VengefulBirch
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Chapters 57-59
🕑 Added 2025-07-21 19:13:39 +0000 UTCChapter 57
We spend half the morning climbing the steep path that twists around Clearwater Mountain.
The air thins with every step, and the sea turns silver far below. By the time we reach the summit, the nobles are already waiting, clustered around Lord Clearwater’s pavilion.
His banner flies above the crowd, and the nobles' colors ripple in the wind.
At the mountain’s peak, a circle of carved stone rises from the rock—three ancient portals stand arranged there.
Lord Clearwater stands at the circle’s heart, ringed by his council and every extended branch of his family.
He lifts his right hand, a heavy signet ring catching the sun, and places it against a flat black stone.
Runes flare, and the nearest portal cracks open, spilling blue-white light across the summit. The other portals answer in sequence—each one powered by a different noble, each family adding its mana to the array, every gate linked to a an island in a pocket world.
Lord Clearwater doesn’t so much create the portals as command them—he calls on the arrangements set by his extended kin, channels their power with his authority, and the whole mountain answers his will.
I look at Felisia who stands rigid beside me while her jaw clenches tight.
This is it, this is the moment of truth, I think to myself. Today, she either becomes the next heir or loses to those terrible sisters of hers.
I look at Veyl, now in a shiny, silvery armor.
He looks heroic.
I put on the cloak that Orvick gave me and some simple leather armor. I don't know how to move in real armor and I am not interested in testing it so far into the training.
Felisia's wearing and armor and her armor glints, with the badge of Clearwater sits heavy on her breastplate.
At the starting arch, other teams wait: Adrienne and Veyl ; Calantha, flanked by Lord Aulus, who barely glances our way. Each of them stands tall and polished, ready to prove us beneath them.
The portal gates stand open, pulsing with color.
Every team will be scattered to a different isle, and the trial begins the second you step through.
Felisia grips her sword so tight her knuckles go white. I look at the portal marked for us—its stone rim carved with skulls, the keystone crowned with a broken sun.
An Adventurer Guild official, voice smooth and bored, lifts a scroll and begins to read.
“By decree of the Clearwater House and the Adventurers’ Guild, the Sky Hunt commences. Teams will be assigned portals at random. You may not choose your isle. Once you survive and claim the token, the participants will have to beat a mini-Dungeon and conquer the key there. Those who do will be sent to the last island. The first to sit on the Heart Throne will be named champion and heir of Lord Clearwater. Should you fail to return, your claim is forfeit.”
I feel Felisia stiffen as the official calls our names.
“Felisia Clearwater and Jacob Cloud—Gate Three.”
I meet her eyes, nod once, and step through first. The portal eats me whole, a mouth of blue and black that rips me out of daylight and spits me onto the barren dirt.
*
"This is the Grave-Isle," Felisia says, swearing immediately after. "Dammit! Why have we got the worst of the initial picks?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused, looking around the barren landscape.
Before she replies, I already can tell that the Grave-Isle lives up to its name.
A dead place—no grass, no shelter, only jagged rock, bone piles, and half-collapsed pillars choked in dust. The sun barely reaches here; the air stinks of rot and old fear.
Felisia stumbles through a breath behind me. She scans the empty horizon, taking in the ruins, the silence, the buzz of hidden predators in the stone.
“They did this on purpose,” she mutters. Felisia kicks a loose rock, and it tumbles into the fog below while she explains the setup. "The islands aren't equal because some have water or plants for food, but this one's a dead rock where nothing grows and thirst hits fast. They rigged the draw so we'd land here, and now we face shadow-raptors
"Wait, who did this?" I frown.
"My aunts, my uncles. Someone did. Not my father. He only opens the portals. Dammit!"
"So, they don't want you to win."
"Associating with a commoner... they think I'll be hard to handle if I do. They probably don't think we can win, but those who are smart and saw you complete the Crucible have started getting doubts."
At the far end of the island, I see movement—shapes skittering, low and fast. Shadow-raptors.
