We’d journeyed from Brookdell to the tower unbothered save for a few near run-ins with dangerous wildlife. We saved our strength for what promised to be our first real test in taking the tower to end the Cult of the Ann’s presence in Warm Meadows. Hendrix told me I was lucky to have escaped the fight with the crazed woman unharmed. “Expect wounds in the future, my friend,” he’d said. He then taught me a bit more about a party and the roles within it. Needless to say, I looked forward to recruiting a healer, be it of the cleric or medic class, I didn’t care.

The tower itself was shorter than I’d expected, but that didn’t make raiding it any less daunting. It stood in the middle of one of the many tree patches in the area. Its base was mostly obscured by foliage and dark shrubbery, but its two top stories were unobstructed against the cloudless sky.

It was a cylindrical structure built of light brown bricks. Hendrix noted that its architecture was the same as all human structures in Warm Meadows and that the tower wouldn’t seem out of place had it been erected in the center of Firemane’s Run. Other than its dark-shingled, peaked roof, and the pair of slender windows on both stories, there wasn’t anything special that caught the eye.

The same could not be said about the front door and the path that led to it. The trees that grew on either side of the path were adorned with countless skulls from different creatures and something else I couldn’t make out until we got closer. Hooves. Hundreds of hooves hung in pairs, both tied to a single rope thrown over any available branch.

A massive skull watched us as we made our way toward it, mounted on the door. Its horns were long as Hendrix’s arms and painted blood-red. The chilled air beneath the canopy of leaves sat like swamp water in my lungs. I quickened my pace. Hendrix matched me. We reached the door, looked into the horned beast’s vacant eye sockets for a moment before facing each other.

“So, what’s the plan?” Hendrix asked.

“I don’t know. Depends on what we find in there.”

“Cultists, I’d imagine,” Hendrix said. “Strong ones, too. This is where their top guys hang out.”

“High-Lord Mallar,” I said. “What do you know about him?”

“To be honest,” Hendrix said. “I don’t know much about this place or the people inside it.”

“I thought you had all this innate knowledge.”

“Mostly about abstract concepts like how the world works,” Hendrix said. “When it comes to specific locations or enemies like this, I don’t know.”

“How should we approach this, then?” I eyed the steel door handle with developing dread. “Charge in and kill indiscriminately?”

“I don’t know what to expect,” Hendrix said. “But that’s likely to be our only option.”

My suggestion had been an attempt at sarcasm. I much preferred an organized, planned out attack. I shook the nerves from my hands, placed my left on the handle, and drew my wrench with the right. “You ready?”

Hendrix nodded, lute in hand, ready to strum. I opened the door. We ran in. The first floor was brightly lit with multiple torches along the wall and sunlight piercing through the window slits. The floor was made of stone and showed heavy wear. Six cultists worked mundane tasks, each at their own station, much like the adventurers in Brookdell. All six dropped their hammer, sewing needle, and other tools, drew swords, and charged us the moment we stepped in.

“Here we go,” Hendrix shouted. He strummed a heroic note that filled my soul with bravery.

I raised my wrench and ran for the center of the room. One of the cultists was a few strides ahead of the others, which was unfortunate for him as it presented the opportunity to strike him three times before having to worry about his comrades. Eight, seven, and nine went the white numbers, easily enough damage to dispose of the first opponent.

I took the small bit of time I had left to study my enemies. All five were men garbed in purple, and each had identical faces. They must’ve been brothers or closely related somehow. Three of them were my level, but the other two were level four.

The five cultists encircled me. Hendrix stayed against a wall outside their circle, strumming his inspiring song. The cultists didn’t seem to care about him. They lay their blades flat on their forearms, the tips aimed at me. They advanced—an encroaching purple ring like the one their mistress had released upon the world. There wasn’t much I could do. Whichever one I chose to strike would simply leave an opening for the cultist behind me.

“Don’t forget about your beads,” Hendrix spoke in melody over his song.

I grabbed a handful of them from my pocket, whipped them at the feet of a cultist, and swung my wrench at the one on the opposing side. My wrench caught him in the chin, staggering him and producing a white number nine. I turned in time to parry two attackers and stepped over the fallen cultist to escape their surrounding me. My beads had already disappeared from the floor.

I lunged and whacked the cultist on the floor for eight damage and hit him again when I saw the others weren’t moving. Nine damage. Enough for the kill.

“Four to go,” Hendrix sang.

Three charged while the one who’d taken my wrench to the chin stood dazed in the middle of the room. I parried multiple blows while backing away. The room was too small to sustain such a strategy, so I took a chance and swung my wrench forward. It cracked against one of the level three cultist’s head, causing nine damage, and the cultist to stagger back.

