Bundled in thick, warm fur pulled up to his chin, Havoc lay beneath the moss-draped heavens of the Temptress’ lair. Though swaddled in a welcome comfort, he could not allow the tension he shouldered to relax. The gentle breaths of his resting compatriots did not compare to the bestial sounds which had been his haunting lullaby within the main chamber of the Marshland Cavern; the growls of a beast were forthcoming. Flesh, blood, marrow, and bone—his new companions wanted the same, but where they lacked in candour, they surely excelled in cunning.

Suffice to say, Havoc could not sleep.

Tracing the swirling patterns of the glowing moss upon the ceiling, his mind scrambled. Topic to topic, plot to plan; the velvety fur tickled his neck as he shifted and shuffled in his bedroll. He scrunched his way deeper into his sleeping sack and flipped himself onto his stomach. His feet pressed into the end of the sack. The sack could not resist the thrust of his legs—now an Inheritor—he had to restrain his full expansion as he pushed himself up then rested his head atop his folded arms.

‘I still can’t relax,’ he mumbled beneath his breath. Even had he not feared the plunging stick of his companions’ knives in his back, his mind would not still. Too active was its reflection on the night’s events.

One thing at a time, Havoc decided. Against the urge to parse through his revelations and gains, he had succumb. But he would not do so without conditions. His was to be an orderly obsession. No longer would his mind scatter to gather, he would address each topic piece by piece to then admire the whole. Only by his terms would he allow even his own mind to determine his actions. As for the business with Annalise and her puppet-master manipulations, as sovereign over self, he chose not to think on the matter.

The Forest of desire…

Of all the revelations weighing on his thoughts, it was the most pressing. Crushing was it to learn that only four could leave the forest. Though Ugly had lessened the pressure of the knowledge, illuminating despair’s drowning depths with the hope of another way, Havoc had little confidence in the promised alternative.

By Ugly’s words, they could all be saved. A trial of Inheritance was unlike any other excursion into a Cell. Unlike the others, Havoc had not trailed months across baron wastelands. Nor had he navigated ancient ruins to reach the forest. Through an open door he had arrived. He was a guest not an intruder; to the will of their world, it was a vast distinction.

Or so Ugly said…

Outmatched by Aaron, Ugly could not contend directly. “What wouldn’t I say in that situation?

To live to fight another day, I’d say anything. I’d make them believe it too. I can’t rule out the chance it’s all lies… No… It’s better to just think they are and act accordingly.”

Even if Ugly’s honour could be presumed, there was every possibility he could be mistaken. He had already admitted the forest was unique among Dungeon Cells. Who was to say whether that uniqueness barred his proposed escape?

‘Finish yer trial and we’ll hitch yer ride out,’ Ugly had said. He was compelling, convincing even, but Havoc was not convinced.

Then there’s my trial… It could already be over.

Through her machinations, Annalise changed Havoc’s fate. Bending the will of their world, she had recruited him into her mission to end it. Whatever she meant by that.

Scrunching his face as if recoiling from a noxious stench, Havoc silently cursed.

I really didn’t want to think about her.

It was not a pleasant thought but he could not deny Annalise’s controlling influence in his trial. From what she had said, had they never crossed paths, he would have emerged from the Cell the day he had entered the cave, the Dungeon’s will satisfied; his tribulations overcome.

A trial of Inheritance was not a trivial affair but neither was it meant to be so unreasonable. Around the campfire while it still flickered, the group had shared their own experiences and Havoc had come to learn just how aberrant his had become.

It was true, he was not like Aaron and Lucia. As citizen living beyond the bereft partitions of the city, they were akin to infant gods, the likes of which Havoc was not permitted to look upon. Even when their kind were to descend from on high, attended as they were by the city guards, they remained unapproachable. Notwithstanding, they too hailed from Stone Garden.