Twice the size of a wolf, all claws and spines, black as night and hungry for anything that bleeds.
[Shadow Raptor – Level 80]
Felisia swallows, but she doesn’t flinch.
“We can take them,” she says, her voice steady.
Felisia told me she's level 110, but she also has relatively little combat experience. She's been sheltered for most of her life.
Honestly, other than the Crucible, I can't really boast much combat experience myself.
"So, the trial is basically for us to survive how long?" I ask, scanning the surroundings.
"About twelve hours. If we make it through, it's the mini-boss, then the final island."
“Why is this place so bad?” I ask. I glance at the monsters—the raptors don’t look that bad. “These things?” I gesture at the pack, watching them pace the edge of the ruins.
“They regenerate fast,” Felisia says. “And there are a lot of them. The other islands have maybe a few strong monsters, but this is a swarm. It’s all attrition.”
“Okay,” I say, “and that’s it?”
“You don’t get it.” Felisia looks at me like I’m missing something obvious. “This is about endurance and survival. If we waste our strength here, we won’t have anything left for the final island. The ones who start on Grave-Isle usually burn out before the last trial.”
She folds her arms and watches the horizon. “Every island has its own trick. Some have water, some have shelter, but this one’s made to grind people down. If you use too much mana here, you’re finished.”
I try to picture the sequence. “So we fight these, kill the mini-boss, then rush the last island and race for the throne?”
Felisia nods. “You have to conserve energy. The final island is huge, and you can only use movement techniques so much before you run dry. No one our level can cross the whole thing on pure skill.”
“Alright,” I say, scanning the field, “so we wait for the raptors and hope they don’t all come at once.”
Felisia shakes her head, lips pressed tight. “I wish it worked that way.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
I don’t get an answer—because right then, every Shadowraptor on the horizon turns and fixes on us. Magic, obviously. I see it in the way their shadows stretch, gathering under their claws, almost like someone flipped a switch.
The raptors are lean, bony, and stretched too long. They move on all fours, but the front claws look like butcher’s blades. I watch them test the ground, searching for an angle.
The closest one rushes forward, moving so fast it blurs. I call the Grimoire’s sight into focus. I see the way its right leg drags for half a second, how it leans left just before it pounces. Shadows cluster around its paws as it builds speed.
I raise my hand and call a Hell’s Sword. The blade forms above me, heat shimmering in the air. I track the Shadowraptor’s steps, waiting for the flaw the Grimoire showed me. As it closes to ten meters, I drop my hand and the sword lashes out.
The blade catches the raptor mid-leap, spearing it through the ribs. Its body slams to the dirt, dead before it can twitch.
Felisia exhales, relief flickering in her eyes.
“That’s one,” I say. I look at the others. “But they’re not stopping.”
They keep coming, claws scraping stone, eyes burning in the shadows. And the real fight starts.
*
Lord Clearwater stands at the center of the viewing hall while he watches the three giant mirrors flicker to life, and each one shows a different team's trial unfolding in real time. He sighs deep because Felisia drew the Grave-Isle, which is the worst starting point anyone could get, and he knows his extended family rigged it that way since they favor Adrienne or Calantha.
"Poor Felisia," he mutters to the nobles around him as he shakes his head slowly. "She lands on that cursed rock where nothing lives and the raptors never stop coming. What a shame that my youngest must suffer like this."
The other nobles nod with fake sympathy while their lips curl in hidden snickers, and they murmur agreements that sound sad but drip with glee because they enjoy seeing the underdog falter.
One aunt dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief as if she's truly heartbroken, but her voice cracks with laughter when she says, "It's tragic, truly, that Felisia chose such poor company and now pays the price."
From the back of the crowd, a distant cousin pipes up while he leans against a pillar, and his words cut through the whispers.
"But the kid with her cleared the Crucible alone, so maybe he can pull it off since no one's done that in years."
A cacophony erupts immediately as voices overlap in denial, and nobles shout that it's impossible because the boy is a fraud who probably cheated his way through.
