image [https://i.imgur.com/Fu2YCxo.jpg]

While Jasper and I headed north, I evaluated the terrain. The butte’s rock cap eroded to thin topsoil, only fertile enough to produce browning pines and emaciated deciduous trees. Even on this unfamiliar ground, exposed roots posed no problem to my mount. The path was as flat as the round pen where I’d first learned how to ride in Grayton.

We rode quickly, passing a considerable number of ruins. Cloud cover prevented the pink sun from making hard shadows, and a cool breeze drifted from the west. It made for a pleasant morning trot.

The route felt less like leaving a town but moving into a district abandoned for centuries. Outlines of ancient foundations showed Oxum to be a shadow of its former self, a settlement in the process of being reclaimed by nature.

In a short while, we stood over a precipice overlooking a five-story drop to a plateau elevated barely above the aerocline.

Scattered ruins pockmarked the tier. One predominant structure remained intact. Even from above, it dominated the space like a foreboding monument, defiant to atrophy itself.

It had to be the dungeon.

The architecture sprawled like a tumor, a fusion of styles and engineering from bygone eras. The newest masonry incorporated brutal fortifications, encasing more elegant designs in stony armor. Heavily barred or bricked-up windows perforated its shell.

The complex overlooked the aerocline, which rose almost to its foundation, ever-threatening to choke the grounds with death-inducing vapor. During the aerocline’s high season, fog likely swamped the lower tier.

More delicate features like pillars, balustrades, and balconies humanized the inner architecture. Courtyards and cloisters aired out the layout, giving credence that civilized people once walked here.

A central dome axled the outer structures emanated from it, looking like the monastery’s oldest building. The rotunda’s roof, a blackened maw of timber and masonry, gaped at the gray sky like a corpse—unburied, unmourned, and forgotten. It seemed impossible to imagine that this decrepit vestige once stood alone. The values and way of life of its builders had no more influence than the mesa’s upper strata, which had long since eroded and washed away.

Pulling out my Eagle Eyes, I searched for entrances and spotted none. The walls ringing the fortress stood intact, and the doors to the front entrance appeared barred and closed. A courtyard on the far side bordered the outer wall, whose twin towers hinted at a gatehouse.

If I could infiltrate without using Hot Air to surmount the walls, I would. I needed to conserve every daily cooldown at my disposal. With my Eagle Eyes, I scanned the area for Toadkiller or Duchess. I couldn’t see their nameplates from this distance, but if either had glowing weapons or colorful clothes, they’d stand out from the gloomy scenery. Even though I felt I’d reached Oxum before them, one could never be sure about such things.

I didn’t see any players, but zombies ambled about. Most wore heavy clothes in various states of unravel, similar to the garb worn by villagers. Others wore rags.

More troubling than knowing the villagers had abandoned their people to this pit were the visible efforts that they’d made to care for them. Yellowed bandages covered their extremities. The gauze wrapping their arms and legs dragged along the ground or hung like gossamer drapes.

While charting the best approach to the secondary gatehouse, I spotted only a dozen zombies wandering the open. But pine trees grew thick enough to form a canopy and their foliage obscured much of the ground.

A platform beside me overlooked the lower tier. Upon it stood a crane using a wheel and pulley system that lowered a large basket to the grounds below. The heavy wooden timber of the platform looked sturdy and functional, but without another person to operate the device, jumping down and landing on a Slipstream seemed the only way down. As far as returning, whoever designed this place took care to smooth out the cliffs, preventing anyone below from climbing out. Luckily, the sheer dropdown meant I could escape using Hot Air—giving me another reason to reserve it.

To be safe, I lowered the basket anyway, giving me the option to climb out. Redundancy was, by definition, inefficient, but having a backup plan reduced the risk of uncertainty. The crane’s counterweight kept pulling the basket back up, but I locked it into position using a heavy branch.

Enough bushes, ruins, and trees blocked my sight to obscure the number of zombies that awaited below. Oxum had lost tens of thousands over the centuries, but I couldn’t believe that many monsters dwelled below. The bughouse was big, but not that big. Zombies ought to be weak—assuming I could handle them in small groups.

The ones below looked thinner than the fungal varieties Fabulosa, and I fought in the temple. No druid attended to these. If they were once citizens, their levels ought to be in the low single digits. I should be able to one-shot them with Gladius.

No zombies lingered around the platform, so I let Jasper free. The upper level looked safe enough for him to graze, and I could resummon him if he wandered off.

After buffing with Heavenly Favor, I dove off, landing neatly with a perfunctory Slipstream.

No cries of aggro clamored in the distance at my intrusion. I expected only light resistance but waited for Slipstream to reset before scouting the area. Garden variety zombies were weak but flocked in great numbers that killing them wasn’t always worth the time or effort. Mobility was key. As long as I had Hot Air and could avoid being Grappled, I had a way out.

Darkstep advised me to use Mineral Communion to bypass Toadkiller’s traps. With a 28 rank in nature magic, I had over two hours of the spell to burn. As much as I’d like to peek into this building’s past, I wasn’t about to waste a minute on its exterior. Knowing me, I’d gawk at all its former glory, only to be beset by a zombie horde. I moved from one clump of trees to another, keeping close to the pines, which significantly blocked visibility.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A zombie beneath a tree stood dormant until it spotted me. Darkstep’s letter claimed that Toadkiller and the players he’d grouped with had cleared the dungeon, so this one counted as a straggler. Bandages swathed the creature’s head, blinding it. A dried, dark stain spread across its nose region. Its covered features reminded me of Duchess, but its sudden aggro and quick speed gave little time to ponder its origin.

