Chapter 9 - Chapter 5.2 - Cosmic Dungeon

The World of Otome Game

 is a Second Chance for Broken Swords

Story Starts

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Chapter 5.2 -

Cosmic Dungeon

And with that signal, raucous cheering emanated from the chamber far above as half of the adventurers leapt into the void after them, their war cries echoing down through the darkness. The first wave of reinforcements was coming.

"Everyone provides supporting fire, clear the central path," he commanded, falling easily back into action, his role shifting from vanguard assault to covering fire.

Everyone acquiesced without question as they provided the supporting fire for the descending adventurers, creating a corridor of relative safety through the swarm. The adventurers were being sandwiched front and back by overwhelming foes—monsters attacking from above and below simultaneously—and Leon's party had to thin those numbers before the reinforcements arrived or they'd be torn apart during descent.

Three of the crystalline rhomboid monsters suddenly crashed down into the floor near them, their faceted surfaces catching and reflecting the light from Sella and Leysritt's conjured suns. As Leon watched, they morphed, their geometric forms flowing like liquid crystal into bipedal golems—a new threat type he'd need to handle differently. Each stood perhaps three metres tall, their bodies composed of interlocking crystalline plates that shifted and reconfigured with each movement, revealing cores of pulsing red light deep within their chests. Their limbs ended in blade-like appendages that gleamed with wicked sharpness.

Leon rushed forward immediately, calling out as he moved, "Ignore them, just concentrate on providing support." The golems were his problem—close-range threats he was best equipped to handle. Let the others handle the aerial threats where their ranged attacks would be more effective.

He traced both his trusty blades, Kanshou and Bakuya, the familiar weight settling into his hands like greeting old friends. He enlarged them significantly to add more weight to each devastating swing, the married blades growing to the size of claymores whilst maintaining their perfect balance—a technique he'd developed specifically for dealing with heavily armoured opponents. More of the monsters landed around them, transforming into their golem forms with grinding, crystalline shrieks.

Meltryllis joined Leon's side without needing instruction, providing defence for the team; her presence was a constant reassurance in his peripheral vision. She streaked across the surface of the floor as if she were skating on ice, each movement impossibly smooth and controlled, as she harassed the golems with constructs of light, gravitic blasts that cracked crystalline armour, and waves of water that sought out joints and weak points—softening the targets for Leon's finishing blows.

Leon cut into one of the golems with a brutal overhead swing, Kanshou and Bakuya working in concert to crack through its crystalline shell and expose the pulsing core within. He threw Kanshou towards the approaching monsters without looking, trusting his aim, as he plunged his free arm into the golem before him. His fingers closed around the core—hot, thrumming with energy—and he pulled it out with a roar of effort as the construct crumpled and collapsed before him into inert crystal shards.

He threw Bakuya in the opposite direction, already tracing another pair of the married swords as the previous set began their deadly dance. The married blades' unique property activated immediately—each sword attracted to its opposite, pulling toward each other with magnetic force. 

They carved chaotic arcs through space as they sought each other, creating a deadly pendulum that shredded everything caught between them. The pattern was far more unpredictable than simple thrown weapons, the blades' paths constantly shifting as they orbited around Leon like a maelstrom of steel. Strike, throw, trace, repeat.

This frenzied pattern continued for approximately three more minutes. The party was surrounded by multiple pairs of enlarged, deadly buzzsaws that orbited around Leon in chaotic, unpredictable arcs, each pair of married blades creating their own paths—a perfect metaphor for the three-body problem, but far more chaotic—a dance of destruction. Leon's tactical awareness caught four fast-approaching figures entering his peripheral vision. The first group of reinforcements was about to land.

"Melt! Catch!" he barked out, his voice cutting through the chaos of battle like a blade through silk, the shortened nickname slipping out naturally in the heat of combat.

"Y-yes, Master!" came her immediate, enthusiastic response—a note of delight in her tone.

The very same type of blob of water shot forth from Meltryllis's position, her control over the liquid element near-perfect as it expanded mid-flight with liquid grace, growing from fist-sized to large enough to encompass four people in the span of a heartbeat. The translucent sphere encased the quartet of approaching figures within its protective embrace, jiggling and rippling like gelatin at the sudden loss of momentum from their rapid descent, the water absorbing their terminal velocity and converting it to harmless kinetic energy dispersed through the liquid medium. 

With a graceful wave of her hand—the gesture almost dismissive in its ease, fingers barely flicking—Meltryllis allowed the blob to descend gently onto the dungeon floor, lowering them the final few metres with the care of a mother setting down a sleeping child.

The water dispersed with a splash, droplets scattering outward in a perfect circle before evaporating into mist, revealing the branch's guild leader, Margot Fou Bellefleur, alongside her two attendants: a female fox demi-human whose triangular ears twitched at the sounds of combat around them, her tail swishing with alert wariness, and a male elf whose expression remained impassive despite their dramatic entrance, his angular features showing the typical elven composure. Behind them loomed her hulking guardian spirit, easily twice her height and broader than three men standing side by side, its massive form a stark contrast to its master's more refined appearance—all muscle and presence where she was grace and precision.

Margot herself was a striking figure—a strong-looking yet elegant woman with long black hair that framed a beautiful face marred by a vertical scar running from her forehead, crossing directly over her left eye—which miraculously still functioned despite the grievous wound it implied—and continuing down to her cheek, the mark standing out pale against her tanned skin. 

The scar did nothing to diminish her presence; if anything, it enhanced it, a permanent reminder of battles fought and survived, a badge of honour worn openly. Her eyes gleamed with an intensity that Leon recognised all too well—the look of someone who lived for this, who thrived in the chaos of combat, whose pulse quickened at the smell of danger rather than fear—reminding him of a certain battle-hungry maniac who rudely stabbed him in the heart a different lifetime ago.

She was famous throughout the Holfort Kingdom for her brashness, her confidence, and her formidable strength. Initially, her reputation had been a disgrace to her family, as she'd been born the first daughter of a Marquis, fated to marry into a branch of the royal family in a carefully arranged political alliance. Such was the expected path for daughters of her standing—ornamental, decorative, politically useful.

But she'd rebelled against those expectations, her story mirroring Leon's own in certain respects, as she'd sought adventure and independence rather than accept the gilded cage prepared for her. She'd later married her supporter—the man responsible for collecting loot during her adventuring days—someone from a poor viscount's house whose status was far beneath what her family had deemed acceptable.

She'd later retired at the remarkably young age of twenty-five, transitioning to administrative work for the guild whilst she and her husband tended their lands—holdings which included three separate dungeons she had personally conquered and claimed. An impressive feat by any standard, even if Leon's own recent accomplishments had begun to overshadow such achievements.

When Leon had reported back to the guild with his findings from the newly discovered floating islands, and after Margot had learnt of his accomplishments and his reasoning behind relocating them, she'd taken it upon herself to help him navigate the labyrinthine logistics of such an undertaking. She'd applied to become the Head of the guild branch that would be established on his lands, a proposal that had surprised him initially until he'd understood the political implications.

Her territory was now located between the boundaries of the two Bartfort territories—his father's established barony and Leon's own newly granted lands—whilst her husband served as the head of the Guild branch there and tended their joint holdings. 

At least with their current arrangement, her husband apparently enjoyed the company of several mistresses and attendants, whilst Margot enjoyed her own companions, which was basically her present company of the fox demi-human, elf, and hulking guardian spirit. 'To each their own,' Leon thought with the same resigned acceptance he applied to most of the kingdom's peculiar noble arrangements. 'At least their arrangement looks sincere enough, compared to the "I'll give you an heir as you pay for my life and debauchery" arrangements of the lower nobles.'

She, alongside three other individuals whose names were spoken with reverence and caution in equal measure, was considered amongst the strongest individuals in the Holfort Kingdom. Leon privately guessed this was the primary reason why the palace had accepted her proposal to establish herself on his borders—she could serve as a convenient deterrent if Leon ever entertained thoughts of moving against the Crown. A watchdog with teeth, positioned exactly where she could observe his activities whilst maintaining plausible deniability about her true purpose.

