Chapter 22: Oozing With Confidence
TRISTAN
Tristan’s head whipped around, trying to grasp just how screwed they were. In addition to the level 15 {{Black Ooze Progenitor}}, there were now three level 14s bearing down on them. Two coming from my right, and another on the left. To make matters worse, behind them, the edges of the ruined road were swept with blackness as smaller oozes began surging their way.
Tristan lowered his greatsword and grabbed Aaric around the wrist. “We have to go NOW!” he yelled just after another [Frost Bolt] flew toward the boss ooze.
“Unhand him!” came the sharp reprimand of the elf attendant.
Aaric demanded the same with a “Let go of me!”
But Tristan ignored them, instead pulling Aaric along by his wrist, forcing the ice mage to see what he saw. “LOOK AROUND! We can’t stay here!” He pointed down the road. “If we don’t run now, we’re DEAD!”
Aaric shrugged. “We won’t die.” His cool, unbothered glance found the utterly composed Scout at their side. “Scout can clear these out easily, right?”
“I could,” the Scout said, not smiling at all as he crossed his arms, “but I won’t. This is your mess.”
Aaric sputtered as he finally understood their true situation. “But there are, there are..." For a moment he froze, head tilted, staring at the Scout. Then he looked anew at the chaos brewing around them, before staring down at his hands.
Tristan saw the ice mage’s uncertainty and debated throwing him over his shoulder to carry him away. He dismissed the thought quickly as Aaric’s lordly nature reappeared. “Tactical retreat. Jacques, keep a shield on me at all times! Let’s go! Hurry!”
Tristan wasn’t surprised by the order, even if it was more likely that he would need the shield than the ranged mage. But he didn’t have time to stew on it, as the boss ooze suddenly rose up like a wave of pure black death and crashed itself into the rocky ground. All remnants of frost that had been sticking to it shattered with the impact.
No longer slowed, it began sliding toward the party along the stones of the road with a disgusting:
“Sluuurp.”
The oozes began to converge.
Two of the level 14 oozes on Tristan’s right side lunged first. He slashed at them, trying to cut off the attacking arms, though that merely left blobs of the gelatinous monsters splattered across his arms and chest, burning his bare skin. With another swing, Tristan managed to cut one of them entirely in half, but not before the other began to wrap itself around his boots. Moving his legs became harder than pushing through Aaric’s frost during their duel, and ten times as painful.
He spun his blade and sliced downward, carving just enough out of the ooze that he managed to free his legs. A moment later a [Frost Bolt] whizzed past his outstretched leg, coating the aggressive ooze in frost before it could lunge at him again.
Before Tristan could grunt his thanks, a black pseudopod shot toward his head, this time from the left side.
Tristan began sweeping his blade back and forth in wide arcs, barely aiming, just trying to cover as big an angle as he could while they forced their way backward. Their retreat became a disjointed and stuttering mix of short sprints whenever openings appeared or were made. For the most part, the Scout strolled untouched several steps before them, never bothering to alter his pace. Jacque came next, holding up a shield of bright white light to their rear while also trying to keep a separate shield around Aaric, who flung spell after spell in all directions.
Aaric was almost always casting, cycling between spells Tristan couldn’t always name. But his most powerful immobilizing tool was still his [Frost Nova], the same spell that had completely frozen Tristan during their spar. He used it so regularly Tristan could anticipate when it came off cooldown, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing, especially with the mana cost such a skill must have. Still, it was immediately after [Frost Nova] that their party made the most headway.
Tristan, however, struggled to protect the rear. He backpedaled away from the squirming, squelching, amorphous monsters that continued to spread their black appendages toward him. His footwork was clumsy, despite the fairly flat roadway. It was all he could do to keep up with the constant pressure from the ravenous globs of death creeping in around them.
No matter where he looked now, there were strangely-shaped black puddles surging toward him. From broken windows and from walls, from under doors, and up from potholes. From out of ditches and from troughs. From everywhere, they came. It felt as though there were no shadows in the world any more, only oozes bearing down on them. At the center of them all was the rising mass of pure darkness that was the {{Black Ooze Progenitor}}, bubbling upward forever toward the sky. It wasn’t following them any longer but could easily be seen over even the tallest building in the ruined town. Undulating at its top was a bulge, almost like a head, except covered in writhing tentacles.
Tristan felt like it was gloating as it watched them run away. It almost felt like it was calling them back, daring them to return and become food for its spawn.
That was not going to happen. Not if Tristan could help it.
As Jacques, Aaric, and Tristan drew even with the final building, they were still completely surrounded by the smaller oozes. “I’m running out of mana,” Aaric said, panting.
Tristan cursed internally. I knew he shouldn’t have been spamming his [Frost Nova] on cooldown! Out loud, he tried to repair the ice mage’s spirits. “Just a little farther. Look, we’re almost there!”
It was true, just over a hundred feet away was the carriage, with Travit the dwarf gawking at them from the front seat. Meanwhile the astral was completely unbothered by any of the oozes, no doubt because of the blackened smear coating the ground near its front paws.
