The fortress of Gorgomoth, the self-proclaimed "Pit of Despair," was a monument to brutalist, demonic architecture. It was not built so much as vomited forth from the side of the volcano, a jagged, chaotic mass of black iron and obsidian that seemed to have been fused together by pure malice. Smoke, thick and greasy, coiled from a hundred different vents, carrying the stench of burning sulfur and cooked meat. Hulking, fiendish guards patrolled its walls, their forms silhouetted against the blood-red sky like figures from a forgotten, evil mythology.
From our vantage point on a high, windy ridge, I watched the slave procession being herded through the fortress's main gate. I saw Lyra, a proud, silver-haired beacon of defiance in a sea of despair, disappear into the maw of the beast. The fire in my soul, a cold, hard flame of rage, burned brighter.
"A frontal assault is suicide," I stated, my voice flat. It was not a question. It was an axiom.
Xy'loth, the wiry imp at my side, cackled, a dry, rattling sound like bones in a bag. "Suicide? Oh, no, little glitch. That's far too quick and merciful. A frontal assault on the Pit would be an invitation to an eternity of creative, agonizing torment. Gorgomoth is not a skilled torturer, but he is an enthusiastic one."
He pointed a long, clawed finger toward the base of the fortress, where a sluggish, foul-smelling river of green sludge emptied into a steaming chasm. "But, for a client who appreciates a more... subtle approach... there are other ways in."
This was the beginning of my first true strategic planning session without ARIA. The silence in my head was a handicap, but it was also clarifying. There were no probability analyses, no tactical overlays. There was only the problem, the available data, and my own mind. I had to become my own system.
"Tell me everything, Xy'loth," I commanded, my voice taking on the tone of a general addressing his scout. "Guard patrols, shift changes, structural weaknesses. The layout of the dungeons, the location of the arena. Assume I know nothing."
The imp's eyes gleamed with a scavenger's cunning. He saw the shift in me, the move from desperate survivor to cold, calculating commander. He understood power, and he was beginning to see that my power was not just in my strange magic, but in my mind.
For the next hour, he painted a detailed, gruesome picture of the fortress. He knew it intimately, as only a creature who has spent a lifetime scuttling through its darkest corners could. He described the main barracks, the feasting hall where Gorgomoth held his brutish court, the forges that belched black smoke, and the fighting pits where the warlord entertained his captains with bloody spectacles.
"The dungeons are deep in the heart of the fortress," he explained, drawing a crude map in the black sand with the tip of his spear. "Here. Directly beneath the Warlord's throne room. They are carved from the volcano's core. Only one main entrance, heavily guarded."
"And the prisoners?" I pressed. "Where would he take them?"
"Depends on their value," Xy'loth said with a shrug. "The weak ones go to the slave pens, to be worked to death in the forges. The strong ones, the warriors..." He grinned his needle-toothed grin. "Gorgomoth loves a good show. Your wolf-woman, with her fire and her pride? She'll be taken to the gladiator's cells, beneath the main arena. He'll want to 'break her in' before his captains. To make an example of her."
"And the mage?"
"The ice-witch?" Xy'loth shuddered theatrically. "Magic-users are valuable commodities. He won't damage her. She'll be in a high-security holding cell, likely near his personal treasury. Her cell will be warded against magic."
He had separated them. A classic tactic to prevent prisoners from coordinating. It made our task infinitely more difficult.
"And the secret entrance?" I asked.
Xy'loth pointed to the foul, green river. "The fortress's sewer system. A network of ancient lava tubes that they use to dump waste. It empties into the Chasm of Stench. The entrance is unguarded, because nothing is insane enough to try and crawl up the arse-end of hell. Nothing until now, at least."
The plan began to form in my mind, a desperate, multi-phased operation built on stealth and misdirection.
"Phase One: Infiltration," I declared. "We go in through the sewers. You guide us, Xy'loth."
"Phase Two: Diversion," I continued, my eyes fixed on the map. "The arena beasts. You said he keeps them in pens near the forges?"
"Aye," the imp confirmed. "Grave-Hounds, Magma Crabs, a particularly nasty Iron-Skinned Hydra he's been saving for a special occasion."
"Perfect," I said. "We will unleash them. All of them. The chaos will draw the majority of the guards to the arena and the forges, away from the dungeons and the treasury."
"Phase Three: Rescue," I said, my voice hardening. "While the fortress is in chaos, we split up. Xy'loth, you know the layout. You will guide Elizabeth to the treasury cells. Lyra and I will head for the gladiator pits. We free them, and we rendezvous at a pre-arranged point."
Elizabeth, who had been listening silently, her face a mask of intense concentration, interjected. "We cannot split up, Kazuki. It's too risky."
