The Hellbog was every bit as miserable as its name suggested. The thick, murky swamp water clung to our boots, each step accompanied by a sickening squelch. The air was heavy with the foul stench of sulfur, mingling with the sharper, more pungent smell of brimstone. The deeper we waded, the stronger the odor became, as if the mire itself was trying to drive us away.

Snakes and other creatures slithered around our ankles, their cold, slick bodies brushing against our skin. We could have fought them for a bit of meager experience, but the real goal lay ahead. The Dracolich awaited us in the heart of this suffocating swamp, and every second spent here sapped our strength.

Comedian, our mercenary guide, seemed to be enjoying himself at our expense. He laughed as Sly struggled to navigate the treacherous terrain, his ability to sneak ahead and get the drop on targets hindered by the Hellbog’s dense undergrowth. For an assassin like Sly, sticking to the shadows was essential, but this swamp seemed to have shadows of its own, hiding fierce creatures that ambushed us at every turn.

Plur’s skepticism hadn’t waned since we first met Comedian. He led us with reckless abandon, hacking through razorvines and thick foliage without a second thought. He knew the way, that much was clear, but he treated our careful, uncertain steps as a burden.

“Are you ladies ready? It’s time to rock and roll!” Comedian’s voice rang out, dripping with mock enthusiasm.

Before we had a chance to respond, an alarm blared. It was the same chilling sound that had summoned Hellfex in the Drakhold. My heart sank, expecting another demon, but instead, the swamp erupted in a boiling roil. From the black muck, a ferocious ancient hydra rose, its massive form towering over us.

“Strike the body, not the heads!” Comedian shouted, already in motion.

He was clearly an expert here, and we obeyed, focusing our attacks on the hydra’s colossal body. Sly darted in, his glass dagger slicing through the creature’s scaled hide with precision. But the hydra was enormous, with four powerful legs and a dozen thrashing heads, each one snapping and snarling.

Sly’s dagger shattered mid-strike, the blade crumbling into useless shards. It wasn’t uncommon for his weapons to break, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.

“You have to be kidding!” Comedian scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. “I didn’t know you guys were such noobs. I figured you could handle one ancient hydra, but I guess I was wrong.”

“At least the chick gets it,” he added, spinning gracefully between the hydra’s snapping jaws, almost as if he was toying with it.

Sly, frustrated by Comedian’s taunts, fumbled through his bags for a replacement weapon. But before he could rearm himself, one of the hydra’s heads lashed out, striking him hard and sending him reeling.

“Protect him!” Plur’s voice was frantic, her panic seeping into her words.

She was right. Sly was hurt, badly. Comedian, despite his expertise, wasn’t holding aggro—he was too focused on his own attacks to protect us. He was supposed to be our tank, but he was fighting like a solo player, prioritizing his survival over ours.

I felt a surge of frustration. “Comedian!” I shouted. “You have to tank for us!”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

He barely glanced at me, busy fending off two of the hydra’s heads on his own. “If you lame kids can’t handle your shit, it’s not my fault. Hit harder!”

His words felt like a challenge. Gritting my teeth, I dove between Sly and the many-headed creature, determined to prove him wrong. My hands moved with unnatural speed, my black dragon rapier and the Daggermortis a blur as I unleashed a flurry of attacks.

CRITICAL HIT!

CRITICAL HIT!

CRITICAL HIT!

CRITICAL HIT!

The hydra’s heads thrashed wildly, each strike from my blades drawing out agonized roars. The creature was staggering, its colossal body giving out under the relentless assault. I could feel the Daggermortis’ hunger, its insatiable desire for more, and it echoed in my own mind, amplified by my Synapticgear headset. I wanted to feed it. I wanted to feed us.

With one final, furious strike, the hydra collapsed into the muck, its body sending a wave of putrid swamp water over us. It was dead, but the hunger still gnawed at me, insistent and unyielding.

Comedian slapped me on the back, his grin wide. “Impressive! Very impressive!” He circled around me, his eyes fixed on the dagger in my hand. “So, how do you do that?”

“It’s nothing,” I muttered, trying to downplay it. I didn’t want him knowing too much about the Daggermortis. The fewer people who knew about its power, the better.

Comedian shrugged, walking back toward the path, but he kept glancing back at me, his curiosity palpable. I didn’t like the way he looked at it—or at me. The dagger was mine, and mine alone. Its hunger was my secret, and I wasn’t about to share it.

“Come on, girly! Get it together!” Comedian shouted, breaking my thoughts.

We dispatched another encounter from the Hellbog, a group of grotesque, slavering bandits. Even the roads weren’t safe here.

Plur’s face was a mask of frustration, her frown deepening with every word from Comedian’s mouth. The bandits that had ambushed us weren’t particularly challenging, but they had landed a few hits on both her and Sly. Again, Comedian had failed to draw their attention, letting us take the brunt of the damage, and forcing us to use our limited supply of healing potions.

Normally, a good tank would draw aggro, absorbing the hits for the team. But Comedian seemed more interested in protecting himself than us. I started to wonder if he was doing this on purpose.

Plur’s patience snapped. “If you did your job,” she shouted, “I wouldn’t be getting hit!”

Comedian didn’t even flinch. His grin only widened, his eyes sparkling with a kind of twisted amusement. “If you weren’t all so terrible at your classes, I wouldn’t need to babysit you!”

His words stung, and I felt the frustration building within our team. But there was something else—a realization that made my blood run cold. Comedian wasn’t just being reckless or arrogant, he was actively undermining us.

I watched the way he moved, noting every calculated risk he took, the way he seemed to push us into situations where we had no choice but to burn through our resources. Healing potions were running low, and most of our daily skills had already been used up. It was as if he was draining us dry, wearing us down with every encounter.

And then it hit me. Comedian wasn’t just a careless leader—he was setting us up. His armor, his evasive fighting style, the way he let us take the hits—all of it was designed to weaken us, to strip us of our defenses. He wasn’t interested in helping us defeat the Dracolich. He was using us, pushing us closer and closer to the brink, while keeping himself just out of reach.

My eyes flicked to his gear again. That strange mix of equipment, the odd resistances—it wasn’t for tanking or high-level PvE. No, this was something different, something darker. It was all starting to make sense now. His gear wasn’t optimized for raids or boss fights. It was built for ambushes, for quick escapes, for turning the tables on unsuspecting allies. A precision assortment of magic resists and physical damage mitigation. This wasn’t the setup of a raid leader—it was the gear of a player killer.

Comedian wasn’t just playing the game—he was playing us.