It had taken nearly an hour to scale that wall and backtrack to this dungeon’s first floor. They were now passing the acid pool that had contained Vetara’s Reckoning, the sour humidity hurting Sorath’s teeth, like before. His eyes watered. Gwyn’s Nature Vigor buff had lapsed a moment too soon. Unlucky.

Two caverns from the entrance, Gwyn stopped jogging. “They’re outside now, waiting for us.” Out came her crystal ball.

The area was a long passage, twenty strides wide, between two vertical cliff faces both over fifty body-lengths high. They were invisible; footprints appeared here and there on the dusty ground. Some distance from the jagged dungeon entrance were dozens of boulders, many of which hadn’t been there before. One was slowly levitating toward a line of boulders that blocked off the north side, while the others waited in hiding, all oblivious to the Detection enchantment over their heads.

Sorath suggested, “I could go and talk to them, divert them.”

“You could,” Freya said, “but the second you suggest they leave, Magnair will be suspicious. He’s not a buffoon.”

“Then what?”

“We have to fight. Take out Magnair and rest will be easy to subdue.”

Subdue. Not kill. Good choice of words.

Sorath nodded. “I assume that’ll be my job?”

“Unfortunately,” Gwyn said in an irritated, meek voice. “It has to be you. But you don’t have the gear for it.”

He rubbed her shoulder. “I kept up with damage output in the boss fights back there. I’m pretty sure I had better damage-per-second than you.”

Her eyelids lazed. “Sora… I’m a healer. Freya’s a tank. And you? You’re a damage-dealer. You should be doing more than triple my DPS.”

He tried to not shrug. “Do you think I can take him out?”

“It’s hard to say,” Freya said, exhaling.

He asked, “What are his ultimates?”

Gwyn answered, “Perfect Group Invisibility, Group Recall, and Arcane Avatar. He’s got the standard repertoire, and his legendary set’s ability can refresh the cooldown on any of his skills.”

That meant his defensive options were Wave of Force, Blink, Bind, Illusion Clones, Mana Shield, and Group Mana Shield. And with Group Recall, their whole party could be gone in the stutter of a heart. Arcane Mages were slippery fishes. They were ideal supporting damage-dealers for wilderness expeditions, for any party really. The extra security they offered was worth two party spots. They were highly-paid, highly sought after throughout Cyesten.

“Arcane Avatar,” Freya said, “massively bolsters his resistance to physical and magical damage, and allows him to levitate above our heads. But it has a three-word invocation and one second channel. I think you can do it.” Her hood tilted a few degrees. “Go in with Gwyn’s ult and your new ult. The moment you Backstab, I’ll charge in with taunts and stuns.”

Gwyn added, “Go for their Priest after Magnair.”

“That goes without saying.” Freya sniffed. Her mana swirled nervously. “Sorath, what more do you know about Lesfid?”

He thought back to all the times that man had visited the adobe, always demanding more from Mother. Because the kingdom always needed more dungeon-exclusive loot such as dragonhide and certain seeds. Their heated discussions were muffled in Sorath’s memory; he had been in his room every time, listened through the thin walls. They had never spoken of Lesfid’s skills.

Sorath’s head shook. “Nothing.”

“And the others?”

“Haven’t seen them before.” Apart from his two past schoolmates.

The chance of them dying here was greater than Sorath wanted to admit, and the thought of that wound knots in his gut and chest. Again, they weren’t bad people, as far as he knew. Only caught up in the wrong company while believing they were doing the right thing. They weren’t even guilty by association. They were innocent as Cyesten’s countless Farmers.

“What are you thinking?” Gwyn asked.

His sigh was bitter and sour. “Do you think we could convince them to join us?”

She uncaringly said, “Sure, but we have to capture them first, and that’s the tricky part.”

His mind was set. “Okay. Let’s do this. How much longer on your ultimate cooldowns?”

“About fifty minutes.”

Then this was the time to prepare, mentally and physically. It was past lunchtime, and servings of fermented cabbages and hard bread were their potential last meal, Freya out of breakfast bars. Their last harvest of nuts and chocolate had been poor. Sad.