"It's the only way," I countered. "The cells are on opposite sides of the fortress. We don't have time to go to both together. We have to trust each other to succeed. This is a team operation."
She saw the logic, however much she disliked it. She gave a single, sharp nod.
"Phase Four: Escape," I finished. "Once we have them, we get out the way we came in. Before Gorgomoth even realizes what has happened."
It was a plan with a thousand things that could go wrong. But it was a plan.
"A fine plan, boss," Xy'loth cackled. "Full of delightful chaos and mayhem. I approve."
"One more thing," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "My other companion. The small, quiet one. Luna. You said she vanished. If you see any sign of her, any trace... you will tell me. Immediately. That is a non-negotiable part of our deal."
The imp's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Of course, boss. Eyes peeled for the little lost pup. You have my word."
His word was likely worthless, but it was all I had.
Our descent into the sewer system was a descent into a nightmare. The stench was a physical force, a wall of filth and decay that made my eyes water and my stomach churn. The 'river' was a sluggish, viscous flow of green-black sludge, bubbling with noxious gases. We moved along a narrow, slippery ledge, the darkness absolute, broken only by a soft, magical light I commanded to hover over my hand—a simple CREATE_LIGHT command that cost a single, precious point of mana.
The lava tubes were a labyrinth. Without Xy'loth's guidance, we would have been lost in minutes. He moved with a scavenger's confidence, his lithe form skittering through the darkness ahead of us.
We encountered the denizens of this underworld. Pale, multi-legged things that scuttled away from our light. Bloated, leech-like creatures that dropped from the ceiling. I dispatched them with my sword, my movements silent and efficient. Every kill was a grim reminder of our situation. There was no glory here, no cheering crowd. Only the grim, wet work of survival.
After what felt like an eternity, Xy'loth stopped. "We're here," he whispered, pointing to a rusted iron grate high up on the wall of the tube. "This leads to the lower levels of the forge. Directly above the beast pens. The perfect place to start our little... party."
The infiltration was complete. Now for the chaos.
Getting through the grate was the easy part. My enhanced strength allowed me to bend the rusted bars with a low groan of protesting metal. We climbed up into the lower levels of the forge. The heat was immense, a dry, oppressive wave that shimmered in the air. The rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils echoed from the levels above, a steady, industrial heartbeat for the fortress.
We crept through the shadows, a trio of ghosts in the heart of the enemy's war machine. Xy'loth led us to a large, grated platform that overlooked a massive, circular pit. The beast pens.
The sight below was a vision of controlled violence. Half a dozen massive cages, their bars thick as a man's arm, housed a menagerie of demonic creatures. I saw the Grave-Hounds, larger and more vicious than the ones I had fought. I saw the Magma Crabs, colossal crustaceans whose shells glowed with an internal, volcanic heat. And in the center cage, the Iron-Skinned Hydra, a five-headed monstrosity of muscle and rage, slept fitfully.
"The locks are forged from black iron," Xy'loth whispered, pointing to the massive mechanisms on each cage door. "They are opened by a series of levers in the guard station over there." He indicated a small stone bunker on the far side of the pit, where two hulking, ogre-like guards were snoring, their heads resting on a table strewn with empty wine skins.
"We can't get to the levers without alerting them," Elizabeth murmured.
"We don't need the levers," I said, a slow smile spreading across my face.
I knelt at the edge of the platform, looking down at the locks. They were made of iron. Forged from the bones of the earth. They were part of my domain.
I focused my will, not on the locks themselves, but on the small, internal pins and tumblers within them. It was a delicate, intricate piece of work, requiring immense concentration. I poured ten points of my mana into the command, not as a hammer, but as a key.
COMMAND: SET_MATERIAL_PROPERTY(TARGET="LOCK_PINS", PROPERTY="STATE", VALUE="LIQUID").
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a series of soft, metallic clicks, the massive locks on every cage door sprang open.
The two ogre guards snorted in their sleep.
The beasts inside the cages, sensing their sudden freedom, began to stir. The Grave-Hounds let out low, hungry growls. The Hydra's five heads began to writhe, its many eyes snapping open.
"Phase Two is initiated," I whispered. "Now we move. Fast."
We didn't wait to see the result. We scurried back into the shadows of the lower levels just as the first enraged roar echoed through the pit, followed by the sounds of splintering wood and the terrified, high-pitched screams of the ogre guards.
The diversion had begun.
The fortress erupted into chaos. Alarm bells began to clang, their panicked ringing a beautiful symphony to my ears. We heard shouts, screams, the clash of steel, and the thunderous roars of enraged, rampaging monsters. The bulk of the fortress's guard was being drawn away, just as I had planned.
