Power came flooding up from Harald’s core.

The Throne of Harmony had sustained him until now, and Harald had thought himself blessed. But with that source of strength now came the Throne of Shadows, distinct in flavor, a twining of darkness to the righteousness of the first.

Aura of the Aching Depths flared forth from him like an explosion. The air darkened, the green miasma seeming to lose its emerald hue, and the temperature dropped. Harald felt the power flood the air, dense and heavy like the cold waters at the depths of a frigid lake. Sound grew muffled as the Keepers’ charge seemed to falter.

But there was something new, something more: Harald felt himself the center of a vital, terrible power that elevated him, that extended his presence over his foes. The abyss no longer felt distinct from him; he was within its depths, his mind, his heart, his will. It saturated that absence, like ink dropped into water, and he felt the Demonic Seed thrill, felt it vibrate deep within him as it infiltrated the Ability, corrupted it.

Harald lowered his chin as a feeling of utter lethality consumed him. The length of the Dawnblade turned wicked black as Abyssal Attunement swept up the Artifact, consuming the soapstone green and making it something utterly inimical to flesh.

Poised at the top of the three broad steps, his abyssal blade raised before him, his will saturating the air and bending the very laws of nature to his might, Harald felt himself invincible.

The six Keepers came on, but it was clear that they had become mired in doubt. No longer did they claw at each other to be first; now they hunched close, forming a tightly knit phalanx of cloaks and claws, slowing, slowing till at the very last they stopped just beyond the reach of his blade, their corpse-like visages raised to regard him with horror and hate.

“What?” Harald called down to them in savage joy, and spread his arms as if in surprise. “Has your courage abandoned you?”

Aura of the Aching Depths caused the very shadows around their legs to writhe, weighed upon their shoulders like leaden mantles, sapped at their vigor as it infused their primitive minds with panic.

Harald laughed and stepped down to meet them, sweeping his abyssal blade before him. It clove through the front ranks, and where its edge met undead flesh the abyss did bloom, cleaving through the Keepers with terrible ease. Their cloaks were sufficiently voluminous that Harald couldn’t see their flesh darken from the kiss of the void, but he saw wisps of shadow enshroud their wounds like ebon vipers, spiraling out as if in celebration of the violence.

The three Keepers in the front wailed and pushed back against the others.

Harald felt no pity. Felt no remorse. He reversed his strike, a second great scything blow, and he threshed them like wheat, cutting down the front rank with a two-handed blow as pulses of energy entered him. The remaining three found their wits; they split, two going wide, the center one leaping for him in a frenzy.

Harald simply stepped back as he brought his sword sweeping up from below; the strike caught the Keeper up the length of its chest, and the abyss helped split the monster’s torso in half, the Dawnblade slashing up through its chest and emerging just shy of its shoulder.

The other two pounced, but Harald didn’t wait. He dove forward, throwing himself into a roll, and hit the uneven ground hard, coming up swiftly and turning to hack at the first Keeper to give chase.

A brutal strike that cut through half of one hand and severed the other arm at the shoulder. Harald turned his own shoulder and slammed the mauled Keeper away, then parried a strike from the second, knocking aside the clawed attack and near severing the arm even as he reversed his blade and took off the foe’s head at the neck.

The Keepers were definitely moving slower. It was as if they waded through shin-deep waters, the Aura of the Aching Depths sapping their speed, dulling their reflexes.

A blow to the right, a downward chop to the front, and both remaining monsters died.

Someone gave a warning shout, but Harald didn’t need it. He stepped toward the dais even as he turned to face the arches, and saw a wall of Keepers coming at him.

Ten? Fifteen?

He didn’t bother trying to count.

They swarmed out of the shadows, tightly bunched like a carpet of rats, right till they hit the adumbrated edge of his Aching Depths.

Harald felt it like a sudden pressure, their minds or hearts or wills resisting his Ability. Fascinating. The first few hadn’t even registered, but enough foes, it seemed, could seek to overwhelm his aura, to dampen it, break clean through.

