The rush of colorful mana essences littered and shook the starting corridor. Razmund was yet to even take the first choice or turn left or right, after going to the Undead Wing, and all he was looking forward to was that choice. He had to be quick if he wanted to clutch his own fate and do what he had to do.
And something to help him was right there in his other hand. A Destiny Dice was awaiting its purpose, although it was yet to truly shine.
It will. Soon.
The essences twisted in their structures, going with a flow and forceful purpose and truths, becoming a mash of bright colors that moved through the fog. The pouch ate each like a gluttonous beast, dazzling the surroundings, but Razmund wasn't impressed. He took everything in without an issue and didn't even take those essences as something that would change his body. It won't. Not these, at least. They will be for something else than his own use.
The cluster of essences made it hard to point out one from the other. It all seemed like the essences formed a singular wave, resembling a weak strand from the River of Manaflow, and it all mashed together into something mesmerizing. It was glowing and difficult to forget.
Alas, there was no one around to appreciate this sight. Razmund didn't need these essences. His Core was clear to him like his Path, and one didn't have to focus all their might on their progression all the time. If their limits and their Path were apparent, being careful and steady was better than being greedy.
In this way, he held his Path of a Sword Sage in high stakes, but the burden was actual swordsmanship, rather than magic. It required time to manage his Path's techniques, and dances, similar to upgrading one's mana core. Everything moved together in a neat picture, forming what still was a Path. They could have various visions after all, and he was clear.
Attributes were important. Abilties too. Swordsmanship had its moves and dances, equipment, abilities, and their evolutions or fusions. It all gave a sense of power and security. It was that simple, but hard to maximize it all together.
It took about 10 or so seconds until all essences moved inside his pouch. It wasn't because of the pouch itself that the essences went there. Generally, the course of mana will disallow the notion of storing the mana essences in a separate space, because they would dissolve regardless. At least the kind that this temple forged out of its residents.
It was a law of mana, and how it acted in certain rules. Essences were generally difficult to store and were rare additions to the flow of mana. In this picture of forcefully created and manifested essences, they certainly resembled forged treasures. A construct, one may also tell. They would shake in their structure in any spatial pouch, turning useless alongside the pouch.
Natural ones had their many unique birthing places. Their value and worth were subjective and hard to come by. Just having some was enough for most to absorb them to their core, use them quickly, or sell them. It depended on the type of essence, but unnatural ones would generally dissipate after their creation. They would require steady formation to let them remain in their form, or one may store them away through the use of special treasures.
Razmund had that something, because of his status, worth, and hopes. Within his pouch that led the essences in, there was a different kind of treasure than his pouch. The kind that ate up the essences, and the pouch was a mere point to make the process easier since it had an effect of speeding this process.
Inside was a high-quality Mana Gem: an accumulation of specific and rare mana materials so dense, that it became a very potent mana source. It can become a separate mana pool, and allow mages to absorb the mana from this gem into their bodies. It was made to eat those essences, so they could be useful later, since what was mana essences if not a very dense and manifested mana?
They went for the gem like hungry wolves went for left out corpses.
With the Mana Gem of Grade S and a pool of over 10,000, it was basically what Extremes were using. It was something that could accommodate their interest, and act as a secondary core, or tool in crafting. Though using such a treasure was costly in their use, and while anyone could use such things, affording them wasn't feasible for most.
For him, it was just a tool. Nothing more.
With this done, Razmund went over the things on the ground that were of some value. That meant taking some treasures while leaving most behind since he destroyed them. He had high standards, and this little battalion was nothing but the start of this 3rd-time visit. He noticed how the difficulty spiked up for sure, and he could tell it straight away, but he also got stronger.
This was just a start, and he will shatter this temple without a speck of hesitation. The first wave wasn't anything terrible or good by any means. Temple gave him a first knock on his potential power then the last time, which wasn't something Thar had seen.
Razmund knew this time would give him some difficulties, but Murai was his priority. He can be patient, and this temple will help him steady his path and get stronger. Building up the momentum to go forward will get him stronger foes. His only advantages were his preparation, strong Path, and insanity.
The priority was his Encounter and his hope. It was all in his head, heart, and also his palm.
