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You have entered the Tunnels Down Under.

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Backlebutt saw the words appear in front of his eyes, and he felt a chill settle into his heart. So this is how I meet my end.

He tried to quash the negative thought, but things did not look good. He alone of his party, stripped of his weapons and supplies, had made it here after their betrayal—and only just.

After all the work and sacrifice of not just himself, but by so many others for him and his team to make it here…barring a miracle, all of it would ultimately come to nothing.

Just like the last group, disappearing without a whisper. Backlebutt felt his fists clench.

He honestly wasn’t sure how even he had made it through alive; he distinctly remembered being run through by multiple guards during his final, mad dash toward the Descent’s entrance, and his clothes had the tears and bloodstains to match. He’d checked the rapid healing draught secreted on his person and found it completely full—not that he seriously expected that to be the source of his good health; its aftereffects were far too drastic to overlook given the extent of his wounds.

He could imagine only two possibilities to explain his good health, unlikely as they both were. One was that the system had healed his wounds as he entered the dungeon, which he'd never heard of happening before. The other was that the odd fellow he’d met in the preparation room had spent an actual, true Healing Potion on him, a notion that strained credulity.

He turned around at a noise to see said odd fellow fruitlessly trying to reopen the door they’d just exited. Milo. A truly strange man.

Everything about him was strange, from his alien language to the foreign drinks in unidentifiable packaging material to his…silly…behavior. That wasn’t even mentioning the fact that he was apparently challenging the dungeon as some sort of a scribe class. And missing a hand. Recently. How had that happened? What had possessed the man to come here?

Was he the daft unfavored son of some noble with too many children, sent to either prove himself or die? That was about the only explanation that made any sense to Backlebutt. If that was the case, however, he certainly wasn’t very well equipped. Also, he had entered with no team around him, which was absolute suicide. Perhaps he was a highborn criminal, and this was his punishment? Actually, that makes more sense with the dismemberment…

Shaking his head, Backlebutt refocused his thoughts to take stock of his surroundings, which pretty well matched with what he’d been told to expect. The room he and his new companion had come from emptied into a low-ceilinged tunnel of rough, dark stone that stretched left and right. It was lit dimly by torch-laden sconces set in the walls at irregular intervals. The stretch of tunnel was empty but for them and innumerable scattered stones. However, Backlebutt knew that, somewhere in the darkness, terrible creatures lurked.

They were always a little different from group to group, the monsters, but always they were creatures of nightmare, meant to test resolve more than combat skill in this first stage of the Descent. Walking dead, skulking horrors…the higher-ups had spoken of these, had trained him to face them. Him, and his team. Their faces flashed unbidden in his mind, but he ruthlessly cast them out.

Now was no time to mourn. They had done their duty, and he must do his. Even if he must do it alone.

Well. Not completely alone, he amended. He eyed his sole ally. The man had wandered over to a sconce, overburdened with supplies, and for some reason was now scratching at the sconce’s plate with his hammer. Backlebutt watched him skeptically. I'm not sure this man is reliable.

It was tempting to simply ditch him, but it was probably a bad idea given his chances alone. Better a wild card than almost certain failure and death.

Still.

Milo turned around, saw Backlebutt’s stare, and gave a goofy grin, sticking out a fist and raising a thumb to the ceiling. Backlebutt glanced up in confusion, seeing nothing.

Maybe it’s some kind of handsign?

He shrugged mentally, deciding to ignore it. If he stressed out over every odd thing this man did, he’d never get anywhere. They needed to get going; it would likely take them days to finish this level, assuming they survived, and this didn’t look like one of the levels where food or water would be available.

“Let’s go,” he said, jerking his head down the tunnel and suiting his own words. He only made a few steps when Milo stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, saying a few incomprehensible syllables.

“What is it?” Backlebutt demanded, feeling impatient.

Holding up a hand as if to say, “wait,” the man dug around in one of his packs until he found some kind of a looped strap. It was purple and curiously smooth-textured. Saying a string of words Backlebutt had no way of deciphering, Milo stepped on one end of the strap, then gave it a tug. Backlebutt was surprised to see the strap stretch a lot, then return right back to its original length when the other man released the tension.

Perhaps his surprise showed on his face, because Milo grinned and offered him the strap as if to say, “you try.” Backlebutt’s curiosity got the better of him, and he took the strap. He gave it a few experimental tugs, amazed at its stretch and toughness. I’ve never seen such a material. Could it be enchanted somehow? He hadn’t heard of an enchantment of...stretchiness, nor could he fathom its usefulness compared to any number of other enchantments he’d encountered. Still, it was pretty incredible.

Milo gestured for Backlebutt to return the strap, and he obliged. The other man wasn’t done, though. Looping one end around his neck and trapping the other end between his foot and the floor in what looked like a pretty uncomfortable and awkward position, he grabbed a loose, fist-sized stone from the ground and held it against the strap. Then, in a motion that was immediately recognizable to Backlebutt from years of archery training, he pulled back and loosed with a thwap. The rock flopped to the ground, spinning and clattering. Milo looked at Backlebutt sheepishly.

Hmmm…

As unimpressive as the demonstration had been, Backlebutt understood where the other man had been going with it. The strap could possibly be used the same way as a bow, storing up energy to launch a projectile. He was trying to give Backlebutt a weapon. Creative. Maybe…

Backlebutt had a skill:

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Perfect Shot: When activated with a projectile weapon, the user will automatically employ flawless technique to always hit their mark. Does not adapt to target’s movement. Active, 1 mana/shot.

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The skill worked with any weapon, not requiring a bow. He actually rarely used it anymore. It was too expensive to use with any frequency at his level and had limited combat application anyway, given that the enemy rarely presented a perfectly still target. He’d chosen the skill purely as a training tool, with the intention to replace it later.