"Never going to happen," one uncle bellows while he waves a hand dismissively.
"That miner's a fake, and he'll drag her down before the hour's out."
But then the mirror showing Felisia's team zooms in on Jacob after he kills the first raptor, and everyone falls silent when he picks up the shadow core that glows dark in his palm. The core erupts in a puff of swirling shadows that twist like smoke, and Jacob inhales it all so the darkness vanishes into his body as if it's nothing. The hall goes dazed while nobles stare with wide eyes, and no one moves because you can't absorb cores like that since they usually poison the user or need refining first.
Lord Clearwater blinks hard as he leans forward, and confusion knots his brow because even he doesn't know what just happened.
"That's... impossible," he whispers while the nobles mutter in shock around him.
*
They threw us into this hellhole because they wanted to break us. They assumed this place would drain us dry, that we would waste our strength and fall behind. What they never considered was that a place like this could actually give me something I needed.
I never imagined it myself. When I killed that first raptor and picked up its core, I felt a rush of surprise. The core felt dense and solid, almost begging to be harvested. Back in the Crucible, I had to fight for every core, and most of them broke apart in my hands or melted down before I could pull anything from them. These raptors, on the other hand, left behind small, tightly packed cores. Their energy stayed contained, so it was much easier to grab.
The real shock came when I touched the core. The bracelet from King Baalrek started to vibrate against my wrist. Something deep inside me, near the spot where the shadow lattice sits, started to stir. I could sense the skill waking up, almost as if it recognized the dark mana inside the core, and it pulled the power straight out without me even making a decision.
Shadows shot out from my palm, spreading in twisting lines that wrapped around my arm. The tendrils glowed with a cold light while they guided the mana through my veins, carrying every drop of energy from the core deeper into my body. I felt the chill slam into my chest. This wasn’t just about refilling my mana. The infernal manual, the one I’d absorbed after the Crucible, started to shift.
For the first time, I could actually see more of another one of the diagrams—the shapes of the attacks—forming in my mind. Diavolo Draw stayed sharp and clear, but now the second form started to come into focus. It still sat on the edge of my vision, but the fog was less dense. I could make out the borders of the diagram, and I realized the shadow lattice had reacted to the core’s energy and started unlocking more of the infernal fighting style.
I had no way to access the next form before this. Now, I see that absorbing these raptor cores actually pushes the process forward. I wonder if this is how I’ll break through to the next level.
Maybe this is what will give me the edge when it matters most.
Maybe this is how I kill Veyl.
Chapter 58
Shadow-raptors circle us while the sun stays stuck behind dirty clouds, and the Grave-Isle feels more like a graveyard every hour. The ground is all black stone and bone fragments, every patch of dirt packed with the stink of old blood. Felisia and I work together, but I take the lead because I have something she doesn’t—a way to last.
Another raptor darts in, jaws open and claws out. I watch the pattern in the way it moves. The Grimoire’s insight shows me a flaw, a slight hitch when it pushes off its left leg. I sidestep, raise a Hell’s Sword, and bring the blade down on its neck. The cut is clean. The raptor drops dead, shadow leaking from the wound.
Felisia guards my flank, sword steady, breath coming hard. She handles the raptors well enough, but she doesn’t have my endurance, and she wastes too much energy on every swing. She kills one and then wipes sweat from her brow, lips pressed tight.
The pack shifts, and another wave comes. I keep moving, tracking every beast. The Grimoire gives me an edge I can’t explain to anyone, especially not to her. Every time the shadow-raptors lunge, I see openings that nobody else would spot. I save my strength, land my hits, and avoid every pointless move. The Grimoire makes me brutal and efficient. Felisia probably thinks I’m lucky or just fast, but the truth is, I see through every monster.
We fight in bursts. I drive the raptors back, slicing down two more, and Felisia finishes the stragglers. We fall into a rhythm where she covers my back while I strike first. After every kill, I scoop up the dark core left behind. I pocket most, saving them for later, but I crush one and let the shadow energy flow into me. The feeling is sharp, cold, and electric.
