"I will not be bested by a corpse twice!"
Like a beating heart of fire, red flames spread out from Lord Vasquez's body in all directions. Once the wave of red flames reached the phantom in the shadows, the creature was forced into the world. In its corporal form, its faceless head looked back at the rushing War God only to barely be able to bring up its spear to block the heavy swing of a battle axe.
The ghost was sent flying back, its weapon still holding strong for the moment. The flame wave died out around it, and the creature tried to sneak back into the shadows, but another explosive wave was already rolling out of Lord Vasquez's inferno. Flames washed over the ghost as it only managed to move a short distance away from its original spot; oddly enough, it was not entirely engulfed in the conflagration.
The fur draping its ghastly blue body caught fire; its skin, or what should have been skin, also seemed to take damage from the magic, but it was quickly dosed by unknown means. Lord Vasquez planted a foot and shot off directly toward the creature, his axe bearing down on its skull.
The monster managed to block it with the shaft of its spear, but the sheer force of the blow forced the creature to its knees. As fire erupted from the axe, the ghost melded back into the shadows once more, only to be threatened by another burst of flames. Shadowy hands formed and slinked out from behind Lord Vasquez, but the flames doused the magic, destroying the shadowy hands in its blaze. Lord Vasquez shot forward again, riding behind his flames.
He was hunting the monster down, using the light of his fire to force away the shadows and make the ghost corporeal again. Without the use of the shadows, the beast seemed to be…lacking. Lord Vasquez was no longer being hunted. Instead, he was the hunter.
If I had to guess, it seemed the monsters were limited. If the words of the first ghost knight were to be believed, they were all once people, their souls, or something equivalent, shackled by a greater power here in the dungeon. Perhaps either dying or the process of jailing them made them lose some of their previous might from when they were once alive.
If that ghost knight was a Paladin or even a lost Exarch of Amon-Ra, for example, it should have been capable of using light magic to a high degree. Yet, it never did. But its physical might was at least at the level of a War God, if not more. This Dark Elf ghost, on the other hand, seemed to be able to use its shadow magic to a higher level, but its physical might was far behind that of the first ghost and of Lord Vasquez.
We watched as the battle took a complete turn. Lord Vasquez had the ghost on the back foot; the creature couldn't separate itself from the waves of flames and the Mythril axe bearing down on it. The two continued to fight, moving at extreme speeds as they moved around the arena. The ground quaked and burned from the battle.
Another wave of fire knocked the ghost out of the shadows. Instead of running, however, the creature crouched down low to the ground and shot up with its spear in a wide arc. The way the ghost bent would have been nearly impossible for a living person to perform.
The blade of the spear, wreathed in shadows, caught Lord Vasquez's axe by the shaft. Shadows wrapped around the ghost and the axe, and with great force, the ground cracked at the two's feet, and the ghost followed through, managing to cut through the Mythril shaft.
The top half of the blade flew off to the side, but Lord Vasquez did not falter. With the broken shaft of his axe consumed by the red inferno, he thrust it down and pierced the ghost through the shoulder. It cut through the ghost and went directly into its chest, but what would have been a lethal blow to a living person didn't seem to kill the ghost instantly.
But with the axe haft forced into the ghost and Lord Vasquez still holding on, the ghost couldn't slip into the shadows. Flames seeped out from the ghost's wounds, and the creature reeled back into a silent scream. Lord Vasquez pushed the weapon deeper into the creature with a growl.
In a flash, the ghost brought its hand back, and a dagger made of shadows manifested into its hand. By the time the next wave would bathe the creature in fire, the ghost thrust the dagger into the joint behind Lord Vasquez's knee. Lord Vasquez growled as he released his axe as it clattered to the ground. The ghost slipped in and out of the shadows, its blue aura being infected by the flames spreading out from its gaping wounds.
In a low stance, the ghost thrust its spear at Lord Vasquez. With the range and how close they were, and with another wave of fire just short of hitting it Lord Vasquez was only able to put up a single hand. The shadow-clad spear sliced into armor and flesh, impaling Lord Vasquez's hand. The blade continued forward, pinning the man's hand to his stomach as the blade sank further in.
If Lord Vasquez had not blocked that spear thrust, it would have skewered him through. But the mighty War Gord grunted in pain as his broken hand clasped down on the spear and his free hand reached over to grasp the ghost by the face.
The creature, its spear lodged into the War God, wasn't able to pull it out. And its attempts only gave Lord Vasquz that split second to make the grab. The War God's gauntleted hand, wretched in red flames, grabbed the ghost. An all-consuming fire spread out, swallowing the ghost whole.
Lord Vasquez roared as he stepped down on the ghost's leg, pinning it to the floor and ripping its head back and up. The red flames beat out the ghost's ghastly blue aura, and with it came its faceless head. I wasn't certain how, but I suppose if one could slice through and into a ghost, ripping its head off with a hand engulfed in fire magic wasn't as impossible as it sounded.
As the ghost disappeared, the fur armor finally caught flames and burned to ash. Lord Vasquez staggered for a moment as the red flames engulfing him flickered away. He gave the disappearing ghost one final glare before hobbling away. As he approached the circle, he placed a hand on his helmet, ripped it off, and sent it to his Spatial Ring.
The gruff man's face was blood-red with painful burns, suffering from the flames of his magic. Blood leaked from the raw wounds and as he stepped into the ring his eyes darted to the side and narrowed as he must have heard the voice speak to him. He grunted something barely audible as the barrier surrounded him and forced him back to our side.
As Sylvia approached him, she hesitated as something materialized between them. Dark, black shadows seeped from the ground and coalesced into a long shaft. The material formed into inky black metal that was unlike Mythril as it seemed to swirl and move, almost like it was made of living shadows. The top of the axe took shape, and a ghastly green axe head sprouted from the metal shaft.
