Concussive blasts of purple light sloughed off of a plain steel shield. Forces that should have cracked the metal flowed around it. The momentum that ought to have thrown the shieldbarer backwards never came to bear. Having absorbed a blow that would have usually incapacitated him the shielded man stood firm and unyielding.
Breathing heavily, wreathed in a deep purple aura, the fighter stared down his shield-wielding opponent. Cast in a mixture of dark leather and metal plate this second iteration of protective armour was a qualitative leap forward, steadfast and imposing. Compared to the weight of his own fatigue, the man in front of him didn't seem phased. His breath was heavy but it lacked the phlemy crackle of his own.
Otis had shaped his new helmet in the traditional spartan image, albeit without the red hackle adorning its crest. He stood ready and waiting, his eyes shining from within the helm, as he anticipated the next attack.
"It's too fucking soon for this shit."
"I still can't believe you got an exhaustion debuff."
Otis and Zlatan had been field-testing his new skill for the last half an hour but the battle-mage felt far more exhausted than he had any right to be. Their last bout in the arena was almost a final curtain call for all of Team Rictus. Facing the final constructs as worn down as they were had been dangerously suboptimal.
"Anything combined with mana can be deadly, physically over-reaching is the same," Zlatan began, adopting Mooch's own lecturing tones. 'Muscles are torn, as you'd expect normally, but in instances of prolonged overexposure to mana, these injuries imbed themselves more fervently."
"So it's basically mana toxicity... I was just stupid enough and for long enough."
"Basically," Zlatan scoffed, "fucking bull, I reckon."
Zlatan's pride had taken a beating in the last fight. Away from the traditional team match his weaknesses had been made all too clear.
"At least your Path was better suited to it."
The reply hadn't meant to be received as it was. Although Otis had meant well, this was a situation he wished his charisma score wasn't so damnably low. Zlatan's pale face seemed to lose several more shades of colour, as his mind refocused on Mooch. One more hit and he probably would have lost his closest friend. Even now, it was unlikely he'd be up and running for a while yet.
"I suppose... you're a right masochist for it though," Zlatan replied, "at least you can look forward to a good endurance score."
He tried to make light of the situation but his usual humour felt forced. Inwardly, Otis kicked himself. Even in a different realm, away from the rest of humanity, he didn't seem to be able to say the right thing.
As the hagerred figures of Team Rictus descended, neither Zlatan or Mooch had known what to expect on their return. Only as the slave city loomed beneath them had they realised they hadn't expected Otis to survive on his own. Someone should have dispatched him with ease, upon their departure. Yet, although it turned out to be at the cost of incredible suffering, Otis now looked several magnitudes better than he had. Rosey cheeked and sweating as he funnelled mana into his craft, they had startled the blacksmith the moment he withdrew from his work. The only sign of his own tribulations was the burst blood vessels in one of his eyes, an eery contrast to his general wellbeing.
Unlike his own resplendent recovery, the men that had been returned to Otis were almost unrecognisable. Coated in greyish ooze, fresh blood fought its way to the surface. The ragged cloth and tattered leathers they wore were hung limply from their thin frames; gone were the metal plate armour they'd worn, twisted and shattered somewhere in the arena above. The dregs of adrenaline quickly becoming spent, Otis' companions shook wildly in the effort even to stand. They had been prepared for the sudden release from the Overlord's telekinetic grip but hadn't an ounce of strength left to spare. Otis had cleaned and fed them, as best he could, but it had been some hours till even Zlatan had managed to stir properly.
So unprepared for the sudden presence of his freshly risen companion Otis was shocked away from the inspection of his newly created helm. Even so, the craftsman was glad to see his friend up and about. Without his usual frenetic energy, the man seemed at odds with himself. He'd insisted on doing anything but continue to lay about. He hadn't thought that a few severely weakened concussive blasts would be so able to drain his reserves, even with the de-buff applied.
He wasn't used to seeing his friend so weakened and incapable. For as long as he'd known them, both Mooch and Zlatan had been like far-away pillars of success. Even though he'd seen them wounded before, it wasn't like this. They felt flat and defeated, like hollow versions of themselves.
"Check the hand then, might as well see if you got anything as you bully the crippled."