They too had raced against the dying stars within the Chamber of Inheritance. They had bound to themselves their anchor and had left through titan door into a Dungeon Cell. However, while they also battled against Dungeon Spawn, they face nothing as harrowing as the monsters of Havoc’s trials. Blissful their ignorance must have been to have never felt the crunch of their bones at the annihilating swat of stone giant.

Ugly hailed from a port city on the ninth floor. A commercial hub, he had spoken of an emerald waterfall with rising currents. Defying gravity, the ascending rapids rose into the clouds, joining the ninth floor with the eighth. His city was unlike Stone Garden, there was no barrier between the bereft and Inheritors. Theirs was a home under threat of Invasion; an attack from the Dungeon spawn was not uncommon. Indeed, by Ugly’s account, it was Stone Garden’s peace which stood out of place.

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Havoc did not know why, but on the settled floors of the Dungeon, spawn of the Servant rank were common. Soldiers were rare, and anything greater was not to be found. Compared to the Vanguard, the settled floors were a safe haven for humanity. Though tyrannical to the bereft, Servant spawn could be challenged by mortal arms. All fighting aged men in Ugly’s city were charged with its defence. Coin exchanged for the lives of the spawn, Ugly had coveted Inheritance.

They had no grand chamber, nor was Ugly whisked away into a Dungeon Cell. For the Bereft of his city seeking Inheritance, had they the funds and good fortune, they could purchase a chance. In an arena across the waves, outside their city walls, they would face a trial by combat. The outbound journey was the greatest challenge, with the men they could hire, they would sail tumultuous seas from their homes to the arena. Should they succeed and Inherit, together with their companions, the Dungeon would return them to the city in an instant.

Naereah was an outlier. Her trial was not of the Dungeon. Gathered in a ceremonial hall, the grand elders of her city circled. Each reaching out a hand, they had triggered her Inheritance.

‘The profundity,’ Naereah whispered under the pointed gaze of Lucia. For Naereah, It was not to be understood, but when complete, she was bound to her Anchor.

With the inhuman girl the exception, the group’s collective experiences supported Ugly’s claim. Still, the weight of the consequences for being deceived was not easy to balance. His head buried in his face shifted slowly from left to right between his arms. He would not believe such convenient salvation.

He directed his thoughts towards his gains. They were not few. From the group, he had learned many things. If Annalise had taught an introductory course on Inheritance, Aaron’s lessons were an advanced class.

Aaron had spoken casually, freely, entirely ignorant of the value of his words. To him, the knowledge that most Remnants were not unique but rather copies of prime Remnants was something to be mentioned in passing. It was a detail—hardly noticed—a footnote in the tome of the legend of the House of Crest. His family possessed numerous prime Remnants. With them, they had established a formidable presence across five floors of the Vanguard Territories. Without a doubt, Havoc had gained much from Aaron’s story, but from the glint he had caught in Aaron’s eye, Havoc knew that it had satisfied Aaron more to have spoken than it did for Havoc to have heard.

Aaron’s ignorance was no less than Havoc’s. Neither of them truly understood how the world really worked. What was common sense to one was a tightly clenched secret held distant from the other. Havoc could not have expected one who could hold back the edge of a sword with one hand to have such a loose grip. Like a scavenging raptor, Havoc had waited for the opportunity to swoop low. With bated breath, he had eyed his targets. With any lapse of attention, he had planned to feast. In the end, his caution was not needed. Like an overfed beast, Aaron considered what he thought of as scraps unworthy of guarding.

Rustling inside his bedroll, Havoc returned to his back. He lifted an arm up and inspected his palm. Feeling the tendons in his forearm tense and relax, he clenched and unclenched his fist.

He was stronger, far stronger than a mortal man had any right to be. In his arms, back and legs he felt the might to wrestle a bear to the ground. Physically, he would grow stronger still, but not by much. It was Ugly who had mentioned the physical limits of Inheritance. Upon attaining a Soldier’s Inheritance, the body would be perfected. No further could one’s strength be increased without Remnants. Not that it mattered.

