“Yes…” The delicate smile is hardly on Female Warrior’s face before you dip your head to the Trade God, and to the nun. If you cannot be grateful for this, when will you ever be grateful? Yes… It’s always worth asking. “Yo, Captain! Got a few tidbits for you!” Upon your return, you’re greeted by your scout, who’s sitting cross-legged on the plush bed. You and Female Warrior, who’s still hugging the oak spear, share a look when you hear the jovial note in his voice. “Turns out, way back when, that place used to be a proving ground or a treasure store or somethin’. Went a whole ten floors down.” He watches you both closely as he continues explaining. “They say—they say, mind you…” What’s now known as the Dungeon of the Dead was built as a proving ground, a labyrinth to help a king of old choose his soldiers by putting them through trial after trial. That room on the fourth floor was the final test; what’s beyond it is unclear. A treasure hoard, maybe, or else some other important room… “Couldn’t dig up anything else, though. No idea what the dude in black’s been up to down there.” Your scout doesn’t claim that he doesn’t know, but that he couldn’t find out. Rather than relying on half-baked assumptions, it will be much safer for you to go in with the mindset that you’re stepping into terra incognita, a place unknown. You can agree with that—but that’s not the part that surprises you. You want to know how your scout came by all this information about the dungeon without ever leaving the inn. Did he hear it from some adventurers who ducked into the establishment trying to get away from the ruckus outside—or perhaps he heard it from a royal guard who came to make sure things were staying calm around here? Half-Elf Scout sees you looking at him and waves his hand in a gesture you know well by now. “You want to catch a wolf, ask the pack,” he says. You sigh. So even the infamous Bandits Guild has set up shop in this city. All right. More important things. Does this mean he plans to go? “Sure. If you do, Cap.” He gives you a smile, seemingly unconcerned. You find yourself oddly embarrassed that he saw through you so easily, not that you were trying to hide anything. “Pretty sure the lady there feels the same way. Can’t be slackin’ then, can I?” Female Warrior looks pointedly away, as if to say that this is perfectly ordinary. It seems she feels the same way. She won’t quite look at you, either; instead, she strides into the room on her long legs. She’s going for a corner of the luxurious chamber, toward someone sitting next to your cousin (who has her face buried in a spell book, completely absorbed). Female Bishop. Female Bishop was playing with her blue ribbon, but when she senses Female Warrior sitting down beside her, she looks up. “Are you…okay?” she asks. “…Yeah,” Female Warrior says, giving her a small nod. “What about you?” “Me, I…” That’s the last of their conversation you really hear; you make it your business not to catch the rest. Female Bishop isn’t speaking to you, and anyway, you know she’s the kind to move forward. So instead you go over to Myrmidon Monk, whose massive frame dwarfs the sumptuous chair he’s sitting in. He breaks his cross-armed silence long enough to wave his antennae and say, “I don’t care either way,” after which he closes his mandibles with a clack. Hoh. Casual as anything, you sit down across from him and look into his face with its unreadable expression. You’ve known him for more than just a short while now. You don’t have to be able to read his expression to know what he’s feeling. “I heard the rumors that the royal capital is in a bad way, too. Something about a Vampire Lord.” You nod the affirmative. After all, the Knight of Diamonds never said not to tell anyone, which implies that the quick-eared already know. Still, there’s no pleasure in talking much about that No-Life King, the literal ruler of the dead. “The Army of Darkness. The uproar in this city. Hoarding treasure from the dungeon. Seems there’s a fair few things going on,” Myrmidon Monk says. Mm. The world is indeed in danger. Still, there are those who continue just the same with their daily toil. Some of them might want to raise the money to use Resurrection on their comrades. Others, to support their family. Still others, to eat good food, drink good drink, play at leisure, and live a life of ease. To those ends they go down in the depths, returning to the surface with loot and nothing more. Are their adventures less than yours? No, no they’re not. Just because an adventure is about saving the world doesn’t make it worth more. To think so would make you no different from that young magic warrior and their party, wouldn’t it? No different from the man in black controlling them. For that reason, Myrmidon Monk’s words sink deep inside you. “I’m okay either way. I don’t care where we go. I’m versatile. The day I lose that versatility is the day I cease to exist.” However… When you hear him, you deliberately adopt a grim look, crossing your arms and even throwing in a groan for good measure. Sounds like you and the others will be the only ones facing the depths of the Dungeon of the Dead. “…Fine. Twist my arm,” Myrmidon Monk says, his mandibles clacking. You’re almost certain it’s what passes for