Undead poured through the cylindrical chamber, running, scrambling and crawling as they moved along the walls, the strange nature of the room allowing them to defy gravity. Hundreds emerged from the darkness, Leif could even see them on what from his perspective was the ceiling.
The sheer amount of undead was a daunting obstacle, but Leif had more than enough reasons not to back down. For starters, he was in perfect condition, maybe more so. The strategy employed by the dungeon to whittle attackers down through attrition hadn’t worked on him, Leif’s cultivation was practically bursting at the seams, his body filled with vitality. Even so, he knew the dangers of being overwhelmed. Durable he may be, but he wasn’t immortal.
At a glance Leif assessed the approaching monsters as mostly weaker variants of undead, zombies, skeletons, and other types that hadn’t yet reached level twenty five. Evolved they may be, but there was a qualitative difference between beings who had crossed over that threshold.
Leif let cultivated vitality flow into [Shroud of Preservation], golden motes of light bloomed into existence all around him, then the light began to increase in luminosity as he let more and more vitality flood into the skill. Within seconds a swarm of amber motes billowed out behind him, tiny specs of light that reminded him of the night sky.
Then he reached out with his will, attempting to push back the ever present miasma of the dungeon. He couldn’t modify the skill with spellcraft, but in this case he felt as though he didn’t need to. It took a not inconsiderable amount of effort, but Leif moved the skill, using the part of its innate structure that allowed him to target the skill at a range to cast the motes out around him. The undead horde drew closer as the specs of life-force drifting through the air began to move faster and faster.
The skill began to strain under his will, a faint, but not unfamiliar ache beginning to build in his soul. There was a limit any skill could be used, or changed before it would break. Leif was familiar with this process, and had no intention of repeating that mistake. With as much control and finesse as he could muster he fed vitality into the skill, as he did so he twisted the cultivated energy, using it to accelerate the movement of the motes of vitality.
The fastest undead were upon him now, though several flinched back as they touched the motes, the weakest even falling back, part of their body going unresponsive or even turning to dust. The undead coming from the walls and ceiling began to curve down towards him, within moments he would be surrounded. Amber arms struck out, not to crush or destroy, but to restrain.
In a similar way to what he had done in the city, Leif held back the undead, using their bodies as both a battery for vitality but also a barrier to protect himself. Lifeforce trickled into him through his conjured limbs, then it flowed out of him and into [Shroud of Preservation]. The glowing motes of vitality were brighter now, rotating around him as if he were the eye of a windless storm.
Undead charged into the golden maelstrom, only to be turned to dust, only the strongest surviving coming into contact with more than a few motes. The healing energy contained within the skill immediately began to drop, the cyclone of vitality fading as the life-force was eaten into by his offensive use of the skill. Several undead pushed through the storm, the sheer mass of bodies practically forcing them towards Leif. They were met by a defensive weave of amber hands that grabbed and held onto their twisted forms.
Vitality was spent, then recovered, a near perfect cycle resulting in a small circle of destruction within the cylindrical chamber. [Shroud of Preservation] began to lose stability, without the ability to use a spell command to stabilise the skill’s structure it wouldn’t last for another minute. But with how effective the inefficient use of the skill was at slaughtering the tide of weak undead, Leif doubted it would have to last that long. It would have been enough, then a volley of spectral weapons fell down from above.
Within the sea of hostile intent and with his aura restricted, Leif didn’t notice the attack until it was upon him. A golden shield flared to life above him, blocking the two dozen weapons as they struck down at him with tremendous force. He saw them then, a cluster of spectres that flew lazily in the centre of the chamber. They were out of his effective reach, free to strike out at him with their conjured blades.
Under constant assault from all sides, Leif began to move. The storm of golden light followed him as he walked around the circumference of the chamber. The spectres twisted in mid-air, following him with their otherworldly gaze as he attempted to reposition in a way that would allow him to strike back. Pain built up within him as [Shroud of Preservation] reached its limits. Each skill had an independent amount they could be used, and the defensive skill was rapidly reaching its limits. The shield of [Under my Protection], broke, then was reconjured as the ethereal weaponry attacking him from above struck again and again.
And to think the two skills I’m currently fusing would be used together in this way. Leif thought, amused even as he started to worry. If I don’t deal with this soon, I’ll be in trouble. Even though the undead are weak individually, if they start to pile on all at once it’ll be a repeat of Far-reach. It didn’t escape his notice that if his fusion was successful, the current tactic he was employing would likely become impossible.
Leif snapped from his distraction as the barrier above him shattered, a ghostly spear lancing through the gap in his defences to plunge into his chest. A conjured arm battered the weapon aside as he threw up another shield, but this led to one of the undead he was restraining getting free. It latched onto him, teeth biting into his neck and claws raking ineffectually against his hardened exterior.
A spike of pain shot through him, but it wasn’t due to the undead. [Shroud of Preservation] was at its limits, letting out a hissing sigh Leif let the skill drop, inertia sending golden motes of light flying off in every direction. The undead nearest to him died in their dozens as vanishing specks of vitality shot through them. Some of the motes went upwards, but instead of falling back to the ground they continued to drift towards the centre of the chamber. Towards the spectres. Does the strange gravity effect not persist after a few metres? Leif wondered, sweeping his conjured arms around him in a defensive motion.
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He looked up at where the ghostly undead hovered in mid-air, their arms raised as more weapons were conjured. An idea struck him, it might not work if his hunch about the room's distorted reality wasn’t correct, but it was worth a try. He began to run, pushing aside undead as he went. With each stride he sent scores flying off, then a thought struck him and he grabbed one of the snarling monsters with his real arms. It roared in his face, raking across his torso with slightly glowing claws. Bark parted, amber blood flowing from the wound, the undead went sailing through the air. As it flew, its trajectory changed, it went from falling down to up after passing through an invisible point.