Not if he had anything to do with it.

Harald stopped on only the first step and leaned forward, abyssal blade rising to Ox stance, hilt by his temple, point aimed squarely at the mass of Keepers, and through its length he channeled his will, his might, the flowering power unleashed by the Throne of Shadows.

His aura solidified around the rushing Keepers, darkening and claiming them.

Sheer momentum kept them coming over the buckled flagstones. They rushed at him, a wall of talons and burning black eyes, and he heard again Vic shouting at him, a stern command.

But the power of his Abilities had him like strong wine, and after all, he wasn’t done yet.

“Goldchop,” he whispered, summoning the Masterwork Artifact. “Come out and play.”

Twin golden-headed hatchets appeared in the air on either side of him, gleaming like lost treasure espied in the depths of a shipwreck. They wafted from side to side gently, at ease, and Harald felt raw exaltation seize him again, felt his Strength and Constitution rise in a visceral, heady manner, felt himself become a monster of ruin. Maddened by the sheer joy of battle he charged forth, down off that first step, over the corpses of the first Keepers, and right into the face of the enemy.

The Goldchops got to work.

They blurred as if hurled by expert woodsmen, flying forward just ahead of him to sink into a Keeper’s head, bursting them open and spinning into the next rank.

Harald executed the Dungeon Square, the Abyssal Attunement making each slash lethal, infecting and draining the Keepers with the enervating void. The Aching Depths blanketed them all, so that the battle took place as if in Harald’s home turf, causing the smaller fiends to second-guess their every attack, to draw back when they should have pushed forward.

And the Goldchops.

By the Fallen Angel and her heavenly kin, the Goldchops demonstrated why they were worth 1,000,000 scales.

They flew without surcease. They never drew back, never waited for another opponent, never paused to re-evaluate the field. Instead they spun in perfect tandem with each other, crisscrossing back and forth, and with each sweep a Crypt Keeper died.

So that Harald had barely cut down two before he realized half the foes were already dead, their bodies exploding into dust and fragments as the heavy hatchets slammed through them.

Better yet, the Goldchops seemed to intuit where he was going next, their lethal attacks never interfering or getting in his way. Harald was hesitant for but a few moments as he feared swinging the Dawnblade through a passing ax, but quickly realized the Goldchops were too canny for that; they covered his flanks, flew deeper into the fray, returned to encircle him briefly, but never got into the path of his blade.

Harald laughed and set to hewing.

True to Nessa’s word, the Crypt Keepers weren’t actually intelligent. They were creatures of instinct, keen to close and kill, but now, so many of them cut down so quickly, another set of instincts kicked in.

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The remaining five screeched and turned and fled.

And Harald gave chase.

Through the massive archway into the next hall, were he saw a mass of Keeper reinforcements coming out of the brickwork. They were crawling out of gaps in the huge blocks, rushing down the hall from the distant exit, racing like rats along the ledges.

His five prey, gaining this hall and feeling security in numbers, turned to face him, hunching and hissing their defiance.

Harald knew what he should have done.

He should have immediately retreated.

It was the wise course of action. Strategic. Sound.

But his whole life had been building toward this one single moment.

This moment when he could impose his bloody-minded will upon the world, could assert his desire, and defy the odds.

When he could step forward instead of cowering back as he’d always done.

So he cast a single glance across the hall, taking in the ledges, the ratholes, the length of the chamber with its onrushing foes, and as the Goldchops came to a stop to hover by his shoulders like faithful hounds, he grinned.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, and lunged forward.

The Aura of the Aching Depths washed out before him, desaturating the green miasma, bringing cold and numbness to his foes. His abyssal blade swept out in an opening slash, but both of these paled in comparison to the Goldchops.

They momentarily shivered as if in delight, then like dire mastiffs unleashed at last by a disciplined master, they flew forward and began to wreck true ruin upon the Keepers.

Harald could sense them dimly as he fought, his blade sweeping up and down through each quadrant. Could sense when they flew high to sweep the ledges, when they clove back along the walls, when they swooped around behind him like circling hawks.