laughter with him. In order to maintain his versatility, he has to go. That’s what he claims, at least, and you respond with a nod. Sure. No choice at all. “I’m going!” someone chirps from the corner of the room—your cousin, who has extricated herself from her book. She doesn’t actually look up; her focus simply seems to snap to the present moment, her voice easy and light. “Don’t forget me. I’m going, too!” That’s the extent of what she tells you. Then her mind is right back in the sea of letters, once more seeking the words of true power. Didn’t really have to tell me at all. You hardly have to think to know why she’s focused so hard. So you reply, simply, that you understand. That’s enough to settle the point. “A-and me, too…!” Female Bishop says anxiously, and her words are not much more surprising than your cousin’s. You hesitate to point out that it’s the same face she made on coming back from the dungeon; consider it a show of faith in your cousin. The very fact that your cousin can focus on her own pursuits is proof that Female Bishop is able to stand on her own two feet and make her own choices. “I’m going… I have to.” She squeezes the blue ribbon tight, like it’s the hand of a precious friend. She drops her sightless gaze to the ground for an instant, then fixes it firmly on you. “Because that’s why I came to this city.” Her words are strong and clear, a declaration of her will. She will not be shaken. What reason could you possibly have to doubt her? She’s on her way to becoming a hero. Lastly, your eyes settle on Female Warrior, who crouches beside Female Bishop. She holds the oak spear and looks up at you. “…Yeah,” she says with a nod and a little smile. “Shall we go?” Well then. You tell them that settles it. These six people are going to save the world. Once adventurers make a decision, they are quick to act. It takes only a day for each of you to prepare your equipment, your consumables, your provisions, potions, and everything else you need. Meanwhile, you take the opportunity to let the man at the armor shop know what happened with the spear; you pick up your sword and leave an apology. “Think I did good work here,” the man says and offers you your weapon. You take it with a respectful word, draw it from the sheath, and have a look. Yes. Fine work indeed. The sword hasn’t been reborn. It’s the same faithful blade to which you’ve entrusted your life all this time in the dungeon, meaning you can trust it again in the next battle. Such is its edge—it’s a fine blade. “Whether you win or not, that depends on how you use it,” the armorer says as you inspect the sword. Then he adds, “But you’ve got one thing the other guy doesn’t.” Well, what might that be? You give him a curious look, and he grins. “A decent smith and polisher! They don’t have one of those in the bowels of the Dungeon of the Dead, I can promise you that!” He’s right. Yes, truer words were never spoken. You offer your thanks amidst the armorer’s laughter and then slide the sword into your belt. The familiar weight of the large and small blades is comforting—it roots you somehow. It says to you this is as things should be. Even though skill is not lessened by the lack of a weapon or enhanced by the possession thereof. A passing thought, and then you work your way along the bustling street, almost swimming through the crowd. You reach the inn—and there they are. Standing ready, or with a book open, or leaning patiently against a wall, waiting for you. When Female Warrior spots you, she gives the butt of her oaken spear a good kick, twirling it around in her hand. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” “Now everything’s ready!” Female Bishop clenches one hand into a fist and squeezes the sword and scales with the other. Beside her, your cousin puffs out her chest and adds, “Ready and waiting!” You look to Myrmidon Monk for confirmation, and he doesn’t say anything; he waves his antennae in the affirmative. In that case, best to go. You nod to him, and then you lead the party out into the fortress city. The city is still lively, still bustling—but the atmosphere has changed. It’s no longer talk of adventure that people trade as easily as the weather, but talk of the world’s danger. The vivacious spirit that circulates along with the loot is gone; grim, downcast faces line the roads, refugees crouching with vacant eyes. You hear yelling, angry voices, adventurers arguing with these people. Each time the sounds reach your ears, Female Bishop looks up. She glances back several times, almost as if something is pulling at her, but then she bites her lip and moves forward. The right choice. At this moment, in this place, it doesn’t matter if it’s roughnecks or goblins making those sounds—if the world isn’t saved from its crisis, everything is going to end. Even so, you can’t help but feel it’s a shame that this might be the last image of this city that you have. It’s not as if the city is so important to you. Even your memories here barely cover an entire year. Still, you walked these streets almost every day, going to the dungeon, then you walked them almost every day going back to the inn. Those accumulated days are now on the cusp of vanishing, being taken away. It’s the most natural thing in the