Four Kobolds. Ryan stabbed the first, slammed the second into the wall, and reached back to throw his javelin and impaled the third.
The fourth fled just ahead, but when its ally crashed into the mud it had trodden on, it gave way and revealed a bed of twigs. A pitfall trap. Strong enough to hold tiny Kobolds but not people?
He took a few steps back and gave chase before it could sound the alarm. The area was in chaos, like a kicked anthill, and Kobolds ran through the walls to organize and ambush his allies. He wanted to slip through the confusion and cut off their head, but he had to get there first.
He planted a foot on the wall as he pushed on [Enhanced Traction]. Strong steps, his weight against the stone, but not so much he stayed too long; back straight and posture up, but not so far the angle threatened his ankles or the grip of his feet—everything to preserve momentum.
He ran four steps along the damp wall over the pit and caught a glimpse of wooden spikes in the darkness, then crashed onto the escaped Kobold and used his dagger to cut it down.
The smoke dispersed as he stood, snuck to the corner, and glanced left and right for reinforcement. The coast was clear.
They had just ‘appeared’, suddenly loud in his ears after they’d stepped out from their wall, and Ryan had adjusted his course. They must have come from somewhere nearby, using secret ways and tricks like the false floor to get around quicker than climbers near their camp.
So where were those ways?
First things first.
He went back and knelt in the mud to yank his spear out of the dying Kobold. He had to lean in to reach it and the mud clung to him. It was the first time he’d gotten wet from an outside source in here. A subtle reminder he had broken his promise, but it was almost soothing.
Another thrust finished the Kobold off, but the other lay too far away on the other side of the pit, still and dying.
Good enough.
He headed back to the intersection and used his dagger to start tapping on the walls, listening for hollow spaces but … this would take too long. He was on a time limit here.
Was there another way forward? He checked his mental image of the maps for the area but wasn’t sure.
There were three to five ways into the camp proper, the scouts had speculated, but at least one of those was a definite no-go because the stone there had been weakened in preparation for a collapse—the eastern route, where some of the railroads had still survived. The Kobolds used them to transport rocks but would bring the ceiling down on anyone else.
Micah’s group was headed for the second entrance along a short detour, their path mapped to attract as much attention as possible.
Lisa’s group was headed for the third entrance from the west, which was supposedly a supply line.
So where were the other two hypothetical entrances? To the north, they suspected escape routes to evacuate their hoard. To the north-east, they suspected tunnels connected to their pens to let their pet monsters out—any climbers who came in through there would be overrun.
They were too far away; he had too little time. He had to get there before the others when he only had a short headstart.
Ryan tapped the wall one last time and broke off in frustration. He gripped the knife, turned it over, looked around, bounced on his toes while his entire body shook with nervous excitement.
He had missed his chance, pure and simple. What did he do, instead? Run around and hope for another way in? Go for the eastern route? Maybe he could hide in the bottom of a minecart, but if they noticed …
Having a tunnel collapse would send the wrong message to the adults. That was dangerous, especially on this low of a floor. He knew he was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid.
Higher-leveled climbers might be able to survive a collapse. Teenagers like them just didn’t … unless they got lucky, like Micah, who had woken up an inch underneath a boulder, apparently.
Ryan had seen the collapse himself. He didn’t know if the guy had exaggerated, but … what would Micah do, here?
He had a sudden idea. Or rather, a memory of the guy kicking a toad while it was down.
He turned back to where the mangled Kobold lay in the dirt, jumped over the pit now that he knew how far it reached, and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
It twisted in his grip, but it was half his size, tan so it couldn’t cast fire magic, and bleeding light from countless small wounds. It couldn’t do much.
Ryan tossed it over the pit—lightly. He needed it to survive and he didn’t have the propensity for torturing monsters, even if they were constructs. He didn’t know how Micah did it.
But even throwing it as lightly as he could, the Kobold tumbled through the mud like a sack of rocks and lay there, stunned for a moment before it slowly picked itself up.
He wished he could have healed it, if only to make this go faster, forced himself to be still, and watched.
It looked back with bared teeth, glanced at the trap between them, and limped down the way it had come, leaning on the wall once it got close enough.