Felisia takes a break after every small round, sinking to one knee and breathing heavy. I sit cross-legged, drop into Meditation, and let my mind go blank. The Grimoire helps me there too, slowing my heartbeat and dragging my nerves into a calm that recovers my stamina and focus. I open my eyes five minutes later with a clear head, ready for the next round, while Felisia still looks tired.
She watches me, her gaze uncertain.
“You don’t get tired, do you?” she asks, frowning as she tightens her grip on her sword.
“I do,” I tell her, “but I’ve learned how to recover fast. Meditation helps.”
She shakes her head.
“I wish mine was higher leveled.”
Meditation is a hard Skill to teach and even with me pointing out the flaws of what she was doing, she barely got it to level sixty before he Sky Hunt. It’s good, but it’s not nearly enough to recover Mana and Stamina fast enough in this environment.
If it wasn’t for the Grimoire and Shadow Lattice, I’d be exhausted myself. Not even with a maxed level Meditation this would have been even remotely doable.
We moved on a ruined temple, taking the high ground in hopes of having an easy-to-defend position.
But the next wave comes even faster.
Raptors scale the ruins, claws scraping stone, their bodies moving like black liquid. Felisia stumbles back from one that nearly claws her side, but I step in, split it down the middle, and kick the corpse off my blade. Blood and shadow spray across the ground, and the core drops at my feet. I grab it and crush it immediately with Shadow Lattice, absorbing as much mana as I can before the next monster advances on me.
*
The raptors keep pouring in because the Grave-Isle never lets up, and their numbers swell until the ruins echo with snarls and scraping claws. I slash through another one while my blade bites deep into its hide, but the effort drags on my arms since I've been at this for hours without a real break.
The fight turns into a grind where we trade blows and backpedal across the rubble, but I notice Felisia slowing down faster than me because her stamina dips low and her swings lose their edge. She gasps for air after we clear a small group, and she leans against a pillar while her chest heaves.
"I need to meditate," she says, dropping to her knees because she knows she can't keep going without recharging her mana.
I nod and cover her while she closes her eyes, sinking into focus so her body stills and her breathing evens out.
Hordes fall under my blade while Felisia meditates for those last two hours, and I lose count of the kills as cores pile up at my feet. I absorb what I can with Shadow Lattice, pulling the dark energy into my veins so it refills my reserves and sharpens the infernal diagrams in my mind, but even that can't erase the fatigue that builds in my bones. Sweat stings my eyes, and my grip on the Hell’s Sword slips once or twice before I tighten it again.
By the twelve-hour mark, I'm panting hard with my back against a cracked wall, but the last raptor in this wave lies dead and smoking at my feet. Felisia stirs from her meditation, opening her eyes as she stands, and she looks refreshed while I wipe blood from my face.
"You held them off alone," she says, stunned, glancing at the carnage where bodies litter the temple floor. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug, but exhaustion hits me like a hammer now that the adrenaline fades.
"Had to," I reply, catching my breath while I scan the horizon for more.
The sky over Grave-Isle has not changed—still gray, still low, pressing in with that same stink of rot and dust.
I exhale sharply as I scan the ground where cores litter the dirt like dark pebbles. I kneel and pick up a few that remain intact, but I crush them in my palm so Shadow Lattice pulls the energy in. The chill spreads through my veins while the infernal manual stirs in my mind, and I check the diagrams that float before my eyes.
The first one stays clear because Diavolo Draw has unlocked fully, but the second sharpens almost to completion now. I trace the contours with my gaze where edges form like a sword that penetrates a barrier, and the shape promises raw force that shatters defenses. I absorb another core from the pile, yet the diagram holds back because it's not enough to unlock it completely.
I curse under my breath since the edge teases me, and I know more power waits if I push harder.
Felisia watches me from the side while she catches her breath, and she asks if I'm okay. I nod and tell her we need to prepare for the mini-boss because the glow is building already.