world to mourn for them. It’s not just the city streets, either. As you pass by the Golden Knight, you see it defended by a barricade made of chairs and round tables. No doubt someone, or many someones, tried to force their way in in search of food or cash or women. There are adventurers standing under the eaves, apparently doing guard work in exchange for their tab. They watch the people passing by like hawks. Beside them is a padfoot waitress, gripping a broom like a weapon for little reason. When the rabbit-eared woman sees you, she comes bounding over. “Are you going on an adventure?!” she asks. It seems by now she remembers you as more than just customers. “Sure are!” Half-Elf Scout answers. “Today, we’re headin’ down to the very deepest depths!” “Wow! Now, that’s an adventure!” She claps her padded hands together audibly. Then with a perfect little smile, she gives you a great wave and exclaims, “See you, then! Be sure to stop by for a drink when you get back!” Then she adds, “We’ll have everything ready for you.” You all understand what she’s saying. You give the waitress a wave in return and keep walking. Behind you, you can hear other people chatting with the waitress. Your footsteps are light. It feels just like any other morning when you’re working your way to the dungeon’s entrance on the edge of town. There she is, the royal guard standing watch. “Hey, you’re here!” she says, friendly as ever, but her face betrays how tired she is. You can’t blame her. Those in charge of maintaining public safety must handle all situations at all times, and it’s only natural that they need rest. They can only take that rest, though, if they have someone to back them up, to take their place. Otherwise, that rest has to be qualified: Rest as much as possible. In this situation, relief from the fortress city cannot be expected, and the woman before you is the product of “as much as possible.” You tell her, sincerely, that you respect the job she’s doing and ask after her younger sister. “Thankfully, she’s well.” She gives you the weariest smile you’ve ever seen. “Just make sure you come home. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll say to her.” So that little girl is also on your side—and has great expectations. That is a grave responsibility. “Damn straight,” the royal guard says seriously. “All you adventurers are like that.” “…We’ll do everything we possibly can.” Female Bishop nods firmly, with much gravity. There are some people, too clever for their own good, who say they should just send the military down there. There are some who say there must be safer ways to make a living—as if they knew anything about it. Others mock adventurers as fools and idiots. You, however, do not agree. There are some things that only adventurers can do. Things no one but an adventurer could do. Things only adventurers know. That does not change, whether they seek to earn money, to reach the top, to take revenge, or conquer the world. That is adventure. What’s more… With that in mind, you pause on the threshold of the dungeon and turn back, taking in the vista that spreads out before you. The wind comes whistling from the fortress city, bringing with it the rattling of the windmill. All the way to you. If you should die down there in the dark, if you are setting out on your last journey, this is as good a send-off as you could wish. As an adventurer, you cannot hope for more. The darkness of the dungeon greets you as it always does, unconnected to the chaos engulfing the Four-Cornered World. You’re almost nostalgic for the nervousness you felt the first time you set foot here; now, oddly, you feel practically safe. You think you can have some sympathy for what those scruffy men living in the dungeon must have felt. “All right…let’s head for the elevator,” says Female Bishop, snapping you back to reality. “Here we go.” Mm. You give a quick nod and then lead the party, in formation, toward the dark zone. Conversation is at a minimum; the group exchanges only necessary words. You’re walking a path you went down just the other day—so why does it feel so long? You’re nervous. It’s only natural. It’s a bad start, you tell yourself. Worrying won’t make you any more effective in battle. Of course not. How can you expect to fight at your full capacity if you behave differently from normal? As you walk through the darkness, you wonder what you should say, how you can open a conversation. You lose your chance when Half-Elf Scout announces, “We’re here, Cap.” Just as before, you’re faced with a pair of doors with a line running down the middle. You feel for the terminal, then give it a good press. The doors open. Let’s go. The party doesn’t need your encouragement—the adventurers pile into the elevator. You press the terminal again so that the elevator will take you to the fourth floor, down into the heart of the maelstrom, and the box begins to descend. You feel like you’re floating; like you’re falling into the abyss. You see the faces of your comrades for the first time in several hours—or maybe several minutes, or maybe several days—and to you, they look pale. Maybe it’s just because of the strange magical lights that illuminate the interior of the elevator. You hope it is. “Fwoooo…boom,” Female Warrior