Leon didn't really care about that, as he had no ambitions of grandeur; he'd happily tend to his lands and maybe go on adventures for the rest of his life after the academy. Let the palace have their watchdog—he had nothing to hide.

Her two attendants, plus the hulking mass of her guardian spirit that moved with surprising grace despite its size, quickly joined Leon in dispatching the remaining golems near their position. Margot herself raised her hand high, her eyes gleaming with anticipation, her mouth stretching wide in an eager grin as a large magic circle coalesced in the air before her outstretched palm. Multiple concentric circles appeared, geometric patterns interlocking with precision, shapes and runes floating mid-air as they shone brilliant and bright against the dungeon's perpetual darkness.

And then, with a pulse of power that Leon felt deep in his bones, goosebumps erupted across his skin as it prickled in response to the sheer amount of mana being channelled and reproduced. A veritable barrage of condensed beams of light flew forth from the array, each one seeking its target with unerring accuracy as they bombarded the remaining monsters that had been harassing the fourteen other adventurers positioned throughout the chamber.

The fourteen adventurers were strategically positioned on several floating rocks scattered across the void, fanned out in a defensive formation. They'd been holding their ground admirably, Leon noted, aiming to provide the perfect support positions to assist the incoming group of academy students who would be accompanied by the other half of their adventuring party—the tactical plan proceeding exactly as designed.

"Great job as always, Leon, Olivia," Margot announced loudly, her voice carrying easily across the now-quieter chamber as she gave them both an exaggerated wink. Before either could respond, she thumped Leon's back with a force that was decidedly not gentle, nearly sending him stumbling forward. "Oh, Miss Redgrave, you accompanied them as well!" Her attention shifted to Angelica with apparent delight. "I do apologise for this pair; this might not be the best example of how a normal adventure typically proceeds."

Without warning, she ruffled the heads of both Olivia and Leon with rough affection, her arms suddenly tightening around their heads as she pulled them into an embrace that pressed both their faces firmly into the sides of her enormous chest. The world became dark and airless; Leon struggled wildly, his survival instincts screaming as loudly as they ever had during actual combat, his arms flailing in desperate attempts to extract himself from this entirely different sort of threat—one far more embarrassing than any monster.

"Oh no, it was quite eye-opening actually," Angelica's voice carried from somewhere beyond the prison of Margot's embrace, sounding far too amused for Leon's current predicament. "They've shown me quite clearly the level I must achieve if I'm to make my forebears proud."

Her forebears—her family—had been amongst the adventurers who'd founded this very kingdom, their names inscribed in history books and commemorated in monuments.

Margot finally released the pair, and Leon immediately took in large, desperate gasps of air, his lungs burning as they refilled. The relief lasted approximately half a second before she slapped them both on the back with enough force to expel most of that precious oxygen right back out again.

"Looks like the students are starting their descent now," Margot announced cheerfully, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring their wheezing. "You lot are up next—time to clear all of the monsters on the next floor down, save one. Chop chop!" She gestured toward the portal leading deeper into the dungeon.

With a sigh—the kind that came from deep in his chest, born of exhaustion and resignation—Leon took the lead, directing the group towards the portal that would take them to the next floor. Mainly directing Angelica, if he was being honest, since this was her first time in this dungeon and she needed to know where they were going.

Meltryllis suddenly rushed forward, her movements sharp and eager, and before Leon could anticipate what was happening, she'd grabbed his arm with surprising strength. She wrapped herself around it, encircling his arm around her shoulders in a possessive grip, her hands clasped firmly on his forearms. Her voice pitched high with excitement, she exclaimed, "Master! Can you please call me Melt from now on!"

Before he could formulate a response, Olivia mirrored Meltryllis's movements with characteristic speed, taking his left side and pressing close. She exclaimed brightly, "No fair, you must call me Livia!"

He could feel both of them clinging to him, one guardian spirit and one vassal knight competing for his attention, awaiting his compliance, whilst Durga floated beside the group, her usual levity absent. She slumped dejectedly, whispering to herself in a voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible—yet Leon's reinforced ears caught every dejected word. "Durg doesn't sound like a good nickname," she said to herself sadly.

'Why is this my life?' Leon thought with weary resignation as he was physically dragged toward the portal by his overly enthusiastic companions.

"Fine," he muttered begrudgingly, the word barely audible.

Both of them cheered—Meltryllis with a delighted squeal and Olivia with a triumphant laugh—as they dragged him even faster toward the portal, their enthusiasm somehow doubling despite already being at maximum capacity.

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Clarice Fia Atlee clenched her jaw so hard she feared her teeth might crack as she caught sight of him—Jilk, her fiancé—standing alongside the crown prince and their insufferable circle of friends. They were all gathered around her, fawning over her like moths to flame. That woman. That bitch.

The word felt sharp and bitter on her tongue, and Clarice's cheeks flushed with heat—not just from anger, but from the mortification of thinking something so terribly unladylike. Yet the fury surged right back, drowning out her embarrassment entirely.

'How could he?' How could he stand there with that smug expression when he hadn't bothered to reply to a single one of her messages? Not even one. No explanation, no apology, nothing but suffocating silence whilst they paraded about like their freedom was some sort of prize, as though the academy excused them from every responsibility they were supposed to shoulder as the future stewards of this kingdom.

Clarice's fingers curled into fists beneath the table as the weight of her sacrifice pressed against her chest. She had given everything for him. Every moment of her life had been devoted to learning about her betrothed—his interests, his preferences, his dreams. When she'd discovered his passion for airbike racing, she hadn't hesitated. She'd arranged for a gift, a beautiful machine that represented not merely her affection but her family's considerable investment in the sport. Her family had supported generations of racers; this was meant to be their bridge, their common ground.

She'd imagined them bonding over it all. Two years at the academy stretched before them like an opportunity—a chance to build something genuine, to forge a relationship that mattered. She'd been genuinely excited about his first term, envisioning long afternoons discussing aerodynamics and strategy, perhaps even attending races together. It was supposed to be the beginning of something meaningful, not... not this.

Slam!

Her fist came down hard against the table before she could stop herself. The impact reverberated through the wood, and immediately she felt the weight of concerned gazes from her retinue—the promising young men and women from both lower and upper echelons who'd sought her patronage, those she'd invested in and supported as they pursued their careers in airbike racing. They were loyal to her, at least. They understood the value of gratitude and commitment.

Their support was at least sincere, and Clarice felt a pang of guilt for the worry she'd put on them, for changing her hairstyle and wearing more flashy, revealing clothes instead of her normal ones. She even approached her sponsored woman bike racers to help her get some demi-human sexual attendants.

But then a shadow fell across her plate, blocking out the light. When she looked up, she found a porcelain bowl being lowered before her—filled with unfamiliar white grains, an array of vegetables, and sliced pork glazed in something rich and brown that she didn't immediately recognise.

"Senior, best to fill up and gather some energy for today's raid," the tall man said, his broad shoulders framed against the morning light as he bowed with practised courtesy. His dark hair caught the sun from the guild hall's high window panes. He straightened, moving with purpose back to a laden tray that held approximately twenty identical bowls, each perfectly prepared.

Methodically, he worked his way through the room, placing bowls before each person with the same attentive care. When he finally approached the Redgrave daughter with the last serving, Clarice watched them interact. The server seemed to have some cordial relationship with the Duke's daughter—unusual, given the status difference.

The sharp clink of another porcelain bowl being placed on the table made Clarice flinch slightly, followed by the creak of wood as another figure loomed over her before settling into the seat beside her. A crisp snapping sound—fan ribs unfurling—cut through the ambient noise of the guild hall, and she felt the artificial breeze rustle through the loose strands of her newly styled hair. The presence beside her radiated an unmistakable air of proud superiority, waves of it rolling off them like perfume, cloying and insistent.

With a weary sigh that seemed to come from deep within her chest, Clarice asked, her voice flat with resignation, "What is it, Deirdre?"

