Dungeon Reconfiguration (2)
Meanwhile, the Steel Shield Mercenary Corps wasn't faring much better.
"What? Enemies! Get 'em!"
"Who the hell are you? Damn it! Kill 'em!"
Thwack! Splurt!
Omar kicked away the foe he'd just stabbed with his sword.
Blood sprayed across his face as the blade pulled free.
"This is enough to drive anyone mad."
Their group had been whittled down to barely ten men, hacking through cramped, pitch-black passages where monsters—or worse—could lunge from the shadows at any moment. And the relentless drain of their life force sapped their spirits endlessly.
Worst of all, with no clue where the exit lay, a suffocating despair continued to rise.
"Captain. Do you know how to get out of here?"
Omar felt a surge of impulse to slaughter the subordinate whining before him.
That was the terror of life force absorption.
It gnawed ceaselessly at their stamina, sharpening nerves to a razor's edge and igniting rage at the slightest provocation.
He pressed down hard on his churning chest.
"Hoo... How much food do we have left?"
"Only three days' worth."
"We move. We need to link up with the others we got separated from and bulk up our numbers. Sitting here like idiots means if the enemy forms a big group first, we're done for."
"Understood."
Omar stared at his subordinate, whose body trembled violently.
As a Class 5, he could hold out for another fortnight.
But the ordinary mercenaries, unable to use mana, wouldn't last days.
No choice. They're dead weight anyway—might as well use 'em as expendables.
While their enemies scrapped like rats in the dark dungeon, Calix's group prepared to leave the reward chamber.
"This place gives me the creeps. It's too quiet—unnaturally so."
Krout rubbed his arms as gooseflesh prickled his skin.
"The monsters have been wiped out. When a dungeon undergoes reconfiguration and its labyrinth flips, the exits seal for about a week. With hordes of mercenaries pouring in but no fresh monsters spawning... well, you could say the mercenaries' numbers have plummeted just as sharply."
"How many do you think survived?"
"Most are probably dead. Surviving three weeks of life force drain takes a Sword Owner at minimum."
Trias felt cold sweat trickle down his spine.
If he'd stood against this man? He'd be bones in the dungeon by now.
Not a moment's complacency. Ruthless extermination of foes without hesitation.
Someone I never want as an enemy.
That was when it happened.
"Keeek!"
"Undead!"
"Form up!"
Melting skin dripping away, exposed muscle and bone, entrails dangling loosely. The most basic undead: zombies.
Slash!
Krout swung his sword lightly, bisecting one from top to bottom in a geyser of black blood.
"They're swarming!"
Zombies filled one side of the passage, crashing toward them like a wave.
"Kyaaack!"
"Uwaaaargh!"
"Grrraaah."
Calix barked swiftly.
"You! You're Number One from now on."
"Me?"
"You're Number Two!"
"Huh?"
The mercenaries, suddenly stripped of names and assigned numbers, wore baffled expressions. But Calix pressed on relentlessly.
"Number Three! Deploy your shield artifact in a hemisphere—seal the entrance!"
"Huh?"
Krout's sharp command fell on the dazed mercenary.
"Do as the young master orders!"
"Nngh, got it. Shield!"
A glass dome-like barrier plugged the zombie-spewing entrance.
"It won't hold long anyway..."
"Krout!"
"Yes!"
"You have leftover explosion scrolls from before, right? Protect your eardrums and detonate it on the other side of the shield!"
"Yes, my lord!"
The watching mercenaries gaped.
"Crazy! No way!"
Explosion scrolls were the ultimate taboo in tight underground passages.
Anyone below Class 5, unable to shield their body with mana, would have eardrums and eyeballs burst by the shockwave, brains turned to mush.
But Krout didn't hesitate a second.
Boom! Whoosh!
The ground quaked as crimson flames raced down the passage like a dragon's breath.
With one side sealed by the shield, the blast funneled the fire into a torrent.
"Huh?"
The mercenaries, eyes squeezed shut, peeked when nothing happened.
The passage brimmed with charred zombie corpses. The stench of roasting flesh stung their noses.
"How...?"
The other mercenaries shared the same stunned stares.
A noble issuing taboo orders without flinching. A knight executing them without doubt. An unbelievable outcome. They were dumbfounded.
"Captain, what the hell..."
"Beats me. Just how far do his abilities go?"
Calix's group pressed on through the dungeon at a steady pace. Then, light magic pierced the gloom, revealing two heads impaled on spears.
Walter and Omar.
"Gah! What the—!"
"That's them!"
"Yeah."
Calix's group whirled at the sudden raspy voice.
A knight in black plate armor leaned against the wall, his gear shattered and battered in places.
Krout had already stepped in front of Calix, hand trembling faintly on his sword hilt—betraying his tension.
Calix addressed the black-armored knight.
"Did you kill them?"
"Heh, the end for fools who didn't know their place."
"You took on two Class 5s at once?"