whispers, reminding you of something she said before. You goggle at her, and she chuckles, looking back at you. “What, are you scared?” Her face is tense despite her jibe, but you pretend not to notice; you shrug and say it’s only natural. She’s trying to be thoughtful toward you, and you don’t want her consideration to be in vain. Above all, you’re thankful. “Well, whatever happens down there, we’re gonna be the first to know about it,” Half-Elf Scout says. This is where you would expect your cousin to chime in with something like, “Ah, so we’re the tip of the spear!” But from her, you hear nothing. You search for her in the dim light inside the elevator box and find her deep in thought. So she’s thinking about something. You’re smart enough to know what that means. Instead, you reply on her behalf. ‘In other words, depending how you think about it, we’re the tip of the spear…’ “Which means we can keep all the treasure for ourselves!” Half-Elf Scout exclaims, although his voice is unusually high-pitched. “Not that we’ll have much time for sightseeing,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “Not that I care either way…” You never find out what he’s going to say next. There’s a heavy thunk and the elevator comes to a stop. The doors open. Ahead, you see…the same thing you saw the last time. A single hallway, and beyond, a bizarre rock step that looks like some sort of altar. The design carved into the floor is dark and black, nongeometric lines running to it. An unmistakably magical glow suffuses the area, illuminating the design. It’s the center of the maze. The heart of the maelstrom. On the floor, you see piles of ash—and weapons. Weapons that have lost their masters. Nothing, not one thing, has changed since you withdrew from here the last time. “…!” Something darts in front of you: a young girl with golden hair. It’s Female Bishop, who said nothing in the elevator; she’s the first of you to race out, kneeling in the chamber. You hesitate over whether to call out to her and then take a step forward. “It’s okay.” Female Warrior’s outstretched oak spear bars your path. Her face is far less relaxed than her words; she looks fixedly at Female Bishop’s back and says quietly, “Right?” “…Yes,” Female Bishop replies and nods, then gets to her feet. She takes care not to step on the piles of ash, not to tread on former friends. Leaning on the sword and scales for support, her bandaged eyes stare directly at the doors far beyond. “Because,” she says, and still her voice is small, “I have to go.” You, too, look ahead. Now that you focus on it, the darkness into which the man in black vanished does somehow remind you of the elevator. Beyond the double doors, there’s a coffin-like box, waiting for you. A casket? You can’t resist a grim smile as the word flits through your mind. Death waits for you beyond. To enter a coffin first would be backward. “Fwooo…boom,” Female Warrior whispers in your ear. Third time’s the charm, eh? Female Warrior shrugs and looks away. You pat her on the shoulder, then look around at the others and announce: ‘Let’s go.’ You stride through the doors of the elevator and look for the terminal. Four, five, six, seven, eight, and finally nine. Once you’re sure everyone is on board, you punch the number for nine. And then, once more, you’re falling into the abyss. All very easy to say… The sight that greets you as you step out on the ninth floor of the dungeon, however, is disconcertingly identical to everything else you’ve seen. The world, built only of shapes and shadows, shows you doors to the right and left, and a turn of the hallway up ahead. That’s all. The way the place is dim, yet faintly illuminated; the aura of the unreal that pervades the hall—even the chill is the same. It’s the dungeon you know so well, the very same. That goes some way toward calming you down. “Thought something might jump on us the minute we got here. Guess not,” mutters Myrmidon Monk from somewhere above your shoulder. Talking to himself. He has his machete in his hand, a sign of his abundant caution. You figure this is the moment to have your scout check for enemies. You pat Half-Elf Scout on the shoulder. “Urk! What, me?!” he says. “That’s your job, isn’t it?” Female Warrior retorts with a chuckle, and your scout groans, “Gah…” A moment later, though, he steps out of the elevator. The first tile in front of the elevator doesn’t appear to sink or explode or anything. Half-Elf Scout takes a few more steps forward, silently, then he waves back to you to show it’s safe. “…Nothin’ on the floor here, but there’s somethin’ down the way,” he calls. “What kind of something?” Female Warrior replies, readying her spear. “Is it a monster…?” You hope you’re not dealing with goblins or slimes. Your very serious pronouncement earns you a look from Female Warrior, but she quickly faces forward again. She can tell that this isn’t your usual ribbing—you really meant what you said. You want to minimize the unnecessary expenditure of energy and resources. Having two of your party members in a traumatized state is the last thing you want. “…It’s hard to believe this is really the lowest floor,” Female Bishop notes, pausing in her work on the map. “Doesn’t matter. Got to keep going forward…,” Myrmidon