Otis didn't dignify the jibe with a response. He was well aware that the gulf in power between them was vast. If Zlatan had wanted, he'd be coughing up blood and bile in the wreckage of whichever shack was less than ten metres behind him.
Zlatan hadn't expected a response, but looking at his newest friend he couldn't help but marvel at the progress he'd made. The disadvantage of being new to their world was huge. Even though he'd been enslaved his whole life, it was all he knew. He had gotten levels and skills from his woe. The young mage before him, even targeted by their captors, was beginning to look like he had a chance of survival. Neither he or Mooch had expected Otis to seek out Valruck's workshop, much less by himself. He was all too aware of how painful experiments like Valruck's could be but Otis had done it anyway.
Coming back to freshly recovered and increasingly capable Otis had been perhaps more surprising than their own survival. Although Zlatan hadn't put his all into his attacks, Otis' battle prowess had surged to new heights. Compared to their last practice bouts Otis was more than double the opponent he had been. Having prepared a new set of armour for himself whilst they had been incapacitated, Otis was beginning to look less and less like the support class he should have been. Either deviation was going to throttle him or maybe he wasn't the support they all thought he was.
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Otis Manning (Class: N/A)
Level : 2
Clan/ Sect : [Slave of Fortune’s Favour]
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
HP: 15/15 MP: 8/8
Status:
Strength 7 Agility 5 Endurance 8 (10) Intelligence 7 Will 8 (10) Charisma 5
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Characteristics:
Undying Resolve [I], (endurance, will + 2)
Skills:
Manipulation (level 3)
Mana Shielding (level 1)
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Having officially figured out how to consciously use the skill that he had instinctually touched upon before, its name had replaced the undiscovered placeholder. As with 'Manipulation' there was no description that came with 'Mana Shielding'. After a period of experimentation, Otis had come to realise that, unlike his 'Manipulation' skill, it wasn't about altering the materials he was working with. Instead, it was about allowing the mana to simply flow through the materials. He was harnessing the innate strength of supplemental weaponry and simply channelling mana through it. Oddly, it felt like giving the weapons a soul; as if a small part of himself was becoming interconnected with the creation.
Utilising the strength of components outside of his body gave him a crutch. As he experimented he had become gradually more accustomed to feeling the mana flow through the shield, instead of into its being. Having now tested the skill against an opponent, the results were staggering. Attacks that utilised mana were greatly dispersed, unable to gain a significant purchase on the shield. Without mana, physical attacks were also less effective. With mana coursing throughout the shield and repairs coming quickly, his shield become wholly more stable.
Although Zlatan had reduced the power of his attacks, in the past he would have been able to damage the shield or use his strength to simply batter it aside, removing the protection from Otis and leaving him open to follow-up attacks. Now, Otis had been able to withstand the blow and felt the lack of damage his training partner had been able to cause. It was almost like the inertia of the blow dissipated around the shield instead of blasting straight through. It took sheer willpower to forget the red, white, and blue shield of a particular comic book character but it felt good to have a poor man's imitation of the shielded crusader.
Not only was he now able to defend himself better but he had a way to level the playing field. Thinking back to some of the older RPG's he had played he envisioned fireballs dispersing harmlessly around his shield. Any mage that followed a path like Tiera, Mooch, or Tarot, wouldn't be able to take potshots or target him with impunity. Walking towards a ranged opponent without them being able to touch him felt good.
"You know how creepy that looks right," Zlatan said snapping Otis out of his thoughts.
Realising his own potential, a smile had spread across his face, as he stared into space. Already so much stronger than he was before, the looming inevitability of reaching level 3 sent chills running through the late bloomer. He didn't appear to be there yet but it had to be soon. Although he didn't want to think about it, his next bout would be on him all too soon. Still, he couldn't bear to look at the leaderboard. It felt like a death sentence, his name still in last place.
"You can be odd on your own 'O', I need another lie down after all this abuse," Zlatan winked.
Despite Zlatan's departure, Otis didn't move. After very little progress, he now felt like he was on the brink of something more.
