[50]

Snow covered pine trees loomed over me on all sides, casting long shadows in the dwindling daylight. Fresh cold air beset my unprepared lungs, drawing out a gasp of surprise and causing a cascade of trembles through my muscles. Worse, the drunkenness had not fully receded. Or was that better? I was not sure.

I instantly regretted listening to Raxx.

After a sad argument, Raxx convinced me to enter the dungeon for our morning training. We were both closer to being drunk than sober, and the idea of sparring in a sandpit was something neither of us thought would be good for our training.

Raxx concluded that since the dungeon was a mind only space, we could still work on our weapon skills without fear of vomiting on our feet. I agreed with his premise but having so few points after creating “The Cursed Stein of Stinkery”, I did not want to spend the few points left in my possession avoiding training. Giving me the requisite points from his balance ended my dispute, as it was both a generous offer and circumvented the aforementioned foot puking issue.

More than that, I knew my Harak friend wanted to get my mind off the probable death of my father. Drinking had not helped to push down my anguish, but it had opened me up enough to voice it. Talking to Raxx about what the man had been like lifted a burden off my chest. The Sea Dog had told me once before that telling stories was how his people navigated their brutal lives, and the spirit of that touched me in a way I never expected to understand. With some reticence, I had to consider that my life as an ascendent would not be so different from that of a Raider who lived in constant danger.

So, there I was in a snow-covered forest, slightly drunk and freezing my ninny off.

Neither Raxx nor I had been to F-3 yet, and I was wholly unprepared for its environs. Instructor Ivo steadfastly refused to answer inquiries about what we faced on each dungeon level. I think I even caught him smiling before he sent us to F-3 this morning. It would not surprise me to learn the old fogey had a way of watching us. Not that Raxx, covered in fur as he was, would be as distraught as me.

Ugz was not so lucky. The cold-blooded monster newt crawled into my shirt for needed warmth, pressing against my skin to absorb my body heat. I could feel his thoughts becoming more sluggish by the second from the wintery onslaught.

I ducked under cover to survey the area and search for enemies before anything else.

Dungeon F-2 had taught me that lesson, throwing me into a massive arena filled to the brim with shouting pre-godswar citizens. The shock at seeing a memory so old stole my diligence, leading to an almost horrible death. Stupidly, I stared at the sheer decadence of the colosseum, taking in all the varied sights of people and races in archaic livery. It was magnificent to see what the world was like during the era of the Mage Kings.

Lurking behind one of the haphazard pillars on the field of battle was the foe of the dungeon, a musclebound eight-foot cyclops complete with a loincloth and the expected club. In my awe as I was, Ugz saved my proverbial bacon, warning me of the foe charging in from my flank.

Ironically, the creature was a complete pushover for me. Hypnotize, held it in place long enough for me to ram my poleaxe through its eye. It died before it hit the ground. Instructor Ivo had not misspoken when he explained that the difficulty depended on our god given power set, rather than the number of the level.

I later learned that others, even Raxx, had struggled to finish the cyclops. Its thick skin made it resistant to most types of damage, and the monster’s natural physical gifts were powerful enough to overcome skilled combatants. Joy, unable to best it, had asked us both for advice, but as I was reliant on my power I could not help.

Spotting no instant threats, I addressed my most pressing concern, the cold. Our battle robes were ideal for warm weather, designed mostly for breathability and absorbing sweat during long hours of physical exertion. During the winter months at Ashmere, they expected us to wear much warmer over-jackets, gloves, and lined boots.

Master Rohan had done well to drill the idea of habitual spell use into my head. It was a necessity I appreciated in situations like this. Magesilk attire, already a rank 2 spell, shimmered into being over my clothes fifteen seconds later, offering extra protection and a comforting additional layer against the elements. While not quite the fur coat I desired, it made a substantial difference, nonetheless.

Teeth chattering under a snow-covered pine, I silently wished for protection for my face. To my astonishment, my spell armor agreed, offering forth a half mask for the lower portion of my face. Wondering how far I could push it, I asked for ear and head protection, too. The material stretched again, and a tight-fitting mask covered everything but my eyes.

Next, I willed the material to be less breathable. Soon after, I felt it tighten around my body in acceptance of my command. There were no misgivings; Magesilk Attire was now my most beloved spell by a country mile. My body heat, trapped in the more rigid material, warmed me up considerably in a short amount of time.

I worried briefly that Ugz might suffocate under these new conditions, but he sent me a feeling of reassurance. As a creature of magic, Ugz may not have needed air at all. At the very least, it seemed he needed little of it.