Ryan stayed and hoped this would work. He was betting on it being stupid enough to fall for it, on the Summoner not having told it, ‘If a climber lets you go, don’t lead them back to camp.’ It wasn’t that smart, right? Things like that, you learned through trial and error, he bet, and the Kobolds didn’t seem like they had encountered much of either yet.
It headed right, closer to the area where he’d first heard it and after an agonizing few moments, something grated over stone.
Ryan jumped and ran one and a half tunnels to an alcove with another fake treasure chest. It had been just around the corner, but there were so many corners, he couldn’t check them all.
The Kobold was pushing its shoulder against the chest to slide it aside and revealed darkness underneath, something that hadn’t been under the first two they had found on the outer edges.
It noticed him and jumped.
He ran it through and kicked the chest aside through the shimmering smoke, spear poised to kill anything that might come out.
There was nothing. Just a rocky hole that faded into darkness.
He hesitated. On the way here, each trap he’d avoided had been more deadly than the last. He was close, he could feel it, but that didn’t help if all paths around the camp led in circles.
This could be his way in.
It was just … so small.
He lay in the mud and put his ear over the hole to listen. He could hear sounds in the distance, but not immediately nearby. He could try?
And if it doesn’t work?
Then … then he would run back; act like none of this had ever happened as he had with so many things.
He eyeballed it, unstrapped his shield to hold like a buckler, hooded his spear, and wore it on his back. Just his javelin and shield then.
Ryan climbed into the hole.
It was dark and musty. The stone winded in places and specks of dirt fell, not exactly filling him with confidence. From what little light there was, it led behind the alcove and up, so he huddled up, aches in his back and neck reigniting, and crawled on his arms and knees ahead.
He had to twist again—again more pains—onto his back to bend up. The shaft only reached a little way to the height of the floor above. He could rest his arms on it like a table and didn’t even have to pause to listen. He could hear them so clearly in the distance then, Kobolds.
He’d heard them running around before, but never like this. Never clear enough to know how many they were. Now, he could. And maybe even where they were, if he focused enough.
Useful.
“[Create Fire].”
The flame alighted onto his fingertips. He held it aside as not to blind him while its heat baked his skin.
Just a glance revealed all he needed to see—the bends at the end of the tunnel, the layout of these secret passageways. It completed his mental map of the area along with the rest.
The Kobolds sounded too close. If their tunnel was twenty meters long, they sounded forty meters in the same direction, which couldn’t be unless there was a hidden space in the wall.
There were too many, too. They couldn’t fit in that tight space, unless it was bigger than this. A crossroads where all paths outside of the camp itself collided, then?
They were on the move to and from it, organizing their attack, and so was he. Ryan closed his fist, extinguishing the flame, and turned back to wiggle his way out of the dark.
His spear and shield caught on jutting stones more than once and he hit every bone in his body, but shook it off once he got out and sprinted to the end of the tunnel to take a right.
The secret passageways were too slow if he had to crawl all the way to the camp—if he started from here. He was already close though. So if he got just a little closer …
He crossed four more tunnels until he found a stone jutting from the ceiling and a trap just behind it.
He jumped the tripwire, skidded through the mud, and spun to check. Regaining his momentum, he ran at the wall. The same principle, a different angle, a different goal.
Ryan ran three steps off the wall, twisted his body, and pushed straight off like a high jump to grab a tiny ledge in the hole of the ceiling. Despite [Sure Grip], he jerked down an inch and slapped his other hand onto the stone, fumbling for a handhold. The force swung his legs and hip the other way and he had to strain his posture to keep them from pulling him off.
If he fell, he would flop mid-air and smack over two meters onto his back, which he couldn’t afford.
One of those stone pitons would have been really useful right about now, because the strain in his arms and back was worse than any pull-up.
“[Surge],” he groaned before it was too late. The Skill wasn’t meant for this, but the wake-up call pushed him the rest of the way.
His left arm could only reach so far with the shield pressing against the inside of his elbow. He had to lunge to the right after a glimpse of a possible handhold, then got a boot on the rock to push further. He could control [Enhanced Traction] unlike [Sure Grip] and used it for leverage.