Deirdre Fou Roseblade—one of the few members of her year who could claim the same ranking family as hers, though she was a landed noble whilst Clarice's family were court nobles. The distinction mattered more than most outsiders realised, a gulf of mud and earth separating those who managed actual territories from those who merely whispered advice in palace corridors.

"What is this curious thing I hear about our goody-two-shoes Clarice suddenly acting out like some common rebel?" Deirdre's voice dripped with mockery and genuine intrigue in equal measure. "Dressing less properly than a merchant's daughter, and even planning on hiring sexual attendants? My, my, how scandalous."

Clarice deliberately ignored her, keeping her gaze fixed on the tall man who had been conversing with the Redgrave daughter moments before.

"Hmm…" Deirdre hummed beside her, the single syllable loaded with quite a tone of intrigue, but Clarice maintained her studied indifference, letting the sound wash over her without acknowledgement.

"That Bartfort baron seems rather interesting," Deirdre declared abruptly, as though commenting on the weather.

Despite her best intentions, Clarice couldn't help but turn towards Deirdre, who was leaning back in her chair with practised elegance, her legs crossed at the ankle in a manner that somehow managed to be both proper and provocative. The rhythmic flutter of her fan stirred the air between them, carrying the faint scent of rosewater.

"The gentleman you were staring at," Deirdre clarified with a knowing smirk, gesturing with her fan towards where he offered a shallow bow to the Crown Prince's supposed fiancée before departing through the doorway that led to the staff area of the guild, his broad shoulders disappearing into the dimmer corridor beyond.

"And what's supposedly so special about him?" Clarice snorted, trying to inject dismissiveness into her tone even as warmth crept up her neck.

"Oh, were you too thoroughly wrapped up in your own theatrical acting out to not hear about the latest rising star of the Adventurer's Guild?" Deirdre's voice carried that particular edge of superiority she wielded like a rapier. "The one who may one day surpass even the great Margot Fou Bellefleur herself?"

At Clarice's continued silence—she genuinely hadn't heard—Deirdre could only shake her head slowly in theatrical exasperation, golden curls catching the light.

"You know," Deirdre continued, her voice softening fractionally, taking on an almost pragmatic quality, "your family could quite easily retract your betrothal and even gain substantial political traction by publicly admonishing the Marmoria family, especially considering the fact that their heir was supposed to be helping advise the Crown Prince, not whatever foolish endeavour they're pursuing right now."

At Clarice's dejected sigh—a sound that seemed to deflate her entire frame—Deirdre could only tsk her tongue against her teeth in reproach. Clarice registered the long, measured exhale from the blonde beauty beside her, felt rather than saw the slight shake of her head.

"You simply cannot maintain this defeatist mentality right now, not when we're joining in a proper dungeon raid," Deirdre declared with sudden firmness as she rose gracefully to her feet, the rustle of expensive fabric accompanying her movement. "You and your retinue should at the very least join us. Safety in numbers, and all that wisdom."

She strode away purposefully to speak with her own followers.

'I suppose she's right about that much,' Clarice thought with reluctant admission, watching Deirdre go. 'Jilk can be tomorrow's problem.'

She brought a spoonful of the dish the apparent baron had served her to her lips, the steam carrying an unfamiliar but enticing aroma—something savoury and slightly sweet. As the flavours hit her tongue, she couldn't help but pause in pleasant surprise, her eyes widening slightly.

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And with the final leap, Margot Fou Bellefleur caught their group with her magic as wind buffeted their team. Clarice Fia Atlee shifted a bit as she landed in a crouch, her knees absorbing the impact. Her heart still hammered from the descent, adrenaline coursing through her veins like liquid fire. Looking to her right, Deirdre landed gracefully, her arms wide open, as if she were balancing on a rope, one foot placed forward in front of the other. 'Show-off,' Clarice thought with a mixture of admiration and exasperation, watching her companion's effortless poise.

She could see from a distance the prince, his group, and the bitch. The very sight of them made her jaw clench involuntarily. Quite typically, they allowed the prince to use power armour on this raid, despite the regulations that should have applied equally to everyone. Typically, power armour wasn't permitted in a dungeon unless it was a special case, like near the bottom of the capital dungeon. The rule existed for good reason—the sheer destructive potential could damage the delicate magical ecosystem that sustained these places.

The kingdom treated dungeons as an essential resource, and if a dungeon was damaged or could no longer produce materials, it would be a significant loss of resources. The economic implications alone would be devastating, not to mention the strategic disadvantage it would create. Yet here they were, bending the rules for royalty, despite the academy's stance on equal treatment.

But then heads would probably roll if the crown prince were accidentally killed or permanently injured. So Clarice guessed that they'd allowed it in this case, perhaps limiting the type of enchanted weaponry and ordnance he could carry. 'Of course, special treatment for the golden boy,' she thought bitterly, as he was quite loudly talking about freedom and equality back on the ship on their way to this territory.

Though it was a bit too much when he'd also inherited the Holfort family spirit guardian, who was rumoured to have the ability to defeat armies on its own. The legendary power of that guardian spirit was the stuff of history books and battlefield legends. Looking at the guardian spirit who bore an identical visage to the prince, Clarice felt a fresh wave of irritation wash over her.

When guardian spirits contracted with another, they could change their form again, making each contract and partnership unique. The symbolism, the bond—it should have been a deeply personal choice. Clarice probably couldn't voice what she thought about Prince Julius wanting his guardian spirit to have his likeness, though the sheer narcissism of it made her want to scream. Her brow furrowed in anger as the green-haired object of her current ire entered her view, that insufferable woman standing far too close to Jilk for Clarice's liking.

She shook her head forcefully, trying to physically dislodge the thoughts. No. She didn't want to be distracted, not here, not now. This dungeon demanded her full attention, and letting her emotions cloud her judgement would only get people hurt—or worse.

Their descent was quite tricky, atypical of normal dungeons, as cosmic dungeons generally had fewer floors, but each floor had quite the expansive space. The sheer scale of it had been disorienting at first. This very first floor was probably about a ten- to fifteen-kilometre drop, and she couldn't even estimate how far the walls were, with the darkened backdrop making it impossible to gauge the true dimensions. The vastness made her feel simultaneously insignificant and exposed.

She wasn't a slouch with dungeons, as she, with her retinue, had already reached the sixtieth level of the capital's dungeon. Clarice had earned her experience through blood, sweat, and countless near-death encounters. But instead of just thinking of guarding your front and rearguard, maybe your flank at intersections, this was a three-dimensional space where enemies seemed to just swarm in from all directions. The tactical considerations here were exponentially more complex, requiring constant vigilance in every direction—above, below, and all around. That and quite the trust in your companions.

It was a good thing they had veteran adventurers already positioned ahead, who provided supporting fire with devastating accuracy. Meanwhile, each team had at least two more experienced adventurers accompanying their group, their presence a reassuring reminder that they weren't completely out of their depth. Plus, the Holfort Academy professors were positioned at the back, ready to intervene and help at a moment's notice should anything go catastrophically wrong.

Clap!

The sharp sound cut through the ambient noise, drawing everyone's attention immediately.

"Everyone, attention," the infamous and famous adventurer Margot Fou Bellefleur stood proudly as she called for everyone, her voice carrying authority that brooked no argument. "Chop chop, looks like we only have four more floors to go and lucky for you lot, you get to skip to the climax. Follow!"

Four more floors, Clarice thought wearily, feeling the accumulated exhaustion in her muscles. 'Only four more.'

Clarice could hear everyone's groans echoing around her as they tried to sit up, grumbling as some chugged both stamina and mana potions with desperate urgency. The bitter taste of such potions was something you never quite got used to, but necessity trumped comfort every time. She reached for her own potion, feeling the magical liquid restore some of her depleted reserves.

The guild leader's body disappeared behind the shimmering portal to the next area as everyone slowly followed, dragging themselves forward despite their fatigue.

As Clarice stepped through the portal, a peculiar sight greeted her on the other side: the tall young man—who was apparently the recently ascended Bartfort baron, she'd learnt—the very same person who had served her that dish she'd later discovered was glazed roasted pork belly and fried rice. Clarice could still remember the taste of such a salivating treat even now, the way the crispy fat had melted on her tongue, the subtle sweetness of the glaze perfectly complementing the savoury meat. It had been utterly divine, a memory that brought unexpected warmth despite their current grim circumstances.

