The stream of notifications swirled in his eyes without meaning as Colt lay on the kitchen floor. The words were there. The ones describing his new edict, sure, were there. In that, they existed. What they meant, or their implications, were long forgotten.

His head felt like someone had taken an ice cream scoop, jammed it straight through his skull, and then started jiggling it around in his brain jelly.

He lay there for god knew how long; there was movement around him. Someone put towels under his head to raise it—someone gave him water and tried to get him to eat. But his body didn’t cooperate. His Soul was flickering in his chest and trying to find itself again. Not lost, like before, but settling in. There was a new weight to it. The reeling comprehension of his new soul.

For a long while, he lay there. Too conked out of his head to understand what was happening. Too out of it to feel.

The first thing Colt began to understand was the smell of french toast. Syrupy sweet, roasted toasted with egg—the smell and hunger it brought were the first things he’d felt in a long while.

French toast was his salvation.

Colt began to feel his fingers again—somehow brought himself back up.

Jimmy gasped as he moved.

“Holy shit, man, we thought you had a stroke.”

Colt stared at him with empty eyes, his nose leading the way; Nate was over at the stove, working a pan. He could see the flickers of the fire.

There.

Nate flipped one of them with a spatula.

“Please,” Colt said, his stomach rumbling, the words heavy in his mouth. But with every bit of focus on the damn French Toast, the more he came back to himself. Jimmy looked between Colt and Nate, let out a barking laugh, then ran over—stealing a couple of pieces of the toast from a plate near the cook, pouring some syrup on it, and then rushing back over.

It was gone in ten seconds.

Jimmy ran and got him another serving.

Colt savored this one; every bite of the buttery toast with the sweet, simple syrup was like a bit of fluffy heaven. It wasn’t anything special. The syrup had to have just been sugar, cinnamon, and other spices he couldn’t name. If you served this in a restaurant, the customer would complain. But to him, it was like a meal sent from the gods.

Each bite brought more of him back and centered him again.

By the end of the second plate, Colt had regained a sense of place and time. The gravity of what happened sunk in.

Jimmy looked at him anxiously.

“I’m alright, thank you,” Colt said, setting his fork down.

“Dude, you collapsed and were comatose for a whole day. You are not alright.”

Colt rubbed his eyes. And went over the merits of explaining what had even happened. Truth be told, he barely understood it himself. Scrolling his status sheet confirmed the last part of what he remembered.

———

Level: 28

Edicts:

Cut (Lesser)

Movement (Minor)

———

He had a new Edict. A weighty one. He felt it lurking there, the desire to test it out. To see what ancient thread of this universe he’d managed to steal away. But he resisted. God help him if it resulted in any kind of damage like Cut did.

So he decided not to argue.

“You’re right. No, I’m not alright. But then, are any of us? We’ve been stuck here for weeks. And we have a murderer loose outside. I’ll be fine, not alright, so we can do what needs to be done and see this through.” Colt clarified.

Jimmy stared at him for a long time after saying that, trying to come up with a response to make Colt feel better.

Thankfully, he didn’t get a chance to be helpful. “You’re up,” Nate grunted, walking over with his own plateful of french toast. “Sarah’s been fired up since she’s healed. Wanted to go out and find’em. From the sound of it, you’re ready to, too?”

“Yeah,” Colt confirmed, then cracked his knuckles. “Let’s end this.”

Nate gave a slow nod and then dug into his food—so did Sarah and, eventually, Jimmy. This time, they ate in silence, the heavy weight of their mission on their heads.

This wasn’t survival, not anymore. They’d passed that. Before now, when they were heading out into the dungeon to level, the conversations were often lively and fun. It was a way to raise morale when it seemed like they were on the edge of danger. The feel here was different.

Forks were gripped a little too tight. Eyes kept meeting, and contact breaking. And above all, there were no laughter and jokes. No. Just silence.

Silence, after all, is often a prelude to an execution.