*
Nobles are at the peak of the cliff, all in silence now. They have gone through refreshments, some even through a nap, but in the last hour, no one looked at Adrienne or Calantha. To be fair, no one even looked at Felisia.
Every single eye was locked on Jacob Cloud.
Somehow, he absorbed the cores without a flinch, so whispers ripple through the crowd since what he did demands respect.
“That’s talent,” a lord acknowledges. There’s not even a grudge in his voice.
It’s not grudges that bring these men to be stunned and speechless.
These are all men that, at one point or the other in their life dreamed of becoming great warriors, legendary Knights. However, at some point, reality started creeping in for them, just like it does for everybody.
But, looking at Jacob Cloud, a feeling reignited in their chest.
They hate the commoners and the peasants, for the most part. It’s not even born just out of stupid spite, but the kind of fear they have in their hearts that, if they weren’t born in their noble households, they might have suffered the same miserable destiny of those who have nothing.
The poor remind these nobles what they could have been if a silver spoon had not been placed between their lips at birth.
But now, Jacob Cloud reminds them of something else.
He reminds them of legends.
Even though not many have voiced it, there’s been an undercurrent of nobles starting to cheer for him.
Why?
Because when you see greatness, it reflects on you like the sun on the moon.
Through Jacob’s feat of endurance, they have started feeling their own blood pump. The old nobles have relived moments in their life when they themselves have been heroic. The young ones have started feeling the itch to practice more, to reach the same height they just saw one dirty commoner reach.
When they look at Veyl, there’s nothing of that.
Veyl doesn’t inspire them.
Veyl seems to come from a whole different world, as if he was always meant to be strong, to be powerful. Yet, even though they probably come from a world closer to Veyl than Jacob’s, they look at the man called Jacob Cloud with a fire in their heart.
Before they could even realize it, they started cheering for the commoner.
Skeptics shift in their seats, and they mutter that the power itself means little because anyone can swing a sword hard. Endurance hits them like a gut punch, yet he fought for hours and replenished mana mid-battle as if the island fed him.
That kind of talent would rise above the bottom even in Ytrial where prodigies swarm like flies, so one uncle nods slowly since he can't deny it anymore.
He leans to his wife and admits what’s in his heart.
“The boy fights with vicious precision that no one expected, but before in the Crucible no one had seen his moves because the Dungeon hid everything. Doubts lingered like fog, and they wondered if luck carried him or if cheats slipped him through. Now the mirrors show the truth clear as day, so he adapts on the fly and turns attrition into fuel.”
That was the real difference between the trial in the Crucible and the Sky Hunt.
Now, it’s in front of everyone’s eyes.
Jacob Cloud is not the commoner coming here to usurp them.
In their hearts, Jacob Cloud is the story of a human just like them who could humiliate none else than an Elf certified by the High Court.
"Did you see that endurance?" a distant cousin of Felisia blurts, his voice stunned but direct. "I'm not impressed by the power, but the way he endures and refills his mana while fighting stands out like nothing else."
Another cousin nods fast and chimes in right away.
"Absolutely, such talent wouldn't be unappreciated even in Ytrial. It's undeniable now."
A third relative leans forward with wide eyes and adds his voice to the mix.
"He turned that swarm into his own fuel source, and we've never witnessed adaptation like this before our eyes."
Lord Clearwater folds his arms as he watches the feed, and he turns to Sir Greyson who stands rigid at his side.
"I notice, Sir Greyson, that the kid seems to be improving during the fight at a scary speed," Lord Clearwater says while his voice stays low but steady.
Sir Greyson inclines his head since the observation rings true, and he replies without hesitation.
"Yes, my Lord, I believe that I have never seen someone improve and learn like young Jacob Cloud does."
Guildmaster Dorne clears his throat from the edge of the group, and he steps closer while his eyes narrow on the mirror.
"Well, we'll see if he survives the second trial," Guildmaster Dorne says as his tone stays flat but laced with doubt.
He turns then to the branch of the family where uncles and aunts cluster like vultures, and they want Felisia to fail because her win would upend their plans.