Alongside the Bartfort baron sat the daughter of Duke Redgrave herself, and that peculiar female knight who had somehow secured entry into the academy's upper class—an achievement that still had the noble circles buzzing with gossip and speculation—and what Clarice initially assumed were either highly skilled attendants or perhaps guardian spirits of some variety.

But judging from their particularly ethereal beauty and the way they seemed almost too perfect to be entirely mortal, she guessed they were guardian spirits.

Behind the Bartfort baron stood an imposing cage constructed from what appeared to be daggers. Inside this makeshift prison writhed one of those nightmarish creatures they'd been fighting—one of the pixie-looking monsters with a singular bulging eye where a face should be and a grotesque mouth that spanned the entire length of their torso, lined with rows of needle-sharp teeth that made Clarice's skin crawl just looking at it.

The entire group was sitting in a loose circle on the dungeon floor. Between them was a pile of cards stacked neat and straight, almost military in its precision, and beside it sat another pile of cards in a far more disorganised heap, as though they'd been carelessly discarded. Clarice noticed with growing curiosity that the cards bore various coloured faces—red, blue, green, yellow—in patterns she didn't immediately recognise. Were they... playing a game? In a dungeon? The absurdity of it made her question whether the fatigue was affecting her perception.

The duke's daughter suddenly slapped down several cards in rapid succession, her movements fluid and confident, whilst the vassal knight complained loudly in obvious dismay, her voice carrying across the chamber as she picked up several more cards from the organised pile with visible frustration. Her hand was now overflowing with cards, fanned out awkwardly as she tried to hold them all.

Clap!

The sharp sound echoed through the chamber, immediately drawing everyone's attention away from the bizarre card game.

"Right then, attention everyone! I shall brief the students of Holfort Academy on precisely what this boss battle shall entail," Margot, the guild leader, declared with that commanding presence that seemed to fill whatever space she occupied. Her voice rang with authority and confidence born of countless similar briefings. "My team and I have already performed recon up to the fifth floor of this particular dungeon, and I already know the specific types of bosses that spawn on each floor and their particular quirks, weaknesses, and attack patterns."

She then turned her head deliberately towards the academy professors positioned at the rear and gave them a knowing nod, some unspoken communication passing between experienced adventurers.

"This shall count as extracurricular practical work," Margot continued, her tone becoming more businesslike, the kind of voice that brooked no nonsense or complaint. "The actual fight will only commence after the last monster of this floor is killed—" she gestured with one gloved hand towards the caged grotesque pixie behind her, the creature hissing and snapping its jaws at the attention, throwing itself against the cage of blades with wet, meaty impacts that made Clarice wince, "—hence the caged pixie. After I've thoroughly briefed everyone on the monster's capabilities, attack patterns, and known vulnerabilities, you shall all band together, organise yourselves strategically as one coordinated raid force, and plan precisely how you would tackle it as a unified team working in concert."

Margot's lips curved into a confident smirk as she methodically locked eyes with every single student present—save for the card-playing group, who she seemed content to ignore for the moment, perhaps recognising they were beyond such concerns. Clarice felt the weight of that gaze when it fell upon her, assessing and measuring in a single glance.

"Do not worry too much, as the guild and its members shall step in immediately if there are any serious complications that arise or if the situation becomes too dangerous for students to handle," Margot assured them. However, her tone suggested she expected them to handle themselves competently. "We're here to challenge you, not to see you slaughtered needlessly. And let me add this."

Margot swept her gaze across everyone once more. "This kingdom was founded by adventurers. Your forebears once took their magic, their guns, their swords and set out to claim lands and conquer dungeons, carving civilisation from wilderness and monster-infested darkness. Our number one resource is our dungeons—they sustain our economy, our military strength, our very way of life. You all are standing on frontier land—yes, I, the Baron Bartfort, and his vassal may have already explored this dungeon partially for everyone's safety, but this is your chance to make our founders proud, to prove you're worthy of the legacy they left us, whether you are an upstart clawing your way up from nothing or coming from a long lineage of adventurers with centuries of tradition behind your name."

She paused, letting her words sink in, before adding: "So, any questions before I start with the proper briefing?"

-=&&=-

Clarice looked around her at the various formations strewn across the void, her breath catching slightly as she took in the sheer scale of the operation they'd orchestrated. The adventurers had been enlisted to move many of the floating land masses—each one large enough for the whole team to stand on—and she found herself grateful for even this precarious foothold. At least here, if concentrated fire came their way, they could leap from one platform to another, buying themselves precious seconds. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Most of her team was assigned to long-range support fire, their role to ensure ample opportunity for the vanguard to operate without immediate threat. She'd briefed them thoroughly on their positioning, watching as they'd taken their places with practised efficiency. Still, there was always that nagging anxiety that came with these operations—the knowledge that no plan survived first contact unchanged, that coordination could unravel in moments.

The vanguard were the students, guardian spirits, and attendants who could fly or wield movement magic, allowing them to move across the void. They were the ones who'd have to weather the storm, darting in and out whilst the support teams provided covering fire.

Their collective goal was elegant in its simplicity: ensure the boss monster would always have to divert its attention, constantly redistributing its focus so that no single team would receive concentrated fire for any prolonged duration. It was a typical strategy taught by the academy, a tried and tested doctrine to fight against large monsters in three-dimensional space.

This was the plan the crown prince and his team had devised together, which was, she had to admit, relatively straightforward. 'At least he has some competence with that,' Clarice thought, surprising herself with the grudging acknowledgement. The prince, alongside select members from various teams, would comprise the primary vanguard, zipping around the monster to orchestrate the flow of battle itself.

The silence pressed down upon them now—that peculiar, heavy calm that always preceded violent action. Clarice exchanged glances with Deirdre across their platform, her colleague looking composed despite the tension radiating through the chamber. Deirdre, who eschewed guns as a focus in favour of her elegant foldable fan, was efficient with focusless magic as well, a trait Clarice thought was borne from hard practice.

Whilst Clarice had her automatic firearm serve as her conduit, drawing from her substantial reserves, she could fire streams of minor curses or deliver concentrated bursts of far more damaging magic. Once she found her rhythm with the vanguard's tactical direction, she'd be able to deploy her specialised magic.

Clarice gritted her teeth as she observed the prince's group huddled together on their platform, all of them clasping hands in what appeared to be some sort of coordinated preparation.

The prince stood before Marie, with Jilk and Greg positioned beside Marie, their hands interlocked in a configuration that suggested deliberate magical channelling and intimacy—fingers woven together with practised ease—with Brad and Chris completing the circle of interlocked hands, creating a perfect ring of five around the prince.

There was something almost ritualistic about it, a ceremony practiced and perfected, and she found herself wondering exactly what they were attempting to accomplish as Marie glowed—her entire body suffused with soft golden light that seemed to emanate from within, the radiance spreading to each person in the circle through their connected hands—and pressed a chaste kiss upon the prince's forehead, the gesture tender and reverent, sealing whatever magical working they'd just completed.

She took a furtive peek towards the floor of this vastly more expansive chamber, her gaze sweeping across the distant space below. There—she could spy the Redgrave daughter glaring upward as well, though she noticed with interest that the girl's attention was directed squarely at the prince.

Then, finally, their huddle finished. The prince straightened, and even from this distance, Clarice could sense the shift in his presence—a readiness, a settling of purpose.

"Everyone," the prince called out, his voice cutting through the silence with authority.

He stood resplendent in armour that seemed to shimmer with barely contained power—a magnificent construct blending modern engineering with magical enhancement. The breastplate was composed of overlapping segments that allowed freedom of movement, each plate inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed with stored mana. His vambraces bore crystalline focusing arrays at the wrists, whilst his greaves featured articulated joints reinforced with enchanted alloys. The whole ensemble managed to appear both protective and elegant, form-fitting without sacrificing coverage, the metal finished in polished silver with gold accents that caught the chamber's ambient light.

