkers closed in on her. Beneath her party entry, her Diamond Skin buff refreshed.

Sorath was about to invoke Psionic Slash, but the other bladed Eldritch blinked to him. His instant reaction was to ping Gwyn, whose mana surged in a Wave of Force, throwing the invisible Eldritch across the room, its blades scraping harshly on the ground, leaving marks. No hesitation, she loosed a barrage of jade bolts.

But the Eldritch was already standing, running, dodging every bolt. The arrow marker could barely follow.

Psycha-Cres! A diagonal uppercut strained tendons in Sorath’s left arm.

The Eldritch jumped three body-lengths into the air, again dodging.

“Entragria,” Gwyn whispered.

Thorny mana vines chased the Eldritch, bound its arms and legs, squeezed. A reverberating shriek was a thousand furious bats in a cathedral hall. Bolts tore into its chest. Purple blood splattered. Its body shimmered into view: squid head, longer tentacles, thicker scales. Those swords for arms were straight and serrated on both sides. A bolt through that bulbous head ended its struggles.

Freya’s stunning mana was evaporating off the first bladed Eldritch.

Brackia. The room spun, Sorath’s boots squeaking. Hexus. With both hands on the hilt, he stabbed downward. The point of his blade effortlessly parted skin and bone and brain matter all the way through into rock. Gradually, slime dried and broke apart into ashes, followed by the rest of its vile flesh. Scales and bones were the last to go.

Telepathically, he glanced over his shoulder, saw in his mind’s eye that Freya was shredding through the pack of Eldritch fodder in a cyclone of sharp mana. Her health bar bounced between ninety-five and one-hundred percent. Her base recovery rate before Rejuvenation Aura was more than Sorath had thought possible, and her pain was hardly there, thanks to Knight class passives. Invincible.

Gwyn killed a stray Slug, glanced at him, and said, “Your aura made that a hundred times easier.”

“Last time,” Freya said, “we fought Eldritch Slayers, we lost one of our best Rangers.”

“Really?” he mumbled. “Can’t you simply stun them?”

“They’re quick enough to avoid most snares. And don’t forget, we were able to target them because you pinned markers. You undervalue your abilities, Sorath.” She took out three breakfast bars, threw one to Sorath, the other to Gwyn.

He tore the paper wrapper with his teeth. The nutty chocolate was tainted sour thanks to the persistent stench. He re-adjusted his nose peg, asking, “Then why did my mother not want me to be a dungeoneer? Surely she knew how useful my skills are here.”

Freya swallowed. “Obviously, she wanted to protect you. You almost died an hour ago.”

“Don’t forget it,” Gwyn said, her mouth full.

“I mean…” He exhaled. “I mean, she may still be alive if I had been in her party. She should have taken me with her—like you two are now. Do you think she was a fool, wanting to keep me safe?”

Gwyn sang, “Oh, you know it is. Parental love makes one do silly things. Maybe you’ll understand one day.”

“Maybe.” His tone was stilted.

Once more, Freya was a voice of reason: “Compare your twelve-year-old self to your current state. You were graduating Tutorial School at the time. You didn’t even have a class. You would’ve been a burden if she had included you in her party. You would’ve surely died.”

He was scowling at the ground. “Yeah, you’re right, obviously.” But even his twelve-year-old self could have helped to detect traps and hidden threats from afar. This tier nine dungeon had been a walk through Corel Park. What if a steam or acid trap had wiped Mother’s party? What a farce.

“Let’s go.” Freya’s sword zinged on a harsh draw.

They ran into a narrower tunnel that lasted over two hundred strides before one familiar mana signature slipped into Sorath’s sensing range. An Eldritch Eye. Like the previous floor, this one also slumbered in a circular arena among four obelisks… but this Eye was only six-tenths the size. Its tentacles were slimmer and fewer. The mana in the air wasn’t as thick.

Freya didn’t wait, charging right in, throwing a phantom shield before banging a taunt. No pillar activations. This time she invoked Diamond Skin.

The Eye woke and disappeared.

Sorath was sprinting. Brackia. Hexus. Psycha-Cres. The makeshift combo slashed away 36% of the Eye’s red bar.

Gwyn’s favorite bolt attack grated through another 32%.

Freya’s Whirling Blade ended the fight before the Eye could phase change.

The gods wrote to Sorath.

Congratulations! You are now level 43!

You have gained 2 additional attribute points.

Two levels in two days. He wasn’t going to argue. Soon, he was going to hit the level cap of fifty—at age eighteen. The only person who was max level and of similar age was none other than Isen Lothar. Insufferable Golden Boy.

Spiralling ash condensed into a single gray loot gem in the shape of an adult human’s ear. As Sorath telekinetically swiped it, an addition red-border icon appeared under the Elve’s party entries and above his health bar. The icon’s symbol was similar to that of Fragility, a broken bone except this was more of a broken finger.

Physical Vulnerability: You take 200% physical damage (unlimited time remaining)

Not good.

The Elves’ mana stirred in worry, their hoods concealing their expressions. In a strained cheerful voice, Gwyn said, “What are you waiting for? Loot gem.”

Right. He allowed the gem a cupful of mana. It shined moderately bright, swelling to the size of a watermelon and gaining more than twice the weight of one. A sack rested in his arms. “Unveil,” he ordered.

The gods had to be playing a joke.

High-Quality Sack of Flour

“I’ll take that,” Gwyn chirped and pouched the sack.

Freya’s head jerked toward the tunnel they had went through, and they ran back through the series of rooms they had cleared. Two more gauntlets of twenty rooms. Two more minibosses.

Sorath was ready for anything.

Clutching a broken arm, Sorath clenched teeth hard enough that his jaw ached. The second miniboss, another Eldritch Eye, had smacked him with a flailing tentacle before its red bar had fully emptied. Unlucky.