###

Colt led the way for the group through the tunnels; Nate and Sarah at his back. Jimmy had opted to stay back in the kitchen. Someone had to lock it down from the inside and stop Bill from blowing his way in and robbing them of food.

Though they had killed the boss, finding the exit would still take time; that time was easily measured in meals.

There would be no more risks.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

With Colt at the lead, they tracked through the elaborate networks of alleyways—their eyes always peeled. Though no one had any kind of extra skill for gathering information, there was very limited space to hide in the alleys; unless Bill ducked into a room and was resting, he had to be out here, desperately trying doors. Racing against the clock of hunger.

Sarah and Nate tried doors as they explored, deciding to knock out two birds with one stone.

All the while, Colt felt outward, trying to sense anything, to get a whiff of where Bill might be hiding out in those black shadows—they walked a long circuitous route, checking back in the kitchen after eight hours of searching, then went back out.

In the second scan of the dungeon, they happened upon the place Colt had taken his quest, right back to the stage where the mysterious ghostly instruments had played their song.

And in the next second, Colt stepped back into the octagon of gothic Victorian architecture when a black shadow swooped in from behind—Colt dodged forward, twisting. His knife came to his hand as he turned to face the surprise attack, only to see a black wall of shadow twisting there.

“Colt!” Nate yelled from the other side. “We can’t get through! Are you alright?”

“I am,” Colt confirmed, turning, his eyes scanning the octagon. There was a person on the pavilion, red eyes shining down at him. He could see Bill's shining teeth, catching the bright white light from the moon above and reflecting them downward. A manic grin. “Stay back. Bill is here. It’s some kind of trap.”

Bill only grinned wider.

He clearly thought he had the upper hand, having separated their strongest fighter from the rest. But that wasn’t true at all. Colt didn’t need Sarah or Nate—if anything, this was better. He’d rather it just be him and Bill. They were too much of a risk of getting hurt in the crossfire. Now, he could let loose.

“Colt,” Bill said. “I’m going to rip you to shreds.”

“With one arm? Please, show me.” Colt snorted, twirling his knife in his hand.

Bill jumped down from the pavilion, a hatchet in his one remaining hand. There was a dark shadow following him, coupled with the red eyes; something had happened to the guy in the day after getting his hand chopped off.

Colt fired off an inspect.

———

Name: Bill Glass | Race: Basic Human

Icon: The Ripper | Class: Corrupter (II) [Rare]

Level: 24

This is a basic human who has chosen to tread the path of the Ripper and has advanced in the class of a Corrupter. This class is known for its ability to leech and corrupt others for their own benefit and, at higher degrees of skill, leech their own life force to empower themselves.

Noteworthy Skills:

Leech [Uncommon] - Level 14

Hide Skill [Uncommon] - Level 3

Corruptive Influence [Rare] - Level 10

Shadow Mastery [Rare] - Level 7

Curse Magic [Rare] - Level 10

Edicts:

Shadow (minor)

Inspect (Basic) has gained a level! This skill has advanced to Inspect (Intermediate)! As this is now at the (Intermediate) level, it can overcome basic obscuration.

———

The information barely filed away in Colt’s mind before Bill charged—no doubt given a clue he’d just been inspected by the Hide Skill. A hell of a collection of skills, most of which he’d grinded up to a high level; how the man had managed it was a mystery. Maybe there was more to the leech skill than inspected. Maybe it had to do with that Icon of his.

It confirmed everything Colt needed. Bill was a monster, and it would end here.

Bill came in a flood of shadow—black mist whipped around him as if it were a second coat; tendrils of it reached at Colt, grasping at him with little shadowy hands that spelled nothing good if they touched. So Colt didn’t let it touch.

Colt sliced vertically with his knife, sending out a wave of an invisible blade right at his enemy, testing if he might end the fight in a single cut.