The others, assisted by their own magic, their attendants', or their guardian spirits', stood poised beside him, their readiness palpable. "Let us start."

Everyone tensed in preparation across all the platforms, shoulders hunching slightly, hands adjusting weapons and focuses. The prince nodded sharply at the guild leader, who then called out, her voice ringing across the chamber with practised authority: "Leon!"

She could see from the edge of her platform that something shifted below. The cage made of daggers—the one containing the pixie—was relocated with brutal efficiency to the chamber floor. The creature inside pressed against the bars of its prison, its tiny form quivering with desperate energy.

Without so much as a gesture from Leon, the cage began to expand, the daggers rotating outward in a widening arc, still not providing the pixie with any semblance of adequate space. The blades all pointed inwards with geometric precision, and Clarice could hear the final panicked cries of the tiny monster cut short as the cage closed in on itself with sickening finality, collapsing inward like some terrible mechanical flower. What remained was grotesque—a pin cushion of metal and flesh, the monster's tiny form obliterated in an instant.

At the moment the deathwail of the creature ended, Clarice could feel the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end, goosebumps travelling rapidly across her entire body. That sensation always preceded something catastrophic, some vast presence awakening.

▒▂░▄▀▂▂▇▇▇▇!!!

An inhuman screech tore through the void, a sound so discordant and penetrating that it seemed to vibrate through bone itself, resonating in Clarice's very marrow. The cry was layered—multiple voices screaming in harmonies that should not exist, frequencies that made her teeth ache and her vision blur at the edges.

She tried pressing her forearms against her ears, instinctively not letting go of her gun, but the sound seemed to come from within as much as without, a violation of her very being. Their first challenge had arrived, and already she could taste copper in her mouth from where she'd bitten her tongue.

A large gaping void suddenly materialised at the centre of the chamber, reality seeming to tear like fabric, the edges crackling with otherworldly energy that made the air itself smell of burnt ozone and decay.

The temperature plummeted instantly, her breath misting before her face as frost began to form on the surface of the platform. With a sudden blast that knocked several adventurers from their feet, the monster materialised at the centre of the void—a colossal tetrahedron that defied comprehension.

Clarice estimated it to be somewhere between a kilometre and two along each edge, its geometric form rotating rapidly without rhyme or reason, each movement accompanied by a deep, thrumming sound that she felt in her chest cavity. The action alone buffeted everyone with gusts of displaced air that carried the stench of something ancient and wrong. Her robes whipped about her frantically, and she had to crouch down to maintain her balance, her knuckles white as she gripped her weapon.

Each of the four triangular faces bore a different grotesque feature that made Clarice's stomach turn violently, bile rising in her throat. 'What manner of abomination...?' The sight was so fundamentally wrong that her mind rebelled against processing it fully, as though her sanity was a fragile thing that might shatter if she looked too closely.

The first face was dominated by a single enormous eye that encompassed the entire space, easily the size of a dreadnaught-style airship. The pupil dilated and contracted as it tracked movements across the battlefield with the wet, sliding sound of shifting flesh. The sclera was a sickly yellow, like infected pus, veined with pulsing red capillaries that throbbed with each rotation in a rhythm that reminded Clarice sickeningly of a giant heartbeat. When that baleful gaze swept across her platform, she felt exposed, violated, as though every secret thought was being laid bare and examined.

The second face displayed a gaping maw lined with concentric rings of needle-sharp teeth that spiralled inward like a lamprey's mouth, each tooth gleaming wetly in the chamber's harsh light. The opening contracted and expanded as though breathing, accompanied by a horrible wet sucking sound, dripping some viscous fluid that hissed and steamed as it evaporated before reaching the floor below. The stench of digestive acids made her gag. Inside that gaping maw were countless eyes writhing like maggots, each independent in motion, tracking everything with an intelligence that was deeply, fundamentally wrong.

The third face somehow combined both horrors—a massive eye with three large maws, jagged with teeth, as its iris, which seemed to rotate on its own axis, producing grinding, scraping sounds that set her nerves on edge.

The fourth face writhed with hundreds upon hundreds of tentacles, each one thick as tree trunks and covered in what looked like scales that caught the light with an oily sheen. Each appendage was tipped with smaller eyes that glowed with crystalline light, like malevolent stars. These appendages moved independently with wet, slithering sounds, seeking targets with predatory intelligence. As Clarice watched in mounting horror, several of them turned towards the platforms, their eyes focusing with predatory intent that made her skin crawl.

"Move!" Simultaneously, Clarice and Deirdre commanded as their group was split down the middle, a beam of pure energy tearing through the platform with terrifying precision, leaving a deep, smoking gouge carved into its surface. The very air crackled with residual energy, and Clarice's mind raced.

"Clarice, you and your group deal with the tentacles; our group shall provide supporting fire to the vanguard!" Deirdre ordered, her voice cutting through the chaos with authoritative clarity.

Clarice forced down the spike of panic rising in her chest and nodded sharply. "Right. Everyone, stay behind us and watch for openings—guard their team." She gripped her automatic weapon tightly, feeling the familiar weight of it ground her as she fired in controlled bursts. The explosive blasts found their marks on the gleaming eyes adorning each tentacle, her fingers moving with practised precision.

Her team responded in kind, unleashing various magics to contain the creature's movements, frantically working to prevent it from gathering enough concentration for another beam blast of that magnitude.

The battlefield had descended into controlled chaos, though 'controlled' was generous. Clarice had to quickly assess the situation even as the initial assault suddenly blindsided everyone—each group fending off their own writhing mass of appendages, eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she watched the dynamics shift around her.

She could see various adventurers stepping in with deliberate precision to shield students who'd reacted too slowly, barking out reminders of the situation and key tactical points from the pre-engagement briefing before jumping back to allow the students to attempt their own defence. It was calculated mentorship, even in the midst of nightmare.

The vanguard was now initiating their assault as some of the ranged support fire finally eased the pressure enough to allow them movement. Clarice's breath caught as she watched the prince's guardian spirit wielding that large, unwieldy sword lance with surprising finesse. The weapon released a circular ball of condensed magic towards the largest eye with devastating precision.

Simultaneously, the prince himself zipped past with his armour glinting, holding a large blade as he performed a significant slash upon another of the creature's eyes. Gore and viscera erupted outward in a spray that made even Clarice's stomach turn, and the monster's shriek of pain was almost ear-splitting.

From her peripheral vision, Clarice caught glimpses of the others fighting with equal ferocity. Greg's lance moved with the economy of someone who'd done this countless times, his experience showing in every calculated thrust. Brad was weaving magic between attacks with the grace of someone truly gifted, his spellwork precise and devastating. Jilk moved as if he were always three steps ahead of the combat, his strikes calculated.

The interloper Marie was proving herself capable in ways Clarice hadn't anticipated. She wielded her single-bladed sword with fluid confidence, cutting the tentacles near their bases with surgical precision, punching anything that dared come close to her with surprising strength. When she released a pulse of her magic, several of the tentacles suddenly disintegrated into motes of light, their screams of dissolution adding to the cacophony of battle.

As Clarice continued her observation, she didn't let up on her assault on the writhing tentacles, her mind working in tandem with her trigger finger. She streaked across the platform with automatic fire, using curses as bullets in rapid succession, or spraying bursts of explosive fire in measured arcs.

Each shot was deliberate, calculated—she'd long since learned that panic fire wasted her reserves, no matter how large they were. Her breathing remained steady, even as adrenaline thrummed through her veins.

Her observation was not a mere distraction, however. She had been counting the timing with meticulous care, tracking the pattern whenever a tentacle poised itself to release its most devastating attack. The creature was predictable, if one bothered to look closely enough. As she saw ten of the tentacles rear their tips in unison, preparing to strike in concert, Clarice counted a beat and a half in her head—there, that was the window—and switched her gun to single fire with practised efficiency.

Ten quick sparks followed in rapid succession, each one finding its mark with almost supernatural precision. The tentacles' accumulated magic was interrupted at the last second, the arcane energy reversing upon itself in a catastrophic cascade. The self-destruction was violent and beautiful in its own terrible way.

