Whispers of the Dead
It would have been the same as facing a disaster if they had.
"I'm starving... any snacks maybe...?"
"Here, on the house. Chew slowly now."
Kiki fed a biscuit into the dwarf's mouth. It wasn't even real biscuit—just a nutrient-packed energy bar molded into shape.
"Is it okay to give food like that to someone who's hurt?"
"It's because he's injured that he needs something loaded with essential nutrients. Think about hospital food."
"..."
"See? I'm right, aren't I?"
The dwarf was so ravenous he wolfed down the biscuit Kiki handed him in no time. He even shot her a look that said it wasn't enough.
"Delicious. Any more left by chance...?"
"You're the first person I've met like this."
Kiki laughed and handed over another. Allen had stocked those biscuits thinking no explorer would call them tasty, but the world was wide, and tastes varied.
The cave floor was unnaturally flat, as if someone had deliberately paved a path, so the dwarf on the cart could ride fairly comfortably.
After trudging slowly for a few hours, they ran into another group, just as François had predicted.
The leader, a gray-haired man, stepped forward. He gripped a magic wand—its tip stained an ugly red, clearly used as a bludgeon too.
"You've got an injured one too, huh?"
"Your injured guy's from Group 15 maybe?"
"Spot on. Three of 'em."
"Gamel and the sub-leaders said even they couldn't handle the numbers."
"Same story I heard. But those guys shouldn't have any trouble."
"They couldn't protect their team members, so yeah, they did."
"And you?"
"If the same happened to me, it'd be because I lacked the skill. No exceptions."
"Strict guy."
With that, the two groups merged and moved together. Twenty-six fighters, thirty-four including the injured—it was a noisy bunch.
Any underground dwellers or automatons blocking the path vanished pitifully fast.
The defensive outpost they reached was empty. A floating light in the center illuminated only a barren clearing.
The man twirled his bloodied magic wand—the one that had smashed several underground dweller skulls—and shot François a knowing glance.
"Told you, right? Gamel wouldn't struggle. Looks like he wrapped things up and went looking for his team."
"..."
"No need to scowl like that. I get the worry, but with the chairman around and Hextech's crew diving ahead of us, even if we get whipped, it'll be them first..."
"Enough."
François's sharp glare made the man raise both hands with an awkward grin.
"Got it. I'll watch my mouth, so cool your jets..."
Mid-sentence, the man clamped his jaw shut. The injured were approaching the spot where the two leaders conversed.
"What is it?"
"Well..."
The injured man's speech was slurred. And his body was off—healthy skin suddenly writhing, joints twisting at impossible angles.
The dwarf on Allen's cart was the same. Saliva drooled from his gaping mouth, his face ballooning grotesquely.
Allen had looked up types of black magic after hearing about the collector. Why, of all things, was corpse explosion popping into his head right now?
Kiki grabbed the dwarf as he lurched to his feet.
"Kiki!"
Allen yanked the dazed Kiki back and hurled his modified shield generator at the dwarf. At the same instant—
BOOM!
The blast rattled eardrums. Eight supposed injured turned bombs detonated together. Red steam billowed instead of flames; bone shards flew instead of shrapnel.
Fortunately, no one died. A protective barrier—likely cast by the mage leader—enveloped each explorer individually.
Stunned by the sudden chaos, the explorers hugged the clearing walls, instinctively pulling back to assess from afar.
François and the other man stood unscathed at ground zero. Flesh and blood pooled around them.
A fleshy flower bud emerged from the blood puddle, blooming wide. Then a voice echoed.
"Did you think I wouldn't know?"
It was a sticky, shadowy voice that made pus ooze from your ears just from hearing it.
François lunged and stomped the flower flat. The voice didn't stop. The puddle reshaped into a mocking face.
"Inferior creatures—your gathered opinions are utterly pathetic."
"It should be on the 20th layer. How's it reaching this far? Layers can't interfere even with magic."
The mage leader stepped up, but the puddle just laughed, ignoring him.
François pulled the mage back.
"Waste of time."
"What if I'm nearby?"
"You would've shown up already if you were. Instead of just yapping."
François reached into the puddle, stirring a whirlpool that drained it away. Before it vanished completely, he asked,
"What if we were just random explorers? What then?"
"What does it matter?"
With that, the puddle was gone.
Cave (4)
François and Omar—the other group's guide and mage—were hashing things out in the clearing where the collector's presence had faded.
As his blood-smeared magic wand showed, Omar was a mage who specialized in close-quarters brawling; he didn't yield an inch to a half-orc's growl.
Allen wanted to eavesdrop, but they were too far, turned away—no voices, no lip-reading possible.