When he chose his next handhold, something gave. A shower of stones broke from somewhere and tumbled over his legs. One hit a toe and he hissed. He lunged the other way to escape them, found the edge of the tunnel, and let [Sure Grip] guide him into the darkness above.
His voice was hoarse when he heaved himself up, “[Create Fire].” The tunnel lit up in candlelight.
A half-broken mound of rocks stood over the hole, rigged to some kind of net through the wall that would … raise off the ground to tip it over? A pulley system?
The hole itself was bright in contrast to the dark stone all around. Echoing sounds all around.
Ryan focused on those. He wiped his mouth and passed the fire to his off-hand to get his javelin. He didn’t like how close some of those sounds were.
The tunnel around him was somewhere between a meter and one and a half tall, large enough for a short Kobold to stand but not him; large enough to move around in but only just barely.
He had to sort of … waddle his way forward at first, resting on his butt as much as his heels, and worried about tipping over backward. Every time he moved, something knocked against stone—an elbow, knee, his shield, his spear, his helmet.
He grimaced each time and froze, listening if the Kobolds reacted to the clatter. They seemed distracted.
Still, this wouldn’t do.
He shifted so he could rest on the balls of his feet and his knees to hold up his shield or lunge if need be.
At least this way, he could fight even if he should avoid it. He was covered in scrapes and bruises just from getting here …
He smiled.
It was like an adventure.
The fire led him through the darkness. It was quiet, once he learned to watch out for his shield and spear. All he could hear were his own shuffling sounds and breathing.
Candlelight and crushing stone all around, the Kobolds suddenly sounded far away, his teammates even further.
Was this how Micah had felt, crawling out of the rubble back then, not knowing if a monster had survived around the next corner, or if the stone would cave in on him?
Specks crumbled off the ceiling and he yanked his flame aside and stifled a cough against his shoulder.
Good thing Micah isn’t here then, right? It was a good thing … he was doing this on his own.
His smile hurt.
Like sparks from a flame, a group broke off from the main crossroad. Their shuffling and silent yaps suddenly headed in his direction.
Ryan smothered his flame and pressed his back against the wall, slipping his javelin down in case he had to lunge.
As they came closer, that familiar realization kicked in that soon, this wouldn’t just be a conversation he was listening to anymore, or monsters in the distance. They were right there, headed for him, this was real, and any second now, he would have to wake up and fight.
One more tunnel—
They broke away. South-west, to the others. Ryan gave it a moment and sighed in relief and … a bit of disappointment. Then he forged on. Faster, now. He was so close to that flame.
He knew the layout by now and snuck forward without a fire so his eyes could adjust to the dark.
The crossroads ebbed and flowed with waves of troops, supplies, and messengers. One had half a dozen Kobolds and some Teacup Salamanders, the next only one or two. A stream of clatters went down a tunnel, accompanied by what sounded like curses in their tongue.
Spear fighters?
As much as he wanted to intercept that supply line and stop them from attacking his allies, he knew better.
Ryan waited for the ebbs and flows, then rushed down a tunnel. Kobolds had headed through where he crouched now. Being here meant discovery was only a matter of luck and time.
One more wave of troops … even more wood clatters. They must have given up on the dart traps.
The moment the noise reached a peak around the corner, Ryan rose up and ran. His back brushed against the stone as he hunched over, aching with every step. He could barely see. Two shapes ahead. Grey, smaller—tan Kobolds? One darted past without even noticing him.
Ryan rammed into the other behind it, aiming for the outline of its throat, abandoned his javelin there, and ran after the next.
It must have heard something, because it spun and jerked when it saw him. Its toothy maw opened—
He drew his dagger from his shield and tackled it to the ground. Rather than do as Micah would, he killed it with a few deep strikes and lurched onto the stone when it burst beneath him, then fumbled for the glint of its crystal before it could disappear or clink off the ground.
He went back for the other. Already, he could hear the next wave approaching and flapped around wildly to try and disperse the smoke. Just … a little … more—
The noise lost its echo as they reached the curve. He had to leave, now.
He rushed into an opposite tunnel and put his back into the nearest depression in the wall.
The messengers ran through where two of their comrades had just died, where their essences still dispersed, and he hoped they wouldn’t smell or see. After all, smoke was hard to see in the dark?
He held his breath.
They didn’t stop.