Her team and Deirdre's team cheered at that moment, relief palpable in their voices as they were granted much-needed leeway from the relentless assault.

"Alex, take your team to the edge of the platform," Clarice called out, her voice cutting through the din with absolute authority. "Do not let any of those things near the platform. The rest of you provide supporting fire towards the vanguard. Keep them alive."

A chorused, "Yes, Miss Clarice!" followed immediately, her people responding without hesitation.

Clarice switched back to semi-auto as she bombarded the grotesque face in front of them, her focus narrowing. The maw spat out random blobs of acidic substance with nauseating regularity, and she watched with cold calculation as Deirdre and her team dodged at the last second. One member of Deirdre's retinue wasn't relatively fast enough, getting splashed across the ankles. She cried out, quickly removing her greaves in panic, lest she lose her leg or have it severely burnt away entirely. Another of Deirdre's team immediately began tending to their fellow student.

With another quick glance around, she assessed the broader situation. Everyone seemed to have found a rhythm now, developing their own patterns of attack and retreat.

The vanguard had transformed into a deadly coordinated assault. Brad and Chris worked in near-perfect synchronisation at the creature's upper sections, Brad's ice magic creating frozen footholds mid-air whilst Chris's lightning strikes exploited the crystallised paths, their combined assault crackling with elemental fury. Each time Brad conjured a platform of solid ice, Chris was already moving, his body wreathed in electrical discharge as he drove his enchanted gauntlets into the creature's hide. The coordination was mesmerising—Brad would freeze a tentacle solid, and Chris would shatter it with a single devastating punch, the fragments raining down like deadly hail.

Greg's lance moved with the economy of someone who'd done this countless times, his experience showing in every calculated thrust that exploited weaknesses only he seemed to recognise. He'd position himself at the creature's blind spots during rotation, driving his weapon deep into the seams between faces where the geometry created natural vulnerabilities. Each strike drew fresh ichor, the creature's shriek of pain echoing across the void.

Jilk orchestrated his section of the battle with tactical brilliance, directing fire from three different student groups whilst maintaining his own assault. His green hair whipped about as he darted between positions, his blade finding eyes and weak points with surgical precision. When a tentacle cluster threatened to overwhelm a support platform, he was there, his enchanted sword releasing waves of cutting force that severed multiple appendages in a single slash.

Even Marie—her bitter thoughts aside—had integrated herself into their formation with surprising ease, wielding her single-bladed sword with fluid confidence that spoke of genuine skill.

She moved between the prince and Jilk with practised coordination, covering their flanks as they pressed the assault. When a cluster of tentacles erupted from the maw-face, targeting the prince's exposed back, Marie was already moving, her blade singing through the air as she severed three in one elegant arc. She punched a fourth with her off-hand, the impact releasing a pulse of golden light that disintegrated the appendage entirely.

Across the battlefield, other teams had found their own rhythms. A group of students from one of the lesser noble houses worked in tight formation, their guardian spirits—a pair of wolf-like creatures wreathed in flame—tearing into tentacles whilst the students provided covering fire with coordinated spell volleys. Their battle cries rang out in cadence: "Mark!" "Fire!" "Reload!" The discipline was impressive.

Another platform held a mixed group that had clearly trained together extensively. Their attendants—demi-human warriors with the reflexes of predators—darted in close while the nobles maintained devastating ranged bombardment. One attendant, a cat-eared man with twin daggers, danced along a tentacle's length, his blades leaving smoking wounds that prevented regeneration. His noble patron followed his strikes with explosive fire magic, cauterising and destroying in perfect tandem.

The air filled with battle cries in a dozen different voices: "Shield wall!" "Incoming left!" "Focus fire on the eye!" "Cover the prince!" The cacophony should have been chaos, but instead it formed a symphony of coordinated violence, each group playing its part in the greater whole.

Thankfully, no one had been severely wounded yet.

The onslaught continued for what felt like an eternity but was, in reality, not yet past a quarter of an hour. The creature thrashed and screamed, tentacles whipping in desperate arcs, but the formation held. The rhythm continued, each person playing their role, each attack building upon the last.

Then, abruptly, the tetrahedron shook violently. Its edges began to separate with a grinding sound that made Clarice's teeth ache, as if the structure itself was a flower blooming, unravelling at its very seams.

▒▂▂▂░▄▄▄▄▄▀▂▂▂▂▂▇▇▇▇▇!

The tetrahedron's edges peeled away with agonising slowness, each triangular face folding outward like petals of some cosmic flower opening to swallow the sun. The grinding, crystalline sound intensified until Clarice thought her eardrums might burst—the noise of reality itself being reshaped—accompanied by a high-pitched keening that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of reality, a frequency that made her bones vibrate and her vision swim with nauseating distortion.

As the structure unfolded completely, revealing what lay at its heart like a terrible gift being unwrapped, Clarice felt her breath catch in her throat, her chest tightening with instinctive dread. This was precisely what Margot had warned them about—the second phase, the dormant core. The nightmare within the nightmare.

Suspended in the void, curled in a perfect fetal position as though sheltered in some invisible womb, was the giant pixie. It was easily the same size as its tetrahedral cocoon—but that was at its current position, compressed into that protective curl—its body impossibly slender and graceful despite the massive scale, each limb proportioned with alien perfection that somehow made the kilometre-sized form seem delicate rather than monstrous.

The creature's skin glowed with an inner luminescence—pale as moonlight filtered through mist, almost translucent like porcelain held up to a candle, revealing the faint tracery of what might have been veins or magical channels beneath the surface, pulsing with slow, rhythmic light that suggested something like a heartbeat but not quite.

Its arms wrapped protectively around its knees, drawn up tight against its chest in a pose of vulnerability that was somehow more disturbing than any aggressive stance could have been—something that size should not be capable of looking vulnerable. Long fingers—too many joints, Clarice's mind whispered in horror, at least one extra segment in each digit despite their massive scale—curved delicately around slender legs.

The creature's hair floated around it in a corona of silver-white strands that moved as though underwater, defying the void's lack of atmosphere, each strand seeming to possess its own life, writhing gently like sea grass in a gentle current—but each strand was thick as ship's rope, flowing in impossible currents.

The face was what truly unsettled her, what made her stomach clench with a fear that had nothing to do with scale and everything to do with wrongness. It was beautiful—heartbreakingly, impossibly so—with features so perfectly proportioned they seemed sculpted by some divine hand rather than grown through natural process.

High cheekbones that could cut glass, a delicate nose with flared nostrils that suggested breath despite the void, lips curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile, the expression just this side of beatific. The eyes were closed, long lashes resting against those perfect cheeks like silk fans—but those lashes were each longer than Clarice was tall. The expression was one of absolute serenity, peaceful as though merely sleeping, dreaming of things beyond mortal comprehension—dreams of stars dying and being born, of the void between realities.

A translucent yellow-gold energy shield materialised around the dormant creature with a sound like crystal bells struck underwater, rippling with opalescent light that shifted through colours she couldn't name—golds that became ambers that bled into honeys that weren't quite any shade found in nature. The barrier pulsed rhythmically, each pulse sending ripples of distortion across her vision, making the pixie seem to flicker between multiple states of existence simultaneously.

The three triangular faces of the tetrahedron hung in space around the pixie like protective petals, slowly rotating in a defensive pattern that created overlapping fields of protection. Even folded back, they remained threatening—the massive eyes still tracked movements with predatory focus, the maws still dripped corrosive fluid that hissed as it evaporated, the tentacle-face still writhed with searching appendages. They had become orbital shields, exactly as Margot had described, mobile defences that nothing could breach.

Then the spawning began.

From the base of the bloomed structure, writhing tentacles erupted like serpents from a nest. These were different from the ones before—thicker, longer, each one tipped with larger crystalline eyes that tracked targets with predatory intelligence. They moved with purpose, hunting specific platforms.