The attack left me open, and a level four cultist stabbed at me. The tip of his blade pierced my simple shirt and my flesh. A number twelve left my wound and shattered into yellow shards in the air. The damage taken popped a thought in my head. “How much damage can I take before dying?” I parried another attack, no time to tend to my wound.

Hendrix stayed along the wall all fight, keeping as much distance between himself and the cultists as he could. He replied in melody again. “Just like with levels, adventurers have the innate ability to detect hit points. Or HP.”

I focused on my enemies with the same part of my mind that detected levels. He was right! The level threes had fifteen HP, and the fours had twenty. The dazed one stood in the center of the room with six HP left. The one I’d hit most recently also had six of fifteen left. The other two remained unharmed.

Hendrix changed his tune. The new song was of a faster rhythm and gave me confidence, and made me eager to battle. I dashed at the cultists, my wound numb and painless from the song, swinging my wrench like a crazed woodsman. I hit one of the level threes on the shoulder for five damage. The one who stabbed me took a hit in the face for nine, leaving him at eleven HP. I jumped back to avoid their retaliation.

The four cultists gathered in the middle of the room. The one who’d been dazed became free of the effect and stood motionless like the others, short sword flat on his forearm. One of the swords was tipped with blood—my blood. I put a hand over the wound even though Hendrix’s song numbed it.

They attacked in unison. My right pocket weighed down as if something dropped in it. The beads! I parried two attacks and rolled away to dodge the others. Mid-roll, I snatched a handful of beads from my pocket and threw them at the feet of the level four who’d stabbed me. He fell. I pounced. I slammed my wrench down on him twice. Six, and eight. Dead.

I caught another sword strike, this time on my shoulder for nine damage. I grunted and rolled away. I focused on myself. I had a hundred and fifty total hit points. Twenty were gone. This fight had to end soon. There were still two floors to go after this one, and I doubted they’d get easier.

I finished off the rest of them by abandoning defense and simply swinging my wrench as if I were trying to swat away a cloud of flies. I took eighteen damage in the careless process, but the battle was over.

“Good fight,” Hendrix said, fastening the lute on his back. “Another party member wouldn’t hurt, but we’ve got this.”

“It might help if you fought, too,” I said. “The songs are great and all, but I can’t keep fighting this many on my own.”

The bodies faded along with all the blood they’d shed onto the floor. A few coins lay scattered at our feet. Hendrix was on his knees, plucking them up the moment they appeared. “I’m a bard. Bards don’t fight. We buff. Eventually, I’ll get some nifty moves that’ll help you in the actual fighting, but for now, all I can do is inspire you with my music.”

“How did you make it to level three without me if you can’t fight?” I stepped away as he gathered the coins at my feet.

“I grouped up with other adventurers,” Hendrix said. “Offered my awesome buffs in exchange for their damage. It’s how things work out here, Billington. We help each other, and everyone knows their role.”

“Let’s just get to the next floor.”

“You got any food?” Hendrix said, getting back to his feet, flicking the dark shag from his face.

“You’ve got all those new coins,” I said. “You can afford your own food when we get back to town.”

“What I mean is, if you have any, you should eat it before we go to the next floor,” Hendrix said. “It can regenerate some of your HP, you know.”

I felt bad. I said nothing and ate a dumpling. He was right. My wounds healed up a bit. Aches and bruises subsided, and the few cuts from the battle scabbed to stop the bleeding. It healed fifteen hit points, leaving me with one-twenty-seven of one-fifty.

“Those are some dark stairs,” Hendrix said without the usual pep in his speech.

In our short adventure together, I’d accused him of not helping, of begging for food, I’d judged him for collecting our loot, and made no efforts to hide my annoyance of him. The reality was, I’d be lost without Hendrix’s help, maybe even dead. I had no right to feel anything but gratitude for the bard.

“We’ve got this,” I said. “I pity whoever is on the second floor. They’re enjoying their day, doing whatever cultists of the Ann do, and little do they know, they’re about to get their world rocked by Hendrix and Billington.”

The corner of his lip lifted slightly. It was all I needed to see. I wouldn’t make it far without learning how to get along with others. We climbed the stairs. The door into the next room was built of thin wood and unguarded. Either there was nothing worth defending inside, or the cultists never expected anyone to get past their first room of workers.

“Same plan as before?” Hendrix asked.

“We didn’t have a plan before.”

The same corner of his lips curled in a grin. “Exactly.”

I laughed and kicked the door in. Wrench in hand and followed by an inspiring tune, I roared as I entered the room. My roar was choked half-way through by smoke-filled air. Hendrix stopped his song and coughed.

The walls were painted black and lined with tiny red stools, too small for a grown human, perfect for a child. The stools were the only furniture on the second floor. Thick sheets of black leather snuffed the window slits. Four cultists robed in deep purple knelt in a circle around a severed bull horn surrounded by bronze bowls of burning incense that smelled of strong pine resin.