He had to slap a hand over his mouth to cover his grin. No matter how smart their Guardian was, Kobolds were still Kobolds—stupid on the lower floors.
He swallowed past a dry lump in his throat and gave them a moment to move away before he reached for his water, hesitated, and yanked the stamina potion off instead. Why not?
Already awake, the potion was like a lungful of fresh morning air after a long night’s rest, or all the best parts of [Surge] in a bottle.
Super [Spy] Ryan.
A childish part of him thought that when he listened, even while the aches persisted or his heart threatened to pop. He could hear the camp just around two corners, a bonfire of noise and activity, and all he could think of were the times he would play hide and seek with his friends or run from the district [Guards] after getting in a brawl with guys from Westgate’s classroom.
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Because Westgate sucked.
And Kobolds suck.
He crept back onto the crossroads and went straight ahead. The tunnel lit up in the distance with a warm red glow, familiar veins in the walls that almost felt like home. As the ground tilted up, so did the ceiling until he could stand taller. He almost bounced on his feet in excitement.
Another group approached around the corner, but he didn’t care. It was too late to turn back now.
They met at the corner and Ryan swept his spear up with a near-flourish to cut the first Kobold out of his path, pulled back, and charged into the second. The third scrambled up another incline away from him and snapped something, but the camp was too loud.
Their staffs tumbled off the stone, marking them as exactly the type of enemy he had to take out.
Ryan rushed after it.
The Flamescale Kobold reached the crest of the incline and stepped through an entrance to a larger space.
He got there just before it disappeared around the corner and lunged to stab it in the back—
And something knocked his strike off-course. A Teacup Salamander tackled his arm out of nowhere.
Ryan stumbled out past a ledge and looked left. The next path led down and the Kobold almost tripped over its own feet in its haste to get away, toward a larger entrance, the noise, and light.
He recognized this place. He was at the ledge to the Summoner’s camp, the ledge Micah’s minecart had shot off from, that he had jumped from, just a few meters away.
He almost tripped over the railroad on the ground again, but this time, he didn’t fall on his ass like an idiot.
He did gape.
His body urged him to run before it was too late, but his thoughts came to a grinding halt.
Lava.
It was what he thought of. The first time he’d seen it, in that Guardian chamber above the mural of the Salamanders during the last exam.
Scales flowed along the ceiling like bright, molten rock as dozens upon dozens of Teacup Salamanders clung there, waiting for their owners’ commands or to lead the way, but they shifted after his arrival.
He hadn’t interrupted their spear troops, but he had interrupted this before they could leave the camp.
They turned and hissed at him as one.
Ryan made a memory. Then he panicked. Glancing back, the tunnel he’d come from led far down and split in the same direction at different heights. One path curved around the camp like a balcony. Another led away from his right.
He had three options if he wanted to avoid them. Four, if there was a way out behind him but—
No.
It would take too long. The Kobolds would panic or evacuate. The entrance was right there.
As the first wave of Teacup Salamanders detached from the ceiling, he did as he had before and charged.
The camp was dirty and dim this time. There was no cloud of blinding light at the end of the tunnel, no rushing wind or minecart beneath his feet. He desperately tried to flood his legs with the strength spell he’d practiced for the Sport’s Festival, but that didn’t work even when he it did it right. He rushed and got a single, sickly boost to the strength of his legs on his jump.
He still soared over the half-empty pens from the north-east. Salamanders hissed as they spilled out along the walls or took to the air behind him.
The Kobold had warned them ahead of time and the camp looked up, all eyes on him.
The last time he had done this, he had aimed for a Kobold shooting a gout of flames at Micah as he cowered on the ground.
This time, makeshift fences and even more Teacup Salamanders stretched out below him and he had to jump further.
He still frantically glanced around while he was in the air, eyes barely able to focus: pens below, true Salamanders to his right, holes in the walls, hoard to the far right, crafting station in the back left, and around the pillar—
Glowing potion.
He hit the ground hard.
He had to rely on hours of practice, from months stuck in school while he waited for chances like this to break his fall, point his equipment aside, and tuck his chin in as he rolled over his right arm so he wouldn’t hurt himself with his own equipment.
As opposed to the ground beating him up. Which it did.