In an unexpected moment of assertiveness, under the pointed gaze of her mistress, without prior insistence, Naereah spoke. At first she could not be heard, but then she glanced at Havoc. He had not disguised his interest in her words. Seemingly as a result, she began to speak them boldly.

Physical might was not altogether meaningless, but to Inheritors it was secondary to the will of the Dungeon. Inheritors and monsters alike served the will of their world, and only by penetrating its will could they be harmed. At the Servant rank, the world placed little value on one’s life; as such, mortal creatures could do them harm. To non-Inheritors, a Soldier was all but invincible. Had a man the power to hurl boulders, he could do little to hold a Soldier in place. Against a Champion—the third stage of Inheritance—a Servant could barely cut; a mortal with the strength to crush mountains would not even leave a mark.

Outside of the cave, in the Forest Below, both spawn of the Soldier rank and of the Champion roamed.

Cold sweat coated Havoc’s back.

The Forest Below was where his companions had come from and where they meant to return.

Hazardous, but not impassable, Aaron had said. A strong enough Servant wielding the most powerful Remnants of their rank could contend with a Soldier. Even against a Champion, with perfect coordination, they were not altogether helpless.

In aid of the group’s mutual survival, Havoc was gifted new Remnants. From the crimson mist of Naereah’s trunk came a selection of weapons, armours, charms, and artefacts. A bronze staff promised to slow his enemies; against its power, their every step would be as if trudging thick mire. Although a tempting offer, it was ultimately rejected. A straw doll had whispered its ability to substitute itself for its master. Should one receive a fatal strike, the doll would take the damage, and his assailant would be cursed. For Havoc, the eerie effigy had not the versatility he needed.

The Remnants presented to him had a common theme—utility or defence. There was armour that could reorient one’s relative gravity to walk upon a wall or ceiling as though striding across ground. A charm which would allow the wearer to see through illusions and tricks of the mind was also present. Aaron attempted to nudge Havoc towards a shield which fortified the body and would grant the ability to switch positions with an ally. Lucia suggested an ivory lyre with the power to cause one’s foe to grow drowsy; such a beautiful thing in her eyes, she did not seem to consider how impractical its power was. Naereah had groaned a word never born, too quickly aborted by Lucia’s warning glare. As for ugly, he merely glanced at Havoc and smirked. Without saying anything, Ugly affirmed Havoc’s conclusion...

They’re trying to disarm me, he thought, tussling against the edges of his bedroll. He did not blame them. Nearly single-handedly, he had slain the Abomination which had enthralled them.

Too great an asset to discard before time, too dangerous a threat to properly equip. A masterful strategy, and he was impressed. Under the guise of a well-balanced party, with smiles which never reached their eyes, they celebrated as he accepted their invitation to helplessness. For he had accepted their offer, and he considered it gain.

When dislodged from his Spirit Chains, the Buried Strike and the Cloak of Mirrors turned to dust. In their place, Havoc bound to himself a charm and an artefact.

The charm—a human eye with the back encased in silver—granted Havoc three-hundred and sixty degree vision when active. With its power, he had no blind spots. The artefact was a statue. When first laid before him, it could fit in the palm of his hand. Now bound, when summoned, it stood seven feet tall. Back straight, it held a shield high, and within a radius of around thirty feet from the statue, Havoc could summon small barriers ethereal light.

Relief was apparent on Aaron’s face; humour had danced in Lucia’s eye. Both praised Havoc’s ability to bind the artefact, it spoke well of his Harmonic purity. It spoke better of their prospects of disposing of him when the time was right.

A shield with no sword is no threat to the likes of you, is it? Havoc mused, a smile carved into his lips.

Remaining in his sleeping sack, he summoned the Dark Guardsman. The chaos of his dualistic Harmony flooded his Spirit Chain holding the artefact. He lifted an arm from the fur so that it was held above his head. In his clenched fist, ethereal light gathered and moulded into a sword.