The grand opulence of the tearoom began to distort. Cracks tore their way through the tables, arches and floor. Havoc’s world spun. His vision grew blurry, and as quickly as he had entered the mental space, he was ejected.

Unsteady on his feet, Havoc swayed as to fall. He caught himself before he could stumble forward onto the grisly rampart. His head pounded and vision swam, but he remained on his feet. With each slow breath, his ailments retreated. He shut his eyes and slowly reopened them. Focused and steady, he had returned to the cave.

Anne’s face was awash with glee when she had told him how close he had been to leaving the Cell. By her reckoning, with a little more sneaking around and perhaps one real fight, he would have been led outside the cave to find a door leading back to Stone Garden. Despite the protruding green veins lining the sleeping woman’s face and neck, that same joy was seared into her expression. To Havoc, it was far more disturbing than anything else he had seem since entering the wretched cave.

Through her machinations, he was bound. The Dungeon had entwined his fate with hers. Unlike himself, Annalise was an Inheritor of the Soldier rank. He had taken her assistance, but with it came her challenges. Challenges a novice Inheritor was never meant to face.

The Abominable Spirit…

By Anne’s description, Havoc was to face a fierce and menacing enemy, but one he was uniquely equipped to dispatch. It was the master of the cave, and resided deeper within. Annalise had told him that it had taken residence within a dungeon spawn. The spawn had domain over rock and a strange vegetation, but the Spirit had domain over the spawn.

The creature could be struck down, but the abomination within required bespoke methods of execution. For Anne, that is where Havoc would would prove useful.

‘I won’t promise it’ll be easy, but you have three advantages of which to make use,’ Annalise had said prior to returning Havoc to the moss-lit cavern. ‘The Spirit itself is of the Solider rank, but its vessel is not. It has been dominated, but it has its own will. Most dungeon spawn are of limited intellect, but they are territorial, how much more so of their own beings? Finally, there’s your anchor…’ The most useful revelations of his conversation with the manipulative woman was of his own abilities.

If she was to be believed, the mist of The Midnight Urn did not only enhance Havoc’s physical standing, it could also give substance to a Spirit. Once substantiated, the intangible creature could be cut down.

Covering his eyes with a palm, He deeply sighed.

‘Its not that simple.’ Havoc had replied. ‘I’ve just become an Inheritor. Every creature I’ve faced has very nearly killed me. Now you want me to kill dozens more then challenge the most powerful monster in this place? It’s suicide!’

‘How do you know so little about yourself?’ Annalise had responded, her eyes rolled up. ‘When you killed the first spawn, it was a struggle to the death. Then you went on to kill three more in quick succession. Did you think it was by chance?’

At the time, Havoc did not have a reply. He had counted himself lucky, but not particularly skilled. When Annalise questioned his exploits, he could not help but acknowledge how ridiculous they had been. No question, he was stronger. However, his accomplishments had not been feats of strength alone. He had wielded his falchion as if leaving the womb blade in hand. He had weaved himself into the forest and became more perilous than any pitfall or snare. He had sneaked into the cave and became to the monsters within a stalking predator, dispatching one after the last with a cold precision. These were not the boasts of an unskilled fighter.

‘The Heritage of The Prince Of War.’

Annalise’s words echoed in Havoc’s mind. No one is certain why some Inheritors are further blessed by the Dungeon, Anne had told him. There did not appear to be a connection between an Inheritor’s physical lineage and the traits they could receive. It was a rare gift to be bestowed, coveted deeply by all with knowledge of their existence.

Annalise explained that to those such as himself, the Dungeon would impart further power. Havoc was graced upon any field of battle. Each conflict would sharpen his prowess. Each battlefield would become his estate. His blessing was not absolute. Against a vastly more skilled opponent, it could not save him, but if he survived, his acumen for bloodshed would be greatly enhanced.

Annalise was also bestowed with a Heritage. Havoc was sure of it. She was too familiar to be lacking in experience. Nevertheless, whatever true secrets she bore, the loathsome woman had been far too cunning to let slip.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He could not deny he was curious, but it was not his primary concern.

Havoc’s eyes readjusted to the dim lighting of the cavern. Prior to entering into Anne’s mental space, a faceless monster, he had come to learn were named slasher-spawn, had exited the cavern through a passage. It was the same path Havoc was to take to the Abomination dwelling deeper into the cave.

Following the directions Annalise had given him, he navigated the cave with purpose. With an awareness of his Heritage, he fought the spawn he encountered with greater abandon. When he had caught up with the slasher, he ensured it was alone. Deciding against stealth, he engaged the creature directly.

Harnessing his experience gained from others of its kind, he evaded its attacks while delivering critical strikes of his own. It was as if he was reading its thoughts. Deranged as they were, there was a pattern to its ferocity. No matter how beastly the monster had been, it could not cut what it could not strike. In the end, Havoc had been too relentless in his strikes, too quick in his retreats, and too domineering with The Thirsty Edge in hand for the slasher to contend with. The faceless creature had fallen to his blade.

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It was not the last.

His encounters with the monsters of the cave became more frequent. As he moved from chamber to chamber, it became apparent The Dungeon would no longer permit him to engage in single combat.

A slasher guarded by two emerald skinned monsters seemed to be in disagreement over the portioning of a brutalised woman. When Havoc entered their den, their dispute was resolved. The clawed grip of the faceless monster retracted from the woman’s neck, and she collapsed, bloodied and limp, to the stone. Not a moment later did a green skinned monstrosity charge.