Monk says. Of course. You check the fastenings of your sword, then make sure everyone’s got their gear before you take your first careful step onto the ninth floor. You might be in the hallway, not a chamber, but there’s every chance you could encounter a wandering monster. Then there’s whatever Half-Elf Scout has found—it could easily be a monster or a trap. The lowest floor of the infamous Dungeon of the Dead lies ahead of you. As you get closer, you can make out what Half-Elf Scout has found. It’s some kind of pale thing on the wall. And it’s horrifying. It’s a woman in battered armor—but just half of her. That’s the only way you can describe what you see; the other half is trapped in the wall. Her adventure ended here. She’s filthy and badly wounded, but blood still flows through her veins; you can even feel a faint warmth from her. The gentle tremors you see running through her body imply she still has breath. To your horror, you realize she is alive. It would be bad enough if it was just the one woman, which is already terrible enough. But she’s not alone. There are people whose arms stick out of the wall. Or just their feet. A bit of hair. Half a face. All of them adventurers, all of them entombed within the wall. “They—,” Female Warrior starts, her voice breaking. “They’re alive? These…kids?” “…Their bodies are,” replies Female Bishop in a strange tone. Yes, their bodies continue to live and breathe, but what about their hearts, their minds, their souls? How long could you last trapped alive, unable to move, all your senses cut off? Maybe some monsters had found them and had a little fun with them, or maybe not. It’s hard for you to tell. Whatever has or has not happened, these people are embedded in the rock. Their minds are shattered, their sparks guttering into cold ash. Their souls, you feel sure, are gone. Even if you were to break through the rock and set them free, it wouldn’t change anything. You could rescue them, but you couldn’t save them. These adventurers’ adventures are already over. They ended here. “…The dimension is warped.” The words come from the one member of the party who has been lost in silent thought until this moment: your cousin. “I’ve been thinking about it, researching it, ever since we saw that room on the fourth floor…” She looks at the adventurers in the stone with a mix of repulsion at their pain and genuine curiosity. It’s true, you think. It’s been true since you encountered the succubi. Creatures that normally exist on the dream plane can be powerful enough down here to manifest in the physical realm. You’d assumed that was simply because you were getting deeper into the dungeon—but if that altar on the fourth floor is really the dungeon’s heart, then it would make sense. You’re not surprised that your cousin has gleaned some important bit of information from that. “The rumors of Gate traps. The lost forbidden spells. But I’ve never heard anything about people getting trapped.” You think you hear her whisper Of course I haven’t, but if so, it’s swallowed by the emptiness and disappears. Of course she hasn’t: Anyone who ended up trapped wouldn’t be around to tell the tale. Sometimes an adventuring party disappears, leaving no sign, no trace. The rumors spread. A Gate trap. A trap sent them somewhere—but where? Here? You look at the arm stretched out in front of you, which still grasps a knife. You think it belongs to a woman. Or maybe it’s a male elf—their arms might be this slender. You’re not sure. Will the adventurers who come after you think the same about you, if your party is annihilated in the dungeon? There’s no answer. These bodies are just corpses now. “Be careful,” your cousin cautions. “We don’t know what might show up down here.” You nod, then steady your breathing and give your orders. If you want to advance in this ninth level, whether to find the stairs or an elevator or whatever might be out there, you’ll have to move forward, go deeper in. It’s you, Female Warrior, and Half-Elf Scout up front. Your cousin, Female Bishop, and Myrmidon Monk are on the back row. With your formation settled, the party sets out into the Dungeon of the Dead. You proceed through the twisting hallway, kick down the farthest, deepest door you can find, and leap into the chamber. You sense…nothing. No trace of any foes. There’s only a door, leading farther on. Forward, ever forward. You should have thought harder about what your cousin said, that the dimensional space is warped here. You are all soon given a visceral reminder of what you’ve walked into. Several giant things stand in the middle of the chamber. Bluish-black, they have no skin; they look like bundles of sinews and muscle given human form. No, no; the form isn’t in imitation of humanoids. These creatures have simply found it the most effective shape for killing. Twisted, curling horns. Massive claws. Sharp fangs. Eyes that burn in the dark. They fix you with a gaze that is utterly emotionless, except for the desire to kill. With their horrendous odor and natural chill, these are certainly not creatures that have any right to exist in your dimension. “Gr-greater demons…?!” The threats before you tear the scream from your cousin’s lips. This is no longer the human world. This is dead