Dave leapt aside and rolled across the fancy wooden floor just in time to avoid being crushed beneath the chandelier's considerable weight. The ancient fixture shattered upon impact, and Dave found himself pelted by a hailstorm of razor-sharp crystal shards. A gold barrier flashed over him for a second, shielding him from the worst of the glass hail.
As he emerged from the wreckage, brushing the debris from his armor and nursing a few minor cuts from shards that managed to carve their way into the fabric between his Bakelite plates, Dave couldn't help but swear under his breath. It was becoming increasingly evident that his unseen foe was unwilling to engage in communication.
"Well, shit," Dave muttered, surveying the shattered chandelier embedded in the floor. "I'm going to get billed for that, aren't I?"
As if in response to his words, numerous crystal shards tore themselves from the wreckage, whizzing through the air. They collided with his armor, the sound of shattering glass ringing in his ears.
"Where is he?!" Dave growled, frustration mounting as he found himself continually assaulted by the relentless storm of flying glass.
"Try downstairs," Sherlock's violin suggested, playing a monster-fighting tune reminiscent of an old video game, as if to spur Dave on in his quest. “Stairwell is on your left.”
Without a moment's hesitation, Dave took off running, his footsteps echoing through the dimly lit halls. The flying glass pursued him like a relentless swarm of insects, never relenting in its pursuit.
Dave rushed down a stairwell, his heart pounding in his chest as he descended several storeys down into the catacombs beneath the main hall. The gloomy chamber seemed to swallow the light, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls.
Without warning, a brick tore loose from the ceiling and slammed into Dave's head with a sickening crunch. Wincing from the stinging pain, he squinted through the oppressive darkness, determined to find the source of the attack.
Finally, he caught sight of something he had been searching for: semi-transparent blue threads writhed through the gloom from above like tendrils of a malevolent sea creature or an upside down tree. One of the spectral threads snaked its way toward a brick in the ceiling, seizing it and hurling it at Dave's head with terrifying force. Dave narrowly avoided the projectile, his forehead throbbing from the previous impact.
Summoning his courage, he lunged at the nearest thread, grasping it with his armored hands and yanking power from its ethereal form. The intensity of the attack ceased for a moment, as the disembodied whispers of a grumpy, old voice filled Dave's head.
"They're looking for me, I can feel their searching eyes," a ghostly voice trembled with an unsettling sense of urgency. "They know of my crimes, the truths that I've guarded for so long. I have to hide, lest they find me and lay waste to everything I hold dear."
The whispers raced, akin to a frenzied swarm of bees, each one buzzing with increasing fear and paranoia. "They want to poison me, to taint my body and corrupt my spirit. I have to..."
The words danced if the mind behind them spiraled deeper into the abyss of madness. "The walls have ears, and the floors have eyes. The shadows dance with malevolent glee, their laughter mocking my every move. Even the wind whispers my name..."
The voice continued, once-lucid thoughts devolving into the chaotic cacophony of an unraveling psyche. The voice spoke of long-forgotten enemies, of evil lurking in every corner, of schemes and betrayals. The voice danced, magnified to a tune of a twisted tapestry that was being torn apart at the seams.
Dave felt the paranoia and madness of the old Archmage take hold of him, threatening to shred through his mind like a ravenous beast. He released the ethereal thread, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
"What the hell?!" he groaned, turning to Sherlock for answers.
"The ghost is potent even if it is thirty years old," his companion responded with a tense note. "It is far stronger than any spirit we've encountered in the killing field of the Dragon Emperor. It appears you cannot simply absorb a dungeon without risking the obliteration of your mind."
Another brick suddenly smashed into Dave's chest. As he keeled over, flashes of foreign memory flickered through his consciousness like the embers of a dying fire, each one a glimpse into the tortured psyche of Lord Alaster Rim.
He saw the Archmage in his once-grand study, his eyes filled with suspicion and mistrust as he snarled at the maids who scurried about, attending to their duties with trembling hands.
The old man stood in the shadows of his Estate, his face twisted with paranoia as he spied on his own servants, convinced that they harbored dark secrets and nefarious intentions.
Gradually, the memories grew darker, more fragmented, painting a vivid portrait of a man descending into the depths of insanity. The once-proud and powerful Archmage Lord was now a prisoner of his own tormented thoughts, haunted by imagined enemies and perceived betrayals that existed only in the twisted labyrinth of his own crumbling mind.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
As the glimpses of Lord Rim's descent into madness slowly receded from his head, Dave was left to grapple with the unsettling realization that he faced a formidable, highly paranoid foe.
He was certain of it now, beyond the shadow of a doubt: this place was indeed a half-formed dungeon, an imprint of a mad mage that stubbornly refused to relinquish his grip on existence.
Another airborne object hurtled towards Dave, striking him squarely in the head. Thankfully, his armor held steadfast, shielding him from severe harm. Undeterred, the ex-programmer reached out once more, his fingers deftly seizing a flailing silver thread.
