Few feelings could top flying through the air. Well, on a vehicle flying through the air, as doing so from being swatted by something giant in size quickly grew old. And on this particular outing, the various anti-air spells screaming their way up to meet him put a damper on the whole affair. A dozen transport craft or critters were on their way to rescue a pair of wayward dragons, and Bellwright Muddlespoon mentally offered a prayer or two that their three fighter escorts would be enough to help them punch through the blockade.

Alterez had insisted on coming along. The goblin had no mustache, hair, or even a fancy hat, so hopefully his combat prowess would serve better than his questionable taste in fashion. At least he could cook, and those secret potlucks of his were all the rage of the poorest kept secret in camp. Even the extra secret and exclusive potlucks offered exceptional delights for the palate, and such delicacies had endeared Alterez to Bellwright, unlike the flak, which had hit the left arcanite engine, unlike Alterez, who thankfully remained buckled in his seat and had not been flung off the vessel and into the air intake of the engine. At least that much was going right, for a friend or two had gone through the engine in the past with most disastrous outcomes for the experience. Friends can be replaced, but engines are not cheap.

Losing altitude, Bellwright utilized [Emergency Repairs] in a hope-filled venture to stabilize his descent. At least some sort of goose-necked griffon-creature had swooped in the way of another barrage, seemingly taking the hits in the chest with nothing to show for it but a litany of angry honks and three equally surly dwarven riders throwing hammers in retaliation. Their timely intervention bought enough reprieve to get the engine back in working order. While his poor summoned craft would not be gaining altitude any time soon, at least it would not crash, which was a marked improvement.

Two of the twelve craft in the vanguard of the relief force had careened accurately towards the earth, their methods of propulsion and lift so thoroughly compromised that success at crashing was all but guaranteed. The occupants would surely survive the crash, assuming the flak did not kill them, for everyone assigned to air patrol had to have some Ability to do so and had to be certified in crash landings.

With throttle full ahead and engines screaming, Bellwright steered them through the gauntlet of explosions and shrapnel to within appropriate bombing range of the enemy below. Readying a large seed pod he had been channeling mana into, Bellwright casually chucked it through a little hatch he opened in the floor. A dozen seconds later, a colossal patch of briars ripped their way into existence, entangling and poisoning anyone caught in their gluttonous embrace. Large flowers bloomed at the top of the briars, each one probably twenty feet across and sporting a motley collection of colors. Quite pretty, if memory served, but being directly over them, Bellwright could not see the glory of his handiwork. Not one to say correlation equated to causation, the briar patch did coincide with an almost complete cessation of flak, so that was a good sign.

Though he could just barely make it out visually, from the perspective of magic the fight ahead shined like a beacon. Some sort of tear in the fabric of reality had appeared in the sky, with a small speck falling out of it. Whatever it was, it radiated some spark of divinity, so Bellwright contemplated easing off the throttle until that resolved itself. Perhaps The Bossman had everything under control and haste would make waste. Fortuitously, about a minute later, the speck zoomed up to the sky, and the sky repaired itself. A few beads of sweat sprouted on his brow, but his aviator hat collected them instantly, so no one would be any the wiser as to his apprehension in getting tangled up with divine powers.

Looking around, only four other fliers could be seen. The rest had either engaged the enemy or received an irresistible invitation to sample the local flora and geology at inadvisable speeds. There were perhaps twenty individuals between them that could reasonably assist in the duel between dragons up ahead. All signs of dragon hunters remained elusive. Well, given the unmoving and prone figures ahead, there were plenty of dead or incapacitated dragon hunters, but there were perhaps one or two still standing.

