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SM/DC Chapter 11 : A Familiar Laugh.
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 21:12:35 +0000 UTCThe first wave was nearly upon him. Their footsteps were erratic, their wild shrieks growing louder. Arthur steeled himself, planting his feet firmly on the cracked asphalt. The blade of his greatsword caught the faint light, casting a sharp glint that seemed to warn the oncoming horde.
Arthur's first swing with the Greatsword of the Lowborn was both calculated and brutal. The blade arced through the air with deadly grace, slicing cleanly through the first charging enemy as though they were nothing more than paper. The figure dropped without a sound, and Arthur’s feet shifted seamlessly into his next stance, his movements almost instinctual.
The next opponent came at him with a rusted pipe, its jagged edges aimed for his head. Arthur tilted his body slightly, the attack narrowly missing him. His free hand shot out, grabbing the attacker by the wrist, twisting it with such force that a sickening crack echoed through the air. Without hesitation, he drove the pommel of his greatsword into their chest, sending them sprawling backward.
“This feels... familiar,” Arthur muttered to himself, his voice low amidst the chaos. He sidestepped another assailant, spinning with the momentum and using the flat of his blade to knock them clean off their feet. The sound of footsteps—dozens of them—pounded toward him, but he remained unnervingly calm.
The blade became an extension of his body, every swing, every thrust guided by an almost otherworldly expertise. The enemies fell like wheat before a scythe, each strike precise and devastating. Arthur ducked under a wild swing from a makeshift club, retaliating with a swift kick that sent his opponent crashing into two others.
As the horde thinned, Arthur switched it up. When another enemy lunged at him with a broken shard of glass, he met them head-on with his bare hands. His fist collided with their face, the impact loud and bone-crunching. Another approached from his side, but Arthur pivoted smoothly, elbowing them in the throat before spinning and slamming the greatsword down onto a third.
“This feels... like home,” Arthur said under his breath, the revelation startling even him. His body moved like it had been trained for decades, like he’d been forged for this very moment.
The horde didn’t stop. By the time he reached the outskirts of Level 2, the enemies began to change. No longer resembling humans, they were deformed, their bodies twisted and unnaturally bulky. One such figure, with grotesque muscles bulging unevenly across its arms and shoulders, roared as it charged him.
Arthur held his ground, narrowing his eyes as the creature swung a massive arm down at him. He sidestepped at the last second, the ground cracking where the blow landed. Arthur’s greatsword slashed upward in a smooth motion, carving deep into the creature’s exposed torso. Blackened blood sprayed from the wound, but the thing didn’t fall immediately.
“So you’re tougher,” Arthur said with a smirk. “Good. I was starting to get bored.”
The creature roared again, swinging its other arm wildly. Arthur leapt backward, avoiding the attack before closing the distance with a swift lunge. With a powerful two-handed grip, he drove the blade through the creature’s chest, twisting it with brutal efficiency before yanking it free. The monster toppled over, lifeless.
By the time he reached Level 5, Arthur was drenched in sweat but wore a grin. The enemies were no longer recognizable as human—hulking beasts with jagged claws, glowing eyes, and distorted forms. One lunged at him, faster than the rest, its claw aimed directly for his throat.
Arthur ducked low, the claw grazing his hair. With a quick step forward, he slammed the hilt of his sword into the creature’s jaw, stunning it. He followed up with a powerful upward slash that severed its arm clean off.
Another monster, larger than the last, swung a massive club down toward him. Arthur rolled to the side, the club shattering the ground where he’d just been standing. Without hesitation, he sprang to his feet, driving the tip of his blade into the beast’s side and slicing horizontally, tearing through its thick flesh.
“Stronger,” Arthur noted aloud, his breath heavy but his grin unwavering. “But still not enough.”
The battle continued, each wave more monstrous and powerful than the last, but Arthur moved with unrelenting precision. He was a whirlwind of destruction, his greatsword cleaving through the enemies with grace and brutality. Even when surrounded, he never faltered, using his fists, elbows, and even his feet to subdue attackers when the blade wasn’t enough.
As the last of the Level 5 enemies crumbled to the ground, Arthur planted the blade of his sword into the fractured ground, leaning on it slightly as he caught his breath. His heart pounded, and his body ached, but there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes.
He looked around the silent battlefield, the eerie quiet settling in once more. “Alright,” he said, pulling the greatsword free and resting it on his shoulder. “Show me what else you’ve got, Tower of Fate.”
The dim, flickering light of the Tower of Fate cast haunting shadows over the blood-streaked walls, remnants of the chaos Arthur had unleashed. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh, metallic blood, and something otherworldly—an unnatural scent that clung to his senses. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous space as he approached the staircase leading to Level 10, each step slow but unyielding, a symphony of determination and exhaustion.
Arthur’s once-pristine attire was torn and soaked with blood—some his, most not. His chest heaved with each breath, and his arms, corded with tense, straining muscles, bore the weight of his colossal greatsword. The blade rested across his shoulder, its edge dripping with a dark ichor that hissed softly as it evaporated into the air. The intricate etchings on the weapon glowed faintly, as if alive, resonating with the blood it had tasted.
His face, smeared with dirt and crimson streaks, A shallow cut ran across his cheek, and a thin line of blood trailed down to his jaw. His Ashen-white hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and grime but his piercing eyes burned with an intensity. Arthur's gait was slow but deliberate, each step a testament to the sheer force of will that had carried him this far. His body screamed for respite—his legs felt like lead, his shoulders ached with the weight of countless swings.
"This place is relentless," he muttered under his breath, his voice gravelly from exertion. His gaze shifted to the looming staircase ahead, the final barrier to the dreaded Level 10. "But so am I." Arthur glanced at his hands, calloused and raw from gripping the greatsword through countless battles. He flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the blade like a natural extension of himself. The Tower had underestimated him. Every slash, every swing, every battle—it had all awakened something deeper within him. He wasn’t just surviving this trial; he was thriving in it.
As Arthur stepped into Level 10, he was startled to find himself in a familiar alleyway. The dim light, cracked walls, and distant streetlamp mirrored a memory from days ago. Ahead, two thugs harassed a screaming woman, her voice trembling with fear.
"Is this... replaying the past?" Arthur muttered, gripping his greatsword tightly. Without hesitation, he advanced, his blade cutting down the thugs in swift, precise strikes. Their weapons clattered uselessly as they fell, leaving only the woman crouched against the wall.
Arthur extended his hand to her. "You’re safe now," he said, his tone calm but wary.
The woman’s trembling stopped, replaced by an unsettling grin. Suddenly, she burst into a maniacal laugh, her voice echoing unnaturally. Arthur froze, his outstretched hand lowering as a chill ran through him.
"What's the fuck is going on?" he demanded, stepping back.
