Topher paused, summoning his Stylus, and watched for any sign of movement; at first, everything was quiet and still, but such a state of affairs did not persist for long. Gradually, he became aware of a sound -- a persistent hissing, slithering susurration -- which had been continuing for a long time and was slowly but steadily growing louder. "What are we standing around for, then?" He jerked past her arm and started jogging towards the archway. "We can get there before --"

Abruptly, as he reached the edge of the round black carpet which marked the center of the hall, the darkness before him came alive; he jerked back, startled, as twisted and hideous forms took shape out of the gloom. They were humanoid, but not remotely human; each one was startlingly different, with multifarious features and body shapes. The one thing which unified them all was that they had clearly once been people, but warped and modified and deformed in countless ways; this one was missing the skin off the right side of its face, its leg had been replaced with a shadowy metal claw, and wriggling tentacles sprouted from its head in place of hair. And they were legion -- dozens, hundreds, and quite possibly thousands that he could hear flowing into the hall from the passageways around its perimeter. He gulped, staggered back, and raised his wand as he recovered his poise. "Okay, then... suck Missile Swarm, jerks! Bwin Zom Bomch Oiz Duthan!"

Ashen bolts sprang forth, numbering in the thousands, and shot outwards like needles into the mass of shadow-creatures; a handful fell, but most simply reeled before staggering back towards him silently. Shit, these things are even higher-Level than me, he realized belatedly; summoning a stack of throwing stars from his Trajectile Bracelet, he imbued them with Metaphrasty and defined arcing, swooping paths through the horde. They fell in droves this time, but there were so many that it barely mattered; he scrambled backwards, feeling an unnatural coldness as he dodged swipes of fleshless metal and bone claws; not sure if those can really hurt me, but I'd rather not find out the hard way if I can help it. "I'm gonna run out of MP and SP at this rate," he muttered.

Then, abruptly, Hana was there by his side; her Flux Blade arced out, lashing a half-moon swipe in a great radius in front of them both; and the shadow-warped creatures howled and flinched back from the radiant light of her power. "You know what, Bailey-sama," she murmured, her voice low and dangerous, "I think this one might be my turn."

Dancing forward, she carved a path through the creatures as Topher trepidatiously followed in her wake; hundreds more appeared even as she did so, cutting off their retreat and swooping down from the ceiling, but Hana never faltered. Each step was flawless, each strike an elegant note in a symphony; often, she was narrowly missed by an attack from one creature or another, and each time it would gouge huge chunks of the stone from the floor with the force of the blow. "Careful," Topher muttered, sweating; "that means their Attack values are..."

"Much greater than our HP and Defenses, yes," Hana returned, the picture of cool serenity amidst the tumult of the battle. "But my Flux Blade seems proof against them nonetheless, though I don't have any idea why." She sidestepped a thunderous double-fisted blow from a skull-faced creature with tangled meat-grinder hands and slime-dripping legs like melted wax, then cut down another dozen of the creatures with a single sweeping blow. "They are very, very high-Level, Bailey-sama -- possibly much higher than the Demon King -- and there are thousands. Our Levels --"

"Will probably not matter for shit if we get cocky," Topher interrupted her. The press of combatants intensified as they crossed the midway point of the hall; as they drew nearer to the arch, Topher could see that the newly-arriving shadow creatures were forming an organized defense before them, stiffening resistance and slowing their progress. "Shit. I don't think they're going to just let us through."

"Don't worry, Bailey-sama." Something oblique in the young Japanese woman's voice gave Topher pause, but her arm snaked around his collar before he could react. "I have a plan."

With a jerk that felt like it left half his bones behind, Topher was abruptly lofted bodily into the air and thrown with incredible force across the dark expanse of the hall as his Stylus dropped from his hand; blasphemous winged figures swooped down to claw at him, but he latched onto the arch and pulled with his Attract Object power to accelerate and dodge their blows. Twisting his body this way and that, he soared past the final line of defenses and shot through the archway, turning around to provide support for Hana when he landed.

As he crossed the threshold of the arch, however, several things happened at once; a sheet of lavender light appeared out of nowhere, slamming through him with oblique disruptive force. His amulet, ring, and bracelet all shattered instantly, and before he could even register what had happened, he was crashing through more sheets of suddenly-appearing light. A bright yellow sheet electrified him; an indigo one froze his bones so fiercely he felt them shatter inside his flesh. An emerald plane envenomed every cell in his body, and a bright red barrier filled him with flames so intense that he could feel his teeth melting in his mouth. And then, suddenly, he was through; he hit the ground, skidded, felt another antimagic field envelop him, and tumbled into a cluster of sharp spikes which impaled him in five places. Groaning, he wrested himself off them and staggered backwards; even in the field, his Wyrd protected and sustained him, but the pain was beginning to get to him. Dizzy with agony, he spun around, trying to see how far behind him Hana was.

Beyond the arch, the hall was now a boiling swarm of violence; his floating Mage Light, hanging near the ceiling, was almost entirely obscured by the twisting, thrashing bodies of the shadow creatures. Within the press of the brawl, he could see arcing flashes of brilliant white light as Hana cut down rows upon rows of the creatures; his blood froze as he realized what she'd intended. Shit. Shit, I'll have to make a Wyrd to get her out of there...

He tried to drop into a Metaphrasty trance, but instantly fell back stunned; the magic was so thick here that the spells filling the air drowned out everything. He couldn't even bind a single rune to start crafting a Wyrd; just entering a trance nearly knocked him insensate. "Hana!" he called out, desperate. "How do I get to you?"