As they approached, Bellwright’s eyes widened in disbelief. Though he looked upon the scene with [Enhanced Optics], he could clearly see hundreds of bodies on the ground. Reports estimated only about four dozen kobolds had left with The Bossman, and given his usual entourage, even if all of them had perished, that still easily left another 300 dead dragon hunters visible in the distance. Given the swampy terrain, surely more of the dead found themselves sucked into the mud, hidden away from the world and last rites. That The Bossman still lived ventured into the realm of miracles, for no one could take on that many dragon hunters with such a small escort. A glance to Alterez, equally wide of eye, suggested that the assessment of the situation reached a consensus.

With eyes peeled, Bellwright continued his advance towards the only fight left, the duel between a large red dragon and a smaller gold dragon, the latter of which was The Bossman. Even at top speed, the fliers were four or five minutes away from effective range to assist, another minute after that to be in the fray. And that was not just blind speculation, for they had trained every three days for months on end for just this sort of rescue mission.

With his finger idly caressing the switch for [Turbo Boost], Bellwright did his best to hurry up and wait. The engines would be inoperable once the effect wore off, so that last burst of speed would be used just before their landing as he unsummoned the craft. The timing would have to be correct to ensure they arrived as quickly as possible, and so nothing more could be done to prepare than to sit idly until the moment arrived. Ready for the fight, and oddly enough, eager to test his mettle against a dragon, Bellwright continued onward to the hottest piece of gossip of the decade. Slap a coat or two of embellishment on the occasion, and he would be the talk of the gnomish community for years to come.

----------------------------------------

I would like to say that the fight was going well for me. In truth, my hours of training had instilled the discipline needed to resist panicking. I’m not sure of the context, but the phrase “button mashing” crept into my mind as a gambit to resolve the situation. However, no tawdry tactic would suffice in this particular predicament. At least auspicious circumstances had developed that my most powerful and secretive of traps was no longer needed to deal with that powerhouse of an orc. Sadly, it remained a good distance away, and given that it moved slowly, it would be a hot minute until it moseyed its way over here. The real question involved whether or not I would be alive or at least conscious by the time it arrived.

My plan involved using the first two sneaky traps as bait while I slowly withdrew in the direction of Skull. I would need to control my countenance to look satisfactorily victorious when I detonated them, then dismayed when I saw that he remained unharmed. That would goad him into doing whatever attack he has been saving up this whole time. With luck, his guard would be down and the hidden third trap would be his demise. The other countless and partially sneaky traps would serve as chaff at the start of the whole thing, but they were just there to make him think that I think my first two sneaky traps are oh so sneaky, so I did not consider them to be of much consequence for inflicting any real damage. At least, I had a gut feeling that he had a big attack that he was preparing, but that could just be one of the various and painful spears that impaled my belly.

Exhaustion loomed at the edges of my mind, inviting me to let go, to surrender, and to embrace the sweet release of oblivion. Instinct screamed at me to fight until my last breath, and then afterwards, to find a way to keep fighting while dead. The din of their argument left my mind feeling foggy, with any sort of advanced calculations being beyond my means. Stalwart in purpose, I pressed on. I think I am on my fourth or fifth rotation of working my way through the elements so that I could unleash a powerful version of [School’s Out], which required that I combo as many elements of magic I could in succession without repetition. Sadly, while it had been enough to win me the fight against Count Vladislav, it did not hand me victory at this juncture. I did not have much else in the way of tricks up my proverbial sleeve, so all I could do was bide my time for those fliers I see in the distance or end the fight decisively with my traps.

I would not say my opponent, who had failed to introduce himself, was a one-trick pony, but he did favor Blood magic. I had shored up my weaknesses to it as best I could after the fight with the Count on the prospect that his flight would seek vengeance against me. Ergo, while he could not interact with my blood to cripple me, he could still use his own just fine to send knives and spears of blood at me or entangle and whip me with tendrils of the same.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I began my withdrawal, complete with a planned air of desperation at my plight as I retreated towards my third trap, which as of yet had accumulated plenty of power, but it lacked the final contribution of any particular payload. Sensing my “weakness”, or perhaps legitimate weakness, my opponent pressed the attack, harrying me the whole time I withdrew, making it quite clear that I would not be able to simply turn and run without being cut down.