Name

Oxum Zombie

Level

4

Difficulty

Trivial (gray)

Health

42/42

Popping it with a Scorch didn’t put me in a state of combat—the engagement started and ended with a puff of flame. I listened, but no fellow zombies arrived to investigate. The speed at which that zombie moved would complicate encounters against large numbers. If they moved faster than I could kill them, I would undoubtedly get bitten.

Bircht asserted zombie bites turned players undead but didn’t crack player cores or knock contestants out of the contest. However, losing half my levels seemed too high a price to test his claim.

I crept from grove to grove toward the monastery’s far side. No trees grew near the walls, so I avoided open areas.

From a lower perspective, the sanctuary walls imposed a more threatening presence. Seeing it from this angle helped me understand why an ignorant mob had tried to burn down the bughouse. It looked like a prison more than a holy place.

This wasn’t a high fantasy dungeon—it was the site of a tragic misunderstanding.

Another zombie approached me on my way to the gatehouse, and I dispatched it with a swing of my sword.

The rocky soil near the walls prevented Dig from letting me tunnel underneath. The wall’s placement wasn’t accidental. Although the hard ground prevented easy entrance, the castle-builder in me respected the architect for choosing the site.

The gatehouse looked as secure as Hawkhurst’s. Two towers jutted from the monastery wall, sandwiching between them a solid wooden portcullis. Though its weathered exterior looked old, the reinforced door looked thick.

Slipstream showed no open cracks or open arrow slits. Unless I wanted to use my robe to activate it twice, I couldn’t go over or through the wall, tower, or door.

Luckily, doors weren’t a problem for a person with my powers. I’d studied barbican blueprints enough to know that a door this heavy worked with counterweights and that the lever activating them would be nearby. By following the chains holding up the door, I traced the counterweight to the left tower.

Using the Magnetize interface, I reached through the wall and studied the room’s contents. Using Magnetize through a wall as thick as this required committed focus. The wall used gravel and earth between two curtains of stone. Cracks spider-webbed throughout the tower, and the wall bowed outward under the pressure.

The chains operating the portcullis counterweights were iron and highly magnetic, so my Magnetize’s interface picked it up through the walls. By adjusting my depth of field, I isolated the lever holding the counterweight in place.

Judging by the portcullis, the wood operating the mechanism should also be warped and fragile.

I didn’t want to burn my daily use of Mineral Mutation if I could help it, and Move Object was too weak to budge anything of this size.

Releasing the counterweight could raise the door, but destroying the mechanism might lower it forever. Blind-firing Earthquake into the tower wasn’t the best course of action. It seemed overkill, and this dilapidated place could easily make the spell backfire.

Besides, it would make too much noise.

I pulled out my trident and jabbed it at the door, making a thud so dull I could barely hear it. Though it caused no visible damage, a progress bar appeared, showing 334/350 structure points. A second hit brought it to 333.

I sighed with resignation and repeatedly pummeled it. Targeting the portcullis left the gatehouse intact, and my efforts produced no collateral damage beyond making a fine bloom of dust that a breeze gently swept away.

When the portcullis reached 0/350, the door shattered, broke from its chains, fell to the ground, and flopped outward. After landing the final blow, I’d already run to the side, keeping myself from the collateral damage list.

Like gas escaping a pressurized chamber, hundreds of zombies exploded out of the interior courtyard and through the front gate. Some pushed those in front of them—most moved on their own accord. The air droned with groans, growls, and wheezes.

A river of zombies poured from the gatehouse, swamping me on all sides, causing the dreaded Grappled icon to appear in my peripheral vision.

I never figured out a reliable method for detecting oncoming Grapples. Heavy equipment and armor made it hard to know when something had a hold on me. Time dilation features, like Slipstream’s interface, could detect oncoming Grapples, but breaking the flow of action interrupted my concentration, and it risked tripping me up while running or performing combat maneuvers.

After pouring 200 mana into Mana Shield, I opened my interface to pause the game. The surge of bodies pressing against the protective bubble caused many of their neighbors to miss. The ones who’d hit did so for only a few points of damage—but multiplied by dozens of times, chunks of mana seeped from my reserves. Pouring another 100 mana into the Mana Shield bought me enough time to perform the only maneuver that could wrest from the predicament—Whirl.

The combat log rained in messages of defeated zombies, but I didn’t waste time looking. Unless I wanted to use my robe to reset Whirl’s cooldown, or spend my last power point to purchase and use Rally, I needed to flee.

Rally gave an area heal that would clear a swath of undead as weak as these zombies, but Whirl had only killed about 50. At least a thousand remained, and Rally’s range wasn’t significant enough to reach all of them.

The zombies had Grappled me quickly, so I couldn’t take a chance of letting them reach me again. I directed Gladius to the thinnest ring of undead and triggered a Compression Sphere. Unlike my spell, Gladius triggered it immediately, bowling over a path wide enough for me to slip through and run.

I fled toward the groves, hoping to lose them in the evergreens, but these zombies were too fast and single-minded in their pursuit. I could Slipstream up a tree, but none looked strong enough to withstand a wave of attacking undead. Judging by their agile movements, it wouldn’t surprise me if the zombies could climb, which ruled out making me stand atop another ruin.

This wasn’t a lazy train of monsters that I could indefinitely lead around.

In my effort to escape, I’d fled from one place where I’d be safe—atop the monastery‘s walls. I might have used Hot Air to raise myself there, but even that plan raised doubts. Hot Air levitated me one yard per second, but my pursuers sprinted at such a rate they’d reach my legs within that time.

I stowed Gladius Cognitus into my inventory to increase my speed.

Darkstep had been wrong about something—Toadkiller had missed a spot in his dungeon clear.