Chapter 29

Beside you, the tip of Female Warrior’s spear trembles. “What did you say…?” “I killed him. Or perhaps I should say, we killed him. It all works out to the same thing in the end. Ahhh, what fun that was.” The man in black rests a red-bladed sword, held in his right hand, on his shoulder and strokes his chin, speaking almost to himself. He sounds like he’s recalling the taste of a pleasant meal from a few days earlier. “I don’t know who or what that was—so with many apologies I assure you, I can’t answer your question.” The man in black almost sounds like he really feels guilty, as if to say, So very sorry for defeating them before you got here. “If he’s dead, why is there still dimensional warping around this dungeon?!” Female Bishop cries in disbelief. Even as she shakes with fear, she retreats not a step, her voice loud and clear. “We lost so many adventurers, and for what?” “Please, please, don’t misunderstand. I can’t have you going around thinking I want to destroy the world or some silly business like that.” While Female Bishop and the man in black talk, you spare a glance at your comrades. Your cousin reacts first, sliding her short staff to one side, getting line of fire on him. The others follow. Each of you moves slowly, ever so slowly, fanning out from the clump in which you entered the chamber to find your place. One gripping a short staff and focusing her awareness, one with a machete in one hand, the other forming a holy sigil. One with a spear, another with butterfly-shaped knives, each closing the distance. You slide forward, too, inching ahead, judging the gap. You’ll charge in and strike. One stroke. “This is simply the loveliest place.” You’re nowhere near close enough yet. The man in black sounds like he’s talking to a friend he bumped into on the roadside; he moves like he has all the time in the world, but his movements give nothing away. You watch as closely as you can, seeking any possible opening. “Adventurers die, monsters die, and all of them come here, where they feed my power.” The Death. “What do you want? According to legend, the Platinum ranks are practically beyond human understanding.” “And now we’ve got this dungeon beneath our feet. What’s down there? The Death.” “And if you delve into the depths and stand on the border between life and death, and come back to the surface… Then what?” “Isn’t it the Death coming back all over again?” The Death is power. Adventurers kill monsters, monsters kill adventurers, and the cycle continues. The law of nature is being upset. If that power, the Death, is in the hands of this man… “All I did was put out a few treasure chests,” the man says. “The adventurers did the rest—they went and died on their own.” “Don’t get cute…!” Female Warrior spits at him. “You wound me,” the man in black says, then he chuckles and shrugs. “Everything depends on the roll of the dice cast by the gods. So why not do everything to stack the odds in your favor?” “Gotta warn ya, Cap, it’s no use listenin’ to this guy. He don’t make any sense,” Half-Elf Scout insists. “I don’t care what he says,” Myrmidon Monk clacks. “It’s just the howling of an animal.” You take another tiny, sliding step. You couldn’t cut him before. What about now? Can you land a blow? No… The red blade turns toward you, leisurely. “It’s of no consequence, really,” the man in black says. “It comes down to nothing more than this: Kill and get stronger. Kill and be victorious.” He’s speaking to you. Of you. Yes, even you… “Even you enjoyed it, didn’t you?” Strike him down. The light is faster than the sound: A red blade slices past your eyeballs, followed by a belated whoosh. One half of a dungeon tile. That’s how narrowly you avoided death, just a shuffle of your feet. You react immediately, closing in and bringing your katana up in a diagonal strike. There’s a ringing of metal, and you feel a dull numbness in your hands. The sword bounces back. You were too slow, frustratingly slow. Grasping the hilt, you sling your beloved weapon over your shoulder. No follow-up attack comes. You see just the ghost of a smile in the dim light. It’s laughing at you. Well, let it laugh. “Hey, you, over here…!” A spear comes stabbing in from the side. The voice seems so soft for one with a weapon so sharp. It’s a female warrior. The two of you no longer need words to coordinate your actions. But that doesn’t make you infallible. “Hrrr-agh?!” Another red flash slices through the darkness, and again the sound comes late, a clash of steel. Sparks fly, and the spear is deflected. Now the red blade describes a great upward arc. A strike from above. Her face tenses, anticipating the blow. But then— “Whoa—!” Parried. A half-elf scout, holding a butterfly-shaped dagger in a reverse grip, just manages to push the blade off its path. Female Warrior smiles at him as best she can, in acknowledgment of his fine, light-footed entrance. Spear in hand, she