Unlike the explorers huddled against the walls calming rattled nerves, Allen calmly assessed the situation.
Why gather explorers under the pretext of labyrinth training?
It was prime time for such sessions, and strong guides were standard.
So they figured the collector had minions or allies— a ploy to blind him.
But the plan crumbled instantly.
The collector below had scattered surveillance across layers, rendering the deception useless.
Labyrinth lore said layers couldn't interfere, but the collector shattered that rule—triggering corpse explosions via zombies and relaying intent with whisper of the dead black magic.
An act of god, really. Everyone knew he was a powerful black mage, but breaching labyrinth laws? Unforeseen.
Now, this new truth would spread among those in the know.
Unlike Allen, the clueless explorers fixated on the immediate horror.
"What the hell? Why'd explorers just explode? Some new underground dweller automaton?"
"My cart... my money..."
"That was black magic, right? Some psycho messing with Breakers. Guess training's off—gotta hunt the bastard now?"
Allen brushed off his cart while listening. The shield generator had blocked the blast first, and its modular design shed the impact, so it still rolled—barely.
Dent those warped spots roughly with a heating punch, then borrow the workshop's metal former for the rest.
Done thinking, Allen called to the spaced-out Kiki.
"Hold the wheel section, please."
"Clean it and reuse? Or climb up and buy new?"
Ditch and replace with fresh. Still alien to Allen. In Ranka and Nobak Clinic, recycling was life. You had nothing whole, so fixing was natural.
Those days ingrained "fix what you can" in him. No different now.
"You rode it here—pay up in labor. Grab it quick so I can fix before we move."
"Ugh..."
Kiki grimaced but gripped the red-painted cart. She yelped at the squishy bits.
As the two roughly restored it, the leaders reached consensus. Their voices carried clearly as they approached the group.
"The chairman..."
"Who's worrying who? Omar, we just get our teams out. If he had spare capacity, he'd have pulled more tricks."
"No breathing room with the chairman tracking him. And he'd have anticipated something like this."
Finishing their cryptic talk, they split to their teams.
François faced the wide-eyed explorers.
"Complications. We're pulling back."
"Just some crazy black mage, right?"
"Mind's warped, sure—but if his title's collector, that's another story."
Murmurs erupted. Even brief clips on Samraman showed how dangerous he was—no explorer unknown to his name.
"Quiet!"
The orcish bass note hit like a spell, quelling the spreading chaos.
"Chairman went after him—no need to fret. We're bailing for contingencies."
Mention of Breaker chairman Jake Marshall silenced them completely. Depth 7's might was legend.
Conversation over. François and Omar headed different passages—to relay info if they met others.
Group 6 moved faster than ever. Descending, they'd griped nonstop about the hardship; ascending, the collector's name killed all chatter.
Only combat boots scraping stone and the cart's post-blast squeaks filled the air.
The heavy silence eased past layer 13.
Kiki, who'd ridden before claiming leaking lube, now flatly refused and walked beside Allen. In the quiet, she murmured,
"They think he's fleeing."
"The collector?"
"Yeah. Hextech expedition passed while we rested in the clearing. Means other orgs besides Breakers are in on it. He's dangerous, sure—but Maze City's bigshots cooperating? He's dead meat."
No chatter let her voice carry; nearby members perked ears pretending nonchalance.
"So he'll run."
"After clearing out nosy explorers?"
"Yep. Marshall might be different, but guys like us? He'd shred us like snot rags. Worst case, end up like those poor bastards—living bombs."
Even crossing layer 12's vast clearing, Kiki kept going.
"Can't predict his escape route, so he prunes potential black magic fodder first. Looks prepped for it too."
"Agreed."
"Right? See, I'm—"
Kiki glanced at Allen, then shut up. That agreement hadn't come from him.
Group 6 had halted. Kiki nearly bumped the cart and followed Allen's gaze.
"Smart for a goblin. Magicware embedded in the skull, I bet. Mind pulling the pipe structure for a closer look?"
A deep-hooded figure blocked the clearing's exit dead center.
Group 6 explorers shone headlamps on his face. Etiquette said aim elsewhere to check identity, but blocking suddenly screamed bad intent.
"That's just rude."
"Rude's your ugly mug."
No one rebuked François's jab. The hood's contents were that shocking.
Skin pale as spread flour, peeling lip scales like shed husk, bald as an egg, androgynous features. Worst: stitched-shut eyelids, forehead incision scars.
Artificial eyes gave explorers sharp vision—no softening the grotesque imprint on their brains.
Allen too. His left eye, heedless of his disgust, keenly scanned the presumed black mage.
What was that wriggling under the skin just now?