And the smaller pixies came next—hundreds of them pouring from gaps in the structure, each one a miniature nightmare with its singular bulging eye and torso-spanning mouth. They swarmed like locusts, their high-pitched chittering filling the air with a sound that made Clarice's teeth ache. The noise was maddening, layering upon itself until it became a physical force pressing against her consciousness.

"Concentrate, continue your onslaught, leave no quarter," Margot's voice boomed across the chamber, cutting through the chaos. "And for our founders' sake—DO NOT HIT THE SHIELD!"

The adventurers provided supporting fire to thin out the swarm of pixies—the students lacked sufficient area-of-effect spells at this stage, their training focused on precision rather than widespread destruction.

Clarice's mind raced, already calculating trajectories and optimal strike zones. Not wasting time on hesitation, she ordered everyone to focus fire on one of the faces of the opened tetrahedron. Their goal was clear: damage the structure enough to prevent full awakening. If that creature stirred, if those eyes opened—everything would become infinitely worse.

She set her gun to full-auto, feeling the familiar weight of power flow through her fingertips. Instead of minor curses, she unleashed a relentless stream of devastating magic which exploded upon contact, each detonation calculated to avoid splash damage toward the shield. Beside her, Deirdre moved with practised grace, waving her fan in fluid, precise arcs. Large red petals materialised from thin air—her signature magic, inspired by her namesake—conjured into weapons of terrible beauty. They spun with powerful gusts of wind, carving deadly patterns through the air as they descended towards the face's surface, leaving large gashes that wept luminescent fluid.

Clarice could see the various magics of the adventurers weaving through the chaos—waves of fire that roared with primal hunger, water that crashed like tidal forces, and lightning that crackled with violent electricity. Multiple constructs were being woven with magic in real-time, swords and birds and knights of pure arcane energy massacring the pixies with merciless efficiency.

The vanguard weaved in and out of the open tetrahedron with predatory focus, attacking its interior with controlled ferocity. Battle cries echoed across the chamber, voices raised in defiance, blending into a chorus of combat.

Slowly but surely, they dealt considerable damage to the face in front of them. Tentacles tried to stop their advance, but the vanguard remained on top of everything, slicing into the appendages with coordinated strikes that drew attention away from the support platforms. For a moment—just a breath—Clarice allowed herself to believe they might actually succeed.

She used her specialised magic to interrupt each tentacle from afar, shooting three-quarters of a beat before it unleashed its devastating attack—her pattern recognition turning the predictable into the preventable.

But then something changed. The pulse quickened, accelerating from rhythmic pattern into something urgent. Looking closer, her stomach twisted as she saw more and more magical projectiles beginning to miss their marks, flying wide as they drifted towards the shielded pixie instead.

'No!' Clarice's mind screamed. If the shield got hit with magic, it would absorb it—convert it into fuel, accelerating the awakening exponentially.

"Everyone, tighten up your aim, DO NOT HIT THE SHIELD!" Deirdre commanded beside her, her voice sharp as a blade. "Do not let your battle lust cloud your actions. Precision! Precision above all else!"

"PRINCE JULIUS! NO!" Margot suddenly shouted, her voice cracking with something that sounded like genuine fear as she streaked towards the crown prince with desperate speed.

Their plan had been carefully considered: the prince and his entourage were to keep the giant pixie at their backs as defensive cover, assured it wouldn't attack until it woke. This positioning meant they wouldn't accidentally hit the shield with their attacks. It was elegant in its logic.

It was also failing catastrophically.

In the heat of battle, surrounded and harassed by tentacles that lashed out with increasing aggression, Prince Julius and his entourage had somehow pivoted in their defensive formation. They had been accidentally grazing the shield several times now, each contact feeding the very thing they were trying to prevent.

Suddenly, Marie was surrounded on all sides by pixies and tentacles—a coordinated assault that isolated her from the group. Both the prince and his entourage panicked, unleashing blast upon blast of magical energy to save their trapped teammate.

The prince, in his desperation, wrapped his sword with dazzling light as he performed multiple slashes with masterful precision, each strike devastating everything in its path. But with each explosion, each burst of power—the shield absorbed everything, glowing brighter, pulsing faster, drawing closer to critical overload.

▁▟▟▟▔ ▒▂░▄▀▀▀▂▇ ▁▟▟▔ ▔▇▕▌▏!

"You utter fool!" Margot's voice cracked like a whip as she violently shoved Prince Julius and his entire group towards the professors. They tumbled backwards in an undignified heap, crashing into the cluster of academy staff.

The shield pulsed once—a deep, resonant throb that seemed to echo in Clarice's very bones, in her teeth, in her marrow—before it was enveloped in a blinding white light that seared afterimages into her vision. The three triangular petals from the bloomed tetrahedron—those massive faces that had become orbital shields around the dormant pixie—began spinning wildly, faster and faster, creating a blur of motion around the creature's curled form. The air distorted with visible heat shimmer as incomprehensible amounts of magic accumulated within the spinning formation, drawn from every blast the shield had absorbed, every panicked strike feeding it power like fuel poured on fire.

"Adventurers, defend!" Margot's command rang out with absolute authority as she flung both arms wide. Multiple magic circles materialised instantly, suspended in the air around the construct, spinning within her masterful grasp. These weren't ordinary barriers—they were shields large enough to defend an entire territory from sustained bombardment, the kind of magic that took decades to perfect.

But even as Clarice watched with mounting horror, she could see it wasn't sufficient. Beams of pure, concentrated energy began escaping from the gaps between Margot's interlocking shields, white-hot lances of destruction seeking targets indiscriminately.

Clarice's breath caught as she tracked one of those deadly beams. It was veering directly towards their position—towards her. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Her life presented itself in a single, crystalline moment of absolute clarity: this was how she would die.

Then suddenly, impossibly, she felt weightlessness.

The sensation was so unexpected that her mind struggled to process it. Turning her head, she caught sight of an equally surprised Deirdre mere inches away. They were both being carried, she realised with dawning bewilderment, suspended at someone's hips like parcels.

Clarice managed to crane her neck upward just enough to glimpse her rescuer's face—Baron Bartfort, his expression focused and entirely too calm for someone who'd just snatched two fully grown women from the path of death whilst moving at impossible speed.

"Melt! Catch!" His voice was crisp, commanding.

An energetic feminine voice replied with enthusiasm: "Yes, Master!"

Then weightlessness encompassed her again. Everything seemed to move slowly as both she and Deirdre were tossed through the air, then suddenly encased in a bubble of water that somehow didn't feel wet. The liquid cradled them gently as they sailed through the air.

They touched down on the platform with impossible gentleness, the water bubble releasing them before dissipating. Clarice's legs nearly buckled, adrenaline making her hands shake as she tried to process what had just happened in perhaps three seconds.

Then she heard words—an incantation in a language she didn't recognise.

"I am the bone of my sword! Rho Aias!"

Clarice's head snapped around just in time to witness something unbelievable.

Before Baron Bartfort, between him and the oncoming devastation, a shield materialised—no, she could see it forming, being constructed from pure magical energy. It bloomed like a flower: seven layered petals of translucent pink energy, each one massive, each one overlapping in a perfect defensive configuration. The petals gleamed with otherworldly quality, their surfaces rippling with power.

The beam struck.

The impact was cataclysmic. The first petal shattered instantly, exploding into fragments of golden light. The second held for perhaps a heartbeat before it too gave way, cracking before bursting apart. The third cracked, fissures spreading like lightning before shattering. The fourth, the fifth—each breaking in sequence, each destruction buying precious fractions of a second as the beam's power was gradually absorbed.

The sound was deafening—a continuous roar of magical energy meeting immovable object. Light blazed so brightly that Clarice had to shield her eyes, squinting through her fingers because she couldn't look away from this display of magical defence.

When the blast finally dissipated and the light faded, Baron Bartfort stood exactly where he'd been, though the toll was evident even from behind. His shoulders heaved with laboured breathing, each breath audible. His hands trembled visibly at his sides, and his legs shook with the effort of remaining upright.

When one of his guardian spirits rushed to support him, turning him slightly, Clarice caught a glimpse of his face. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, dripping from his chin.