space. “GURRRRRR…!” The massive monsters look down at you appraisingly. The light of intelligence is clear in their eyes, but it’s a kind of intellect beyond human comprehension. Demons: one of the most dangerous monsters in the Four-Cornered World, manifestations from a nonhuman plane. They even seem to live according to different laws. Mutual comprehension seems impossible. Well, you realize, that’s not quite true. There is one thing that adventurers and demons have in common: The moment they see one another, they want to kill each other. “H-how many are there?” Female Warrior breathes. “Can’t tell!” Half-Elf Scout shouts back. “Curse ’em, drifting through the dark…!” “Watch out—there’s something else, too…!” Female Bishop calls, a salient warning not just for the front, but the back row as well. You spit on the hilt of your sword and rub it in with your palm, then you slide one foot back and face the threats in the room. The blue-black demons look like giants to you, towering presences that signal, in your mind, the vast difference in ability between yourselves and them. You know, of course, about greater demons. Everyone knows and fears them—although they are not as terrible as an archdemon. If they are less terrible, though, it’s not by much. In other words, they are much like adventurers: hero candidates who have not yet made their deeds known in the world, but one day might. There’s no practical difference in skill between them and an archdemon. They just haven’t had their opportunity yet. Which means there’s one thing that might provide a decisive advantage… “They’re going to call their friends, I’m sure of it!” Myrmidon Monk clacks to you from the back row. Their friends. Certainly. That would be bad. “Anyway, we need to clean them up fast or we’re in trouble…!” You respond in the affirmative at almost the same time as the enemy makes their move. “SHUUUUUUU…!!” That wasn’t a greater demon. It’s something you can’t identify, striking from near the demon’s feet. You slice away the monster’s sharp claws with your now-unsheathed blade and bury your weapon in the creature’s head. Its skull crushes inward, and you feel the soft give of brain tissue under your sword, which is now buried—in ash. Still carried by its own momentum, the monster that attacked you turns to ash, dissolving from the head downward. Finally, it’s reduced to a couple of eyeteeth that bounce toward you across the floor before they, too, are rendered ash. A vampire! “No, it hasn’t reached that point yet! It’s just a night stalker!” Female Bishop cries. “Then should we use Dispel? Or should we try to seal the demons’ magic? Either’s good!” says Myrmidon Monk. You shout that you’ll leave it to your clerics’ discretion, then throw yourself back into the battle. “DAEMOOOOOOONNNNN…!!” Your job on the front row is to keep the enemy from reaching those at the back, but you’re facing greater demons. They tower over you—perhaps you can nick a shin or something. The night stalkers that slither forward are a threat, but these goliaths are the real problem. You simply can’t let them get past you. One thing helps… “Take…this!” It’s Female Warrior, wielding her oaken spear against the horde of undead, her sabbatons clicking lightly across the floor. She looks like she’s dancing as she thrusts the blessed spear forward with blinding speed, stabbing one night stalker after another. “Ha!” For the first time in a long while, you hear genuine laughter from her. “This thing is amazing!” “Phew! Think I’ll let you handle the stabbing, sister, and I’ll give ’em the runaround!” Butterfly-shaped knives flash in your scout’s hands, deftly parrying the night stalkers’ attacks. Occasionally he throws in a punch or a kick to break an enemy’s form as he carves a path through the monsters. You try to keep an eye on them, but you know you can’t let your attention slip from the enemy in front of you. Holding your sword with both hands, you judge the distance, then step in when you see the moment is right, slashing with your weapon. In a contest of sheer physical prowess, though, the demon far outmatches you. “DEEEEEEEVILLL…!!!!” The absolute synchronicity with which the enemies from this other dimension act is itself a sort of magic, a fearsome spell. The first thing you feel is sharp pain, like you’ve got cuts all over your body. The howling demon thrusts out a palm, projecting cold and ice as sharp as any blade. Balls of hail, large and small, strike you like a barrage of stones, and you can feel the chill sap the living heat from your body. A ringing in your ears drowns out all sound; the world starts to go dark, but still you grasp your sword and refuse to let go. For you know that your party has someone vastly accomplished in magic. “Musica concilio terpsichore! Music united with dance!” The words, half spoken, half sung, seize the greater demon’s legs in a silly walk. The Dance spell. It worked! Your cousin smiles broadly. You two are in perfect step—and you’re not about to miss the opportunity she’s given you. You charge through the blizzard, which has begun to slacken, kicking hard off the ground into a leap. You fly through the air like a monkey, and you’re not aiming for the creature’s shin anymore. No matter the monster, cut off its head and