Chapter 63 – Floor 7: Part 3

The field was littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Human and Fiend, the blood of both races watered the ground, the only source of liquid on the entire gods' forsaken floor. Churned by the battle, the mud stuck to everything, and the smell was rancid.

Of the humans, fewer than half of the hundreds of thousands survived. Many were standing, shell-shocked and unable to comprehend that they were still alive. The horror of the last hour was worse than many of them had ever experienced.

They all came from Earth, and although they may have been born on different versions, it was still a primarily peaceful and stable planet. Where they were now was anything but.

The fiends had been frenzied and tireless, intent on killing the defenders to the exclusion of all else. They didn’t care about pain, nor did they have any sense of self-preservation. They shrugged off wounds that would incapacitate a human, and only when they were lifeless did they finally stop their murderous rampage.

The makeshift camp was filled with injured players of the Tower of Avarice. Covered in mud and blood, his clothing shredded to the point where it was more accurate to describe them as rags, a young man was sitting on the ground, his back leaning against a crate.

Mathew’s hands shook, the adrenaline having left them weak and trembling. The past hour had been a blur. He barely remembered anything after stepping off the elevator. Even with his enhanced ‘Mind’ stat, all that remained from his time on the 7th Floor were images, flashes of horror and carnage.

He remembered fighting off the monstrous birds and taking shelter with others next to a giant rock before the bladed ‘Fiends’ crashed into their ranks.

From there, not much was left of his memories. He recalled using Catapult on every item and discarded weapon in sight, his only offensive Blessing since the Fiends proved to be as immune to fire as the birds had been.

When he had run out of items, he had begun tossing the detached limbs of the enemy or the human dead. Whatever it had taken to survive, he had done.

His inventory was empty. The most devasting item within had been Oscar’s staff. The explosion created when he had catapulted it into a group of enemies advancing on his position had earned him enough time to flee.

Mathew felt slightly sad about losing the ‘Trickster’s Coin,’ but the impression of the hole it had drilled into a Fiend's skull had been burned into his memories, making the loss worth it. Opening up the shop, Mathew bought another three vials of healing potions.

The lifesaving medicine was in unlimited supply, a needed miracle after the remaining thousands of people were all using it to recover. Mathew recalled there had been people with the Blessing to heal wounds during the fighting, but they were either too exhausted or dead.

Splashing a vial on a nasty wound on his chest, Mathew winced as the flaming liquid began to seep deep into his skin. This wasn’t the weaker variant that he had used on previous floors. The shop classified this elixir as a ‘Standard Healing Potion,’ costing fifty thousand units of Aether each.

That number was once an astronomical sum, but Mathew could easily afford it after seeing the gains he made in the last hour. Watching the wound close, Mathew cursed the god responsible for ensuring that Levelling up on this floor would not heal their bodies or refresh their stamina.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

While waiting for the potion's effects to lessen before applying another dose, Mathew opened up his status screen to assess his new level.

Name: Mathew Larson

Discipline: None

Trickster (Level 5)

Coward (Level 5)

Charlatan (Level 5)

Level: 15

Aether Required For Next Level: 120,000

Aether: 33,000

Attributes

Body: 3.2

Mind: 4.0

Spirit: 0.3

Blessings

Create and Control Flames III (Max Tier)

The Coward’s Brand (Max Tier)

Catapult (Max Tier)

Truthsayer

Mathew hadn’t been offered a new Discipline yet, nor had he really sought it out in the shop or any of the other tabs on the wristband’s screens. With the surge of strength the level-up provided, Mathew knew that something was wrong when he was still injured and exhausted.

The answer had come from the ‘Judgement’ tab.

The Outer Deity has tainted this Floor and laid claim to the land as its domain. Levelling will no longer provide the benefits it once did, and all future Discipline/Blessing selections will be affected.

Mathew had cursed out loud when he had read that, only to have no choice but to sink a level's worth of Aether into potions that he usually wouldn’t need.

The burning feeling that accompanied the healing magic began to fade, and Mathew pulled the cork off another glass bottle. Rather than using it on his wounds, he drank it in a single swallow. It was thick like molasses, tasted slightly of cinnamon, and had the faint coppery aftertaste of blood.

Gagging on the taste of the potion, Mathew forced himself not to throw up. Coughing harshly, he leaned over to spit on the ground. Wiping his mouth with the remains of his sleeve that were nearly as filthy as the ground he was sitting on, Mathew returned to leaning on the crate while waiting for his stomach to settle.

It was at that point that he spotted Samuel.

The warrior Zealot that Mathew had first met on the third floor was nearly entirely unrecognizable. He seemed decades younger since the last time he had seen him, his hair black and long while the few wrinkles around his eyes and mouth made him look grim.

The Zealot’s clothing, once a pristine white, was covered in blood, both black and red, as well as a liberal coating of mud. He lacked his coterie of fanatical followers with whom he had fought against the Goblins of the 3rd floor. Samuel looked hard, bleak and terribly alone.

Mathew could still feel the ‘Buzz’ at the man’s approach, alerting him that Samuel was above him in level. It was hard to judge; the feeling wasn’t something easily quantifiable, but Mathew estimated he was between level 20 and 25.

“You fought well. I didn’t think you would make it this far.” Samuel said, coming to a stop beside Mathew. There was a recognition in his eyes that told him the Zealot recognized him, even though they had only briefly met over a year ago in Mathew’s time, although it was possible it was much shorter to Samuel.

Time acted strangely in the Tower.

“I got lucky, and I had help along the way.” Mathew admitted, thinking about the companions he had travelled through the Pit with. Even today, Oscar has saved his life again. He would have died without that magical staff and the explosion it created.

“What about you? Were you separated from the others when you came to this floor?” Mathew asked, and a cloud seemed to pass over Samuel’s face.

“No, they are here. Somewhere.” Samuel said, gesturing vaguely to the field of bodies that stretched into the distance.

“I…haven’t had the heart to look for them.” Samuel admitted, and it seemed as if the admission stole something from him. The ever-present halo of light that Mathew had seen in the past was gone. The Zealot seemed to have had his faith shaken.

“I’m sorry, Samuel. They were good people.” Mathew said, and the giant warrior nodded in thanks.

“I can help you look for them if you want.” Mathew offered. The bodies of the dead hadn’t disappeared, not like what had happened to Oscar in the Pit. Perhaps it was the inference of this foreign god, or maybe it was a way to reward the survivors by giving them an opportunity to loot the dead.

Multiple groups were already picking their way through the bodies, scavenging for whatever weapons, armour and supplies could be found. Even though Aether was abundant and the shop was open to all, no one here was above looting, not after seeing what they would be facing.

“That would be appreciated, Mathew.” Samuel replied, holding out a hand to help Mathew to his feet.

Together, the pair began to walk through the field and look for Samuel’s deceased companions.

Mathew spent the first few hours on the Seventh Floor amongst the dead.