Gwyn was late on the heal. Extremely late, still not mending his arm.

He pinged her.

She flinched, and so did her mana. “Sorry!” Her wand waved, emitting green light. Bones in his arm clicked back together as she said, “Another one of my Detection enchants was triggered.”

Inside her crystal ball, eight figures were battling dust elementals in a dried lake. Five men and three women. Four were garbed in colorful robes, one of which had to be a legendary set, worn by a young male Arcane Mage. Three were in black dragonhide. One was in steel plate armor, bearing Cyesten’s eagle insignia. Their manasteeds were nowhere to be seen, unsummoned.

As dust and mana fallout dispersed, their faces cleared one by one.

Sorath’s face became something demonic as he laid eyes on an older gentleman with an ivory war bow. Lesfid Arber. Dungeoneering master. Deer-faced scum. He was one of the bastards who had convinced Sorath’s mother to join their guild. And to reward her efforts, they had taken pretty much all the good loot in the name of King Desiric and his court.

The one in the armor lifted his face plate.

Isen Lothar.

He was smirking, saying something to the Arcane Mage, whose handsome face was familiar but not at the same time. Sorath vaguely recalled he had seen that face in posters and publications. Maybe the son of a high-ranking royal.

A cold boulder dropped into Sorath’s gut.

Loathing, murderous loathing, chilled the Elves’ churning mana. Freya said in a quiet, velvety voice, “Wyll Magnair. He’s one of Desiric’s right-hand men. He was an old man the last I saw him.”

Sorath asked, “When was that?”

“Around the time you were born, he was here, sweeping the area with Hyera. They nearly caught us.”

“Did they see you? With your hood down.”

“No. I told you they don’t know we’re not Human.”

It occurred to Sorath that Scarlett Freya and Gwyneth Carena probably weren’t their real names, but this wasn’t the time to ask. It made no difference either. He muttered, “Can we take him?”

Freya’s hood slowly shook. “He’s as old as I, but he has all of Cyesten to farm open-world dungeons, and I know the guild at the capital can now open pocket world dungeons up to tier eight. Imagine having access to all that for centuries.”

Sorath bit his tongue, then asked, “Do you think he has three ults?” Three was the limit for ultimate class skills.

“There’s not doubt.”

Gwyn’s cute voice was dead: “Those other seven are his fodder and scouts. He’ll sacrifice them in a heartbeat if he has to. I can’t believe how young they are. The Knight looks like he’s your age, Sora.”

“Isen.”

“Ah.” Gwyn huffed. “Will you be chopping off his head? Hmm?”

“Only if I have to. He a decent enough of a guy, as you know.”

The young woman in quite revealing red robes stepped into view from behind a boulder. Her straight waist-length sandy-chestnut hair fluttered in a light breeze. Her face was heart-shaped without flaw, her lips full, her eyes sparkling violet. She laughed in response to something Magnair said.

“Valia,” Sorath said.

Gwyn make a tisking noise. Her tongue clicked. Annoyance quivered in her mana. “Will you be chopping off her head? I hope not.” She was partly sarcastic.

He found himself staring at Valia’s adult beauty, but unsurprisingly, his crush on her was a virulent memory of his adolescence. Seeing her only put a bitter taste at the back of his mouth. However, that didn’t mean he wanted her head to roll on the ground. As far as he understood, she was a kind albeit haughty, arrogant girl. But kind-hearted nevertheless. If only she knew what kind of people she was truly serving.

Magnair said something, then his manasteed burst forth from his open palm. The others followed suit. They mounted up and shimmered out of view. They rode toward mountainous hills.

Gwyn pouched the crystal ball, loosely gripped his hand. “You look like you want to hurt something.”

“Do I?”

“A bit.”

He smoothed out wrinkles on his face. “Not as much as you want to hurt Magnair, though you’re better at controlling your emotions.”

“Just breathe.”

Freya clicked fingers. “We have two hours. Clear this dungeon and go. No confrontation, got it?”

Gwyn hummed in agreement.

Sorath muttered, “Yeah, got it.”

The third Eldritch Eye of the floor crashed onto the ground. Purple innards oozed, solidified, and turned into ash. Two loot gems formed, twin ruby lumps, and a third rebuff afflicted them—a rusted sword icon.

Weakness: You deal 50% less damage of all types (unlimited time remaining)

How unexpected.

And Sorath’s mind was somewhere else as he stood unmoving, uninjured. The incoming party was the real issue, not this dungeon. Wyll. Lesfid. These two were going to die. Not today. Not this month. But their time was coming. The gods had placed a psionic in Cyesten for a reason, to uncover their hidden crimes for all to see and judge.

“Sorath,” Freya said.

He picked up the first lump, pumpted twice as much mana needed. A maroon glow mixed with the manalamp’s green light, casting macabre shadows across his face while the gem divided into three. Three coins. Platinum. He threw them into his pouch, guided the other lump to his palm with Telekinesis, and offered enough mana. The glow was darker by a few shades, like dried blood. A heavy, dense weight formed.

Excellent-Quality Adamantite Ingot.

Highly Respectable loot. It could be used to repair Vetara’s Reach at the cost of a reduction to its stat bonuses. Pure dragonsteel was ridiculously uncommon, so adamantite would have to do. He pouched it for later, for the right crafter’s hands, which were not his hands.

No comments, they hurried back to the floor’s midpoint by the spiral staircase. When they arrived, an arch gateway in the wall, which hadn’t been there before, pointed them down an unreasonably steep incline for three hundred strides, vertical at a few places, and the girls had no trouble climbing with unreal agility. Twice, Sorath had to off his stamina with a gulp of apple syrup.

They were met with a dead end.