"With the authority granted to me by the crown, I hereby place you all under arrest!"
[You have gained the title [Criminal]! See your character sheet for more info!]
Cyrus raised an arm and directed it forwards. At his command, fifty javelins launched into the air, glistening in the sunlight like a reversed enactment of comets streaking through the night sky. The metal whistled joyfully as they flew towards the man. Spontaneously, thuds and screeching of metal rang from the forest, intermingling with screams of pain. Whether they came from his own or the foe was yet to be determined, but it was only a matter of time before the truth was revealed. Red and grey flickered and moved throughout the woods. The enemy's compatriots were certainly pulling out all the stops, fully content to draw their weapons with the intent to kill. Yet their leader hadn't moved, hadn't drawn his sword or his crossbow. He simply stood there as if the metallic, sharp-pointed ends of poles wouldn't penetrate his flesh.
Cyrus smirked grimly as his eyes followed the pilum's trajectory, already anticipating the result. A clean, easy kill. If this had been any other battlefield on Earth, the Decanus would've been correct. Alas, this wasn't. Cyrus had failed to account for one thing.
The spears made contact with thin air, shooting harmlessly past the man's still body. Magic.
The roman gulped, beads of sweat dripping down his face. Grabbing the gladius, he pointed it at the man and shouted, "CURSU MINA!" A flurry of commotion met his words. The legionaries pulled out their gladiuses and charged down the battlements, heading towards the gate.
"This should be enough time to distract him and any other surviving enemies." The comforting thought warded off the doubts and fears. Cyrus leapt down from the wall, landing in a crouch. The roman sprinted towards an oval-shaped grassy area slightly discontinued from its surroundings. Safety was located a couple of metres vertically down from the dungeon entrance. The darkness between the cracks beckoned him, urging him to push harder. He caught the barest whiff of the damp soil. Nearly there. A few metres left. His feet ate up the distance like a starving beast hunting its prey. The sounds of fighting drew closer and closer. The yells of his men drifted into his ears. Cyrus barely made out a few words. They made his heart drop.
"Lucius! Four enemies on the left flank!" A faint voice shouted back, "NO! I can't! The main enemy is overwhelming the right flank! I am needed them!" A piercing scream shook the air.
The roman blocked his ears and focused his entire being on getting to the trap. Only two or so meters were left. Cyrus charged, flinging mounds of wet mud and dirt in his wake. Only one meter was left. He pumped his arms. Faintly, the roman heard the screech and thuds of wood and metal stop. Several screams erupted before being cut off by the sound of metal cutting flesh.
Cyrus counted three sets of footsteps. "Your sacrifices won't be in vain!" Shouts to stop wriggled into his ears. He snorted, "What fools would believe their adversary would do such a naive thing?" Despite knowing that energy conservation was critical, he couldn't resist the pull to taunt back. It was like a siren's call. A malicious grin grew on his lips as his mind imagined the anger and hatred on his opponent's face. The logical, cold and calculated part of his mind lost, withdrawing from the mental duel. He craned his head back and panted, "YOU'LL NEVER GET ME!" Shaking his head at the stupidity of that statement and cringing as the words repeated in his mind, the dungeon-core-human hybrid kicked the makeshift door down. The soil barricade crumbled beneath his caligas, sending puffs of dirt into the air. Coughing, the roman dashed into the darkness. He dared not look back.
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[ERROR] 2nd Dungeon Floor is unavailable ~ increase core rank to access! [ERROR] No rooms are allowed after the core room!]
[Removing violations...]
Cool, damp air hit his skin, adding further moisture to his already water-coated skin. The roman quickly dismissed the familiar notification, shoving the disastrous event into the pits of his mind. That time had caught him unawares. This time, it had caught him unprepared, or rather, in the middle of a plan gone haywire. He glanced back at the exit. There were no familiar shapes of legionaries and the rectangular shield sticking off their backs, nor the sound of caligas striking the ground. In their place were the foreign, invading forms of the scouts and the thuds of their metallic boots. He watched as they stumbled about, jogging after him while using a nearby wall as a guide. Correction, two of the three. The leader seemed unaffected, Cyrus noted, "Perhaps a skill..." With his observation over and the form of the foe enlarging in his line of sight, the man fled, his eyes firmly locked on a small rectangle of light in the far distance.
The ground rumbled. Dirt and earth showered onto his head but fortunately, no rocks. Massive booms shook the air as large pieces of the ceiling descended. Air buffeted him. Vibrations shot through his feet, shaking his bones. Ignoring the jarring feeling, Cyrus stumbled back on his feet and continued.
His breaths were sharp and quick, sucking in as much dust-stained oxygen as possible. The muscles within his legs groaned and strained but continued to move on. They felt as if a solid object was grinding within every fibre of his being, rubbing his insides raw. It was as if a fire had been lit all over his body from the inside. But he dared not stop. Couldn't stop. A whistling smack as something thin lodged itself into the wall beside him. Another flurry of dirt and earth debris showered him. Shards of stone ripped through his unprotected shins and arms, creating jagged trenches. He pushed through. Another arrow, a few more marks. Over and over. Most missed but the lucky, or rather unlucky few, found their mark. The crude, cold metal dug viciously into his back, easily penetrating the lacklustre chainmail. Oh, how Cyrus regretted not creating Lorica Segmentata. Oh, if only he hadn't taken the easy route. The man could do nothing but take the beating. His hands dug into the pouch, seeking the comforting, familiar feel of a javelin.
Dust began to repel off the ceiling and onto his hair like refugees fleeing from a war-torn country. Massive shards of rock joined their younger cousins in pelting the foreign inhabitants, slamming into the ground all around him, sending large and small pieces of rock into his back and shoulders. Thankfully, most pinged off his armour, leaving his skin not unblemished, but intact.
Cyrus's footsteps pounded through the narrow cavern that was getting even narrower still. The man's body weaved and zigzagged like following the marks of a great snake. He gazed at the road in front of him. The light was gone. And so was his exit. The roman glanced back. The three figures were no longer in sight. He looked in the direction of the sky and prayed for their demise, hoping his premature death had accomplished something of importance.
Seeing the massive boulders and miniature islands collapsing the tunnel, Cyrus pulled out six spare Scutums. The roman laid his back on the floor, presenting a perfect target for the falling debris. Alas, the man had no choice. He arranged the shields into a tent shape with double layers on the left, right and top to enclose the space. "Gods help me."
They heard his plea. And did the opposite. A massive boulder crashed onto his one-man testudo. His vision turned black.