None reacted to my battle cry or my kicking in of their door. Whatever they were doing with the horn seemed far more important than the imminent threat that was us. Their behavior forced me to wonder if we were even a threat to them in the first place. Hendrix resumed his song to snap me out of it. They didn’t feel like defending themselves, and I wasn’t going to wait for them to change their minds.

I walked toward them, wrench held limp in hand. It felt wrong to attack someone from behind, but these purple-clad wretches worshipped a being that meant to snuff the kingdom of all good. Their robes showed their intent, and that was enough for me.

My wrench slammed into the nearest one’s head, or at least, I thought it did. Purple light shattered as my blow bounced off some sort of forcefield, nearly causing me to lose handle of my weapon. I tried multiple times again, but each attempt yielded the same result.

I turned to Hendrix and shrugged. “Let’s just go take care of Mallar. These guys don’t want anything to do with us.”

The bard’s eyes shot open, and he strummed more aggressively. “Behind you!”

The four cultists stood in a neat row, abreast, each with their heads bowed and shadowed by hoods. Their clasped hands hovered before their chests, covered by loose sleeves. The palm that gripped my wrench grew damp. I fought the instinct to flee and forced myself to swing.

My intended target’s head whipped up with unnatural speed. He jutted a hand forward to meet the blow. I hit the same purple forcefield and barely hung onto the wrench. I stared in disbelief. How could I kill something that I couldn’t even hit?

The other three pushed their hands into the same jutted position as the first. Specks of purple energy floated around them like snowflakes in heavy winds. The energy gathered into a fist-sized ball before them. Four heads whipped up to glare at me with red eyes glowing in the shadow of their hoods.

“Billington, move!” Hendrix stopped strumming to shout.

I had no time. The purple ball hurtled forward at a speed I couldn’t track. It slammed into my chest, knocking me over and stealing my breath. An explosion of pink light followed, blinding me. The light subsided, and my vision returned. I writhed on the cold floor, groaning in pain. Hendrix crouched beside me. He grabbed my shoulders and rolled me onto my back. His eyes crawled all over my battered body, looking for something. He frowned.

“They hit you for sixty damage. Crit.” He showed his teeth in a sympathetic wince. There was genuine concern in his eyes. “Don’t die on me, buddy.”

I struggled to catch my breath. A thought hit me in the process. “What happens if I do?” He seemed to have the answers to everything else. Why shouldn’t I assume he knew the answer to life’s biggest questions?

“Your soul gets trapped in an egg,” Hendrix said in a somber voice. “Then it’s up to your party members to retreat and bring you to a soul-doctor to bring you back.”

I smiled and spoke in a wheezy voice. “Well, that doesn’t seem too bad.”

The cultists were gathering energy for another ball. Hendrix shook his head. “I already checked while you were trying to hit them. The way out of here is locked. If you die, I can’t retreat. I can’t survive alone against these guys. I’d die too.”

“Then what?” I asked, slowly finding my voice again.

A buzz filled the air. Their ball grew. It was already twice the size of the one that had hit me.

“If everyone in a party dies, it’s called a wipe.” Hendrix dropped his gaze to the floor. “That’s called a true death. You’ve only got ten of those before you’re gone for good.”

I caught my breath. The cultists were close to attacking. The ball they controlled was big enough to take us both out.

“That’s why it’s so dangerous to be a freebooter,” Hendrix said. “Without anyone there to help, any death is a true death.”

“Move,” I said.

“There’s no use,” Hendrix said. “This room isn’t big enough. There’s nowhere to escape the damage that thing will do.”

“Just move!” I raised my voice. He listened. Hendrix pushed himself back and watched me with furrowed brows. I reached into my pocket and threw beads at one of the cultist’s feet. To my surprise, it affected two of them, sending them both to their respective arses.

The ball wavered. Both cultists, still on their feet, shifted and crouched to get a better grip on it. I pounced on the floored cultists and hammered their unsuspecting heads with unrelenting speed. Eight, seven, eight, eight, the first one died. A similar flurry of damage killed the second. The other two couldn’t risk dropping the ball to help their fellow cultists, so they couldn’t attack me as they struggled to hold the energy.

Hendrix’s tune had started again. He cheered over the song. I wanted to tell him not to celebrate so soon. They still had that big ball of death at their disposal. One of the cultists mumbled something incoherent. The ball leaked purple energy to the floor like a pierced waterskin. Hendrix added laughter to his cheering.

“Careful,” I said. “This could be some sort of plan.”

“Why would they weaken their attack on purpose?”

“To make it lighter,” I said. “Easier to manage. Two of them might not be able to launch it at this size. They were building it for four of them to launch at first.”

“And just that little ball took nearly half your HP,” Hendrix said, his cheering and laughing stopped.