Using this information he roughly knew the real highest point of the chamber, now he needed to get to the other side. His cultivation dropped as he reinforced the teleportation anchor that had been created at his feet, then he threw himself into the horde. Wounds began to accumulate as he fought his way around the chamber. [Under my Protection] was pushed to its limits, then he was forced to stop using it. Conjured weapons stabbed into him, several glancing off due to the sheer durability of his body, but several dealt significant damage.
It took well over a minute, but he finally reached what he hoped was the real bottom of the cylindrical room, then he forced his aura up, his connection to the teleportation anchor snapped into place. His arms fanned out around him, hands flexing, preparing for what was to come. Then he stepped forward, vanishing in a streak of golden light that shot through the group of spectre’s still floating high above the fight. They shrieked as he blurred past, but they didn’t separate.
Leif appeared above them, and for an instant the room’s distorted gravity didn’t pull him down to the relative floor at his feet. In that instant he reduced his weight slightly with [Gold Iron Physique], focused [Grand Action] on the [Might] attribute and shoved down with every conjured arm at once while leaping into the air. He shot upwards, his leap turning into an uncontrolled fall.
His conjured arms sharpened into bladed edges, life-force stolen and converted from the undead he had been battling surging through them, enlarging the arms beyond the point he could easily control them. But it hardly mattered, he twisted and lashed out, a spinning dervish of amber as he dropped through the formation of spectres like a meteor, cutting the infuriating monsters to pieces, their howls of outrage severed as they dissolved into ectoplasm.
The spriggan, falling feet first, crashed down into the ground where he had been fighting only seconds before, his impact cracked the ground, shattering bones and polished stone alike. Undead went blasting away in every direction as he slammed into them, the sheer amount of damage he dealt with his landing restoring a not insignificant portion of his depleted cultivation. The faux bones in his legs groaned with the impact, his plant fibre muscles tearing and his hardened exterior cracking.
For a moment everything was quiet, the malevolent force that hung ever present throughout the dungeon retreating as if in shock. Leif stood, his body already healing. The final few undead threw themselves at him as the silence broke, they stood no chance.
===
After that display the dungeon seemed to grow… desperate. Leif dispatched small groups of weak undead that came after him even as the deathly energy of the dungeon became thicker and thicker. The cylindrical chamber gave way to a bizarre room of stairways and pillars. Then a maze of twisted corridors. Leif even passed through what looked almost identical to a trap chamber he had run through almost a year ago on his first descent into the Mythhold.
Finally, having battled through a seemingly endless corridor lined with stone tombs he entered what could only be the centre of the dungeon. Giant statues lined the walls, their design reminding him of the statue that had stood above the Mythold’s entrance back on the surface. Tens of these towering figures of stone filled the chamber’s exterior, while in the centre hung a floating sphere of darkness. The orb was nearly pitch black, its only blemishes the occasional flicker of baleful emerald or icy blue. Something invisible seemed to focus on Leif as he marched towards it, the world seeming to twist and slow.
The walls of the room suddenly loomed closer, the statues bearing down over him like titans ready to pass judgement, their expressionless faces now carved into a twisted visage of fury and feral hunger. It felt not dissimilar to what he experienced when utilising the concept of life mana, only disgusting. Leif wasn’t overly phased by the intimidation tactic, though even he had to admit the presentation was quite impressive. It was just… I can sense hostility and intent, and there’s absolutely nothing of the sort in the statues.
Leif came to a stop twenty or so metres from the floating orb, he placed his real hands on his hips and glared up at the manifestation of deathly power. “So, you must be the core.”
The world tightened around him, as if trying to squeeze the soul from his body. If Leif could raise an eyebrow he would have done so. Maybe if I had better control over [Wood Manipulation] He thought wryly. It wasn’t as if he was unaffected by the dungeon’s final attempt to kill him, it was just with an effective [Charisma] of around two hundred his aura was more than up to the task of keeping the power at bay. It probably doesn’t help that I’m heavily attuned to what is effectively the anathema of death.
“Cry about it all you like, but I can’t let you keep existing.” He said simply, the dungeon flaring in anger, then fading into what almost felt like depressed acceptance. “That’s what I thought, no more corrupting this already ravaged part of the world.”
Now he just had to figure out a way to reach the core. It would be embarrassing if he came all this way only to be forced to turn around and leave… He considered the problem for several seconds, then glanced down to the secret weapon hanging at his waist. Three small balls of condensed and compressed wood were latched to his body, they practically hummed with power.
Leif looked from what were effectively [Wood Manipulation] bombs, then back up to the core. He grabbed one of the spheres of wood, focused on [Might], triggered [Embolden Vegetation], then threw the ball with as much force as possible at the core. In mid-air he unravelled it, willing it to expand and snap back into its uncompressed state. An ear splitting crack echoed through the room as the wooden ball practically exploded with golden light, wooden chunks twisted and writhed with furious strength. Then the mass of expanding wood collided with the dungeon core, everything froze, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Wooden branches stilled in their violent expansion, wrapped around the core, jagged stakes impaling the dark orb as other parts smashed into it. For a moment nothing seemed to happen, then the core cracked down the middle and the world resumed. Leif’s vision snapped to the system window the instant it appeared, if he could smile he certainly would have. He probably could have used [Wood Manipulation] to mimic the expression, but he was too distracted.
He had reached level twenty in [Amber Blight Spriggan]. A brand new skill and the long anticipated class evolution awaited.