A particularly chilling memory blossomed in his mind. Dave saw an elderly maid standing before Lord Rim, her hands wringing in anxiety as she struggled to explain why the soup tasted off. With a flick of his wrist, the Archmage suddenly sealed her fate: the woman's body suddenly exploded, as if crushed by an unseen force from above.
Gravity. Lord Rim was a gravity mage. The flying items were moved by gravity magic that permeated the estate, passed through the wards under Alaster's absolute control.
The memory resumed.
In a rare moment of sudden clarity, the Lord of the manor stared at the flattened corpse of his once trusted servant.
“What have I done…” He uttered. “Telarossa! No!”
He reached out and wept over the pulverized, lifeless remains of his old friend. Overwhelmed by guilt and remorse, he dismissed the remainder of his staff, erasing their memories with an artifact before sending them all away.
In the throes of grief, his mind coming apart once again, Lord Rim sought solace in the dark, confined space between the floors of his manor. There, in a small safe room reinforced with layered magisteel and absolute wards, he turned his own formidable magic upon himself with the final slipping remnant of his sanity.
The last thing the mad mage experienced was the sensation of gravity rending, shredding, and compressing his own body into a perfect cube of flesh, a grotesque monument to his descent into madness and the terrible consequences of his power.
Dave suddenly realized that if he got any closer to the dungeon core, he would likely be flattened like a pancake, suffering the same fate as the unfortunate maid did thirty years ago.
As Dave released the ghostly tendril, his entire body shook as if he had just held a live wire.
[Phantomancy level 3 reached]
The onyx bracelet on his wrist flashed with a new notification.
Pain. His entire body was now aching with bruises as large stones tore from the ceiling and slammed into him. His thoughts swam in a sea of madness.
He had to leave, now.
As more bricks tore from the ceiling pummeling his armor, Dave crawled away from the catacombs, slowly reaching the stairwell. His mind was filled with deep paranoia that did not belong to him.
. . .
As Dave stumbled out of the mansion on unsteady legs, his stomach churned, threatening to upheave its contents within the confines of his helmet. He hastily removed it, drawing deep, gasping breaths of the fresh air that graced the afternoon. His hands trembled, and his head pulsated like a war drum heralding an impending battle—each resounding beat a painful reminder of the ordeal he had just endured.
"You've managed to irritate it significantly more than any of your predecessors," the voice of the caretaker resounded from above, tinged with a note of mild condescension and disappointment.
Dave's tear-filled eyes turned skyward, meeting those of the man who perched upon a stairwell that overlooking the estate grounds. The caretaker's expression was as impassive as a marble statue, seemingly untouched by the new adventurer's suffering.
"I'm afraid you've caused quite a bit of damage," the caretaker remarked. "Over a thousand silver by my estimates."
"What?!" Dave sputtered from his prone position.
"That was a very expensive crystal chandelier," the mustached man pointed out, his gaze never leaving Dave's anguished face.
Dave choked, the realization sinking into his very bones that he didn't have anywhere near that amount from his fledgling Bakelite business. But he wasn't about to admit defeat just yet. His mind floated across an ocean of emotions that belonged to a long dead mage.
How dare he bill me! This manor belongs to me! I am Lord Rim... What?
"I'm not done here," Dave shook his head, pushing the foreign thoughts away and glaring up at the caretaker. "I just need... a bath. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Very well," the caretaker mulled, his eyes boring into Dave's sweaty, bleeding face. "I will tabulate the total damage in the meantime."
Gritting his teeth, Dave forced himself to stand up, his body protesting with every agonizing movement. With the weight of his discovery and its consequences bearing down upon his shoulders, he strode out of the Estate and back into town, ready to regroup and return to face the malevolent spirit that haunted the manor's once-grand halls.
. . .
Dave sank into the soothing embrace of the healing pool with a groan. His skin was marred by angry bruises and vicious scratches, evidence of the fierce battle he had just endured.
A pretty mermaid with enchanting emerald eyes and silver-blue hair swam up to him, her gaze filled with curiosity and concern. "You must have been attacked by something quite deadly to end up in such a state," she commented, her voice lilting like a gentle song.
“Yeah, an overpriced chandelier,” Dave muttered.
With a small giggle, the mermaid reached out and wrapped her arms around Dave, pulling him deeper underwater. As she did so, her touch infused with a magical radiance began to seep into his body.
The comforting warmth of her embrace spread throughout his body, healing his wounds and easing his pain. The mermaid's hands unleashed power that slowly mended his battered form, restoring his former strength and vitality.
As they resurfaced, Dave felt considerably better. The memories of the mad, paranoid mage began to fade from his mind like a very bad dream.
The tense melody of Sherlock’s violin became much gentler, like ocean waves lapping at the sand. Dave closed his eyes, relaxing.
A sudden, rational thought crossed his mind… preoccupied with false paranoid insanity about being watched by unseen enemies he forgot to tell Cedez to end his broadcast in which real people were watching him from the Snail cafe.
Oh oh.