The Pinnacle Warrior

Defender

Passing the fortieth floor was a trial. Bit by bit, the group of five Iron tier Hiveguards realized why their trainer had told them again and again that their possibility of being the party that reached the deepest floor was unlikely. Her attempted explanations to their Bronze tier minds were impossible to understand, but now that they’d grown, becoming more than mere drones, they could understand what she had said and why.

“The strength of the Hiveguard race is found in our unity, in our connection to each other, and in our obedience to the Mothers. The other peoples find strength not as a race, but as individuals. As Hiveguards, you are remarkable individuals who are rare to find, but among those most powerful in the other races, you will not be outstanding.”

She had said other things, but Defender couldn’t remember them. More than anything, she couldn’t believe just how much dumber she’d been before evolving to Iron. Even understanding complete sentences, much less more complex reasoning like that had been impossible to understand. Now that she’d learned more, she still scoffed at her foolishness when she had approached the furry ones with such optimism and goodwill. The others, Humans she believed, hadn’t mistreated the Hiveguards when they’d rescued them, but she refused to show any acceptance towards strangers, not anymore.

Without pulling her attention away from the fight at hand, Defender continued to think about such things. As she did, she flexed her newly skill-reinforced carapace shield against the attack from the monster in front of her. The notifications that appeared in front of her when they killed them told her it was called a minotaur, and the monsters wandered in small herds of four or five as they cared for their flocks. Defender remembered doing something similar when she was young and relatively newly hatched. It took some time before a young Hiveguard could gain their Class, and until that time, they were taught by various senior Hiveguards with many different Classes. After all, the hatchlings should learn what worked best for them.

The Hive Tender senior had spent time with her as they raised mana-mutated beetles, and Defender ha dhelped her raise and protect those creatures, though they’d hardly needed it. The large, horned sheep that the minotaurs protected were not so harmless, and when their masters were slain, they would charge at whatever moved.

Worse still, they were less tasty than their masters.

The minotaur swung its axe down in a flurry of looping strikes, but Defender had no difficulty dealing with them, though she’d learned her lesson when it came to taking these monsters too casually. The drakes on the floor before had been tough while the rocs were simple enough prey for the Hiveguard who could meet them in the skies. The minotaurs wielded axes and staves in melee and threw massive stones at a distance. The Hiveguard had thought those to be the monsters’ primary weapons until a rampaging, charging bull had impaled Defender through her specially thick forelimbs and into her torso. Healer had saved her life that day, kept her entrails from being spread across the grassy fields they walked through.

This one tried to do the same, swiping its axe in a warding attack to gain a little space to build up its charge. Defender allowed it to do so, knowing how predictable they became once they began the dangerous charge, and as it bellowed and rushed forward, she waited to the last moment before floating to the side with the assistance of her wings where she then smashed her forelimbs into the side of its neck. The beefy muscle covering its neck kept her from crippling it with that attack, but the monster was dealt a serious blow, and the rest of her sisters quickly swarmed it with biting jaws, stabbing stingers, and slicing limbs.

Its bellows filled the air, changing from enraged to terrified, and the Hiveguards’ finished off the beast before the sole remaining minotaur could come to support its ally.

Defender didn’t need to direct her sisters in battle, not in one like this that they’d practiced multiples of times over by now, and the flow of the fight swept over her as she and her sisters killed the final minotaur and then the enraged sheep. She remembered that there were still five days left in the Trials, and her focus had long since shifted from being the fastest of the parties here, but instead to see how much she and her sisters could do and how much they could grow in these next five days.

They were already level 37. Maybe they could get most of the way to the next Skill selection at level 43 if they killed everything they saw.

***

Luzara

With four days, by his reckoning, left to delve in the Trials, Luzara was losing hope of catching the warrior who had nearly slain him. For a brief time, they had drawn close to the Humans, following their trail so closely he could taste her scent in the air, nearly felt his claws meeting her hammer once again. This time, he would be able to prove himself and wipe away the shame of his previous loss. With how she and her party had performed in the Trials, though, paying her back for the shame he’d endured would bring him further honor if he could manage to take her head when finally they met once more.

