The Thirsty Edge materialised in Havoc’s outstretched hand. He felt its weight as he slowly rotated his wrist from left to right. Light from the crystal stars danced upon the crimson blade enhancing its menacing gleam. Not for the first time, not even for the tenth, Havoc admired the weapon before dismissing the sword, allowing its return to his spirt chain.

Despite the hours spent in practice, he was not yet accustomed to the feeling. It had taken some time to truly perceive the peculiar magics pooled within his chest, and even more to manipulate the forces. However, once he gained rudimentary control, he quickly learned to channel his arcane power to his anchor and link.

His anchor was useless. No matter how much force he passed into his metaphysical core, it refused to respond. The link was a different story. It would eagerly accept his power and manifest a blade in return.

The Thirsty Edge.

Its name was fitting. The Remnant was thirsty in more ways than one. He had chosen the weapon for its restorative power. Having experienced bodily ruin, a countermeasure was most appealing. What he could not quite countenance was the speed at which the blade would leave him depleted. At the onset of his experiments, he could keep the sword drawn a few minutes, only. Through persistence he discovered he could withdraw his power from his link without dismissing the remnant. The lustre of the blade would dull, but the Thirsty Edge would remain.

He realised the Remnant's power was an active effect. If all he need was a sword, the Thirsty Edge was not so demanding. While he still felt a consistent drain when the blade was in hand, it was negligible when compared to his early attempts.

‘Almost ready’ Havoc said to himself, turning his focus to the azure door in front. Like the entrance to the Chamber, the door was both narrow and tall. Runes decorated the exit from its peak moving downward. Unlike the ebony door leading into his trial, the one in front would only move when provoked.

When the doorway first appeared, he had placed his hands upon it. In response, the runes blazed to life, and the door slowly opened. When he jerked back his hands while the door was ajar, it snapped shut with force.

He considered going through the colossal doorway, but quickly dismissed the thought. He was an inheritor, but that did not make him immortal. He had gained power, real power. Even without the blade, he could feel new strength in his muscles, and a sternness to his bones. Nevertheless, he refused to become reckless. He may have only known his reticent mentor for four months, and the circumstances of their meeting was bound to foster a level of distrust. However, Graceless’ words were not easy to ignore. He had told Havoc to bond with a weapon, and Havoc was not so far the cynic to believe there there was no reason… Though, he was close.

In any case, whatever the Chamber would do next, it was better to be as prepared as time would permit.

Time bled and died as Havoc gained familiarity with his new abilities. He would summon the Thirsty Edge and repeatedly strike. The only other time he had used a sword, technique gave way to blind, impassioned fury. He was successful in his goal, but lacked the ignorance to believe such method would fare well against a higher class of monster. In truth, for an unrepentant killer, he was hopelessly inept. He wanted to survive. Power alone was insufficient; he required skill.

With no tutor in the way of the sword, he could rely only on his memories, guesswork, and repetition. Three good strikes and a thrust. That was all he could afford from the man who had sold him the tool of his vengeance. In the end, his lessons had gone unused but the bastard still died. Nevertheless, in the Chamber, as he remembered his grips, stance, and guessed at his breathing, he did not feel quite so aggrieved by the steep price of tokens the lessons had cost him.

He started with an overhead cut. When the action was, if not ingrained, perhaps, “comfortable” he continued his practice by slashing his blade from the right to the left in a horizontal cut. His final move was a diagonal slash, rising from lower left to upper right.

He could not say how much time had passed as he honed his deadly craft. His best unit of measurement were the many intervals between exhausting his inner force and its renewal. Sleep was not a comfort the Chamber would allow, but through concentrating on the power within himself, he had managed to achieve something akin to a restful state. While his connection to the duality within had not risen to the level it had been when he first inherited, during his periods of recovery, he had gained a greater level of clarity and control.

Ten times depleted and ten times recovered, Havoc begun the task of combining his strikes into a flurry. Though clumsy at first, his moves adopted a sharpened lethality. Only when he was satisfied he could execute each strike through more instinct than thought did he rest one final time within the Chamber.

***

Fully renewed, Havoc opened his eyes. Since entering the Chamber, he did not know and could not even guess at how much time had passed. Whether days, weeks, or months, he could not say. What he could say with determination was that his remaining time could be measured in minutes.

He uncrossed his legs and stood to his feet. He walked towards the azure door and stood still. The faint drum of his heart quickened, but it did not hold his hands away from the surface of the sky-blue behemoth.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The door began to shift.

A thin mist flowed through the opening carrying with it the scent of wetted grounds. The door widened further, permitting Havoc a glimpse of what lay beyond.

Rich hues saturated the horizon, illuminating a similarly diverse explosion of colour painting the ground. The door widened still, exposing a realm of fungi. Looking down from within the Chamber, He could not see a patch of land uncovered by mushrooms. They grew as grass; short, thin and plentiful, allowing only wisps of moss to grow between. Stranger still, in place of trees, radiant fungi reached out towards the heavens, allowing only slivers of daylight to reach the terrain.