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"You've got it turned around, Bailey-sama!" her voice rang out, fierce and proud. With a thunderous burst of power, she erupted from the affray into the light; he could see blood running from scratches and minor wounds all over her, but her smile was bright and carefree. "You go on ahead; I'm gonna grind a few more Levels."

Topher reached out his hand to protest, but immediately, she was gone; a few shadow-creatures started in his direction, but dispersed into ash as they met the lavender light that had seared him and destroyed his items. He clenched his fists, furious and impotent. "Goddamn it. You'd better not fucking die!" He called out, but only laughter answered him. Giving up, he turned and did as he'd been told, hurrying forward into the blackness before him.

As he continued on, traps and spells continued to assault him at nearly every step; scything blades, blighting sorceries, even holy lances and soft fey confusions. But nothing could penetrate his Wyrd; he just shuffled on, blocking out the pain and the disorientation from myriad sources. And then, almost before he noticed it, the traps had stopped; he blinked, trying to clear his mind and vision, and discovered that he had reached the final door.

It was plain and simple; natural wood of a reasonable thickness, unpolished and adorned with a dull brass knob. He started to reach out to turn it, then realized he needed to know how many MP and SP he had left; muttering "Status open," he checked his attributes for the final time.

Name:

Christopher Bailey

Level:

9999

Class:

Clerk

HP:

29999/29999

MP:

4328/39996

SP:

511/9999

Strength:

Rank C

Dexterity:

Rank F

Constitution:

Rank C

Intelligence:

Rank D

Wisdom:

Rank D

Charisma:

Rank D

Skills:

Literacy (Rank D)

Mathematics (Rank B)

Cooking (Rank F)

Customer Service (Rank D)

Data Entry and Filing (Rank B)

Packaging and Shipping (Rank D)

Home Appliance Repair (Rank F)

Pen Spinning (Rank A)

Special Skills:

Disrupt Illusion

Improved Status

Summon Ledger

Summon Stylus

Detect Status

Metaphrasty (Rank S)

Kilimancy (Rank F)

Encrypt Document

Authenticate Document

Duplicate Document

Validate Document

Restore Document

Locate Document

Minor Theurgy (Rank C)

Minor Wizardry (Rank C)

Transcendent Integrity

Unique Skill:

Attract Object

Viewing the astronomical numbers, he felt numb; none of this matters. It's just for show. Whatever this motherfucker has planned, I'm not gonna be able to beat him to death with my HP bar. Sighing, he gave in; taking the cool doorknob in his hand, he gave it a gentle twist and pushed. Silently, the door opened with no resistance; and, slipping inside, he closed the door behind him.

The interior of the room was, like the outer hall, completely dark; he muttered the runes for another Mage Light, then frowned as its ashen gray illumination revealed what lay within. The floor was simple gray stone, and immaculately clean; what furniture was there was elegant but sparse, and consisted of a bed, a beanbag chair, and a simple dresser with a water pitcher and basin atop it. And, as he'd expected, a single person was already there; the figure was of medium height, with tousled black hair and a long black coat, and was standing with his back to Topher.

But beyond that point, things got really weird.

The far wall of the room was a great image, assembled from many portals threaded together like the warp and weave of a cloth; the image depicted the world, as though Topher were standing on the surface of the moon and looking down towards the distant clouds and ground, but it was like one of those very clever composite images where each tiny blotch of color is actually a very tiny picture of something else entirely. The figure was standing with its hands outstretched towards the image, as though beckoning to it or caressing the air in its direction; and all around the room, great etched stone plates hung on golden fittings, suspended from some unknowable apparatus above and beyond the range of Topher's sight, as they moved through some ineffable dance or algorithm. Each plate was covered almost to the point of obscurity with deeply-etched runes in arrangements of dizzying complexity; just looking in their direction with his mundane sight almost caused Topher to involuntarily trance, and he looked away sharply with an incipient headache.

Then, abruptly, the figure spoke; its voice was masculine, but somewhat high, and had that raspy quality one often hears from long-time smokers. "I'll be with you in a minute," it said, very calmly. "Just one last thing to wrap up."

Yeah, screw that. Topher instantly summoned his Stylus, spun it furiously, and snapped it out towards the figure's back without hesitation; blood boiling, he slapped together every offensive spell he knew into a deadly cocktail of sorcerous violence. "Ru Kull Shoi, Op Yn Nimaq! Scathe!"

The spell which lashed out was the most powerful thing he'd ever cast; a boiling, smoking star of pure destructive power, rainbow-hued with the force of every element. It rocketed out of the tip of his Stylus with an infinity of force, making the spell that had collapsed part of the Wanbourne Dungeon look like a weak fart in the tub. Topher involuntarily held his breath with anticipation as it streaked towards the figure's back.

He expected a thunderous impact, or maybe a shattering like glass; or, if it was too weak to penetrate his enemy's defenses, maybe at least a thump or a spark. But instead, something odd happened to his sense of perspective as he watched; it seemed like the bolt was shrinking, or the figure's back growing, until the dimensions of everything else in the room seemed impossible and nonsensical. The attack dwindled to a mote, then to a dot, then was lost in the cavernous nothingness of the figure's black cloak; it made no sound, and his foe made no indication that he'd even noticed. Topher's mouth dropped open.

Aw, shit.

"Sorry," the figure mumbled, turning to face Topher. "I'm running a little behind schedule." Dull red eyes, wholly without pupils, held Topher's gaze lightly; a Status window appeared, somewhat incongruously, above the figure's head.

Infinite King: Yariel Arce