Using a Grade A Spatial Pouch of 1000 cubic meters, he stored some intact armor, weapons, and some other stuff inside. Anything valuable was worth some money, and he could sell it to the Centralis Kingdom. It was how most adventures acted through the dungeons, and he wasn't any different. Getting useful equipment from such places was often not that easy to any challengers. They often sold most of the stuff anyway and took what was actually useful to them. It was a cheap and popular choice to get powerful equipment without buying from questionable sources.
Razmund didn't have time to waste, so barely a minute after the end of the fight, he returned his attention to the corridor itself. The fog wasn't strong enough to stop his vision, and it wasn't even as thick as he remembered. This was the beginning of the Gate of Suffering, so he wasn't far into it.
Slowly, the fog will start obscuring him like anyone in this place. One's senses will be clouded, and the sheer pressure of this place can trouble anyone's mind and soul.
He remembered his first visit. He was a rookie back then and all things considered, he was a weakling amongst his peers. Yet he walked out of this place with an ashen face, intact life, and splendid treasures. This Right Wing was his previous choice because his master recommended it. He figured that his master was too cruel but also honest. He gave him a fair chance, and not only he was alone to take this temple, but he also helped him with his Path.
It was too bad thinking about it right now, because this visit wasn't like the last, nor the very first time. He will get used to this as with many other intricate and strange places he saw and visited. This was just one of them. A treasured opportunities this world offered.
He knew what this meant as a member of the Centralis Kingdom and a Blessed who already had many chances to prove his status. He will do well, but the Encounter was a different breed of conflict. It gave him a much stranger vision and prose than his own choice. It wasn't his choice at all. This was godly interest. Nothing more, but what if it was?
Any Encounter was a piece of a much larger pie since it was a special chance that never came when one expected or wanted. It was following the prospect of Gods, so mortals didn't though much of it. They shouldn't consider that, but they desire power and hope. It was good enough of an excuse to turn many tides and desires, and no one was to blame them for taking their chances.
As a Blessed, Razmund held a vast amount of interest in Gods and their desires and plots. Such figures were irregular and often described as the driving force behind any large powers and other forces. This temple dawned such disputes, as it was Hall Haven owned by a very powerful God. Power went hand in hand with it, fueling the world with many hidden treasures that can cherish someone's Path.
It wasn't easy, but who would expect that?
No pain, no gain. That was a quote from his previous life, and his current Path, and he could break if he didn't think further about it.
Razmund's vision passed through the fog without trouble, seeing and feeling the surroundings as if no fog was there. His eyes held powers like his Will. It was unlike before when he was lost and attacked by the fog.
The fog will thicken, create troubles, and hide more intricate foes. This visit was heavy, he knew. Enemies will be tougher, quicker, and stronger. He had no doubt some limits in his path would arise, stirring him like the Encounter. He even wondered how his little friend was doing, considering the 1st times weren't that great.
In fact, they were the worst.
Usually...
Walking forward forward, he thought no other mess would happen, but through the fog, enemies appeared again. They may be part of the previous battalion, but not as he cared if they were or not. These were direct, meant to show some value and touch that Mindarch wanted to see. Figures stepped out of the fog, but more so than that, they attacked him straight ahead. A party of undead was around his level, and each had various Paths. Razmund watched how the mana swirled under their bones, and most had weapons ready to clever his head in half.
Too bad... He won't give him this change. He rested his right hand on his claymore's handle, and in one swoop, he drew it, cleaving them in half, which ended up cracking 2 and destroying the rest. The rest went ahead, and close to him, he flickered his claymore as if it wasn't that large. A Slash Storm stopped their attacks, and also their limbs. Dozens of clashes happened in an instant, and the party was over.
Razmund was quick to show them their worth and clutched the Destiny Dice with his left hand while holding his claymore in the other. At last, he came to the very first intersection and choice was right there before his eyes.
Two corridors beside one another.
Each led to a different path, but they weren't that simple for him. There were many sides to these choices and they led to different places, depicting hidden treasures, or enemies worth visiting and killing. It was a left or right choice, and like before in his visits, each turn would mean a different path down the road. Their worth may differ because of Challanger's choice and defeated foes.