it will die—assuming it has a head. With a tremendous shout you bring your katana down. Your first stroke nicks the demon’s shoulder. Brackish blood spews out; as you drop, you bring the blade back up, slicing its throat. “DAAAAAAAAAEMMMMOOONNN?!?!” The creature gives a tremendous death roar, then crumples to the ground with an earthshaking thud. That makes one. But that’s just a start! A bold claim when facing greater demons. You can’t help smiling at your own finely honed skill. “Not bad!” Female Warrior whistles, dancing another step and thrusting with her spear. Normally she aims it at the night stalkers, who come with their fangs bared like hunting dogs—but not this time. Instead she’s aiming at a man in black wearing a pointed kerchief on his head—a Master Ninja! Something more powerful than the tiger-masked men you faced before; these can send a head flying with their mantis-like movements. It’s deeply unsettling to imagine such a creature sneaking up on you from the dungeon’s darkness in the middle of a battle. Glad to know Female Warrior has your back as you continue your fight with the demons. “DAEMOOOOOOONNNNN…!!!!” The greater demons, now properly angry, thrust out their arms at you, limbs as big as trees, and the blizzard begins again. The source of that fatal cold, you heard, is in another dimension, from the river of tears in the ninth circle. That eternally frozen lake holds the evil god, the King of Terror who tried to attack the world a thousand years ago. Perhaps it’s just more proof of that warped dimension… “Hrk! Hnngh… Ah?!” The ice nearly covers the entire room, so naturally, it reaches the back row as well. You hear Female Bishop suppress a cry just as you slash at the demon, but its sturdy muscles deflect your blade. Were you just lucky last time? No, it was because you had your cousin’s support. Your cousin, who, at this moment, is busy concentrating on her next spell. You need to buy Female Bishop time. What you must do is still the same. Moreover, the girl isn’t the helpless damsel you sometimes think of her as. “Yah!” Female Bishop sounds almost sweet as she lashes out, but the impact that follows is anything but cute. It’s the sound of the chains attached to the sword and scales groaning. “OUURGGGRERRR?! Despite her chattering teeth, she’s forced strength into her shaking knees to deal this blow to one of the night stalkers. Blood and brains spew from the creature’s shattered skull, and it turns to ash, which is quickly swept up by the blizzard and disappears. Female Bishop brushes off the ash that’s gotten on her, looking disgusted, perhaps because she can’t see it. Female Warrior, pulling her spear out of the ninja, turns back long enough to shout, “I’m sorry! One of them got past me!” “It’s okay! Don’t blame yourself!” Female Bishop says. Three people alone in the front row isn’t quite enough to deal with all these enemies. One of them was bound to slip by. You give everyone their orders, saying that you’ll continue to deal with the demons, and then you level your blade once more at the massive form before you. Even though the collection of sinew is bleeding otherworldly blue-black blood, the blizzard continues at full intensity. Surely even the demon can be distracted. That’s all you need. You aren’t fighting alone. “Sword-prince, to those who see what should be seen and speak what should be spoken, grant your protection!” There, see! Female Bishop’s prayer, chanted with lips turning blue, reaches the gods in heaven and saves your life. A curtain of divine protection falls between you and the cold, and you force strength into your numb fingers, finding your mark. Once, twice. Again and again. Your blade dances toward the massive arm, wounding it. You don’t need a critical hit like you got earlier. Even grazing wounds will shave away the monster’s pile of hit points and help open that crucial opportunity. “We need to deploy some healing!” your cousin shouts. “No, first we have to stop them from casting any more spells! If they get off a second blast, we may be done for!” Female Bishop says. “I’ll coordinate with you! If we can cut off their spell casting, the demons ought to weaken!” says Myrmidon Monk. “All right, let’s do it!” It doesn’t have to be you who creates that window. If it did, why would you even have a party? As you and the others on the front row put everything on the line to hold the enemies at bay, those in the back are fighting a desperate struggle of their own. “My god the roaming wind, let all we say on the road stay secret among us!” “Let the light of quietude be upon you!” A pure wind and a holy flare like the light of the sun fill the chamber, much to the demons’ astonishment. These creatures work magic as readily as they breathe, and taking that power from them is not easy. Even you, who can speak a few words of true power, understand that it’s more difficult than you can imagine. The two clerics in your party make it look easy. Nor are they your only two companions. “?!” “Yesss! You’re mine!” With an almost joyous shout, a colorful wind rushes across the floor. The blades in Half-Elf Scout’s hands are bright as butterfly wings. You hear them ring out, and in the time it takes you to blink twice, a meteor with a tail of blue blood