struggles to get back to her feet. “Sorry, that one’s on me.” “All good, but…I can’t handle this one alone!” With each flash of red light, Half-Elf Scout’s body sports fresh wounds. He’s a scout, after all. One-on-one combat isn’t his calling. I could use a little help here, he seems to be saying. When you ask if she can stand, Female Warrior says, “I’ll try.” Good. You advance once more, your sword still across your shoulder, charging straight ahead and swinging three times. But the red blade blocks each cut, sweeping your attacks aside and always moving ever backward as smoothly as if it were melting away. Then suddenly, you feel a chill down your spine and jump back. The blade flashes through the space where your neck had been an instant before. That would have been a critical hit! “This sucks—it’s six-on-one, and we can barely hold on! It don’t make any sense!” You agree with Half-Elf Scout. You would certainly like to settle this if you could. There’s an exclamation from behind you: “It’s worse than that—look!” Myrmidon Monk sounds unusually agitated. It doesn’t take you long to figure out why. Something is bubbling up from the darkness—or rather, somethings. “GHOOOOOOOOOOULLLLL!!” “GGGGGGGOOOULL…!” Red eyes, pale, dead flesh grotesquely swollen. Dressed in rags and flashing fanged mouths, they must be vampires. Nightwalkers, nightwalkers, nightwalkers! And a great many of them, as if every adventurer to die in these depths has been summoned back from the grave. You have no idea how many of them might wait in the dark of this unknowable expanse. “So much for six-on-one. Think your numbers were a little off,” Myrmidon Monk says, his antennae bobbing vigilantly. He clacks his mandibles together. “Though it makes no difference to our plan—to kill them all. We and they have that much in common, at least.” “Well, there goes complaining about how we can’t win despite the advantage in numbers,” Female Warrior says. “Now they’ve got the numbers, and they’re some tough customers.” Not fair at all. Your face is tight as you nod at Female Warrior, then ready your sword in a low stance. You slide forward, taking care to not lift your feet as you close the distance to your opponents, trying to find their presence. Where is the red blade? You can’t make out even the silhouettes of your foes in the darkness. The idea of being able to sense an enemy’s presence is a rather nebulous one anyway. Honestly, there probably is no such thing. There’s only sound, the rasping of breath, traces of body heat, eddies in the air. The five senses tell all there is to tell. Female Warrior looks at you, and you can feel the trust her eyes convey. She seems to have noticed how calm your breathing is. “So,” she says, “what’s the plan?” The edges of your lips curl up as you tell her that there is only ever one plan: Destroy each and every one of them. Heh. She gives a good-natured shrug, her pale face breaking into a smile. It seems you’ve successfully relieved the tension. “Mm.” Myrmidon Monk grunts thoughtfully. “Would you like me to switch to the front row? I don’t mind either way.” “Get outta town!” Half-Elf Scout says, despite the cold sweat drenching him. “Only one of us can chop off that bastard’s head, and it’s gonna be me!” “Excellent!” Myrmidon Monk laughs, clacking his mandibles approvingly at the scout’s show of enthusiasm. At the same time, he works his knotty fingers, tracing a complicated sigil. The Seal of Return. “There’s a good chance these undead are weak to Dispel…!” The one who calls this out is the party’s female wizard, your cousin, who’s incidentally also charged with resource management. “Three moves after Dispel! Let’s do it! Coordinate with me!” “Right!” comes the eager voice of the bishop beside your cousin, holding the sword and scales. The light has long since gone out of her eyes, which are covered by a bandage, yet her gaze contains the utmost resolution. She was weak once, but now she is a seasoned adventurer. Even as you marvel at the bishop’s growth, you grunt your own acknowledgment of your cousin’s instructions, tracing a sigil with your free hand. “O my god of the wind that comes and goes, send home these souls!” Opening gambit: Myrmidon Monk’s Dispel fills the space with a fresh, violent wind. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The rotting corpses are unable to withstand this purifying air, akin as it is to the Resurrection miracle that restores life. The legions of restless dead in this dungeon were not summoned by a curse, but before a high-level miracle, they succumb just the same. As the nightwalkers crumble into dust, your cousin’s voice sounds loudly: “Ventus! Wind!” “Lumen! Light!” continues Female Bishop. She brandishes the sword and scales, intoning the words of the spell as if delivering a proclamation from her god. The words of magic invoked by the two women overwrite the very logic of the world, refashioning it and producing immense power. The wind turns to a gale, and even your eyes can perceive the light condensing. And finally, you, too, speak a word of true power, unleashing it all with the sigil formed by your hand. ‘Libero! Release!’ A storm of wind. Blinding light. Roaring noise. And heat. The grave-dark room, having nearly become an alternate dimension, is flooded with piercing light. Those undead who escaped the effects of Dispel now scream as their flesh boils away. There is nothing in the world that can flee Fusion Blast. “Captain—!” “Oh crap…!” At least, not if it is of this world. You are lucky. In response to your friends’ shouts, you dodge, rolling along the stone floor. The red blade flashes before you, and there is a spray of blood. The spray is accompanied by a whistling sound. Like a rain of crimson, it spills from the throat of Female Warrior, right in front of your eyes. “Hhh—rrr…ahh?!” She presses her hands against her neck, her face bloodless, before she collapses to her knees. The red blade slides through the air again. Overhead in a grim repeat of last time. It’s moments away from decapitating her. “You—son of a—!” Half-Elf Scout shoves the blow aside. But the butterfly-shaped blade is smacked away, once, twice, and then his abdomen opens. “What the—? Hrrrgh—?!” You can hear the blade bury itself deep in his bowels. Blood comes pouring from the scout’s mouth. With your companions fallen before you, you grip your blade and rise to your feet. That was two of them. “…!” Your cousin speaks quickly: “They need healing! You focus on the front row; I’ll worry about the back!” You’ve always respected the way she keeps her cool in even the most extreme situations. And so, even as your companions desperately invoke healing miracles behind you, you slide forward. You can still feel the lingering heat of Fusion Blast on your skin as you jump, lashing out toward the red blade with your own. Your hands feel little resistance in response. The ash, all that’s left of the nightwalkers, wafts up from under your feet as you slide forward again, trying to control your distance. Your opponent has pulled back, laughing at you all the while. You can see the grin through the rising steam. This is bad. “You have to get back…!” Female Bishop’s voice comes at almost the same moment you bring up your sword. You heard it, you’re almost sure: a mocking voice forming the words of a spell. “Ventos…lumen…libero! Wind and light, release!” You don’t have time for a single passing thought. You don’t sense pain or agony so much as simply emptiness. Sound disappears, the world around you vanishes. You don’t know whether you are standing or sitting. In reality, you’ve simply been knocked on your side. You open your mouth, but the groan that comes out along with your exhalation of breath means nothing to anyone. Only one thing is sure—the weight of your katana in your hand. You lean on it as you rise unsteadily to your feet, wavering like a ghost. The presence—There. Your companions lie fallen in this chamber. Female Warrior in a heap like a ragdoll, Half-Elf Scout utterly motionless. Myrmidon Monk is slumped against one wall, your cousin kneeling beside him. Female Bishop lies prone on the ground—and then your eyes meet her sightless gaze. “I…an…till…fight…,” she manages, her voice shaking as she uses the sword and scales to stand, looking like she might collapse again at any moment. You feel the way she looks. Your chest armor hangs off you; you undo the ties and throw it away. “A shame, a great shame. But I’m afraid your adventure ends here.” The red blade is in front of you. The bastard is laughing. That armor won’t do you any good now. At last, you hold your sword straight and true before you, though it might be meaningless. The red blade is the symbol of death. You, and your cousin, all your companions, are going to die. There will be no exceptions. Not one. For no one can escape the Death. Very well. Does it mean anything meeting your end with your sword at the ready? “…!” Someone is calling you in a voice like a scream. You hear the rattle of the gods’ dice rolling. And then before you can answer the red blade comes running, and blood sprays. A dark hut. The smell of medicinal herbs. The odor of a sick woman. A tiger laughs in your ear. “You’re a master.” Her finger extends suddenly, pointing at you, then at the air beside you. “And so is your opponent. However!” The tiger watches you with languid eyes. “Your opponent holds the masterpiece weapon, you the piece of junk. Now what do you do?” You answer. The tiger smiles. “Wh—wha?!” The sword seems to jump back of its own accord. You feel as if you looked back over everything in a single racing instant. Is this what it means for your life to flash before your eyes? You don’t know. But you don’t have to—your body knows. Your life turns like a great wheel, propelling your body forward. A movement that avoids a critical