It was a true maze and something that Lisa thought would help her plan. Unfortunately, she was underestimating the Centralis Kingdom way too much. The complicated maze was up to Murai's advantage. One can't follow this maze so easily unless the Mindarch deemed it worthy. Recognized talents or the Challenger's power could change his mind.
In his case, Razmund was not yet a worthy Challenger, because of this 3rd time visit. It required more difficulties, and also much higher power and attention. He didn't get any bias, choice, or recognition of high-grade interest.
Not like he needed it, as his choice was literary in his left palm.
Finding the right path would be a pain in the ass otherwise, so this was about the time that Destiny Dice would shine for the best.
It was in his palm as he fought, and felt the connection towards this dangerous, yet intricate artifact. It had its special rules for use, and also renowned reputation. Not good, per se, but he didn't care. To handle this Destiny Dice, one had to be ready to handle one's fate or lose it all. That was one of the rules one had to understand, in order to activate the Destiny Dice. Upon activating, it would lead to one's destiny, but until then, it shouldn't disappear from one's hand.
That was a peculiar requirement, which wasn't sometimes sensible or right to assume, but it sounded cheap if one understood what the fate was.
For him, in the moment of the intersecting paths, Destiny Dice will give him an answer and no choice.
Seeking the left and right corridor, Razmund turned ashen and pulled his left hand towards his face, where he watched inactive Dice.
“Well, you literal pain in the ass, will you show me the way?” He asked, and let the mana flow towards his hand, along with some droplets of pre-prepped blood that flowed from a bottle in the other. It wasn't his blood, but after the blood Dice absorbed it all, it began to shake in ridiculous notions as if it were in epileptic shock, paining Razmund's hold. It glowed, and threads of pink threads flew in and out of its single hole, making a circular ring. It trembled until it all dissipated inwards and threads connected to Razmund's hand.
A voice spoke from somewhere...
[Sacrifice accepted... Ancient blood]
[A tasty treat... yummy!]
It was a soft voice as if spoken by a child.
Razmund heard it right. It was coming from the Dice but either it or he was interested in any discussion. He tossed the Destiny Dice to the ground where it continued to wriggle as if possessed. It also shook in a flow of mana undulation, and pinky threads were seeking the path forward.
Dice exploded, stuck into the wall of both corridors, and bounced left and right as if it had a mind of its own. It bounced dozens of meters around the fog and all corners, cracking the walls and floor. Hundreds of hits sounded like a hammer hitting the anvil until it stopped. A hole within the dice pointed towards the left corridor, which would be the one Razmund had to walk on.
“That one?” He mumbled as he caressed his claymore with his other hand. The edge was sharp, clean, and ready.
Retrieving the Destiny Dice back to his left hand, he left the bottle in his pocket. He was glad to have this treasure, even though it had some burdens. This thing ate mana essences like crazy and even required Ancient's blood. Those were ambiguous materials of old races, refined, or found in the main parts of the 5 Origin Dungeons and a few other places.
Razmund wasn't that happy as it ate through the essences he purchased beforehand. It will be costly, but thankfully, this place had its fair share of them, so that will help cover some costs.
When holding it, since he had to, it also ate his own mana and fate. It was a peculiar detail... Something about the way this artifact worked. It was a warning and danger, said by a few surviving users of this artifact. Someone weak-minded could become hollow if one wasn't prepared beforehand. Thankfully, he held many essences, albeit the blood was the problematic part.
All of it was for the Destiny Dice, and every toss was like a fortune dumped into the abyss. It won't come back, but it was worth it for the sake of the Encounter. Perhaps, that was. Only a madman would decide on continuous use of this thing since it was expensive.
To touch one's fate, it was to go against the heavens, and who knew where the Dice would lead?
In some cases, the user found their End, and it had a reputation as a Cursed Artifact.
Razmund was in the centralis headquarters upon hearing of Murai's escape to Death Valley. That was one of the reasons he wasted some time since he had to adjust his strategy and recruit some forces. If he didn't waste those hours, and additional travel, he would've already caught him. Theoretically speaking, of course. What ifs didn't matter in the end, since they were just possibilities. An effect of fate that didn't happen after all.