Now, they fought on the forty-fourth floor, pitting themselves against wandering tribes of ogres, and not a single member of his party could catch the scent of a single human. The weak one, who had enslaved his kind? Surely he had been left behind by now, but the strong one, she wouldn’t have failed, wouldn’t have fallen so close to the finish, and the floors themselves seemed to be pushing the parties to come in contact the deeper they went. Paths were narrower, and journeys were forced to draw closer to each other than ever before. He had seen the Verdant Guard and the Barbarians, or at least their trails. That they had left him and his people behind was another shame that fell on the fiery warrior’s shoulders, as his party would have made it much further and faster without being slowed by the wounds they’d suffered at her hands. 

As his claws disemboweled one of the ogres, Luzara drew on his Bloody Embodiment Skill and the lifeblood of the monster crawled up his arm and over his shoulders, adding to his frame. He pushed an aspect of his Ursine Transformation a step further, hunching over as his body became more quadrupedal before he threw himself at the leader of this ogre party. This two-headed ogre reminded him of the Boss on the fortieth floor, though it was weaker than the predecessor he had fought previously.

With each blow he landed on his enemy, its blood betrayed the monster, and Luzara went from a bit over two meters tall to nearly three meters tall, with the blood that surrounded his entire body. With a final roar, he ravaged the inside of the ogre and climbed up into its rib cage before bursting out in an explosion of gore. As the kill notification flashed in his vision, he relaxed, stopping the draw of mana from his Skill so the blood, instead of being a construct all around him, sloughed to the ground.

Standing in a pool of his enemies’ blood, but not the enemy he so desperately wanted to destroy, Luzara looked at his party. Each of them, with the ursine aspects of their body heightened through the time they had spent in the Trials and before, walked towards him. Though they hadn’t reached their goal, they were growing stronger, and, despite the dishonor that they all suffered from the loss they had sustained, this competition had been an opportunity for them all to grow beyond their previous limitations.

He forced himself to think of the positive, that they would all return home most of the way through the Iron tier. No matter how many times he repeated it to himself, his frustration grew until he reared back, threw his head to the sky, and roared before he led his party onward.

After all, maybe they had a prayer of finding that warrior still.

***

Cresche

The Grove creaked with every movement that Cresche made. Truthfully, though they were the Grove Warden, Cresche agreed with the exhausted sentiment. The Verdant Guard were a powerful race, and they became overwhelming when paired with their Groves. Cresche had been told that their race was sometimes considered to be “bosses“ when fought against, and they appreciated the sentiment.

More than that, though, and at the crux of the problem, Verdant Guard were trees at their core. None of their number were drawn to fight because they enjoyed it, but instead because the Sanctuary needed protecting from enemies found above and below. As such, none of Cresche’s Grove cared about the experience for experience’s sake. No, their goal had been, and still was, to gain the boon from the Trials. Cresche and the rest of their Grove now knew that to be impossible. They had managed to pass Astrid when her ally was harmed, and they had barely managed to maintain that space afterwards.

Then the axeman had been healed, and the brief edge that the Grove had achieved over the ones who called themselves the Wanderers was lost. Though they were in competition, Cresche did not consider themself to be an enemy of the Wanderers, nor did that party of Humans seem to consider the Verdant Guard to be enemies. Astrid had, to the Grove’s limited understanding, been happy as they had made a brief stop beside the Grove. They’d then shared a brief conversation, and without further conversation or recovery, the Wanderers were off. 

My roots demand rest. 

The demands of the Grove came to Cresche, and, unlike before, they did not push aspects of the Grove to cease their complaints, as they had before. The Grove Warden’s loyalties were to the Grove, and the Grove’s loyalty was to the Sanctuary. And, despite Cresche’s best efforts, the Sanctuary would not get this boon this day. That pained them to think, but Cresche was not a fool. They would not be able to sustain their delve at the speed they would need to to catch up to the Wanderers or the Barbarians, and so, their duty was to their Grove.

They thought that there remained two days before the Trials withdrew them? It was difficult to tell, time was only important due to the movement of the sun overhead. Thus, in the Dungeon, time was a lie.