He felt much like that Kobold he had thrown earlier, bones smacking against each other, equipment and ground bruising his flesh, and his skin scraping on stone—a sack of rocks.
He rolled with it, relied on his Skills to find his grip on the ground, and pushed up with a smile.
The raincoat would have cushioned some of that fall. Ryan was surrounded by angry enemies and if he didn’t get off his ass, he would die.
He felt alive.
He smacked a Kobold aside with the butt of his spear, stabbed another, and slipped his grip to its very end to whip the spear around and keep three more off his case.
The camp was rushing to defend itself.
Half a dozen staffs lit up as Flamescale Kobolds prepared spells around him, the true Salamanders raged in their pens not far away, and the Guardian wrapped around its pillar shifted.
He had to turn his back on some of them as the hissing tide encroached and danced back as Teacup Salamanders flowed under and over one another through the gaps of their fence to swarm him.
With every step, he speared the roof of one’s mouth to pin it to the ground and slow down the charge. One by one, it was enough to break the tide around him.
The ones that climbed pillars or other structures to jump at him, he dodged or struck aside. And after just a few moments, he had to duck beneath [Firebolts] and arrows of fire as well.
He pushed down [Hot Skin] as far as he could. [Kobold’s Flameseekers] name was telling. Some of the arrows curved to strike allies, but there were many and soon, Ryan had to strike those down as well. His speartip cut through them like mist or hit them like baseballs to be smacked aside.
Through it all, the chaos all around him, and the well and truly kicked anthill that was the camp now, his eyes only sought one thing—the Summoner on its podium.
It had been drinking something, the first time he saw it. A glowing blue liquid from a fancy bottle in its hand.
Mana potion?
His arrival had surprised it, made it sputter, and the liquid drooled from the teeth of its elongated jaw. Rather than focus on defending its camp or bark orders as he had seen it do in the scrying bowl, it rushed for a tuft of cloth from its things to pat its cheeks and catch the fluid.
What the hell?
A [Firebolt] slammed into his shoulder at an angle. Ryan stumbled back and sucked in a sharp breath against the pain. [Lesser Fire Resistance] stopped the worst of it but it still hurt like the slope of his neck was on fire.
His shoulder pad was.
A weight crawled up his leg so he couldn’t even put it out right away and he spun his javelin around to deflect a Teacup, but there were two more on his heel just behind it and two dozen behind those.
They sunk their teeth in him and dragged him down until he was almost hit by two more [Firebolts].
One second. He had been distracted for just one second too long and he was being overrun. He needed momentum.
Another salvo of red lines shot from the holes in the wall, the fire mages looking in from the ‘balcony’, and the tide swept over him.
Ryan flung his arm out and cast, “[Swathe of Flames].” The mana tore out of him like a sheet and ignited, sweeping over the Teacups and making them shy back despite their resistance.
It did heat them up. Some of the arrows curved to shower the swarm. Others hit the curtain. Ryan turned and cut his way through the forces, monsters, insects, and a shower of fire and thrown stones to pick up his pace and put some distance between himself and the rest.
He couldn’t slow down. Another trio with spears, two tan and one red, were opening up the true Salamander pens.
The oversized Guardian slithered around, throwing a red shade over them. Its grumble had enough volume to make his body shake. Ryan instinctually huddled up and raised his shield a little as if it would jump, but it didn’t. He wasn’t close enough yet for it to reach.
Still, it loosened its tail around the stone and shifted its feet in anticipation, like a cat ready to pounce.
He forced himself to ignore it. He had one job here. One. And he couldn’t let himself be distracted.
The Summoner pointed a claw and barked an order. Lights flared around the camp as mages prepared another round of spells and he only had two more swathes left.
Ryan reached his arm back, skipped a step as he sped up, and held his shield arm out for guidance.
The other Guardian opened its mouth the moment he entered its range and released a river of flames, like a bridge between here and there.
He threw, and his spear parted the flames like a curtain. A necklace wrapped around the Kobold’s wrist flashed. A dome of force and light shot up around it—a ward. His javelin tore through it like breaking glass and slammed the Summoner into the pillar at its back.
Ryan dropped and skid across the ground beneath the fire, pushing his traction to nothing before he got his first foot up, swung, and pushed the other way. He raised his shield against the licks just below the brunt of it.