"Life drain turns you feral in here. They fought each other, then came at me—so I killed 'em all."
"Then why not leave? The exit should be open by now."
"Couldn't say. Not worth this much effort for a mission."
"Pride?"
"Call it that."
A sneer curled Calix's lips.
"A Dark Knight talking pride? Hilarious."
"Heh, you're right. But the pride of an overwhelming strongman is law and justice, pup."
His words ended as the nearest mercenary flew back with a roar.
Crack!
Psssh...
Dust puffed from the unconscious man—an artifact that had shielded him now spent.
"You bastard! Hans!"
"No! He's at least Class 5—maybe higher!"
Trias grabbed a furious mercenary lunging forward.
"Tend to Hans's wounds!"
"Ngh... Got it."
Blood from the fallen man pooled at Krout's feet. Rage boiled at his own overwhelm by the foe's presence.
Gripping his sword hilt until his knuckles whitened, Krout stepped forward, shielding the group.
Calix's calm voice echoed through the cavern.
"Everyone, stay cool. Assess the enemy first. No major wounds, but his armor's too damaged to function properly, and he's physically exhausted. Surround him—minimum three linking up to pin him so he can't strike and retreat."
The mercenaries shook off shock at Calix's steady orders and moved with crisp precision.
"Tch! Pesky flies!"
Corbus clicked his tongue. He'd staged a dramatic show at great cost, but gained little.
He glanced at the passage behind him.
No matter the mission's importance, his safety trumped loyalty or trust.
Suicide wasn't on his agenda.
He eyed Calix's group again, heat haze rising from his body.
"Hmph! Think that changes anything?"
His sword began to glow faintly.
Not vivid—stamina drain's toll—but unmistakably a Sword of Light.
"Class 6!"
Beyond infusing mana into a weapon: manifesting it in reality, clinging to the blade's edge. Proof of a Sword Owner.
As awe threatened to overwhelm them again, a clear voice rang out.
"Number Two! Slow artifact—cast it!"
"S-Slow!"
He instinctively aimed his palm at Corbus. Habit from surviving the dungeon under Calix's command.
"Pointless!"
Corbus flashed before the slow-artifact wielder like lightning, swinging his Sword of Light. But—
Clang! Scraaaape!
Krout appeared, deflecting instinctively with his shield. Impressive speed, but a blunder. The Sword of Light sliced the thick kite shield like paper.
"Ngh!"
Startled, Krout released the shield and swung his sword.
Corbus dodged leisurely, pursuing the mercenary.
"Number Four! Empower Krout's weapon!"
"Bless Weapon!"
"Krout! Go aggressive! Make it so he takes fatal losses to swing at anyone else!"
"Leave it to me!"
The Slow spell restricted Corbus—a Class 6—to Class 5 speeds, letting Krout keep pace.
Without such checks, no tactic worked. Why Calix activated it first.
Meanwhile, irritation mounted in Corbus. Far from leisurely: he minimized Sword of Light use to conserve mana.
But the persistent giant knight blocked decisive strikes. With many foes, dropping even one meant sacrificing an arm.
He suddenly missed his Black Wing mercenaries—now undead.
But a Class 6 trading an arm for a Class 4? Absurd.
Impossible.
Yet he couldn't shake the stalemate.
Calix, who'd engineered this, muttered inwardly.
Most wouldn't stomach that loss. So, what now?
A psychological gambit.
Corbus's best move: trade his arm for a foe two classes below.
One-armed, yes—but Slow gone, he could flee or skirmish.
But few embraced permanent maiming, even facing death.
Corbus was no exception.
At least we've staved off a wipe. Not safe yet, though.
Calix quietly assembled his crossbow—the one used on the dungeon core.
Hitting a Sword Owner amid fast movers? Tricky. But not impossible.
"Number Six! Target spell! Number Five! Guide spell!"
"Yes! Target Enemy!"
"Yes! Guide Bolt!"
A red rune bloomed on Corbus's chest. He noticed, accelerating slightly. Non-mage-guided spells didn't curve wildly.
But dodging knight-grade clashes and crossbow sightlines? A hassle. His face twisted.
Calix adjusted sights, pondering.
We're walking a tightrope. We look favored, but odds are 40% at best. Can't rely on gambles alone.
Twang! Thwip!
The steel bolt rocketed toward the rune on Corbus's chest.
"As if!"
A Class 6 sensed arrows via air vibration alone.
Corbus twisted aside; the bolt sliced empty air.
But Calix felt no dismay. He hadn't expected a one-shot. Silently, he cranked the winch, reloading.
That unflappable calm pressed Corbus. Keep shooting, and a fluke hit loomed.
Deal with that bastard first. He's the tactical core.
His eyes hardened.
At battle's start, it'd been play and venting. He'd forgotten the truth: taking lives meant risking his own.
Corbus steeled himself.
Left arm over right. In return, I'll take his head.