When activated, the skill guided his fingers, his stance, everything into the best possible configuration to send the arrow exactly where he pleased. With the skill telling him what to do, it was merely a matter of remembering the form and practicing until his fingers bled.

Under its guidance, he had managed to upgrade from the basic Archer class into an (Elite) Archer. Even without the skill active, it was extraordinarily rare that he missed a shot these days.

With a bow.

Keeping his expectations low, he gestured for Milo to hand over the band, which the man obligingly did. Then, after choosing an appropriate rock—less than half the size of the one Milo man had chosen—he simply held the band in his right hand and the rock in his left as he prepared to activate the skill. Backlebutt wasn’t convinced that Milo’s method of looping the band around his neck was anywhere close to optimal, instead trusting his skill to show him the best way to launch the rock.

Backlebutt chose his target, a distant sconce, and activated Perfect Shot. Immediately, his grip on the band shifted so that he was grasping two opposite sides of the loop firmly in his right hand while his left loaded the rock into the end of the loop nearest him. Pinching the band around the stone hard, he pulled back, sighted, and released. He noted that his wrist holding the band flicked forward and down immediately on loosing, presumably giving the projectile a bit more power while moving his hand out of the stone’s path. Complicated, he thought, frowning.

The stone shot through the air and hit the metal sconce with a loud clang, clearly exhibiting an impressive amount of power. Milo cheered, but halted in obvious confusion when Backlebutt offered back the band with a shake of his head. Milo refused to accept it, pushing Backlebutt’s hand away with a few gibberish syllables.

How to explain?

It would be far too bothersome trying to communicate that he had only achieved the result he had with a very limited-use skill. Sighing, Backlebutt grabbed another rock from the rough tunnel floor and loaded it as he had the last. He pulled back, glanced significantly at Milo, and did his best to demonstrate the problem in slow motion.

Instead of releasing, he guided the rock all the way to where, with a failed shot, it would collide into his hand with all of the sconce-rattling force it had demonstrated. He mimed cradling the hand, as if he’d hurt it.

It was highly unlikely he could achieve any degree of skill before severely injuring himself, which was what he was trying to demonstrate. This wasn’t even considering his lack of practice, and therefore limited effectiveness, with the weapon.

Milo’s eyes narrowed, then widened after mere moments. He pointed to the sconce, drew an imaginary square in front of him, pointedly tapped something invisible on the square, then mimed shooting the sconce. He then looked at Backlebutt as if asking for confirmation.

Huh. I suppose he reasoned it out. What else could he mean, besides asking if an active skill was at play? Backlebutt nodded. Milo, in turn, nodded to himself. Then he looked up once more at Backlebutt, a puzzled look on his face. He mimed shooting the sconce several times in a row, then turned to Backlebutt with a questioning look as he raised one finger after another.

Ah. Backlebutt answered by holding up ten fingers. Then, after a pause, he dropped one, leaving nine.

Milo apparently wasn’t happy that they understood each other, because he mimed shooting the sconce once more, then turned pointedly to look at Backlebutt’s fingers. Bemused, Backlebutt dropped another finger, leaving eight. Yes, one mana per shot, ten mana total.

Finally, Milo seemed content that they were on the same page, nodding again. Then, he fixed Backlebutt with another stare, shrugged, and screwed up his face in an expression that screamed “so what?”

It took a moment to grasp what exactly the man was trying to convey, but once he got it, Backlebutt could understand Milo’s confusion. Why not take every advantage?

In answer, he selected another stone, larger than the one he had launched with the strap.

When he’d chosen the size of his first projectile, he’d intuited the draw strength of the strap and taken it into account; it could only launch so much weight before speed became drastically affected. Therefore, he’d chosen a relatively small stone. Now, however, holding a stone nearly the size of his fist, he set his sights once more on the sconce, cocked back, and threw the stone with all his might.

Backlebutt hadn’t restricted his practice with Perfect Shot to archery alone. The stone flew true, its speed nearly on par with the smaller one from earlier. Given the increased size, the overall impact would be much greater.

After it clanged off the sconce and bounced down the tunnel, he once again held up nine fingers for Milo. Milo’s eyes widened, and he did that thing again where he made a fist and pointed his thumb to the ceiling. Then, he immediately began collecting stones and setting them at Backlebutt’s feet.

Sighing, Backlebutt chose two that would fly truest, but flatly refused to carry any more than that. Finding more ammo in the future wouldn’t be too hard in this environment, and he didn’t want to tire himself out slugging rocks around all day. Plus, he didn’t really have anywhere to put them.

Milo shrugged and packed a few in the bag he wore slung on his hip. Backlebutt didn’t bother trying to tell him that almost all of the rocks were subpar for throwing; they might come in handy regardless, and the man seemed motivated.

He's an earnest fellow, I'll give him that.

Before they set off, Milo held one of the rocks up to Backlebutt and gestured at it with his oddly-wrapped stump. He spoke a word. It sounded like a question, but Backlebutt wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

The man clarified, speaking a different word while gesturing to the stone a second time. He spoke the same word twice more while pointing to each stone in Backlebutt’s hands. It wasn’t a question this time.

Then, he spoke the first word again while pointing to his rock, and again it was a question. Ah.

“Rock,” Backlebutt said.

“Rock?” Milo repeated. His accent was off, but it was close enough to be understood.

“Rock,” Backlebutt confirmed.

“Rock, rock, rock?” Milo said again, pointing to each of them in turn.

“Yes, rock,” Backlebutt said again, already exasperated. He’d finally determined this Milo character was actually fairly sharp, but he was also tediously meticulous in some ways.

Today is going to be a long day. Assuming we live through it.