Whistling wind threw a speck of dirt into Isen’s right eye, the irritation hardly bothering him. His knuckles shook around his shield’s handle. He had been crouching for what felt like days, ready to spring into action with a Stunning Flare. He was watching for footprints, for the slightest distortion in the air. Right now, he wished he had Sorath’s ability.

Where is he? He had to have seen that light beam. Gods, don’t tell me he’s really dead. No, he can’t be. He’s too much of a snake.

Isen’s nerves signalled to him that wasn’t right quite here. There hadn’t been any bandits guarding the entrance or vicinity, and Lisera, the Priest and only Enchanter in the party, hadn’t uncovered any Detection enchantments on the way here, not a single one. Either Freya and Veric had no high-rank Enchanter in their ranks… or they had an Enchanter of higher rank than Lisera. Very unlikely. Lisera was perhaps a Master Enchanter unrivaled in all of East Cyesten.

But Isen knew to never assume the best out here on lawless land. His teachers and mentors had repeatedly drilled that into his head. So why wasn’t at least this dungeon entrance warded? They couldn’t be so careless. Unless…

This was someone else’s doing.

Unregistered dungeoneering parties were outlawed for many reasons, mostly for safety concerns. In the past, the number of teenagers who had disappeared overnight on stupid, risky excursions was in the hundreds each year. The King’s hand had been forced, no matter how unpopular the decree still was to this day.

If this was an unregistered party, all their loot would be forfeit. Loot from a tier-nine open world dungeon. So why not simply register with the Royal Dungeoneering Guild? They only took an eighty percent cut, and the remaining twenty percent was exempt from tribute. Unfair, but not outrageous, especially since the Guild provided security and whatever needed supplies. Out here, this far out, going as an unregistered party was nothing less than gambling away one’s life.

Isen cleared his mind with a shallow breath. None of that mattered. The plan was in action. He was ready.

A stronger gust of whistling wind buffeted his plate armor with dust. A small pebble clanged against his helmet, tapped against his skull. Twice. Thrice. The tapping didn’t stop, and his heart rate drummed in annoyance that immediately exploded into alarm. Everything was darkening. The party list disappeared. He pinged.

He couldn’t ping.

“Help,” someone said in a dying voice, struggling to breathe. “Help. Help. Help.”

That voice. His brother. He yelled, “Aaren! Where are you! Aaren!”

“Help. They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?!”

“Help.”

Isen’s heart was at the point of breaking through his ribcage. Every nerve in his body was numb and vibrating. He was off balance. “Where are you?! Who’s coming?! Aaren!”

“Help.”

Finally, damn the gods, finally his eyes adjusted. There, ten strides into the darkness, Aaren was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, his legs and arms mangled, broken in multiple places. Isen rushed over on stumbling feet, tripped onto a knee. His stomach flipped as he breathed pungent rusty-iron fumes of diseased blood.

“They’re— They’re—“ Aaren coughed blood. “They’re here.”

“Healer!” Isen bellowed. “I need a healer! Damn it, I need a healer!”

“Isen,” his brother wheezed.

He placed a bare hand on his forehead. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. You’re going to be fine. Just breathe.”

There was a reverberating twang in the darkness, and suddenly a crossbow bolt stabbed into Aaren’s neck. In an instant, he stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped living all together. Unfocused hazel eyes stared blankly, blaming.

Something in Isen tore in two. His teeth sank into his tongue, drew blood. “Show yourself, coward!” He went for his sword, but he couldn’t find it. He was buck naked. The assailant had somehow robbed his plate armor and linen underclothing. “Shit! Show yourself!”

Cackling laughter approached. A ripped hood covered most of the man’s face. Crooked teeth were yellow and chipped. “It’s over, boy. Greenwood’s ours.”

“The hell are you talking about! You’re dead!” Isen threw himself forward, but his arms passed right through the bandit’s body. He tumbled onto the ground, ate a mouthful of rocky dirt.

The darkness lifted.