Sitting down, on the dirt floor, Otis let his mind wander. Since his time at The Veil, he hadn't taken the time to consider his Path. Important though it might be, survival was still Otis' first port of call. His first foray had felt like a path of awakening but he had grown so much more. Before he had considered himself a metallurgist but he had expanded his repertoire. Whilst he hadn't had the same instinctual call to other materials he had long since used them to support his growing horde of creation.
As Otis thought back to the intricate sculpture of a blacksmith, his hammer raised overhead to strike an invisible anvil, the depiction felt different now. Neurons fired and images flicked in his mind's eye. He thought of the automaton. Once again the similarities between his own organic structures and machincal inventions held a similarity he couldn't shake.
'It's in the statue,' Otis thought.
Sinking ever deeper into thought, the blossoming mage fixated on the imagery. Even now, the automaton was so above something he could conceivably defeat it was laughable. There would be a day he could create such a construct but only now did Otis envision doing so. Understanding his talents the way he did, the automaton was truly awesome in the traditional sense of the word but it also felt... heartless. Compared to the struggle of those in the arena, it didn't feel whole. Even if the automaton was perfect, the thought of that being the source of his strength felt incomplete, hollow.
Constantly his thoughts restlessly bubbled, different Paths all calling out to him. He thought of weaponry; tracking the evolution of Earth's history of warfare gunfire and missiles might be an aspect in the far-flung future. He thought of knights, like The Veil and of times gone by. As he progressed would he don the armour? Would he one day sit in a powerful mech? If he even managed to escape could he ever imagine risking his life again? Briefly, Otis even considered the horrifying amalgamation of flesh and metal he could certainly become.
Rippling thoughts gave way to the sculpture time and time again. The more he pictured the sculpture, the more the implicit anvil changed. As Otis envisioned thin net of the metal weave the more he saw the striking arm as more than a simple strike but a downward attack.
For each of his preliminary tests, he had experimented using the mana shielding on his shield, the leather armour, the carefully shaped metal plates, and even his helmet. All of them had some increase in their ability to absorb damage and disperse the power of incoming attacks.
Opening his eyes, Otis' gaze landed on the bronze flecks within his war hammer.
Channelling the mana through his weapon, he felt its weight. He felt the chill of the metal in his palms. Moving over to the discarded shield on the ground, Otis felt his blood sizzle with longing. Shivers ran down his arms as he loomed over the dull surface of the shield. Flexing his hands, he prepared for the inevitable pain of failure but knew it wouldn't come.
THOOOM
As the head of the war hammer collided with the shield, Otis only felt the perfect transfer of his strength along the hammer. Albeit still present, the shocks of pain that ought to have crippled his hands never came. The reverberations that ran through the weapon were still there but significantly dulled. Now, if he struck armour or strong chitin the agony of the energy transfer could be reduced. He felt like a lion given wings. It wasn't a substitute for bad technique but suddenly it felt like everything was coming together. It was still faint but his belief that he might actually make it out of Fortune's Favour ticked up another notch.
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Bedbound and sore, Mooch peered out from the dark of his shack. Propped up by a makeshift pillow he was able to see a little of the outside world. Having woken from another nightmare, he stared at Otis from the confines of his room. They'd faced three waves of constant fighting and three sets of battles against more advanced constructs. After the pale wolf construct made out of limbs, came a serpent and an arachnid, each more morose than the last. It was all he could think about now. The twisted bodies of the pale constructs. Who were they? Their bodies stolen and mutilated, they were enslaved till their "necro-curator" saw them without use.
'Were they the fallen slaves from Fortune's Favour?' was the thought that ran through his head.
Trying to ease his thoughts, Mooch brought a hand to the dry scabbed blood across his head. It had begun to itch as soon as he awoke from his nightmares. He couldn't remember the blow he'd taken to the head but it hadn't stopped ringing since he had scrambled to his feet. He was covered in wounds, covered in a hot itch that he forced himself not to scratch.
Framed by the thundering of their own heartbeats in their heads, the ensuing silence had been jarring. Only the sudden strained screaming of the overlord heralding their incredible victory had been worse and judging by the strained tones Team Rictus hadn't been the intended victor.
They had been set up. They had been set against ridiculous odds that they weren't expected to overcome. They had almost died... and it was all because of him; because of Otis.