Levandis Temple will give rise to the winner of this mouse and cat game. One way or another, Murai was the mouse, and Razmund was the cat. However, Murai wasn't thinking of it in this way because he didn't know what truly went behind this Encounter. Perhaps even Razmund wasn't sure about it as well, but he was convinced, while Murai would rather not even think about it.
He charged toward the left corridor with Destiny Dice firm in his left hand. He had to use it at every intersection. It wouldn't be possible to catch his mouse otherwise.
As he did so, a battle of his Helpers was in full swing on the surface, with some defeats, and some victories as well. Yet, here was a surprising fact, as many things turned into surprising sights.
***
Thar was away from his mount, standing in the desert dunes, overlooking the world in his height. His Undead Army was at the distance, weary and hopeful to get their chance. Some did, while most won't get any. His tattered cloak was swaying in the wind, and a surprise was noticeable in his unfathomable Soul Flames.
Just now, he finished the way of his stakes and viewed the only 3rd-time visitor beside Razmund himself. It was a fine review and a spar, but he wasn't one to be that insane to carry the 3rd timers in high regard. Those were fine challengers for the temple, and even a bit rare. On 4th visit and above, things would get intense, but there were more rules about them.
After all, what if some insane Extreme visited this place from another continent for the first time? It wasn't uncommon, and it sure would be counted as a single visit, so the rules had to change.
Mindarch can be flexible, as many things were.
Thar wasn't looking at this Challenger though. He was observing his hand, which was missing a few fingers. Hell, even a part of his forearm bone had some cracks at 3 points.
“So what that palm was for? Ate it like a champ, I reckon. I can see that too.” A manly voice said. It was coming from the shrouded figure, hidden underneath a swaying cloak. An indistinct sword was also there, but only a section of it was visible underneath the wild motion of his cloak which seemed to be tight even in the wild wind scattered around this man. “What now? This was it, right? I shouldn't defeat you, but can I try that?”
“You pass if you want unless you want something special... and skip this charade, but I don't remember you from before... How strange.” Thar said.
“A lot of things happened since my last attempt at this little place. 2nd visit is for those unworthy of a lot of things. 3rd is where the fun starts, I reckon.”
“Not necessary. So you are someone who was here long ago? Too many years passed? How many?”
“Who knows?” The man said, unbothered to reply with something more meaningful.
“It's already getting finished over there.” Thar looked away, noticing how the other figures had their fair share of battles. Razmund's Helpers consisted of 4 main subjects of interest. This man, the masked lady, Gordfiend and his 9 hooligans, and Waldorf with Paulfred. No one else, and nothing more.
However, 2 were Blessed Companions, which didn't count for Helpers or indirect Helpers. 9 of Gordfiend's hooligans weren't proper helpers either. They were considered weak to move the rules and were part of Gordfiend's strength anyway. They were just variable, and Razmund was willing to take them into this little invasion.
They fought with giant the waves of undead, outside of Thar's orders, but Mindarch moved those pieces himself. Some hooligans were defeated and wounded, but none died. Overall, there were 14 of them who achieved reasonable success.
“Buhahahah! I fucking win!” Gordfiend laughed upon the victory, holding a war axe that rested deep in Undead Mage's skull. Most of his men were around him. Some had wounds, others not so much, while some were... worse.
“What is there to be shouting about?” A voice said, coming from a shrouded lady who stood not so far away from him. She was yet to reveal her face or much of her body.
“What did you say? Any victory is worth a battle cry!” Gordfiend argued, unafraid of her, because his blood was boiling, and his skin was ashen but crimson from shoulders to his fingers. He was too preoccupied with the fight, so he didn't even notice if this shrouded lady fought or not.
She sighed. “As expected of a savage from the Highlands. What did even Razmund expect? Your group is the only one who lost some people. Have you not noticed that?”
“What!?” Gordfiend shouted, realizing the truth of her word soon afterward. Turning around, he pointed to his men and counted his fingers like a child. 1 was for him since he was always number one. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 went towards other members of his group. “Fuck! Where are 3, 7, 8, and 9?” Gordfiend asked, stomping the ground, and smashing the undead to pieces. His men were oblivious to others who were looking at his red face.
“S-sir. They are there,” one of the barechested men said and pointed to a distant sand dune. He was amongst the group of 5 who accomplished what they had to do. That was, to fight against the undead, and achieve victory several times. Those were the waves, and each had an enemy, so some fought more unique undead than others.