And where they flew they brought dismemberment, decapitations, and death.

But the Crypt Keepers kept coming. Harald pushed forward when he could, gave ground when he had to. His longsword’s reach was a huge advantage; by keeping it in constant swirling motion, he was able to maintain a wall of steel between him and his foes.

With the Goldchops out his Strength was raised to a potent 13, his Constitution an even more impressive 14.

This made him feel endlessly invincible. He swung his blade without tiring, endless cycles of his disciplined patterns that he believed he could maintain forever.

But strong and resilient as he’d become, his finesse was lacking; too many times he swung and missed, Keepers ducking or leaping aside as they guessed at this pattern, his intent. He’d try to adjust his swing on the fly, but his reactions still felt crude in comparison to the Keepers’.

Dexterity 9.

He gritted his teeth and resolved that he wouldn’t stop till he’d raised it as high as his other stats.

Soon the ground around him was littered with corpses, and to his surprise this made finding his footing treacherous; he didn’t want to back out of the hall, but more often than not he found himself stumbling as he placed his boot on a dead Keeper’s chest, or tripped on an outflung or outright severed limb.

Sweat beaded his brow, and his breath was coming strong and steady.

And still the Crypt Keepers came.

More and more flooded out of the side channels and emerged at the far end of the hall, undismayed right until they ran into his aura.

Which was growing cramped by the sheer number of enemies assailing him, contracting ever closer to Harald as he was pressed on all sides.

Blows began to land upon him, claws raking his leather armor, slashing at his thighs, trying to sever his fingers or dislodge his grip on the Dawnblade. Wizened faces were all around him, hissing and reaching, and for each one that he cut down two more seemed to take their place, scrambling over the mounds of the dead with terrible adroitness.

Only the Goldchops kept the playing field even. They were interminable in their lethality, never losing speed, never ceasing their butchery. They worked the walls, decimated the middle ranks, blazed back to whittle down the Keepers threatening his flanks.

But even they were growing overwhelmed.

Harald slashed a Keeper’s face open, the abyss blackening its visage, and felt the power of this twin Thrones begin to lessen.

For how long had he been fighting? The dead were everywhere, the air above them a twinkling field of hovering Copper Moons.

Gasping for breath, his control over the Dawnblade growing more clumsy by the moment as his stamina began to fail him, Harald stumbled back.

And then his twin Thrones run out of power.

It felt like hitting that sudden wall of exhaustion during a long run. One moment you were floating along, felling invincible, then suddenly iron bands began to tighten around your chest, your legs to grow heavy, sweat running into your eyes.

Harald’s Aching Depths died away, and his Dawnblade became its customary green.

Panicked, Harald stumbled back, reaching again and again for his Thrones, but they were tapped out.

A kite shield floated forth to take station at his right flank. Sam’s Shield of Valor. Harald wanted to turn, to glance back, but the Keeper before him held his attention, bobbing and ducking and lunging at him with wicked swipes of its claws.

Then the Point extended silently and explosively just over his shoulder to slide into a Keeper’s brow, punching a fragmented hole clear through its skull and retracting before the monster could collapse.

“Think you’ve had enough, darling,” called Victor, attempting for a bored tone. It wasn’t convincing. “Shall we head back for a spot of tea?”

Harald didn’t even bother nodding. Crypt Keepers kept coming, swarming over the fallen, hiding the mass of Copper Moons. Looking out over the long hall, he saw an ocean of wizened faces, and more coming.

Time to go.

He quickly shuffled back, trying not to trip on corpses, and then a warm sensation washed over him, like backing out of a cold crypt into the radiant light of the morning sun. Harald felt a shift in the air, a lightening of his spirit that allowed him to draw a deeper breath and cleared his mind of the burgeoning panic. Doubt and fear fell away, and suddenly he felt himself again, grounded and secure, supported by his crew and in control of the situation.

He willed the Goldchops to come in close and guard him tightly, and like summoned hounds they ceased their wide swoops and spun toward him, cleaving through the interposing Keepers.