hit. The clear clang of swords, the first sound of surprise the man in black has made, all go swirling past you. Everything seems hazy except the feeling of the blade in your hand. Magic Missile. Draw, attack. Two swords. Leap. You use all the skills you can bring to bear, yet you have more left. Yeah. What’s left…? You smile. At the same moment as the smile crosses your face, the tension leaves your shoulders. Your breath flows around your body. You ready the sword in your hand with ease. You take what you assume cannot be called a fighting stance; you simply lift the blade up with both hands. That’s all. Here’s the moment. You come in from the side with a thunderclap strike from above, then flip the blade around. One diagonal stroke, then again in the other direction. Strike with the grip. Swipe across into a hassou stance. There’s a flash of light, and then another. Each collision of the blades fills the room with blinding sparks. “In—incredible…” Is that Female Bishop who spoke just now? It doesn’t matter; you aren’t distracted by it. At this moment, the man in black stands before you with his red blade. He said he enjoys winning. Getting stronger. You can’t disagree with him. Yet—is that all there is to it? Surely not. What you’ve enjoyed to this point is not killing enemies or being victorious. There’s a difference there, thin as a sheet of paper, but there—like the difference between death and life and ashes. You’ve delved the dungeon, survived deadly battles with your friends, been overjoyed (or sometimes gravely disappointed) by the contents of treasure chests. It is not only victory that you’ve met on your travels. You were decapitated by a ninja, attacked by succubi, to say nothing of goblins and slimes. With fear, with clamor, hesitation, confusion, and the occasional stopping short, you’ve walked ahead. What is it that has brought you so much pleasure? Adventure. You are an adventurer. You heard rumors of the notorious Dungeon of the Dead and came to the fortress city to brave its very depths. Now here you are, confronting the source of death. If this isn’t thrilling, what is? It all rides on the dice. Yes, you see now, it’s true. Even the gods don’t know which way a battle will go. Even the gods can’t intervene in your fight. All that is with you are Fate and Chance. No one else’s will is involved; nothing to force you to do one thing or another. This is the true blessing of the gods. Could there be anything more wonderful? If the dice are to roll, let them roll. You are free. If that’s true, then… “Wh—wha?!” With effortless ease, your blade flicks back off the red blade and turns around. You need only match your sword strokes to the flashes of light that burst out of the darkness. Is it really such a great thing, to attain victory by killing? Is it really such a foolish thing to die in failure? Nonsense, all of it. No one can determine the value of your adventure. Not the man in front of you. Not the companions who have walked this path with you. Therefore, you need only shout. Therefore, you need only howl. The value of this moment, this instant, this adventure you’ve chosen. This adventure is fun. If you make one wrong step, you’ll die. But so what? If it goes well, you will live. Nothing more and nothing less. Well then, what is there to worry about? His skill and yours, the fate of the world, your companions, all recede into emptiness. The ancients say: “Have you a thousand foes, it is victory simply to face them with the conviction that you will fell them all.” Your opponent is a master, and so are you. He has the master blade, and you a piece of junk. No need to worry. There was never anything to worry about. Roll the dice, adventurer. Whosoever you face, the outcome of the battle you have chosen is already decided. If one is the heavens and six is the earth, well, the chances of rolling one or six are the same. Even if your chances were one in a hundred, the chance of that one is as good as any of the other ninety-nine. In which case, all possible results boil down to just two. Win or lose. In other words, it’s fifty-fifty. You no longer need to think. You need no intellect. Once you have decided to do battle, you need simply act as you have determined. Nothing influences your free will but you alone. Nothing can stand in your way but you alone. How you move, how you swing your blade, are all at your discretion. Form, skill—and fortune. Your will and body, free now of all things, are in perfect harmony. Mind and action are one! Let all be in concord! What’s useless? You laugh. Free, clear, heartfelt. There are no more doubts. There is only prayer. Pray and play, adventurer. Just as you’ve come this far, treading on ashes that continue to glow and smoke. Yes. You know. You’ve known since you turned the first page that led to this dungeon. Everything is for this stroke of the blade, for this samurai’s sword. This is, in other words…