Two true Salamanders shot out of their pens and snapped for his legs with jaws that could break bone—but he ran right past them, flinched, and turned rigid when they snapped shut. The sound echoed in his ears.
The Guardian gasped when it cut off and jumped in front of him, shaking the paved ground.
He almost stumbled as he rushed to adjust his course. Then he had three of them, their heavy footfalls, and guttural sounds on his heels. A fearful groan died in his throat.
He threw himself at the scaffolding and it rocked as if the entire thing might collapse just to spite him. But even as it did, he dragged himself up out the reach of their jaws.
Safety, for a moment. Unless they brought the entire podium down. The camp surged at him.
The Summoner sat propped against the pillar, light pouring from its shoulder like ink where his javelin stuck. He had half-expected it to run, roll off the side to hide, or prepare a spell.
Instead, the moment his head poked over the edge, it trained a crossbow on him.
His shield was ready, he had anticipated something, and he was wide awake—Ryan jerked his arm up and scrunched his eyes shut as the wood splintered past his face.
His ear suddenly felt hot. He glanced up and frowned at a bolt of rolling smoke stuck in the wood, and the other one spinning into existence on the crossbow—
Shit, shit, shit, shit. It wouldn’t even have to reload. As if it could, with its strength. He would have banked on that.
He swung a leg over the edge. Then the bolt in his shield burst and flung more wood splinters past his face and him back. Monsters bit and scratched at him, trying to drag him under.
Ryan tried to kick them off in a blind panic, eyes on the bolt, before he remembered what he was dealing with—he simply rolled aside. The Kobolds and Teacup Salamanders barely weighed anything and rolled with him.
The second [Shadowbolt] tore through the wood where he had just lain, throwing the monsters back.
Ryan threw himself up and ran for the Summoner before it could prepare a third. That same silver chain around its wrist flashed and another dome of force appeared as it dragged itself back, but he wasn’t headed for it.
He grabbed the shaft of his javelin, twisted, and yanked it out of its flesh, breaking the ward once more.
It had actually worked? He fucking loved Lisa. He almost glanced aside to shoot her a winning smile, but the third bolt formed—
Ryan brought his javelin down, finishing it.
The Summoner burst into smoke and for a moment, it felt like the entire camp went still.
He certainly did. For that moment, his aches, wounds, and heaving chest faded away and he felt something bigger than satisfaction … glory, almost. Like was a champion.
But then, the wood swayed underneath his feet. The hoard were just monsters again and didn’t care. There was no more anger etched on their faces than before.
The flood of bodies surged up toward him, but he had the better position and they were either weak or the tan Kobolds who had thrown stones at him from their crafting station: he cut them down one by one and cast [Swathe of Flames] over a group to make it fall.
Fire spells flew at him from all sides and he put the pillar between himself and those he could, and his shield between the rest.
Slowly but surely, he was whittling down the crowd. If he got tired, he had a stamina potion on his belt to keep it up. If he was gravely wounded, he had healing potions.
He could fight them, he realized. It would be hard and dangerous, but he could unite them, his disparate pieces of broken Classes, and be someone who would hold his ground here—
Well, not here. The wood groaned beneath him as bodies threw themselves at it and the true Salamanders looked for a way up. A pocket of space was left around the Guardian, glaring up at him with a guttural grumble like it was about to immolate its own kin just to get to him.
That glint in its yellow eyes almost made him pause. Maybe it was angry about the Summoner’s death …
But it didn’t matter, ultimately.
He told himself to remember that, remember everything he could about every true Salamander he fought, while he stayed the swarm. He had to leave soon, but he could stay here and fight the camp himself. Today, his best still meant something. It was like a dream come true.
Ryan slapped a Teacup aside, smiled, and didn’t know where to look. Something felt off. He took that as a sign to get the hell out of dodge and stepped back, then sprinted at the mass of bodies.
They looked up. One of the Salamanders breathed fire when he jumped, but it could not tilt its head back. He flew right toward the now-empty pens in the distance. He needed something to put between himself and them—pillars, structures, bodies, anything. Some way to slow them down while he culled the crowd, bit by bit.