The Point slid out again and again, surgically executing those that came too close, and then Harald was at the archway, Sam backing out beside him, Vic gesturing for them to retreat to the dais as he fought the rearguard action.

Sam’s Beacon of Hope.

That was the source of his newfound conviction and purity of purpose.

He grinned at her, then dared to glance back at the dais. Had they cleared this room of all foes, allowing them to come to his aid?

No.

Harald’s eyes widened as he saw what Nessa was doing.

He’d thought he’d seen her fight at her full extent before, but now he realized just how wrong he’d been.

She alone held the dais against foes coming at her from three sides. Her longsword danced with impossible grace, following nothing so quotidian and banal as a Dungeon Square but simply flowing where needed, weaving an endless net of cutting silver. Each strike took down not one but several Crypt Keepers, with an occasional strike unleashing a a blast of lightning that leaped amongst the massed ranks, causing Keepers to fall back.

She fought wildly, bravely, her thick mane of ebon curls framing a face of ferocious determination. Somehow she parried attacks that she couldn’t have seen, sweeping away attacks and severing hands before they could reach her, though even as Harald ran back he saw a Keeper land a blow on her thigh that was somehow turned aside by fortune or her power.

But even Harald could tell Nessa was slowing, her Abilities running out. Of course. She had access but to the same twin Thrones. How had she managed to make it last longer than his own?

No time to ask. She saw him racing up and a snarl of fury twisted her features. “Through the damn portal!”

Harald bit back a protest. He swept up his pack just a stride before Sam, re-absorbed the Goldchops, and ran at the swirling oval of black energy.

There was no disorientation; his affinity with the abyss made the transportation back to the Dungeon Plaza a smooth one, so that instead he stumbled out upon the Copper platform and into the midday sun without losing his stride.

Only to turn and reach out to catch Sam as she came hurrying after. For a moment they stood clutching each other, watching the polyhedron with frantic intensity, and then Vic came jogging down from the great pentagon, followed a second later by Nessa.

Sweet relief flooded Harald as he saw they were unhurt but for a few minor scrapes. He dismissed the Dawnblade and bent over, hands on his knees, heart pounding, feeling a sweet sense of exaltation.

“Thirteen minutes and thirty-five seconds,” said the bulldog of a guard with grudging respect. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

Vic winced as he wiped his brow, then looked at his palm in dismay. “I’m sweating.”

Nessa caught her breath, but raised her palm in a peremptory manner when Harald went to speak to her. Instead she strode past him, still looking furious, and approached the taxation counter.

Nonplussed, Harald followed.

Even Sam was giving him dirty looks when she glanced his way at all.

Nobody had much to declare. Harald hadn’t even had the time or presence of mind to collect any Coppers, so that shortly after presenting their windows, they were dismissed and free to step out onto the plaza.

“Well,” Harald began, taking his water bottle from his hip. “That was exciting.”

“Follow,” snapped Nessa, and began striding across the plaza toward the inn they’d used last time.

“Uh oh,” said Vic. “Looks like someone’s in for a spanking. And not the delightfully erotic kind.”

“What?” Harald wiped his armored forearm across his brow and took a second swig of water. “Sam?”

But she only shook her head and followed after the first two.

Harald was about to call after them in confusion and dismay when the sound of metallic stars ringing out against the abyss filled his mind:

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Dexterity has risen from 9 to 10

Success!

Even as he felt savage satisfaction at his accomplishment—how long had it been since he’d attracted the Seed’s notice?—he watched his crew walk away.

“Damn.” His elation and frustration gave way to chagrin.

If his Demon Seed approved, and Nessa was pissed, then it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

Harald set out after them.

But even though he knew he was in trouble, even though he knew on an academic level that he’d fucked up somehow, he couldn’t shake the sense of accomplishment. Couldn’t shake the memory of brutal joy from wading into battle with his abyssal blade and his glorious, his murderous, his absolutely unstoppable Goldchops.