is stretching out before you. The two demons in front of you abruptly tilt forward. The tendons of their legs are severed—just as you originally planned. “Took you long enough!” Female Warrior has been waiting for this moment, and she leaps, her body taut as a bowstring. Have the stolen magic and crumpled bodies of the demons bought you enough time to admire her beauty? The oaken spear whistles through the air as if to mock the silenced demons. It lands a critical hit, piercing one through the heart. “—?!?!” “Ha-ha-ha! What’s that? I can’t hear you!” Female Warrior yells, laughing. The fountain of blue-black blood from the monster fails to reach her where she stands smirking. She plants her sabbaton on the monster’s chest, kicking off and propelling herself backward. The creature collapses as if the kick is the last straw. One left. Losing no time, you slide toward the last demon, closing in on it. Your earlier flurry of attacks and the bevy of wounds they inflicted have not been in vain. You were targeting its tissues—alter-planar demon or no, it’s still made of flesh and bone. Letting your faithful blade lead you, you raise your sword, lifting it easily. You step in, and it rises like the sparks of a campfire blown by the wind. You place your other hand on the hilt and flip it around. You take another step, letting your reversed blade ride its own momentum downward. Shmp. You remember the feel under your hands, like slicing a straw training post. Both of the demon’s arms are severed at the elbow. You spot your next target and draw back your sword, which slices flesh and bone. “?!” The demon gives a great, voiceless cry and waves its useless arms. It looks almost silly flailing around, except that its tremendous size makes even this unfocused violence dangerous. You get some distance to make sure one of the arms doesn’t smash you or break your leg, and vigilantly stand with your sword at the ready. You don’t expect an intelligent monster like a demon to behave like a creature with no intellect. It must be doing something. But what? Female Bishop’s head jerks up; something has tipped off her sharp intuition. She shouts, “It’s trying to call more of them!” You have no reason, no reason at all, to doubt her judgment. You know only two clerics as powerful as she is, and only two spell casters. One of them, Myrmidon Monk, clacks his mandibles and watches closely; your cousin brings up her short staff, her expression serious. Warped space, huh? It’s not intuitive to you—but if that thing calls its friends from another dimension, you’ll be in real trouble. “What do we do? Do we finish it here and now or hunt a bit after there are more of them? I don’t care either way!” “I don’t think the more’s the merrier in this case—just go for it!” Half-Elf Scout yells. Let’s do it! Your judgment is swift, and your cousin’s response is even swifter. As the one responsible for overseeing your party’s resources, she raises her staff high and shouts, “Coordinate with me!” “Right!” Female Bishop responds, raising the sword and scales. This will be her third consecutive spell. You’re burning through your magic at an alarming rate. You glance at your cousin. She nods. Without hesitation, you raise your hand and weave a spell. The words of true power that you, her, and Female Bishop incant are but three: “Ventus!” “Lumen!” ‘Libero!’ Run free, wind and light! The next instant, a whirlwind fills the chamber along with a flash of light and heat. This is the overwhelming power one can draw from the Demon Core. Perhaps the only thing that could withstand this power that lies at the root of all things is the black-scaled storm bringer the lizardmen speak of in their myths. No demon, no night stalker, no monster that lurks in the dark can hope to prevail against it. As ice melts, so the monsters turn to dust, unable even to scream, and are lost. All that remains is enough heat to make your skin prickle, drifting back to you on the wind. The only sign that there were ever any monsters in this chamber is the treasure chest that has appeared as if from nowhere. You don’t let down your guard until the last moaning of the explosion has left your ears. The silence that remains is almost painful, and it is then that you finally let out a breath. You shake the blood off your blade and check how your friends are doing, your usual custom. “Huh! Shows what a greater demon is worth,” Half-Elf Scout jokes. He turns toward the chest, and Female Warrior laughs. “Yeah! Without their spells, all they can do is outnumber us.” She smiles like a cat and brushes her black hair back. Maybe she’s trying to look a little stronger than she feels, but she’s making no attempt to hide her injuries. It’s a way of bringing her back to herself, to get her feet back under her. There’s no problem with that. “How far have we come? I’d like to see the map,” your cousin says. “Oh, certainly. I’m still working on it… Give me a second.” Your cousin is paying close attention to how Female Bishop looks. You couldn’t be more grateful. Female Bishop opens her bag and grabs the parchment roll she’d stuffed away, taking out her scrawled notes. You’re impressed: She sketches out the geography of the room you’ve entered, completely by feel.
Chapter 25
38 min read