The alien new world was revealed in full. It was a mushroom forest, or perhaps a forest of mushrooms.

Havoc hesitated at the threshold. He was prepared for cruel, not for such exoticisms.

But why not? He mused. Is it any more bizarre than where I’ve been? Softly chuckling at his persistent naivety, he stepped through the open door.

The land squelched at his feet. As he walked forward, a loud bang followed. He spun backwards in time to see the sealed doorway vanish before his eyes.

There was no turning back…

His heart thrashed in his chest. In truth, it had only just regained its normal rhythm; but for Havoc it was deafening. Having spent a time unknown as a half-life in the Chamber, the full thump of his heart had become little more than a memory.

Free from the Chamber’s restraints, his lungs grew drunk from the air. The hunger and thirst he was accustom to retreated, and death’s ever-present chill withdrew. He was alive.

Fully alive.

He did not know whether to leap for joy or cower in fear. Never before did he truly appreciate the gifts of living, but the living can die. Alone in an alien world… death may have left his side, but it was his companion even still.

Water, food shelter. His priorities set, he moved at pace deeper into the forest.

***

To say Havoc was lost would be inaccurate. To find himself lost, he would have needed a destination. The Chamber had deposited him in the depths of a forest. No instructions were given. No conditions were set for his return. He knew it was a test. He knew there would be danger, but that is all he knew. Yet amid the uncertainty, the pressing need to locate a water supply weighed heavily on his mind.

He had inherited. He was stronger, faster, and more durable than a mere man had any right to be, but he was still a man. His trek beneath the luminous mushrooms did not fatigue him. With his enhanced physique, he believed he could hold his pace indefinitely, but as his throat dried and his stomach groaned its opposition to its neglect, he was sure his body would soon begin to protest. In the unfamiliar terrain, he was not prepared for such a demonstration.

Before his arrival to Stone Garden, Havoc could remember very little. The odd memory would spark from time to time and there were moments he could not forget, but for all intents and purposes, he was raised in the city. Moving through the fungal landscape was novel for more than just the vegetation. He was the only human among the overgrown shrooms, but his isolation was not solitary.

Birds of varying kinds chirped overhead. Some were recognisable, if not from the city then from the illustrations in the books his sister would insist upon. Others did not seem as though they belonged to nature. A peculiar owl with many open eyes interwoven in its feathers seemed to stalk him. It would occasionally hoot its reminder of its presence. The sky was not the only to teem with life. Small creatures darted between thickets of mushroom. Emerald rabbits thumped across the ground. Every so often the vivid green critters had indigo canines snapping at their heals. Some would escape beyond the jaws of their pursuers, others hanged limp, caught by the neck between razored fangs.

Though he was yet to come across any larger animals directly, his eyes were not closed to their signs. Cloven tracks and paw prints spread in each direction. Life was spread across the forest.

‘Where there’s life, there’s… Water.’ Havoc muttered to himself.

He studied the squished fungi, and took the path most travelled.

The bright light of day, which had filtered through the crevices between the towering toadstools, was replaced by the pale light of the night-sun. The night brought with it a chill in the air, but there was something else. There was a crispness to the breeze. As he continued further, the thick mushroom scented air began to yield to a fresher, moist aroma.

He heard it before he saw it. The gentle flow of water passing through the land. Quickening his pace, he reached the boarders of a clearing. The full glow of starlight basked the ground ahead in its haunting incandescence. The spectral light of the night-sun was reflected by a stream at the centre of the oasis. Lining the space, creatures of different kinds drank from the life-giving waters. Havoc wanted to run, no, sprint towards the stream, but caution forbade it. Instead, he scrutinised the enchantment.

There were many beasts at the stream, but they drank with caution. They leaned forward to quench some thirst before propelling themselves up to look to the left. Havoc followed the trail of their curious dance. When he caught sight of the focus of the creature’s attention, when he understood what it was, a cold sweat spread across his back.

At first he thought it was a man for It stood on two feet. Its sickly grey skin quickly dissuaded him of that notion. If its pallid complexion was not hint enough. the elongated limbs hanging limp from its hutched yet muscle-bound frame, was the final clue needed to know it was not human.

‘Dungeon Spawn…’ It was barely a whisper. he did not dare speak louder. Every child of Stone Garden knew what they were. They were the monsters beneath the bed of each frightened youth.

They were real. Terrifyingly real, but his city was blessed, Havoc had been told. No demon could pass through their hallowed gates. To the subjects of Stone Garden, the wider dangers of the Dungeon were stories and legends; gossip and rumours.

The terror before him was not a legend. It was living, and breathing, and turning his way. As a childlike fear gripped his heart, the old-wives tale broke into a sprint.