Aethyr stood over the fallen wyvern, panting heavily, his body drained but triumphant. In the college, the students who had been secretly watching through the orb erupted in cheers. They couldn’t believe what they had just witnessed. The higher masters, however, watched in silence, some in awe, others in concern. This was no ordinary feat—Aethyr had defeated a centuries-old monster that had claimed the lives of countless heroes and mages.
Among those watching, Penelo silently prayed, never taking her eyes off Aethyr’s image. She knew the danger he was in, but her heart never wavered.
Aethyr skinned the wyvern, collecting its valuable scales and hide. As he did so, he found a portal stone, the key to progressing further into the dungeon. Exhausted, he set up camp, knowing he needed to recover before facing the next challenge. Using Equilibrium alteration magic, Aethyr converted his health into magicka, dangerously pushing his limits to restore his energy.
The professors who watched disapproved of his reckless use of this technique. Converting one’s own life force into magicka was deadly—but for Aethyr, it was necessary. He understood the risks but accepted them.
Aethyr pressed on, his boots quietly tracing the cold, stone pathways of the labyrinthine dungeon. Teleport stones scattered throughout the dungeon offered a shortcut, tempting with their promise of faster progress. Yet, Aethyr resisted. The risk of being randomly transported deeper into unknown, trap-laden chambers was too great. Instead, he chose the long route, exploring on foot. Every turn, every trap, and every etched symbol was meticulously cataloged. His records slowly built a compendium of knowledge, more valuable than any adventurer’s tales of the past century. These detailed observations would soon become invaluable to the College—a tome for future generations, with Aethyr's name forever etched in history.
By the 19th day, Aethyr had arrived at a massive door, guarded by a lifeless stone sentinel. The statue’s hollow eyes seemed to follow him, though they showed no signs of actual life. Etched into the door was an ancient inscription, written in Dwarven:
"Nurnr, heth en odror avor jaru e tharas brond, eth vjeit avor ljef oorg gung hrut ilv bodsithez."
("Friends, with a heart of giant in their hand, the gate of life shall open back to the beginning.")
Aethyr’s sharp eyes caught a subtle mechanism on the chest of the stone guardian. A mechanical device powered by steam—simple, ancient dwarven technology. With a burst of flame, he ignited the mechanism, and with a hiss of steam, the door began to creak open. But the moment he stepped inside, the magical transmission to the College was severed.
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Panic gripped the mages monitoring him. For the first time since Aethyr's descent, they were blind. Grandir, the head mage, had been following Aethyr’s journey closely, but now concern washed over his face. "What’s happening?" he demanded, "Find out now!"
Aethyr was alone.
Ahead of him lay the 25th level, where a new terror awaited. The room rumbled as a massive undead giant, encased in rusted mechanical armor, lumbered forward. Its glowing blue eyes locked onto Aethyr, cold and menacing. This was no mere monster; it was a relic of ancient wars, a construct of dwarven engineering fused with necromantic magic. Its enormous frame was covered in layers of heavy metal armor, making it nearly impenetrable—like an undead war machine.
Aethyr adjusted his stance, switching his weapon to a hatchet, and squared off with the giant.
With a thunderous boom, the creature charged. The floor cracked beneath its feet, every step shaking the dungeon as if it would collapse under the pressure. Aethyr sidestepped the first attack, barely escaping the massive fist that slammed into the ground where he had just stood. Quick as lightning, he cast an earth spell, shifting the ground beneath the giant and sending it crashing to the floor with a roar.
Wasting no time, Aethyr moved in, his hatchet seeking the creature's weak points. Sparks flew as he struck the rusted joints, cutting through decayed metal and exposing rotting flesh beneath. But this beast was more than a brute—it was a trained warrior. It quickly recovered, swinging a boulder-sized fist that barely missed Aethyr’s head.
The giant hurled boulders with shocking speed, but Aethyr danced around them with fluid precision, each movement like a deadly ballet. His elemental fire magic burst forth like whips of flame, scorching the giant's decaying flesh. He bent the elements to his will, deflecting thrown boulders or hurling them back with slingshot precision. Despite his agility, the giant pressed on, closing the distance until it was upon him, its massive hammer swinging down like a judge’s gavel.
Aethyr barely blocked the strike with his shield, the force of the blow sending him crashing into the stone walls. Blood trickled from his lips as he stood, coughing and casting a quick healing spell. "Close Wound." The spell worked, but the pain lingered, his ribs nearly shattered from the impact.
The giant’s sword came next, a weapon too large for any normal human to wield. Aethyr blocked again, his shield now cracked and nearly useless, but he held his ground, calling upon a more desperate magic.
"Dragonhide!"
The spell fortified his body with borrowed power from the wyvern’s core, giving him temporary invulnerability against physical attacks. The giant’s blade clanged uselessly against his enhanced skin, and Aethyr seized the opportunity, imbuing his spear with lightning. The air crackled as the spear thrust forward, piercing into the giant’s knee joint. Sparks flew from the creature’s armor, but still, it wasn’t enough.
Outmatched in brute strength, Aethyr began to tire. The Dragonhide spell sapped his mana reserves, leaving him vulnerable to both physical and magical exhaustion. Worse yet, the giant’s relentless attacks left him no room to breathe. The massive creature landed another strike, sending Aethyr tumbling across the battlefield. His chestplate shattered, an arrow from the giant’s crossbow embedding itself in his chest, leaving him gasping for breath, his breastplate barely holding his body together.