“Two can most likely throw twice as much as one. That means whatever they throw this time will be at least twice the size of that first one,” I said.

“What do we do?”

I studied the cultists, desperate for any sign on how to avoid the coming fatal attack. They paid us no mind. Instead, they focused on shrinking their projectile. It was my turn to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Hendrix asked, wide-eyed.

“Us,” I said. “We are fools.”

“How do you mean?”

I walked over to the cultists. They didn’t notice me. Red eyes fixed on the purple ball. I slapped one on the shoulder as if we were old pals. He did nothing.

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick,” Hendrix said. “That thing will be ready any second.”

I raised my wrench nonchalantly and smashed it against the back of one’s head. Critical damage finished him off. I did the same to the other and got the same result. I laughed and smiled at Hendrix. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realize their forcefields must’ve been down while they focused on that ball.” That ball. It was still there.

“Get down!” Hendrix dropped his lute and ran toward me. He crashed into me, knocking me to the floor, causing a small white ‘one’ to drift from my knee. He got up and stood between me and the falling energy ball, arms and legs spread to take up as much space as he could.

The ball hit the floor and shattered into a million shards of pure energy. I lay my face to the floor and covered my head with my arms. What sounded like glass shards slammed against the walls and rained down like magical crystals. Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Hendrix collapsing to the floor. The bits that did hit me felt like droplets of molten steel. I had barely any HP left.

“You alright?” I called out, emerging my head from its protected position.

Hendrix lay on the floor, barely moving, barely breathing. I dragged myself to lay by his side. He had five of his remaining one hundred HP. I shook him awake. “Come on. We did it. I’ve got some dumplings for you. We can go back to town, heal up, and come back later. What do you say?”

A labored, wet-sounding breath escaped him. He shook his head, or at least, that’s what it looked like he was trying to do. “We leave now, they all come back.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but I dropped it. “We can’t face High-Lord Mallar like this.”

He didn’t respond. He coughed. It sounded as if something, or many things, were lodged in his throat. His entire body was riddled with deep gashes, painting the cultists' floor with blood.

“Why’d you do that?” I said.

“You would have died,” He said.

“You almost did.”

“I didn’t, though,” he said. “You would have.” He slowly brought his red, wet arms up and touched his chest up and down as if he were searching for something.

“What is it?”

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “We killed them, but I don’t feel any stronger. That should have easily leveled us up. A level up would have healed us of all our wounds, yet here we are.”

“Maybe we did level up, but that ball hurt us again,” I said.

“No,” he whispered, deep in thought. “Nothing feels more euphoric than leveling up. I’ve felt a lot of things in the last hour, euphoria definitely isn’t one of them.”

A woman walked by me, only visible for a flash. I looked in every direction, as fast as I could in my injured state, but saw no one. She’d been fair-skinned and had an innocent look in her eyes. Innocent but sorrowful. I slipped my aching hand into my pocket and touched the golden book. Could the woman have been Princess Cosette? She was as beautiful as the princesses in stories the townsfolk would tell their children in Goldmill.

One of the cultists ran toward us with a small dagger raised high. His eyes were fixed on Hendrix, nearly in arm’s reach. I forgot about the woman and threw regenerated beads at his feet, toppling him. He fell forward, one or two elbow drags from being close enough to take the rest of Hendrix’s HP.

I struggled to my feet. My knees nearly gave out under my weight. The cultist was one drag closer. I staggered toward him. He raised his dagger. I raised my wrench. The knife came down quickly. Hendrix yelped. Steel on steel rang as my wrench parried the cultist’s final blow, sending his knife sliding across the room, spilling a bronze bowl of its ash. The cultist looked up at me from his last resting place, his red eyes showing no remorse. One weak hit was all it took. The red eyes extinguished, leaving four vacant hoods strewn about the room.

Hendrix chuckled through a gurgling throat. “I knew something was missing.”

The room cleared of smoke as a whooshing wind gusted through the crack beneath the door. Thunder rumbled, seemingly from the third floor, and an explosion of light revealed a golden number four over my head. The euphoria Hendrix mentioned coursed through me. The tightness in my chest loosened, and my bleeding cuts from the shards of energy closed. Even my simple pants and shirt repaired as if tended to by a tailor.

“Mallar better be ready for us,” I said with renewed vigor. When no answer came, I looked to find Hendrix still on the ground, drenched in his own blood. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you get the level?”

“Must not have gotten enough experience,” he said in a strained voice. “It takes exponentially more to level up the closer you get to forty.”

The door clicked behind me. It unlocked and opened, giving us access to the third floor. “We can’t go up there like this.”

Hendrix dragged himself to his lute, looked up at me, and smirked. Blood trickled over his teeth. “I don’t need to stand to play my groovy tunes.”