As Cresche moved to find a comfortable place with healthy soil to allow the Grove’s roots to spread and rest, they were confronted by another of the beasts here on the forty-sixth floor. In fact, these monsters were the reason why the roots needed rest, since their presence forced the Grove to move more actively and remain ever vigilant. Underroot, the insidious worms that slithered through the earth and grew closer. Cresche knew that these monsters were the reason for the soil’s quality on this floor, yet they also devoured everything they came in contact with. As the Grove’s roots issued their complaint at what was about to happen, Cresche comforted them, as they knew how to deal with these beasts.

Though it was unusual, the Grove could withdraw their roots entirely in the ground, and spread them on top of the soil to keep themselves steady. Doing so would also be a source of complaints for the roots, Cresche knew, yet it was imperative in situations like this. It was exhausting and painful, especially as the roots of a Grove were forced to sustain and support the several tons of Verdant Walker body above them. It was necessary, though, and the worms burst from the ground to begin eating the roots as soon as they were pulled from the monsters’ reach. The Grove was prepared, though, and magically enhanced wood spread in a wide web that’s trapped the four worms together before they could get a single bite. The thick branches wrapped around each segment of the worms, and though they bristled with spines that retracted and burst forth in a staccato pattern, they were far from threatening to the might of a Grove united.

In that single move, each of the worms was torn into a dozen pieces, and their blood wetted the ground.

Now, roots, feast on the blood, and the life of this land. There is no need to allow it to remain full of life. The Dungeon will replace what we take.

Cresche said nothing more as their roots began siphoning manna from the blood and the soil at a prodigious rate. Despite their complaints, Cresche knew that the roots would be able to make it for these next few days and then, once the Trials were over, they could all return above ground and glory in the light of the sun.

***

Kalta

“Liora, another approaches on the left!”

“Mine!” 

Kalta continued to get better at controlling the consuming rage his Class bestowed on him, but the wendigos and yetis on the forty-eighth floor refused to allow him time to calm himself. With what little rationality he could maintain, the Berserker Leader threw himself from one enemy to the next, the axes in his hand improved through their Shaman’s diligent ministrations. The most valuable materials that his followers and he had gathered remained in his pack, those that had been found on the forty-seventh floor, where their path had taken them through an entire orc settlement. There had been plenty of unrefined and refined ores there, and though the orcs fancied themselves raiders, the Barbarians were better by far.

That weight on his back made Kalta’s legs burn with the effort, but more of that exhaustion was due to the frantic pace that the group was pushing themselves to delve at. Astrid, that respected Warrior, had passed them a day ago, and a single day remained before the Trials would extract every one of the delvers. The Barbarians, respecting the Wanderers as people against whom to prove themselves, gloried in the opportunity to push themselves, to see if they or the others were more worthy of the boons from the Trials and the Dungeon.

Ever since Kalta gave himself the mark under his eye, he’d suspected that Astrid and Muti would be more than capable of leading their party further than he could lead his own. He hoped to prove that thought wrong, but even if he didn’t, he had set himself, and these four trusted individuals, up for success after the Trials.

That brief moment of clarity and rest slipped away as he turned to the wendigo whose skeletal face glowered at him from the blustering snow. His axes had been reinforced with materials he had decided they could spare, and the manasteel, which had been crudely fastened around the haft, chopped through bone easily enough. He howled as the rage grew deeper within him and his physical attributes soared. He maintained enough control over himself to not to waste mana empowering his strikes as his blades cut through the air and smashed through the skeletal creatures’ bodies.

In one minute, the monsters’ numbers were reduced from four to one, and Kalta fortunately pulled himself back and let the rest of his allies kill the final beast. He hoped that he would be able to get some time to rest, but it wasn’t to be. As the last howls of a wendigo faded, Kalta felt the tension drain from his body, but only for a moment. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he whipped around as the anger started to flicker once more inside of him. Part of the issue of maintaining the berserk rage for so long was that he needed to dig deeper to sustain it. It was almost a sort of a resource like mana or stamina, and the deeper he drew, the deeper he fell into its clutches.

And if he had to fall to compete, then fall he would, because he believed he could drag himself out of any rage he used. It was a tool, and he wouldn’t allow it to wield him.

As the white-furred yeti slunk through the flurries of snow, Kalta lay eyes on the beast and threw himself forward. There was only progress, and he wouldn’t allow himself to fall behind.