*
Guildmaster Dorne walks close to the aunts and uncles as they huddle near the back wall, and he leans in while keeping his voice to a whisper.
"Everything is ready," he says.
One aunt nods sharply since the signal hits home, and she glances at the mirror without a word.
Usually, the mini-boss in the second trial is exactly at the very beginning of Gold rank, Guildmaster Dorne thinks, and it's perhaps still primarily a Silver threat that is something hard to kill but not impossible.
But what they give Jacob will crush that balance since it's going to be a late-stage Gold rank threat, and he smirks inwardly because the rigged beast will finally killed the rat who bankrupted him.
He’s tired, too. We imagined he would be able to survive the Shadow Raptors. But he has no chance of facing a monster so strong without a full tank.
He’s injured.
He’s weak now.
He’s ready to die.
Chapter 59
The blue light snaps shut behind us and leaves Felisia and me on coarse sand that crunches like broken pottery. A briny wind slides across the ground and rattles dead reeds that poke through cracks.
We stand at the edge of Mill Island, the arena for the second trial.
A blocky stone obelisk towers over us and carries runes that flicker with a faint green glow.
Salt crust coats every edge of the pillar, and the glow pulses in a slow heartbeat that sets my teeth on edge.
Felisia steadies her breath while her eyes sweep the shoreline.
“No more Grave-Isle,” she whispers, “but this place looks worse.”
I walk up to the obelisk and press my palm to the rough face because a command line etched there demands attention. The glyphs unfold into clear words that float an inch from the stone.
Each contender must face a solo dungeon. Retrieve one key. Return to the pillar. Unite two keys to pass.
Felisia reads beside me, and a gust pushes strands of her hair across her cheek. She tucks them back and tries to smile.
“At least no surprises. Pretty simple.”
“Simple on paper,” I say. I glance inland where a crooked trail winds across pale scrub toward a ring of ruined walls. Faded banners flap on spear stumps around the broken gate. An eerie hush hangs over the path, no birds, no insects, only distant surf grinding against rock.
A steel gong booms overhead, and I glance up because a scrying crystal the size of a cart wheel floats in the sky. Nobles watch through that eye, and I picture their smug faces. They cheer for Veyl and jeer at every slip I make. The memory helps because anger keeps fear away.
Felisia rests her hand on my forearm.
“You focus on your dungeon. I will handle mine. We meet here with the keys.”
Her voice shakes on the final word, so she clenches her jaw and nods once as if sealing a pact.
I nod back and grip her hand.
“Survive. We’ll finish together and win.”
She squeezes my forearm, steps away, and marches toward a stair cut into the bluff on the left. I watch until the fog swallows her armor’s silver gleam.
I turn toward the ruined gate because the obelisk flare reveals a faint arrow that points there, and I feel the tug of trial mana pulling at my core.
*
Inside the wall I find a worn courtyard littered with millstones cracked in half. Mangled gears and splintered shafts jut from the mud like ribs. A squat arch of scorched brick opens at the far end and breathes a sour vapor that rolls across my boots. Above the arch a rusted plate displays a single sigil: a clenched fist that drips sparks of molten light.
Someone repainted the symbol recently, yet the paint already flakes because the air here corrodes everything.
I step under the arch and descend a spiral of chipped stone. Torches blaze to life one by one, but each flame burns green and cold. The stair ends in a vault of hewn basalt where gears turn without sound along the ceiling.
A door of iron bars blocks the far side.
A plaque hangs at eye level.
Contestant Jacob Cloud.
My spine tightens.
I picture Felisia’s uncles toasting each other while they watch and wait for my failure.
I push the bars, and they groan open.
A wedge of dim light spills across me.
The door slams shut after I pass, and iron teeth lock with a clang.
No return without the key.
The dungeon corridor stretches ahead, lined with floor plates that carry faint rune etchings.
The Grimoire flickers in my mind, each page sliding over the next as flaws pop into view. I see tripwire runes buried under dust, pressure studs set to release darts, and hidden sigil crystals that flood gaps with acid. My breath slows. I map the traps, then start forward in a measured pace. I use Fire Walk in short bursts because I must conserve mana.