The second it met the shadowy aura around Bill, the guy ducked aside, dodging it. Interestingly, the little bits of shadow Colt managed to cut through vanished away into the void they came from; Bill let out a laugh.

“That trick won’t work on me anymore. My shadows let me see your skill before you can land with it. Don’t bother. Just put your knife down and give up easy—If you give up, I’ll let the others go without hurting a hair on their heads.”

Colt ignored him and whipped another invisible blade at him. This, too, Bill managed to dodge. So Colt threw another, then one more for good measure.

To his credit, Bill was nimble, darting around and managing to avoid the cuts. When he couldn’t, the shadow would flare for a second, acting as a shield and buying Bill enough time to get out of the way. It made quite the conundrum as more and more of the thick shadow poured off him—essentially hiding everything about Bill aside from the white smile of his grin and the red eyes that flared outward like little searchlights from the darkness beneath.

“Die!” Bill boomed—and the shadows whipped forward, the little tiny black hands reaching outward, trying to grab and corrupt.

Colt pulled back; the mid-range of the shadows spinning at him prevented him from getting close.

Those little grasping hands promised to sink their crooked black little fingernails into his skin, to rip his flesh from his muscle and turn him into a pile of walking meat.

Colt focused—the invisible edge of his blade extended outward from the knife, coating it, but not pushing forward into a wave of death. With it condensing on the edge, his knife easily cleaved through the shadows; he kept the danger at bay. Every attempt to rend him to shreds was, in turn, cut to ribbons.

But it was a stalemate; his knife could only work so quickly, and the hands were coming at him left and right, searching for any gaps that they could slide into and touch him. They would eventually. The coating on his knife could only last so long, could only do so much before he ran out of the energy to power it; even though these shadows were tied to a lesser edict, they were numerous.

The idea of relating a skill to an Edict was new, but as he faced it down, that was undoubtedly what was happening here.

Combined, the two were taken to another tier.

One of the hands got through—tearing into his face. Another got his leg. As the black shadow touched him, they dug in, little bits of black in his skin, burning as they burrowed. Like little parasites. The skin and muscles around them began to ache and scream, and Colt slowed. The pain was too much.

With the scales tipping, Colt began to use his Phantom step—letting an attack or two pass through.

But more hands were spawning. More shadow swirling as Bill cackled in front of him, in the throes of his power.

Hopeless. As he was, it was a losing battle.

But Colt wasn’t going to let it end that way.

He saw the threads beneath the fight moving around, keenly aware of the momentum and flow of the battle. As his own momentum began to slow, burdened by the heavy weight of the Edict of shadow digging its way through his flesh. The ancient threads that tugged at everything happening around him.

Colt grit his teeth, and grasped his new Edict for the first time. Movement.

And then, he tugged the thread.

The world shifted—slowed; time itself was a crawl. The several spiraling arms of shadow that wanted to end him moved at a snail’s pace. He could feel it; every second, there was a strain on his core, yanking at his body. His soul wielded something much too large. It was like lifting a weight way too big for you—your arm barely held together, your back screaming, and the shakes of your muscles as they threatened to tear and let go at any second.

Colt didn’t waste it. He slid forward, cleared the distance between him and Bill, then cut.

A wave of death slid forward, moving at his pace, wrapped in the Edict of movement as he moved. It slid through the shadow; he felt a flare of panic as Bill tried to condense his shadows. But it was far, far, too slow.

The wave cleared the shadows, split them like a sea.

And then, it split right through Bill’s neck.

Colt let his grip on the Edict go—time returned to normal, and he collapsed to the ground, breath coming ragged, sweat pouring fast and loose; he groaned, clutching at his chest.

Bill was dead.

———

You have leveled up!

You have 3 Stat points to spend. You have gained 1 point of Dexterity and 1 point of Soul!

*Phantom’s Step* has gained a level!

*Knives/Daggers Proficiency* has gained a level!

Your class has advanced to Edict Carver (II), please check Class Screen in order to evolve.

———