Attempts at making the spell armor heavier or camouflage failed. Changing the color was as easy as the other accommodations, however the material would only take one uniform hue at a time. I settled for a dark gray-white color that matched the surrounding snow.

Tampering with my spell as I was, I almost missed the sound of a person trudging through the snow.

An old man covered in furs came around the corner, pulling up his pants like he had just pissed.

“Burt?” he said uncertainly, searching the area. Eventually, his gaze landed on me, huddled next to a tree like a lizard, and a dark storm of emotions clouded his bushy white eyebrows.

“What the shit are you doin’ you moron? You need to get to the outpost and warn ‘em!” He almost screamed the last bit. Then a second later, he cocked his said and said, “What the fuck are you wearin’?”

“Sorry,” I said, embarrassed. I realized that the man was a nominal projection character, or NPC, as Instructor Ivo called them. They were memories of people central to the person Ashmere extracted the scenarios from. NPCs guided the directives of the dungeons or sometimes were the objectives. Often being things like townsfolk that needed protection or targets that needed to be killed.

“Which way is the outpost again?” I asked.

Silently, the man pointed in a direction, but his expression was such that he had just found the king of the dunderheads. Ignoring the man, I looked up at the sun and did a quick estimate that he wanted me to head southeast.

“On my way, watch yourself,” I said, trying to act like I knew what was happening.

“Tell em’ the Vermayne are coming. Can you remember that much?” The man asked behind me, not hiding his skepticism in the least.

“Got it!” I shouted over my shoulder, giving him a compulsory wave. I could feel his judgmental gaze on me the entire way.

I ran into my first problem an hour later.

Stomping through woods and snow quickly tired me out. At first, I had uncontrolled breathing set into chaos by looming fear, thinking I was going to be attacked by Vermayne at any moment. However, as time wore on, I became complacent, allowing me to regulate my exertion like Ashmere trained. Eventually, boredom set in, and I started fantasizing that the dungeon was more of a test of will than combat expertise.

That proved a fool’s dream.

A huffing sound drew my attention from my tiresome march through the woods. I attempted to hide behind a tree, and by circumstance of moving toward cover accidentally dodged a huge, furred creature shooting at me. Realizing what happened, I tucked into a roll like I learned in wrestling, then sprang back to my feet to face the creature.

A massive wolf, almost as tall as I was standing straight, glared at me, baring unnaturally sharp teeth.

A spirit beast! I realized. Spirit beasts were natural creatures that evolved into a higher state through absorbing ambient magic. Since magic like that no longer existed, modern day spirit beasts were the descendants of creatures that had cultivated that old force.

Hopefully, it was alone.

It stepped back a few feet, then lifted its head back to howl, ruining another of my useless wishes.

Nope, not gonna happen. I thought.

Before it let out its howl, I sprang at the monster. The wolf stepped back, shutting its mouth, surprised that a weaponless human was the aggressor. My poleaxe materialized in my hands at the height of my jump, and I brought it down on the creature without hesitation.

Startled, as it was by my magically appearing weapon, the wolf did not dodge quickly enough to avoid the blow. However, its prenaturally quick movement caused me to miss its head, instead bringing the axe head down onto its left forequarter.

Snarling, the enraged spirit beast retaliated, trying to grab my leg with its slavering jaws. But with my weapon still stuck inside of it, I controlled its lunge. Pushing it off track with my weight, the jaws missed my leg by inches, spraying my mage armor with warm saliva.

Transforming the poleaxe back into a bangle, so I could swing again, caused the shoulder wound to erupt in blood. My grey furred foe let out a yelp and began searching for an escape. Hot blood ran down its fur, almost steaming in the snow.

I knew I had it.

My next attack caught it on the back of its spine, just as it turned to run. With a maddened squeal of pain, the gigantic beast fell into a puddle of its own blood. Not yet dead, but mortally wounded.

In the distance I heard its pack mates howling.

There was no way I could outrun the wolves, even if I had not been marching through snow for an hour. Hiding was also out. This was a timed based mission, and I severely doubted getting stuck in a tree for several days trying to wait out a pack of angry spirit beasts would do the trick.

That only left fighting.

Ugz climbed out of my shirt to assist, changing into his demon core battle form. I backed away from the wounded wolf and cast darkness, so that its pack mates could still see it whining in a pool of blood.

With the field of battle set, I squatted down to rest.

All I had to do was wait.