He aced his roll this time, came up, and hit the ground running, grabbing his stamina potion with his off-hand to take a quick swig. The energy rushed to his legs and he smiled in relief.
Micah really knew his stuff, if only— He stopped the thought before it could even form. He would just have to compliment him later.
Something smacked into his back, knocking him off-balance, and he almost dropped the potion before fitting it on his belt.
Fire mages spilled into the camp and started barking orders, taking command of the chaos while others threw spells … at the guy sprinting in a straight line. No wonder he got hit.
Their presence was good in the short run, but not in the long run. Already, they were directing tan Kobolds back to the crafting station for—
Poison darts?
Oh, shit.
It was time to face the crowd. He put himself behind a pillar and waited for the true Salamanders, quickest and loudest over the short sprint, while he flooded mana into his legs.
Let’s try this again.
He thought of the aches, the strain his muscles had gone through to get here, the strain he was so familiar with from years of training, and put it all into his spell. There was a reason physical Classes were better suited to physical spells.
If it went high, he would use it for agility. If it went low—
It shot out beneath him, headed for his knees, and Ryan stepped aside on reflex and slammed a boot in its neck. He hadn’t heard it over the blood rushing through his left ear.
The true Salamander flipped and he stumbled back. A second one charged over its kin at him and he windmilled his arm to get his spear in front of him and thrust it into its eye.
It wailed, stomped on its front legs, and tried to charge him through the pain in a blind rage.
Pushing [Enhanced Traction] down as far as he could, his spear kept him steady as the Salamander pushed him across the ground, until he fixed his stance, pushed the Skill back up, and thrust.
His boots bit into stone and their charges met—the speartip crunched past the eye socket and into its head.
The Salamander came to an abrupt stop, and he ripped it back out to face the other side of the tide that spilled around the pillar, cutting down monsters with surprising ease.
His anti-magic javelin. Right. Most of them were magic, too. Unmade.
But the bodies pushed him back to the other two true Salamanders—one maimed and the other having trouble twisting itself back on its feet—and at this rate, they would box him in.
He had a chance to slip past the pillar into the center space, but the tan Kobolds had their darts ready and somehow, he doubted they would use itching poison.
Ryan hopped the fence to the pens and ran at the wall. As before, two steps brought him over the other fence into the larger pens toward the hoard.
Part of him wanted to dive in there to look for items, part of him worried the Kobolds might run away with it now that their Summoner was dead, but the fire mages had picked up the pieces and there were dozens of them and just one of him.
He took a sharp turn, jumped back on the podium, and ran at the crafting station into another jump.
A few of the darts clattered off his armor and shield as he hid behind it, but most cut past him, not even close to hitting at all. Either their aim sucked under pressure or the tan Kobolds had spent all their time making the blowdarts and didn’t know how to use them that well.
He hit the ground running, impaled the first, and cast, “[Swathe of Flames],” over the crowd.
Unlike the others, these Kobolds didn’t have fire resistance, and he cut through them with ease before heading on to the fire mages commanding them.
A [Firebolt] smacked into his side and he winced but pushed through. A fire caltrop pierced his foot like a hot coal and he sucked through clenched teeth against the pain, but got back at the mage that had scattered them in the next moment.
The Guardian forced him to scramble back and his smile wavered, but he memorized each of its movements, focusing on more important things than the frog in his throat and that feeling that wouldn’t leave the back of his mind, like surviving this and finding the Guardian’s faults.
Because after its initial charge, he could just run. True Salamanders were only good at short, impactful bursts before they needed to catch their breath. They didn’t have stamina.
They were terrifying and awe-inspiring, beautiful in their own right, and he wanted nothing more than to study them, paint them, mimic them, but if he did, he had to be aware of their weaknesses to cover them on his own.
Momentum. [Lesser Endurance] and [Lesser Vitality] helped. He couldn’t go down like them.
It roared and the sound turned into the roar of flames through the wind as the heat built on his back.
Another mage flung a gout of flames at him from another angle, and Ryan twisted between them like the sword fighters he sparred with, eyes watering in the heat, and held his shield out against the brunt of one while thrusting his javelin from his elbow to take the other out.
He slipped through the gap and the Guardian broke off with a sputter and caught its breath, just confirming his suspicion.