“There’s too many,” Aaric murmured before his voice firmed. “I can handle this. Just... someone carry me.” Without further warning, he took out a potion and drank it too quickly for Tristan to [Identify] it.
An intense icy wave burst out of Aaric faster than the wind, as an enormous [Frost Nova] swept over and somehow managed to freeze every ooze even remotely close to them. The nova had to be three or four times larger than normal.
For the span of two breaths, the town was silent.
Did he really just do that? Tristan turned, trying to contain his happiness, only to see something that immediately drained it away.
There were no obvious wounds on Aaric, but the ice mage was pale and shriveled, as though the life force had been sucked out of him. His eyes were shut as if he was fast asleep, but somehow he was still upright, rocking unsteadily on his feet.
Then he collapsed.
“Master Longbloom!” Jacques screamed, lunging forward to catch the young man’s body before it could crash all the way to the ground.
In the time it took for the elf to settle the ice mage’s head on his lap, another “Slurrrrrrp!” echoed out across the rooftops of the small town, causing a dim red aura to appear around every single ooze.
They began to twitch. The Progenitor was somehow undoing the freeze.
“Can you carry him alone?” Tristan asked, lifting his sword again and swinging it at the nearest oozes that were starting to break free. The attendant did not respond immediately, so Tristan yelled, “They’re thawing!”
A full dome of glistening white surrounded them, pushing the thawing oozes outside of its boundaries while fully shattering dozens that were still frozen.
They’re all around us. Gods-damned oozes! “A big cooldown?” Tristan asked, panting. He looked toward the carriage, just a few moments away--maybe one good sprint.
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“A Daily,” Jacques replied with a nod. “Biggest I’ve got.”
Tristan shook his head, looking around. He feared to ask, but he needed to know. “How long?”
The elf looked down at the passed out boy in his arms. “Ten more seconds.”
Tristan’s arms felt heavier than lead, and each swing of the sword had grown harder than the one before. But he couldn’t just let Aaric die here. Not when they were so close. “Give him to me,” he ordered, sheathing his sword on his back and reaching down for the limp body of the ice mage. “I’ll carry him.”
No sooner had he picked up Aaric than the dome of light dissipated, and the shadows crashed back in.
“RUN!” Tristan yelled.
Aaric actually felt heavier than his sword, and now he was all dead weight. Without slashing to fend off the oozes, he focused on footwork, trying to avoid the stinging, stabbing monsters that still surrounded him. He drove his legs forward. He stomped from one ooze to the next, turning the weakest into brackish puddles for long enough to move past and ignore them, just like he was ignoring the blinking notifications in the lower corner of his display.
Twenty steps from the carriage, he heard Jacque curse, but Aaric’s head bobbed directly into his view, blocking sight of the elf. Two steps later, he recognized that the elf still wasn’t at his side. Fifteen steps from the carriage, the oozes didn’t seem to be hounding Tristan as they had been. He no longer felt them licking at his heels. Ten steps from the carriage, he dodged the last ooze that reached out for him. Three steps away, and finally across the barrier, he looked down, amazed that the ground was clearly just dirt and pavers again. No shadows, no black oozes. He was safe. He had made it.
Then he looked back.
He saw the mound of black, tarry oozes engulfing the struggling form of Jacques. His arms were flailing as his open mouth gulped for air but found only ooze. He was pulled down by black, bubbling tendrils. Down to his knees. Down to the ground. Until the struggling stopped, and the oozes covered him entirely.
A hand found Tristan’s shoulder.
“Put the boy inside, and let’s be off,” the Scout said.
Wordlessly, Tristan complied. He barely even noticed the tears running down his own cheeks.
That guy was an absolute asshole, he thought, but he didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.
As the carriage doors swung closed, and he felt the wheels begin to roll, Tristan put his head into his shaking hands and tried desperately to think of anything else at all. Especially not the quest notification he’d just been given.
- - - - -
THE SCOUT
With a light pull from his [Unseen Hand], the doors of the carriage closed. The Scout made sure his face was utterly impassive.
Not that a bloody tier 2 could glean a damn thing from me, apparently, even when I’m trying to fucking warn them.
He shook his head. They just weren’t perceptive or experienced enough.
Though that last bit, that was changing.
Out the window, the remnants of the town of Sharing Cross were gradually left behind. He wondered which of the boys would be scarred worse by it, the one who failed and fainted, or the one who saw the price of success.
Probably the swordsmith. Poor kid.
The Scout actually respected how hard the Hammerson boy had fought, and without a full combat Class. He was definitely still rough around the edges, and he hadn’t gained much skill in combat since that day at the training grounds, but there was definitely quality there. Just like his father. Just like his sword. It was unquestionable that the swordsmith had made it himself, though the Scout still didn’t quite know how. He had dug into every source he could find prior to allowing the swordsmith to join this trip. But seeing the blade in person, seeing it in action, was something else. The swordsmith had a bright, bright future.
Just like a certain other idiot.