I’m tired, damn it.
We didn’t have time to rest, and the other teams have probably already started their trial. Felisia and I tried to postpone as much as we could so that I could get a few more minutes of Meditation in, but this is a trial where time matters above anything else.
Ten meters in, a dart whips past my ear. I lean left and let it slam into the wall. I push on because there is no time to admire reflexes. Blades snap from slits at ankle height; I leap and land beyond the arc, blade tips singing past my heel. Another step and a floor panel sinks. A gout of violet flame roars over my head, so I flatten to the ground. The heat singes my cloak, but I roll clear and rise again.
The corridor widens into a chamber ringed by statues of armored soldiers. Each holds a halberd tipped with an emerald spike. The Grimoire shows me hairline cracks at each socket. I stride through, ready. As I cross the midpoint every statue twitches. Halberds swing down in perfect cadence. I dive, spin, and weave through eight whistling arcs. Sparks shower the floor where stone meets stone. I reach the exit with a pounding heart, but I keep moving.
Three more rooms test me with pendulum axes, collapsing ceilings, and swarms of flesh-eating beetles. I slice the axes’ ropes, dodge falling stones, and burn the insects to ash with a tight cone of flame. My mana sinks, yet I press on because fear of what waits behind pushes me forward.
Finally the corridor ends at a stone arch. Beyond lies an arena paved with fractured basalt tiles. Torches blaze high on pillars and paint everything in orange.
At the center stands a hulking figure twice my height.
Spiked black plate covers its chest and shoulders, and a jaw guard studded with iron teeth hides its face.
Heavy chains hang from its belt, each ending in a hooked mace that drags sparks across the floor.
[Ogre Warlord – Level 175]
The Ogre Warlord turns when it senses me. Red eyes gleam through the visor slit. A voice like grinding boulders rolls out.
“Challenger. Weak. Break bone. Crush spine.”
“Holy fuck,” I swear out loud. “Why is it that strong?!”
I immediately activate Veins of Fire and abandon every plan I had to save my energy.
The chains rattle as it lifts both maces. The pillars around the arena hum. A shimmer tells me a shield locks us inside.
“Dammit!” I swear, looking around and actually thinking about running.
But there’s no escape until one of us falls.
“This is too far!” I scream. “You bastards!”
I swallow hard because I feel the air ripple with brute mana that dwarfs my reserves. This creature belongs in a late Gold dungeon, not a second trial test.
I steady my breath and raise a Hell’s Sword woven from Fire, Ash, and the sliver of Darkness I learned to command.
It has small black veins and its power is incredible, but the monster in front of me is…
Too much.
The Ogre roars and charges.
Each stride cracks the basalt.
I dash aside and slash at the side of its knee. The blade bites, but sparks spray. The armor holds. The Ogre spins and swings a chain. The mace whooshes at skull level. I duck, and the chain whistles past my hair and smashes a pillar. Stone shards rain across the arena.
I counter with Hellspire, trying to skewer him, pouring molten energy into my muscles through Veins of Fire and using Echo Pulse to better track this colossus. I leap high and thrust the spear at the the Ogre’s neck.
The impact rings like an anvil.
The skin barely dents and does not split.
Fuck!
The Ogre backhands me with a gauntlet the size of a shield. Pain flares in my ribs, and the blow flings me across the arena. I slam into a wall and taste blood.
Observers watch through the floating crystal above.
I feel their sneers even though I cannot see their faces.
*
But, the nobles are actually not laughing.
There’s a cacophony of sounds of outrage.
The viewing cliff erupts as soon as the scrying crystal shows the Ogre Warlord. Nobles surge to the rail and shout over one another.
“Who ordered that thing into the trial?” A baroness points at the image, and her bracelets clatter.
“That beast outranks every rule we set,” a viscount bellow, while his face reddens.