"Now!" I said. "We split up. Xy'loth, you take Elizabeth to the treasury. Find her cell. Free her. Lyra and I are going for the arena."
"Be careful, Kazuki," Elizabeth said, her eyes meeting mine. It was not a plea; it was a command from a partner. "Do not be reckless."
"You too," I replied.
She and Xy'loth melted into one shadowy corridor, while Lyra and I took another, heading toward the sounds of the arena.
The gladiator's cells were even worse than the dungeons of Silverstein Manor. They were small, filthy pits, carved from the raw volcanic rock, their entrances sealed with heavy iron bars. The air was thick with the smell of blood, fear, and unwashed troll.
We found her in the last cell.
Lyra was chained to the far wall, her hands bound above her head by thick, black iron shackles. Her silver hair was matted with blood and grime. Her leather armor was torn. She had a deep, ugly gash on her shoulder that was weeping a dark, blackish fluid—poison. But her spirit was not broken. Her golden eyes were blazing with a defiant, untamed fury.
The moment she saw me, a low growl rumbled in her chest. Not of aggression, but of profound, animalistic relief.
"Took you long enough, smooth-skin," she rasped, her voice hoarse.
I moved to the cell door. The lock was massive, complex. I didn't have the time or the fine control to manipulate its internal pins. I needed brute force.
I placed my hands on the iron bars. COMMAND: WEAKEN_METAL. I poured my mana into the command, feeling the iron groan, its molecular structure becoming brittle. Then I stepped back.
"Lyra," I said. "On my mark."
I nodded. She let out a roar, a pure, focused blast of Fenrir strength, and kicked the door with both feet. The weakened iron shattered, the door flying from its hinges with a deafening crash.
I rushed in and placed my hands on her shackles. They were etched with faint, glowing red runes, designed to sap the strength of a beast-kin. I focused my will. BREAK. The enchanted iron shattered in my hands.
She fell forward, and I caught her, her body surprisingly heavy. The poison was clearly taking its toll.
"Can you fight?" I asked, supporting her.
She grinned, a weak but fierce expression. "Can a wolf howl?" She pushed herself upright, her legs trembling but holding. "Just get me my sword."
Her greatsword was leaning against a nearby wall, a trophy for her captors. I retrieved it and handed it to her. The moment her hand closed around the familiar hilt, a surge of strength seemed to flow back into her. She was a warrior reunited with her soul.
"Now," she growled. "Let's go find the Ice Witch. And then... we will have a word with this 'Gorgomoth.'"
We were about to leave when I saw it. Scratched into the stone floor in the corner of her cell, almost invisible in the dim light, was a single, tiny symbol.
It was a perfect, five-petaled water lily.
The personal sigil of Princess Seraphina.
My heart stopped. I knelt, tracing the symbol with my finger. It wasn't a random scratch. It was a message.
"My lord," I thought, my mind racing, a desperate hope warring with my confusion. "Luna... could she have been here?"
"What is it?" Lyra asked, seeing the look on my face.
"Your sister," I said, my voice tight. "I think she was here. She left me a sign."
But why? Why would she be in Lyra's cell and then vanish? Was she captured too? Did she escape? Was she trying to tell me something?
Before I could process the new mystery, a new sound reached us. The sound of heavy, armored footsteps approaching, and a deep, booming, ugly laugh.
"Well, well, well," a voice like grinding gravel echoed down the corridor. "It seems the little wolf-pup has had a visitor. How delightful. I was growing bored of waiting for the show to start."
A massive figure rounded the corner, blocking the entire corridor. It was a Fiend-class demon, even larger than the ogres from the courtyard. He was a mountain of muscle and scarred, leathery hide, with two massive, curling horns like a ram's. He wielded a crude, massive axe that dripped with fresh blood. His eyes glowed with a brutish, malevolent intelligence.
[Warlord Gorgomoth - Level 52 Fiend Lord][Title: Master of the Pit, The Slave-King][Status: Amused, Bloodthirsty]
The Warlord of the fortress himself. He had not been drawn away by the diversion. He had been waiting. Waiting for us.
He grinned, revealing a mouth full of jagged, iron-like teeth. "So, you are the little glitch that has caused me so much trouble. You have freed my pet. Excellent. A real fight is so much more entertaining than a simple execution."
He raised his massive axe. "I am Gorgomoth!" he roared. "And in my arena, no one escapes. You will die here, and I will make a new throne from your bones!"
We were trapped. Deep in the heart of the enemy fortress. The alarm had been raised. The Warlord himself stood before us.
And we still had no idea where Luna was.