In this way, it was a rather chaotic battlefield that was over in less than an hour. “What do you mean 2? Where? There?” Gordfiend looked in the direction of 2's finger. It led to 4 men lying on the ground far away and they were easy to miss. Each was wounded, with cuts, bruisers, and inability to fight, but it wasn't enough for them to lose their lives.
They will be unable to fight further since this Welcoming Party had one specialty that was always strange to others. Undead shouldn't kill the failing Challengers of Welcoming Party, since most would either come back or give up. Only success counted as accomplished status as the 1st timer. Thus, many failing adventures can always try again later, which was an easy way to train the Undead Army.
But once inside the temple, things were different. The End of the Challengers was a direct addition to Mindarch and the worth of the temple. Those were easy rules, and sensible in nature.
The 4 wounded bald men had no strength to wield their weapons, and even walking would be difficult in their current situation. Gordfiend hurried towards them, crying but appearing as if he was a demon because of his Blood Boiling. Roaring loudly, he fell to his knees upon seeing his brothers. Weeping, and bearing his knees to the sand, tears flew down his face.
“Ahhhh! My brothers... What a dishonored way of fate! What a disaster of destiny! Wounding my man... I will take this interest over to the underworld of seven hells. Worry not my brothers, as I will lead your souls into salvation.” He spoke in utter conviction as tears fell down his nose, and chin, and were getting in the way of his talking. He put his hand around his waist, there was nothing in particular. Instead, there was a bracelet, with a small gem.
It shivered in mana fluctuation, and in an instant, a special exe appeared in his hand. This one was clear and smooth, unlike his other two. Gordfiend got up, and by the Will of his words and action, all of his men—be it on the ground, or the ones who weren't wounded—wept. Tears flowed down their faces, and an unsightly appearance was on their faces.
It was a strange face filled with the emotion of sadness of putting loved ones away, but this was how it's done in the Highlands.
Gordfiend swung his exe, severing the head of the first of the 4 brothers. Then, he grabbed the severed head and put it towards the sky.
“Ohhhh! Salvation to one's soul! You all are watching! I will meet you in Afterlife!” He shouted to the heavens and put the head as far as he could. Blood dripped through the severed neck to his face, but not one drop of his brother was an issue for him. No. He welcomed it. The blood bathed his ashen body to crimson. His bald head as well as vest was bathed in the color of blood.
He wore an expression of grief, yet a wonderful focus and desires were in his eyes. He was their leader and a force to reckon with. As he proclaimed his Will for a couple of seconds, he put his head down. He laid it into the chest of the fallen brother, before moving to the next, who was crying and weeping for the Afterlife.
They weren't hurt that badly. Cuts, bruises, and broken bones can heal. Wounds of this caliber weren't life-ending, but it sure was humiliating to any Highlander. He was moved by Gordfiend's action, and also by going to the Afterlife. He was both glad, impressed by Gordfiend, and disappointed by himself.
But he was glad to seek the peak of his boss. Fearfulness and axe were the epitome of a merciful End and upon seeking his greatness, it was fitting to wept. Axe severed his head, and his vision blinked to nothingness. The same ritual happened to him too. A head went towards the heavens, while Gordfiend wept, and cried towards the skies.
He went to the last 2 of his wounded brothers and put them to rest. The strangeness of these acts put the rest of the Helpers, and even Thar to a halt. They watched their play, yet none had the power to tell that their wounds were superficial in today's age.
A simple Lifeforce Bandage, or Lifepotion would help them back to health. In fact, some amongst them had such things, but none were obliged to help other Helpers. It went according to the rules of mercenaries, so they watched Gordfied kill his men for the sake of his conviction and madness. Perhaps even if they did offer him the help, he would've refused it.
It left some strange impression on their faces, and how they all cried in tears and heavy feelings, some would think it was almost touching and reasonable. But they knew how unreasonable this all was.
“Well... as expected of the savages from the Highlands...” The masked lady said again, walking toward the shrouded man who battled Thar a couple of moments ago. “Oy, Ortell? I want to know the next rules and plan. Razmund didn't tell me the next move so I beg to differ, but if it isn't about that time, I fear the damned life.”