Guildmaster Dorn spreads his hands. His silk sleeves tremble, yet he forces a placid smile.
“Unfortunate, I agree. The registrars must have chosen a normal ogre. It evolved right before the match. Such mutations happen.”
A merchant heir cups his mouth and jeers.
“Convenient tale, Guildmaster Dorn. Monsters do not sprout plate armor overnight.”
Another voice rises from the rear ranks.
“He rigs the field for coin. Throw him in a cell.”
Laughter rolls through the nobles who stand outside Dorn’s sphere of influence. Guildmaster Dorn’s jaw tightens.
“The Guild stands neutral. We follow recorded threat tiers. Blame chance, not me.”
Sir Greyson strides across the platform. His boots strike stone with a muted ring, and his cloak snaps behind him. He plants himself before Guildmaster Dorn and speaks in a tone that carries to every ear.
“Chance did not haul a warlord into a second-round dungeon. You are a spineless dog who sold that slot for favors. I shall slay you like the stray dog you are.”
Guildmaster Dorn’s eyes darken. He lifts his chin because he will not yield pride before common knights.
“Watch your tongue, Sir Greyson. You guard a minor child. I guard the Hunt. I could—”
Greyson steps closer.
“You could what? Hide behind forms while that boy bleeds?”
Guildmaster Dorn’s fist bunches. He draws breath to retort, yet the moment freezes when a gauntlet clamps around his neck. Sir Renquell stands behind him as if he stepped from thin air. His armor gleams although no light lies overhead. He lifts Guildmaster Dorn with one arm and speaks without heat.
“This cur will survive a fall. That makes my act lawful.”
He pivots and hurls Guildmaster Dorn over the parapet.
The Guildmaster vanishes into mist below. A faint splash echoes from far beneath the cliff.
Gasps break from the assembled nobles. A few ladies clutch their collars. Lord Clearwater himself raises a hand, yet lowers it again when Sir Renquell turns toward him.
Lord Clearwater’s voice remains steady.
“Our customs are clear. Rescue voids the claim. If we pull Jacob Cloud out, he forfeits. No kin may yield for him. The trial stands.”
Sir Renquell faces the crystal. He crosses his arms, and his gaze fixes on Jacob’s battered form. “Then we wait. I wish for the miner to win.” His tone rings like forged iron.
Greyson steps to the rail. He folds his hands behind his back and watches as well.
A dozen nobles who earlier fawned over Veyl now lean toward the mirror that shows Jacob Cloud.
One duke whispers, “If he survives this, the High Court itself must note it. Damned be the Elf.”
His neighbor nods and forgets the match Veyl conducts on a distant isle, though that bout brims with perfect sword forms and shimmering sigils.
One of the aunts who plotted the scheme clutches her fan so hard that he sticks snap. No one spares her a glance. The crowd centers on Jacob alone.
A few minor nobles cluster at the lowest tier.
They pump fists and chant, “Cloud! Cloud!” Their raw voices echo against marble.
Even higher nobles join in. A young lord lifts his hat and waves it.
“Stand, Jacob Cloud! Break that monster!”
Across the platform admiration swells for each ragged breath the boy draws. Veyl’s elegant duel plays across a secondary crystal, yet hardly a head turns. His lightning arcs and flourishes earn only scattered applause.
Sir Greyson murmurs with his eyes getting almost teary.
“Come on, Young Jacob. Come on.”
Lord Clearwater releases a breath because he alone hears the grudging respect in every voice. He folds his arms and faces the crystal.
“Prove them wrong, Jacob Cloud. Survive, and this house shall forever recognize your valor.”
Far below, a splash sounds again. Guildmaster Dorn’s angry curses rise faintly with the wind, yet no one leans over the rail to see if he climbs back. Their eyes belong to the miner who fights alone against steel and doom.
Sir Renquell watches without blinking.
“Hold on, boy,” he murmurs under his breath.
Comments
Stephen Pearson
Thanks for the chapters! :-)
Ted Burgess
Aaarrrrgggghhh. The Cliffs of Despair