It was smooth and looked like it was made of glass, given how it looked in the light—a single sharp point formed into a spike on the other side of the head. The battle axe emanated an ominous aura for a few moments after it fully formed, but this disappeared. Lord Vasquez's eyes narrowed, but he placed a hand on the magic weapon and sent it away into his ring.
His eyes turned to Sylvia, who shot into the action. The War God fell to his knees, and Sylvia bit into his neck. And in one swift motion, he ripped the black wooden spear free from his stomach as blood poured out like a broken dam. The spear began to crumble into dust as well.
The severe burns on his face closed, and the reddened skin returned to its usual color. The open wound on his stomach knitted together as his internal organs healed once the wound was sealed. Lord Vasquez crumpled slightly, breathing heavily.
Sylvia stepped back and said, "That should be enough. Nothing was permanent, and he'll recover with some time."
Lord Vasquez rested against the barrier and said, "Thank you…"
Sylvia just smiled and nodded as Bowen walked over and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Quite the spectacle you put on."
"Spectacle…ridiculous. I was fighting for my life—damn shadow bastards. Always annoying…even in death," Lord Vasquez grunted.
Bowen chuckled lightly. "Yes, I believe this is where you would say you are just getting old, my friend. Even so…" he trailed off, turning to face Sylvia.
"I understand you desire to go right now, Sylvia. But it would be in our best interest to rest for some time. We have no idea what will happen after you defeat the final monster, and I'm sure you will do just that."
Sylvia looked ready to protest, but her hand fell limp to her side as she nodded. "Yes, you are right. It would be disastrous if Lord Vasquez and Cerila were still tired and we were attacked right after."
Bowen nodded approvingly. "Indeed, a large-scale battle right after this would be particularly awful. At least as we are now, we understand that we have some time and are… relatively safe. Even so, we shouldn't take too long, right?" Bowen asked, looking down at Lord Vasquez.
The tired War God grunted. "I just need some time to catch my breath."
After making the decisions, I ended up staring back at the arena. The once pristine place was torn asunder. Large swathes of stone were gouged from the intense battle or turned to rubble by magic. Scorch marks covered many places, caking the stone in black soot. Cerila's walls and towers of blue ice had melted, filling the pockets in the stone like tiny blue lakes.
However, two areas were oddly unaffected by the fierce battles; the stone around the circles was pristine like islands in a sea of destruction. And it was not that they were spared from either of the three battles. Professor Garrison's had ended right on top of one. Yet there wasn't even a drop of blood on the circle.
Also, there was a section of stone where Sylvia's uncle had his circle that remained untouched. I frowned at the realization that it was probably not a mistake. There was plenty of space to put another one of those circles, maybe even two. Which meant that more guardians could be placed, or…maybe they were taken and used elsewhere.
Varnir wondered aloud that it was weird there were no bodies of the ancient Dwarves present. But perhaps there had been a spot for one particularly powerful one, but the dungeon had sent it elsewhere; to invade the surface, for example. Which, if that were the case, meant the Iron Citadel had not been spontaneously created by the original undead legion that broke through the mountains, but rather had been growing it over the years.
That explains why no one noticed a change at first.
The undead must have been hiding on the lower floors. Perhaps they were stationed at the Bastion, guarding its walls in silence for hundreds of years as their numbers swelled in preparation. That seemed likely, which meant in another hundred years, perhaps they would have returned.
But Lord Vasquez's fight was not the only spectacle that happened. At the end, when he heard the voice of the dungeon, it clearly gave him a choice of something, a reward. Cerila had not been given a reward, most likely because she had taken the sword and armor of the fallen ghost knight, while Lord Vasquez did not.
And that may have been the first time a living person witnessed the dungeon actively create a dungeon item, which was interesting in and of itself. But that led me to think of something else.
Why would the dungeon reward someone directly?
Surely it had to come at a cost. And maybe the cost correlated with the danger, but that was not a guarantee. Just because someone defeated a powerful monster did not mean they would receive a dungeon item. And even though dungeons follow one singular rule of having a path to their core, no matter how obscure, that did not mean dungeons actively helped and rewarded people. Especially if that item could be used to conquer the dungeon in the long run.
Are dungeons bound by more universal rules we haven't figured out? Or is there something else…
The Demons.
If these Demons are binding people's souls unwillingly, perhaps there is an unknown cost to that. Or maybe the very souls bound to the dungeon are fighting back? That would be a simple answer to an unknowingly vast question. But for some reason, that answer seemed right to me.
Is that why I feel that unnatural sense of euphoria for slaying these undead and other monsters? Is it…because I'm freeing their souls from their shackles? And does that mean the Moon Mother was some Demon along with Amon-Ra? Or was she perhaps an actual deity or god like being, and Amon-Ra was the Demon?
…
Perhaps I'm stumbling onto something, but there are too many missing pieces.
I sighed and looked over to my right. Sylvia was staring blankly past the barrier. I shuffled closer to her and asked in a low voice, "Your uncle, are you confident you can beat him?"
Sylvia shrugged weakly. "I don't know. I never saw my uncle fight; I don't even recognize that scattered armor. I knew it was him because he always had his swords strapped to his waist."
"I see…were you close to him, your uncle?" I asked.
"Somewhat," Sylvia answered somberly.
She sighed deeply and shook her head. "My memories of him are fuzzy. I was…very young the last time I saw him. I only remember his face…his voice, swords, and… that he would always give me a flower."
"A flower?" I asked.
A slight smile creased her lips as she nodded. "Yes, a flower. I don't know why he did, but…he would always give me a new one. He told me it was from his garden."
"It sounds like he was a good man. What was his name?" I asked.
"Aster. My uncle's name was Aster."