Sulfur and toxic smoke assaulted his nostrils. He was back at Greenwood. Everything was burning. Plumes of black smoke rose into the sky. Torrel’s restaurant collapsed behind him, and no one screamed. No one was alive. Aaren’s body was in front of a pile of corpses, flies and maggots feasting on rotting flesh. His parents were there. His friends. And Sorath’s mutilated corpse was on top of the pile, his dead eyes also blaming Isen. They were all blaming.

The bandit fled.

Isen chased.

Only to be stopped by a crossbow bolt cutting into his ribs, sizzling with lightning magic. The pain was worse than he had ever experienced, enough to shut down his body. His knees folded as though in submissive prayer.

Someone in black dragonhide walked to him with a feminine gait. Her hood shrouded her face in total darkness. “Are you Isen Lothar?” Her throaty voice was that of a deranged old hag.

“Piss off.”

“I am Scarlett Freya.”

“I don’t fucking care. You bandit scum.” Isen someway found the strength to push up. His knuckles cracked. He punched.

In impossible agility, Freya sidestepped, drew a dagger, and sank the serrated blade into his back. Lightning coursed through his body, unending, cooking him alive until he could no longer feel his body or see the burning remains of what was once his beautiful home town. This ungodly pain was nothing compared to his shame. He had failed them. Everyone.

The loving gods had gifted him, Isen Lothar, unmatched potential, one in a million, yet he had wasted it by slacking off far too often. He had cowered at the sight of a severed head. He had allowed his time to be wasted at the office reception. He should’ve been training and grinding through dungeons every single day from dawn to midnight. He didn’t even have an ultimate skill!

No.

No. This wasn’t the end.

From the deepest recesses of his soul, he mustered the last of his strength, forced out the dagger by willpower alone.

Then it was over.

His heart beat steady and slow. Padded metal and thick leather protected his knees and palms from gravel. He stood, squinting under the sun, squinting at an outline of a grand blocky structure standing tall before him. A flag waved in a moderate breeze. He was at Greenwood Keep. People were shouting all around.

Blood dripped from his lips, throbbing pain in his chest and back. His health bar was at fifty-eight percent.

Four party entries were flashing red, the top entry suddenly not flashing as the health bar hit zero.

Wygal Magnair was dead.

The Lord’s body was face-down in a pool of blood, his throat slit. His robes were shredded beyond repair. A blade with a narrow cross section had ran him through the heart.

A female Priest in white and yellow robes sprinted through the gatehouse, blasted the scene with gold light with her ivory staff. Health bars stopped flashing but weren’t refilled, less than halfway for Torvac and a catatonic, shaking Lisera. The other party members were unconscious.

Isen’s stomach sank as he noticed the bottom two party entries were desaturated, out of range. He shouted, “Valia! Lesfid!” He spammed pings. “Valia! Can you hear me?!”

One ping returned.

Torvac Lagran orders you to stand down!

“What happened?!” Isen barked at the Blademaster.

“Legions,” Torvac said in a grizzly voice. “Demonic legions. Undead monstrosities. I saw the very gates of Hell open. And what were you doing? Crying on your knees! Fuck!”

Isen pointed with a stubby finger. “Where’s Valia? Answer me!”

“The demons got to them. They’re gone.”

“Snap out of it! It wasn’t real! Where did they take her?!”

“Through the gates!”

“I said it wasn’t real! Get a hold of yourself!” Isen picked up his sword.

“Calm down!” someone shouted. A Town Guard.

Old Captain Madrog was there among them, pale-faced, trembling at the sight.

The Keep’s doors banged open. Lord Hyera’s eyes went straight to Wygal’s body. Fear leaked through cracks in his usually unbreakable resolve. He hissed, “Report. Now.”

No one answered.

“Report!”

Isen’s head was spinning to come up with an explanation. For sure, Greenwood’s burning had been an illusion, in his head alone. His brother hadn’t died. Neither had his friends and family. None of that horror had been real. Wgyal must’ve invoked the Group Recall ultimate. Yet he had been injured, attacked, while his mind had been afflicted by—

No, it couldn’t be.