Ryan ran around a pillar and jumped when another shot out at him. He slipped aside and used its burning back like a stepping stone to get away. The caltrop stuck in his foot felt like he was on fire with every step anyway.
He tried not to focus on the searing pain. He was winning. He was taking the entire camp on at once without the raincoat, covered in injuries he deserved to have.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to smile but couldn’t. His smile hurt too much.
It was like a dream come true—his worst nightmare. Because when Ryan paused to look around, he was exactly where he feared he would end up one day, for the rest of his days:
Alone.
Where were Lisa and Micah? Where were all the others? How did he get here? He didn’t want this.
The camp charged at him and he stayed where he was because he couldn’t move. His chest felt empty. Just like that, he had lost it, his momentum to fight. He couldn’t do this anymore.
A [Firebolt] smacked into his helmet and sent him reeling. A Teacup Salamander dug its teeth in his calf, and the rest weren’t far behind.
He’d overstayed his welcome, tried to be happy for a little too long and now … No. I screwed up from the start.
That same pain in his neck flared as he straightened up, joined by countless new additions from the short morning. He skewered the Teacup, cut another aside, and forced himself to start moving.
Stamina potion or no, he had pushed his body too much in too short a time. He felt tired, so he whispered, “[Surge].”
He didn’t know if it would work. He had used the Skill a little while ago after all, but he needed that push if he was to get out of here. Part of him wondered if this was what it was like to pray.
The Skill kicked in and from one step to the next, he sprinted. He didn’t have a plan, he just ran for the nearest exit.
They tried to get in his way, of course. The residents of the camp. And they tried to follow him. He had just assassinated their leader. But he was too quick and vaulted the fence to slip through the exit of the monsters’ pens. It led up an incline through a winding tunnel, past a fire mage he ignored and hoped would ignore him, and away from the camp.
Still, the cries, heavy footfalls, and guttural roars persisted behind him so he didn’t stop.
He took the corners at sharp angles, slipped in the mud, and pushed his arm off the ground to keep running. He ran along the walls near the end of tunnels just to be safe, but hit the ground each time and almost fell over. And each time, it took him longer to pick himself back up.
Around another corner, he tripped before he could reach the wall and smacked into it with his shoulder. His foot snagged on a rope. Stones tumbled from the ceiling and splashed mud at his back. One smacked into his leg.
He cried out and pushed off into a limp but had to steady himself two steps further before he could walk it off.
It was just one more pain among dozens. He’d dealt with worse. Even the dry lump in his throat was worse, he told himself, and focused on that. His side began to stab him and his posture slipped.
He couldn’t run forever, but he couldn’t bring himself to drink Micah’s potion just to help him be a coward.
Ryan stopped to lean on his knees, but his hands were full. He propped the javelin against the wall, took a deep breath, and slapped it aside with a grimace. It clattered off the stone.
We’ll make a plan and stick to it.
The fuck had he just done? He was going to lie to them about this as well, wasn’t he? If he could get away with it, if nobody asked. Of course, someone would ask.
Liar.
He tried to run his hands through his hair but his helmet was in the way. His gloved fingers dug into his skin as he rushed to get the straps off. It was too hot. He needed to breathe.
He threw the helmet aside as well and ran his hands through the muck and sweat as he fell back against the wall. He let himself slip down.
All he wanted was a moment of peace, to catch his breath, sort his thoughts out, and find his way back to stop being a piece of shit, but … of course, he couldn’t have that.
Slowly, he tilted his face to the side. In the corner of his eye, a red blur skittered at him. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
His javelin was gone. He wrenched the dagger from his shield and spun on the thing the moment it got too close, but wasn’t a Teacup Salamander. A tiny red lizard made of light ran along the wall next to him and stopped.
He stared.
It stared back and after a moment, tilted its head in what looked like curiosity, a very telling expression.
“Lisa.”
It seemed so expectant, sitting there, staring at him, and glanced over his shoulder every other moment. A signal? Or did she still have his back, even now?
He wanted to say something but couldn’t. He couldn’t find the words. Her present lay in the mud. He lowered his arm.
The lizard seemed to take that as a signal and left. In the distance, the first [Fireball] exploded.