He sighed. He couldn’t believe the little fucker had run himself totally dry, after all that training, and then resorted to a [Deep Surge Potion]. In trying to be a hero, he’d fainted in the midst of a literally deadly battle. It was the kind of mistake novices only got to make once. The kind of mistake a “prodigy” should have known to avoid. The Scout glanced into the back seat where the sprawled body lay recovering from over-exertion. With all the fighting done, the Scout had been forced to shove a healing potion down the boy’s throat. Orders were orders.
He’s never learned how to deal with losses. It’s going to be yet another shitshow when he wakes up. We’ll see if he’s still oozing with confidence then. Heh.
Leaving Jacques behind with the black oozes hadn’t been an ideal outcome. No matter how annoying the elf had been, the little prick had also been loyal, and the Scout respected that.
He knew his Path, and he walked it fucking faithfully. That made him better than most... and he deserved better because of it.
Thinking back on all their time together, the Scout decided he’d lift a glass to the elf the next time he could. He’d earned nothing less. Someone needed to remember him, and the Longblooms only would until a replacement arrived.
Would have been much better if the young fucking Master had taken a few hits to actually learn from them. That’s how it should have gone. That damn boy keeps ignoring good intel. But gold is gold, even if he learns nothing.
The boy had even disregarded the Scout’s initial message about passing by the town. Even though the Scout knew damn near everything about their route. He’d known about the ooze infestation. He’d even known about the fucking Progenitor. He was paid to gather all the relevant intel for every likely circumstance.
And the boy still didn’t use it, thought he knew better than a tier 4. Well, maybe he’d listen now.
The Scout wouldn’t bet on it though. He didn’t like losing his money on longshots anymore, not when he had to put up with Aaric fucking Longbloom to earn it.
In the front seat, the swordsmith pulled his head from his hands. He hadn’t been crying. Instead his eyes looked distant and reflective. Like he’d dealt with something similar before. That was good to know. Maybe the rumors had been true.
The Scout recognized the moment the swordsmith went into his interface by the glassy, absent look in his eyes.
I wonder what kind of rewards he’ll get for wading through all that unnecessary shit.
As if in response, the Scout heard the telltale ding! as a brilliant golden halo encircled the survivor, pushing him to level 11.
And that, of course, was when the swordsmith finally wept.
The Scout averted his eyes, again, out of respect. He had a strong feeling that the young man was learning his Path exceptionally well, too.
In the back seat, Aaric fucking Longbloom groaned.
Aaric: I hurt all over. Get me another potion.
The Scout: Which type would you like, sir?
Aaric: Why are you--?
The boy’s head lifted, woozily, from the pillow that had protected it from the carriage’s jostling.
Aaric: Where’s Jacques?
The Scout: He’s dead, sir.
There was a moment of silence throughout the carriage before the next line filtered through the party chat.
Tristan: He got caught in the oozes, Aaric. We couldn’t save him, but we saved you.
The Scout watched the next moments with great interest and, honestly, even greater respect. The swordsmith hadn’t claimed sole responsibility. Though he had, most definitely, done it all himself.
Aaric, surprisingly, was beside himself. The Scout couldn’t tell if he reverted to speaking because he was simply overcome with emotion or if it was because the swordsmith could see the party chat. “What in the gods’ names are you talking about? What happened? How did we get back here?”
“You pulled a level 15 ooze boss,” the swordsmith said, nearly spitting out the last two words, though he kept his tone impressively flat. He was trying to keep his calm.
“I know that now,” Aaric sputtered. “But how was I--? I couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”
Then he swiveled to face the Scout, eyes widening.
“But you could have. You probably did! Why didn’t you help us?! With your strength, you could have easily wiped that entire town from the map!”
It was the moment the Scout had been waiting for since the first time the fool had ignored his advice that morning. Of course he’d known. Of course he’d seen the boss and known that they wouldn’t be able to defeat it. It was a fucking Progenitor! But once again, Aaric fucking Longbloom had insisted.
He kept the smile from his face, kept the anger from his voice, and in his constant outward professionalism simply replied with the facts, knowing that their punch would be just as strong:
“I’m only paid for assessments and information, sir. Not to help in combat. In fact, your father explicitly paid me not to.”
He hoped the idiot heard the first sentence as much as the last one, but again, he wouldn’t bet on it.
Proving him right, the spoiled lord turned his glare to the swordsmith. “Then it’s your fault he died! You should have protected him better.”
The Scout watched the control flee from the swordsmith’s grasp. “MY fault?! Wake up, Aaric! This isn’t a dungeon. This is the real world! There aren’t walls out here to guide you all the time. You have to learn to think about all the angles. All the possibilities! You have to learn to think about more than how you look! People die when you act like an idiot, you asshole! If you want to know who to blame for that guy’s death, then go find yourself a blessed MIRROR.”
The Scout reclined in his no-longer-shared seat with a smile on his face, luxuriating in the absolute silence of the carriage.
It’s a shame the swordsmith could never afford me. I have a feeling I’d love working for him.