For the first time in a long while, I actually found that my fatigue was merely of physical and mental proportions, for my mana reserves were ample enough. All those months of constant mining, hauling, building, and training had garnered finer mana control on a practical level, as well as a few Skills I manually unlocked and [Deeds] earned to that effect. I also possessed more discipline to use a simple swipe of my claws or a good chomp with my teeth to dispatch threats instead of using Abilities powered by mana. And while an ocean of power dwelled within me, only a trickle could be used to heal my wounds due to the pesky anti-regeneration of the dragon hunters. Ergo, wounds piled up and compounded with fatigue to make the situation untenable.

With my retreat in effect, my opponent continued after me, with a few errant dragon hunters nipping at both of us. Those opportunistic vermin had been scampering about incessantly, although It-Has-Pockets had whittled away at most of them that pestered me. The only remaining threats on that front came in the form of an elusive [Archer] and one slow but determined dwarf clad in enough armor to feed a colony of metal-eating mites for weeks. I think I stomped on him once, but he just popped out of the mud like a cork stuck in the spout of a hot kettle and continued unerringly trodding along after It-Has-Pockets, which appeared to disturb her and cause no small amount of distress. A stalwart little bugger, perhaps I could make use of him.

Tendrils of blood, this time tinged with Lightning magic, lashed at me, but a quick deployment of Nature magic caused the marsh grasses to swell and grow quickly to intercept them. A specter of my opponent’s form, made entirely out of blood, lunged towards me with eager claws and ravenous mouth ready to find purchase on my exposed flesh, but I tactically deployed Water magic to have the swamp water rise up and crash into the specter, which caused it to impotently dissipate into the water. In the same motion, I froze the wall into a spike of ice and hurled it at him, which he blocked with his wings. While so distracted, and his vision obfuscated by both his wings and the ice, I immediately followed up with a breath attack of Poison magic. With his wings forward to block, he would not be able to effectively buffet away the poisonous mist heading his way via a quick flap of his wings.

Nasty sores sprouted across his body wherever the poison touched. He roared in pain and anger, and he took a step back to recover and get some distance. Unfortunately, he had some fancy [Antidote] skill, for his flesh soon mended and cast off disgusting globs of pestilent-infused ichor. Still, that had to cost him more mana to fix than it did for me to inflict the wound, so I continued to peel the onion as I used his temporary withdrawal to likewise retreat. I managed to get perhaps 50 feet before he assaulted me once again with renewed vigor and increased tempo in the timing of his attacks.

I could block or dodge most of them, for I rarely remained in one spot for more than a moment before darting one way or the other. However, some still landed, and though I gave as good as I got, I started the fight wounded while he started fresh, and it showed. At times, he seemed to purposely take hits he could have blocked, and I suspected some manner of nasty riposte would be coming my way eventually. Perhaps he wanted to lure me into overconfidence. Well, two can play that game, for I was luring him into a trap. My third trap was almost in range, and so the finale of our encounter would commence imminently.

I willed my somewhat sneaky traps into position, the ones he would surely detect. I positioned them in a rectangular box between him and me. I did my best to bait him in by appearing less than confident about our recent exchanges. He almost walked into it, and at the last second, with a smug look on his face, lashed out with tendrils of blood to stab each of them and rupture their spell matrices. They failed to detonate, which was certainly expected, but I had a different purpose in mind for them, which made them surprise tools that would help me later. I could still deploy their stored-up mana for another tactic even if they could no longer detonate.

Confident, he stalked forward as I moved my first super sneaky trap into position. I gave my best look of dismay as he foiled my “master plan” that I had been working on. Then I let a sly grin escape my control as I tried to detonate the trap. With a stomp of his left forelimb, he crushed it before I could trigger it.

“Aw, did I just foil your trap? And to think you went to all this effort for me, I simply must repay your hospitality,” he taunted as he performed a mock-bow in a genteel fashion.