“Lothar! Report!” Hyera spat in his face. “Report, or I will have your tongue!”

“Sorath,” he said in a dead voice. “I think he betrayed us. He must’ve cleared the dungeon with Freya. He has a new ability. It afflicts our minds with horrific illusions.”

“Shit!” Hyera grabbed Isen’s plate armor by the collar ridge, yanked him close, whispered, “Listen very closely. Take Wygal to the Morgue. Make sure they freeze him. He can still be saved, don’t ask me how. I want you to assemble a party of eight to guard the building twenty-four-seven. Do not fail me. Do you understand?”

Right. Valia had said they were building a Divine Monument. Resurrection tech could be unlocked this decade.

Isen stammered, “Ye— Yes. But what are you going to do? Sir.”

“Until further notice, Greenwood is under lockdown. All Royal Guard forces will await further orders.”

Courage made Isen speak, “Valia and Lesfid are still out there.”

“Shit. They’re as good as dead. You failed them, Lothar. Now get to work.”

Warmth drained from Isen’s face as he helped carry off Wygal’s cover body on a stretcher, dripping a trail of blood on the road. Along the way, magic sirens started blaring in the streets. This was the start of war. Unimaginable blood spill was going to be on Sorath’s hands.

Why?

Their screams had been a cacophony of terror.

The instant Vetara’s Reckoning had stabbed into Magnair’s back, his invisibility broke and a bone-shattering purple Wave of Force had flung Sorath away. He had landed on his head against a boulder’s sharp point, and his vision had whited out for two seconds, but the fight had only lasted for two seconds. He had caught a glimpse of Gwyn’s jade bolt slicing into Magnair’s neck as each bobbing downward-pointing arrow that marked their invisible bodies vanished.

Each arrow except two, the furtherest two from where Magnair had last stood. Freya’s taunt had pulled them out of Group Recall’s range.

Gradually they shimmered into sight, first a man garbed in a brown hooded cloak, Lesfid Arber, still talking incoherently about someone named Thangard. His graying hair was short-cropped on a square head. Beneath his cloak was green dragonhide, and his ivory bow had been kicked away.

The other person was Valia. She had impressively resisted Mass Hysteria within seconds. Her gleaming violet eyes were hyper-alert, cutting straight to Sorath, to the bloodied dragonsteel longsword that he held in a lazy grip. Her wild, animalistic, blazing mana said it all, but there was quaking fear in her heart. Fear for her life.

Freya was amused.

Gwyn as well, though annoyed.

What a laughable turn of fate. Here was one man whom should be executed for incompetence… and a girl whom Sorath wanted to throw off a cliff and never see again.

Valia slowly jumped to her feet.

Telenka, Sorath invoked, holding her in place, binding her wrists together above her head. At the same time, her staff flew to his left hand. The material was real ivory and not a painted coat, polished to a reflective shine under the sun, high-quality. The ruby at the top was flawless, almost heart-shaped. Almost. More like an upside-down pyramid, an unlucky magical shape; she should know better.

Valia’s fear was worsening like a burning forest, barely resisting his hold.

“Don’t be afraid,” Sorath said.

“I’m not,” she said slowly and with too much spunk.

“That’s good. We’re not going to kill you, or him, but we have to knock you out.”

“Wai—” Her eyes blanked as a bluish-green light engulfed her. She tipped sideways like a soggy bundle of wheat, and Gwyn caught her, carried her on both arms, awkwardly. They were of similar height.

On the ground, Lesfid was still in the fetal position, muttering to himself, rocking back and forth. A stocky old baby. Another cast of Sleep from Gwyn ended his suffering.

“We need to leave. Now,” Freya said, hauling Lesfid over a shoulder.

Sorath asked, “Where are we taking these two?”

Gwyn quipped, “To our Jailhouse.”

She hadn’t taken him to their Jailhouse, but he wasn’t going to argue about that. She thought he was special, a diamond lump to be shaped to her will, and so far he welcomed it. He had just killed one of King Desiric’s closest confidants for her, and they knew. They surely had seen his face.

There was no going back from this.