Remicra winced slightly as a massive, jagged stone, likely ripped from the vaulted ceiling, slammed against the large metal shield-box she was holding with all her might. The impact reverberated through the contraption, making the entire thing resonate like a massive bell, its deep, sonorous tone echoing through the cavernous chamber. Dust and pebbles danced around the edges of the shield-box, some billowing through the small, sideways-tilted mirror-visor slits. Remicra's scales shuddered, changing color in response to the vibrations.

Dave, the ever-befuddled human, stood directly in front of her, his lanky arms flailing about with the grace of an intoxicated birdkin. His fingers grasped at the empty air, as if attempting to wrestle some invisible foe into submission.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?" the dragoness asked, her voice a mix of amusement and concern. Her sinuous tail flicked from side to side, betraying her inner tension.

"Draining the core," Dave gasped between choking noises that sounded alarmingly like a feline on its last legs. His face was contorted in an expression that seemed to be equal parts determination and abject terror.

"Why, precisely, do you sound like a dying cat?" She inquired, arching one eyebrow.

"Because this bastard is powerful and absolutely mad," Dave hissed, beads of sweat running down his face.

"Sounds like a dungeon all right," Remicra agreed. “This iron-sheet shield-box was a good idea to invade this place safely, well done.”

"How do you know about dungeons?" Dave asked, his teeth clattering. The dragoness idly noted that his entire face was a glistening canvas of perspiration.

"Fixed far too many armors and weapons for adventurers over the decades while listening to their incessant whining about dungeons," she replied. Her eyes momentarily drifted away from the chaos around them, as if picturing each and every dent and scratch she had meticulously repaired. Then her gaze snapped back to the present as another brick, this one the size of a small dog, slammed into the shield with the force of a meteorite.

"Who taught you blacksmithing?" Dave inquired, his voice quavering, as if it were a violin being played by an overeager octopus. He was clearly trying to distract himself with a conversation to ignore the pain of his head being split in two by the invisible thread of power he was holding.

"Until our village was taken by the Shadow, my father instructed me in the art of blacksmithing," Remicra responded, her voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "In addition, I absorbed a wealth of knowledge from the old tomes Princess so graciously provided. Over the years, I've repaired and restored myriads of artifacts, each with its own story."

Dave managed a lopsided grin that resembled a seasick sailor attempting to remain upright during a particularly tempestuous storm, his body wobbling dangerously as he continued to grapple with the invisible. "That's...nice," he wheezed, his eyes darting about as if searching for an escape route from the bizarre situation they found themselves in. Flying rocks continued to rain on the box shield from all sides.

"Okay, I'm done," Dave whimpered pitifully, his voice barely more than a mewl. "Pull me out, please... pretty dragon lady."

Remicra rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of her muzzle. With a swift, fluid motion, she reached out and grasped Dave by his Bakelite armor, hoisting him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather. Carefully, she draped his lanky form over her shoulder, ensuring that he was securely in place.

"Hold on tight," she instructed, her voice a mixture of sternness and concern. "This might get a bit... bumpy."

With Dave clinging to her like a particularly stubborn barnacle, Remicra began her rapid escape from the labyrinthine catacombs of the Rimzadria Estate. Dusty crystal lanterns flickered upon the ancient stone walls, casting eerie shadows that seemed to reach out and grasp at the peculiar duo as Remicra rapidly traversed the wide, gloomy passageways. Various debris continued to pummel the shield box until the dragoness rushed out of the opulent, wooden doors of the Estate.

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. . .

In another moment, Remicra unlocked the iron latches opening one of the metal panels, emerged from the shield box and unceremoniously dumped Dave onto the verdant grass, which seemed to welcome the sudden weight by bending amiably beneath him. He lay there for several minutes, his arms outspread like a fallen angel, while the memories of the mad mage Alaster swirled in his head, vying to push his own consciousness out of the driver's seat.

[Level 4 Phantomancy reached!]

The blue screen on his dark bracelet flickered with an ethereal glow.

"Woo, Level 4," he weakly flailed, his voice a mere shadow of its former self.

"Congratulations," Remicra commented with a wry smile. "You're now as strong as four kittens... no wait, your skill doesn’t make you stronger does it? What is it that you’re focusing your mana on?"

"Talking to deranged dungeon cores," Dave replied blearily, his eyes struggling to focus on the dragoness before him. "Old men dungeon cores who hate everything with a passion."

"Did you manage to glean anything useful?" the dragoness inquired.

"I think..." Dave exhaled slowly, his breath barely stirring the grass beneath him. "I know some more ward passwords now. The old bastard had a password for every damned wardstone in his Estate. I think if I collect all one hundred and forty two of them I might be able to reassign most of the outer wards to myself."

"Did the owner not provide you with a key for the outer ward?" Remicra inquired, her gaze scanning the overgrown garden around them.

"He did," Dave nodded, his eyes still unfocused. "It was the caretaker's key, which, while helpful in concealing our presence here from scrying and seer orbs, is utterly ineffectual for taking control of the entire estate or weaponizing the ward."

"Oh?" The dragoness arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Weaponizing it against whom?"

"It's my estate," Dave declared, rising from the grass and dusting himself off with a newfound determination. "I refuse to relinquish it after a mere three months of lease. I am Lord Alaster Rim and this place belongs to me by mageright!"

"You're... Lord Rim?" Remicra tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "Do I need to give you a good thwack on the head until you revert to being Dave? Has that dungeon core ensnared your mind?"

"I... errr...," Dave blinked, his expression a mixture of confusion and realization. "No. I'm still Dave, but there's an undeniable presence of Archmage Rim within me. I recall a childhood I never experienced in this very place. I remember racing through this garden with my best friend Telarossa when it was far less overgrown, dreaming of becoming a great, almighty gravity mage who would someday rule all of Shandria."

"That's not healthy," Remicra pointed out, genuine concern etched on her draconic features.

"It's fine," Dave assured her, his voice steadier than before. "I've got it under control."

"Do you really?" the dragoness tilted her head, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. "I'd rather not have you go insane on me. Didn't Archmage Rim spiral into complete madness?"

"He did, but it was a mundane problem, not magical," Dave nodded solemnly. "On Earth, we called it Alzheimer's, a neurodegenerative disease that usually starts slowly and progressively worsens. In a person with Alzheimer's, paranoia is linked to memory loss. Alaster began to forget where he put things, so he assumed it was his maids or his enemies moving them. He paid the best wardsmiths to increase the power of the Estate ward, but it didn't help. He started to suspect maid Telarossa of tormenting him on purpose since she was always by his side. Alzheimer's messes with a person's mind and makes them dislike foods they always loved. When Alaster's favorite soup tasted wrong, he turned his gravity powers against Telarossa, crushing her skull in an instant."

"You're far too slow and weak to crush my skull," Remicra said, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "But still, I'd rather not have you forget who I am and attack me like a wild beast."

"I don't have Alzheimer's," Dave shook his head, his expression resolute. "I'm not forgetting random things, nor is my brain decaying. The dungeon core isn't evil; it simply doesn't understand what's happening to it. It doesn't have much awareness and is attacking anything living using its gravity skill. When I get close to it, I'm seeing Alaster's random memories, bits and pieces. The emotional aspect of it is temporarily making me feel like I'm Alaster, but I know that I'm not him and never will be. I don't have gravity powers."

"Uh-huh," the dragoness said.

"It would be nice to have gravity powers," Dave mulled. "It would make our workshop construction efforts a lot less cumbersome if I could just fly bricks and beams into place."

"Dream on," Remicra laughed.