Good, a short monologue. Sneakier trap two go! And the poor bugger was stomped flat by the other forelimb before it could detonate.

“Really, another trap? Don’t you think they are little passé by now? That may be a big word for you, it means ‘no longer fashionable’,” he goaded as he took another step forward into my failed trap rectangle.

I glanced around, my eyes looking for any means of recovery or escape, my breath growing rapid with fear. At least, that was what I aimed to sell, and given that my customer was eager to buy, hopefully he would not look too closely at the label and observe that what I offered was a cheap knockoff of the real deal. Also, he hopefully would not notice that I had neared the end of another element combo. Time would tell, and the time for telling would be in a few heartbeats. Hopefully, they will not be my last.

----------------------------------------

Such insolence! Such arrogance! This upstart whelp must be punished! To think that I, Margrave Conrad, would fall prey to such an obvious series of traps. He is four centuries too young to get the drop on me. And see how he panics now that his traps have failed. He has no allies here to help him, except for perhaps that slip of a troll, but she is currently busy leading a dwarf by the nose. He knows he cannot turn and run, for I would kill him the moment he does. The Emperor likewise knows that he cannot defeat me in a straight fight. His fate is as good as sealed, but just to be certain, a little payback is in order.

Either through luck or foresight, he never tried to land a decisive blow, and so I never had the opportunity to use [Blood Feud] as intended. However, with [Poikilo Plasma], I had been slowly storing his small hits against me to fuel my retaliation. Not as efficient, and certainly more taxing upon my body, but such strategies are what have been the difference between life and death in that past. I had left [Blood Rush] idling at only a marginal increase to speed of body and thought, for somehow he had been not only matching but exceeding the benefit it provided me. Perhaps a correctly timed burst would surprise him. Only one way to find out.

Activating [Blood Rush] to full power, I raised my right hand, palm facing the Emperor, and unleashed [Blood Feud]. A beam of raw Blood magic as big around as my palm shot towards him. Impossibly quick, he raised his own arm to block, but it would be too little too late. Predictably, it blew his arm off, but unfortunately, it did not exsanguinate him or otherwise punch a hole into him.

“Impossible!” I roared in protest of yet another counter to my attacks as I rushed in to finish this in melee combat. Down an arm, he would be at a serious disadvantage.

And as I rushed in, a few details caught my eye. The first was the glint of metal in the hand of the severed arm of the Emperor as it spun through the air away from him. The second was a lack of that dwarf chasing the troll. The third was the glow of the deactivated traps, their mana being used for something even though they could no longer detonate in any violent working of magic. The fourth, and perhaps most concerning discovery, was that my body felt heavy, as if gravity had increased thrice over. That underhanded tactic prevented me from eluding the fifth and sixth discoveries, which included the ground breaking under my feet as I fell into a deep pit with a very large and powerful trap in the process of detonating beneath me. With [Blood Feud] expended, I could not use it again so soon, and with no way out, I plummeted to my doom.

Though I tried to cling to the walls to escape, I found insufficient purchase as the Emperor landed on top of my back and grappled me. The pair of us descended into the exploding trap, with him no doubt being immune to whatever payload it would unleash.

“Curse you, foul Emperor!”

Well, at least I got the last word. I would probably not survive this, but surely my children would pay the [Blood Price] to afford my resurrection. For I am Margrave Conrad, and though I would know defeat this day, my legacy would not end with this paltry death. The Emperor may have gotten the drop on me this time, but I would return twice as strong to finish him and claim my rightful place.

White light. Blinding. And from it, shadow. No, not just shadow, but Shadow, pure and powerful, an unadulterated connection to the Plane of Shadow. And then, the oblivion of The Void as I died my second death of this life. It should only be a minute or two in The Void, regardless of real time, before I revive. And yet, it has been hours, weeks, years. But, but, I am Margrave Conrad! To end… like this?