Claws forward, the beast darted towards him. Its movements were decisive, but simple. Havoc left-stepped its attack and delivered one of his own. With a single horizontal slash, the fiend had been beheaded.

The remaining dungeon spawn did not act with cohesion, but they did act together. It was a novel challenge for Havoc to overcome. When the slasher would attack from the right, the razor claws of the smaller creature loomed hazardously from the left.

The battle did not leave him unmarked, but he avoided the most devastating strikes and rapidly adapted. Exploiting the monsters’ lack of coordination, he used one to stumble the other, ultimately slaying both in a flurry of pointed cuts.

He could not deny the value of his Heritage. With every battle he faced he could feel his skill sharpen. More so, with their lives extinguished, their flesh had sparked from their bones. Havoc did not neglect to harvest the glow their remains. It was a virtuous cycle, but it could not be sustained.

Conservative as he was in his use of Harmony, it was not a limitless resource. Allowing time between conflict, he would recover as best as he could. Even still, his reserves were emptying at an alarming pace. His second concern was that his gnawing hunger had yet to be satiated. Its ravenous call would not allow him peace.

‘That damned witch! Where is it?’ The still twitching corpse of a slasher-spawn slid from the tip of The Thirsty Edge. Its neck loose, the beast tumbled to the ground. Its decomposition was swift. Moments following its fall, Havoc could already see its softly luminous ribcage revealed from beneath its burning chest.

Sweat dripped from his brow, but in the broad tunnel in which he was located, there was no time to rest. Distant as it was, he could already hear the enraged growls of monsters ahead. Sucking stagnant air into his lungs, he wiped his face with the ragged sleeve of his shirt, and pressed forward to meet the new threat.

Annalise had told Havoc of her preparations. Further into the cave, there was safe haven. He would have to fight to get there, but she assured him that the real dangers of the cave would not appear until after he had a chance to fully recover.

‘You couldn’t have prepared somewhere nearby?’ Havoc muttered under his breath as his crimson blade bit into the neck of a slasher-spawn. Fuelling his strike with the mist of his anchor, the sword’s edge pushed past the spawn’s muscles and tendons, fully liberating its head from its shoulders.

‘Putting it bluntly, if you step foot into the lower levels of this cave as you are, you will die a pointless death.’

Annalise had not been too shy to tell Havoc how weak he was. His growth was rapid, but he was never meant to venture too far into the cave. He was certainly never meant to enter forest below.

‘Killing the Abominable Spirit will not be enough. Once free, you and I will face the true horrors of this Cell. You need to be stronger, Havoc. Much stronger.’

Havoc deftly rolled from the shadow of a deadly pounce. He leaped to his feet and threw himself at a faceless monstrosity. The air whistled as he closed the distance, but his only focus was the kill. With a honed lethality, he crashed into the slasher, plunging his blade through its skull on landing.

‘You’ll need to reach the second step before facing the Spirt and the third before leaving this cave. The monsters you’ve faced so far cannot be compared to the abominations of the forest below.’

His body throbbed with pain. Bruised and bleeding, he wanted nothing more than a warm meal, a hot bath, and a soft bed in which to wake from the endless nightmare which had become his life. Annalise had guaranteed the bed and the meal when he arrived at the place she had prepared for him. But he would not awaken to a dream.

Breathing deeply, he leaned on the tunnel wall for support. His strength was spent from the never ceasing battles. Nevertheless, he pushed himself onwards. His bloody handprint marked his progress.

‘It should be close…’ He muttered.

Don’t hold anything back, Havoc thought, recalling Anne’s words. when you feel you can’t go on, you’ll be right around the corner.

All he could see was more of the endless tunnel.

‘It was a lie from the start, wasn’t it?’ Spitting the words, Havoc pushed himself further. ‘There’s no place prepared for me. You just wanted me to suffer. Suffer and die, isn’t that right?’ He was alone and did not expect a response. Even still, relief tinged with disappointment stirred his chest. He did not appreciate the manipulation. Annalise had toyed with his fate. Her every move had drawn him closer, her every action blinded him to the snares. Even still, she had impressed him. It was as if she had known him for years. All of his secrets were open to her while the woman, herself, was shrouded in questions. For all Havoc knew, maybe she was watching. Crafty as she was, Havoc could not help but think she had chosen to remain silent.

He pressed forward. His laborious journey weighed heavily on his shoulders. Nevertheless, he did not fail to acknowledge his gains. From the monsters killed and their power absorbed, he had benefited greatly. He was far stronger than he had been before entering the cave. Whereas a single slasher-spawn had taken his all to defeat, now, save for landing a decisive killing blow, he did not even need his anchor to dispatch them. His physical might was enough. Further still, while his reserves of Harmony were dangerously low, he could feel his capacity increased. If on Inheritance he had been drawing from a bowl, he now felt as if it had been reshaped into pot.

What good is an empty pot? He thought as his blistered hand scraped sharpy on the tunnel wall and he stumbled furthermore.

Anne’s design was to make him stronger. He could not deny the genius of her architecture. He would not trust the woman, but she had use for him. He wrestled with the thought, but did not turn back. She had said he would find safety when he could go no further. He did not trust the woman, but he did believe her.

With staggered breaths, he rested his weight upon the wall. Sweat and blood mingled from his forehead to sting his eyes. Sinking slowly to his knees, his hand grated down the rock.

The stones of the wall shifted.