But it was more than that. When the guardian spirit began checking him over, Clarice could see bruises already forming along his arms, his knuckles split and bleeding. There were fresh cuts across his face.

'He wasn't hit,' Clarice thought with growing horror. 'The shield blocked everything. So why—'

The shield. Seven layers. Each one had shattered in sequence.

'Some sort of backlash?' she questioned herself.

Yet he remained standing, defiant against impossible odds.

Around the chamber, other adventurers and professors had deployed their own desperate defences. Clarice could see Professor Hendricks maintaining multiple overlapping barriers, his face twisted with strain. Another adventurer had conjured a massive wall of earth that was crumbling under sustained fire.

The assault lasted perhaps ten seconds before the shield around the pixie finally stopped pulsing, its absorbed energy spent.

Margot's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with barely controlled fury: "RESET! Fall back and regroup NOW! Everyone to the rear platforms!"

Students scrambled to obey, some limping, others being supported. The vanguard retreated in a controlled withdrawal, guardian spirits covering their retreat. Clarice grabbed Deirdre's arm, pulling her toward the designated fallback position.

The battle wasn't over. This was merely a pause before the final phase—and when that pixie woke, everything would change.

The sudden silence was almost worse than the chaos. The last echoes of the energy barrage faded, leaving only the sound of laboured breathing and the soft groans of the injured. The shield around the pixie had stopped pulsing, its surface now perfectly still, glowing with a steady golden light that seemed almost peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Clarice felt the change before she saw it. The air itself seemed to shift, growing heavier, denser, as though reality was holding its breath. The temperature dropped again—not the sudden plunge from before, but a slow, creeping cold that settled into her bones.

"Everyone, status check," Margot's voice called out, though it lacked its usual commanding force. She sounded tired. "Professors, assess injuries. Adventurers, maintain defensive positions. Students—"

She never finished the sentence.

The pixie's eyes opened.

It wasn't a sudden thing. The long lashes parted slowly, almost languidly, as though the creature was simply waking from a pleasant dream. But what lay beneath made Clarice's blood turn to ice.

The eyes were wrong. They were beautiful—impossibly so—irises that shifted through colours that had no names, pupils that seemed to contain entire galaxies swirling in miniature. But then it smiled as the mouth had several eyes of its own, as its pupils dilated, as they moved alongside its face in seemingly random directions.

That was somehow worse than any snarl or grimace would have been. The creature was waking to find itself surrounded by enemies who had wounded it, and its expression remained one of perfect peace, as though none of this mattered, as though they were beneath notice or concern.

For a moment—a single, crystalline moment—nothing happened. The pixie simply looked at them, those impossible eyes tracking across the platforms, assessing, cataloguing. Its head turned with fluid grace, taking in its surroundings with the calm curiosity of someone surveying a garden.

Then it began to unfurl.

The movement was slow, deliberate, almost gentle. Arms that had been wrapped protectively around knees began to extend, fingers spreading with delicate precision. Legs straightened, the body unfolding from its fetal curl with the inexorable patience of a flower opening to the sun.

And as it extended, Clarice realised with mounting horror just how compressed it had been.

The pixie's true size became apparent as limbs stretched to their full length. Those slender arms extended and extended, each joint articulating with alien precision, until they were longer than airships, fingers that could wrap around platforms. The legs unfolded, revealing impossible length, feet that could crush buildings with a casual step.

But it was the wings that made Clarice's breath stop entirely.

From the creature's back, eight translucent wings began to emerge, unfolding like glass sculptures coming to life. They weren't insect wings or bird wings—they were something else entirely, membranes of crystalline energy that caught the chamber's light and split it into colours that shouldn't exist. Each wing was massive, easily the size of a tetrahedron face, and each one moved with individual intelligence, adjusting its position with minute precision.

The wings shimmered as they spread, creating ripples in the air itself, and Clarice could see patterns etched into their surfaces—geometric designs that hurt to look at directly, that seemed to shift and change whenever she tried to focus on them.

And then the tetrahedron faces moved.

The three triangular sections that had hung protectively around the dormant pixie suddenly fragmented, breaking apart into dozens of smaller pieces. But they didn't fall or scatter—instead, they began to orbit the now-awakened creature, spinning in complex patterns around its massive form.

Clarice watched in horrified fascination as the pieces moved with purpose. They weren't just shields anymore—they were weapons. The section with the massive eye had broken into shards, each one containing a smaller eye that glowed with predatory focus. The maw-face had split into tooth-lined crescents that snapped at the air. The tentacle section had separated into individual appendages that writhed independently. The hybrid face had become a collection of nightmare fragments, each one a piece of the original horror.

A whirring sound sliced through the chaos, something striking one of the creature's massive orbiting eyes with brutal precision. The projectile punched clean through, continuing its trajectory through the back of the pixie's grotesque head. Dark liquid spilt forth from the wound, and the creature's agonised cries filled the void, reverberating through the chamber. That scream—that terrible, inhuman wail—became the signal everyone had been waiting for. The air erupted with magical energy and projectiles as adventurers and students began their bombardment in earnest.

Clarice found her gaze drawn to Baron Bartfort standing at the forefront of the assault. He was holding what appeared to be a massive metallic bow—an archaic weapon deemed utterly obsolete since the introduction of firearms, yet in his hands, it looked deadly. His body was battered, clothes torn and stained with blood, but he stood perfectly still despite his injuries.

His stance was immaculate as he drew and released with mechanical precision, buffeting the monster with projectile after projectile. Each arrow struck true against the creature's fragmentary defences.

Margot landed beside him, her guardian spirit materialising in a flash of light, her two attendants following close behind. "I suppose training time is well and truly over," she said, her voice carrying over the din. "Make certain you keep distracting it. I'll finish this wretched thing within a minute—but don't expend too much of your strength. You'll still need reserves for whatever awaits at the bottom of this dungeon."

Baron Bartfort grunted in reply, his attention never wavering. His latest volley, combined with the barrage from every adventurer, had managed to sever two of the creature's limbs before it could counterattack. The appendages fell, twitching grotesquely.

Then, without warning, brilliant light blazed from where she'd expected the faculty to be positioned. Six distinct beams of concentrated magical energy streaked towards the pixie in perfect synchronisation. Three sweeping strikes carved through its body with surgical precision, opening massive wounds that spilt viscera as the creature wailed in renewed agony. Two devastating blasts of pure magical energy followed, then came another vertical slash—travelling from collarbone to groin, bisecting the horror. The six attackers vacated their positions as though choreographed, and in the space they left, an enormous concentrated beam of destructive energy appeared, utterly disintegrating the monster's torso.

The beam punched through floating obstacles like paper before piercing the dungeon floor, spider-web cracks spreading from the impact.

Clarice's mind registered with shock that this had been the Prince and his entourage—not the faculty staff as planned. Marie's final slash, then the Prince's guardian spirit unleashing that finishing blow.

"Those fucking idiots—argh!" Margot snarled, fury overriding exhaustion. "What in heaven's name would have happened if the dungeon structure had—"

Her words were drowned out by an eruption of cheers from the student body. They were chanting the Prince's name with wild enthusiasm, apparently unconcerned about the structural damage or the danger.

'Reckless fools,' Clarice thought, watching the cracks spread across the floor. 'They could have collapsed the entire chamber.'

Clarice could see the frustrated face of Margot—jaw clenched, that scar on her face standing out white against flushed skin—but the Bartfort baron just patted her on the shoulder with what might have been commiseration.

Something tugged at Clarice's thoughts as she stepped forward, her legs still shaky from adrenaline crash but moving nonetheless, wanting to thank their last-minute saviour, the man who'd literally snatched her from death.

"Baron Bartfort!" Deirdre's melodious voice suddenly interrupted from beside her.

"Leon!" A sudden, angry voice shouted—the baron's vassal knight, that peculiar commoner-turned-knight—as Clarice watched her rush towards him with surprising speed, grab his ear with the familiarity of long acquaintance, and berate him for his recklessness in rapid-fire words Clarice couldn't quite make out over the continued cheering.

One of their guardian spirits—the silver-haired one, well almost everyone was silver-haired—suddenly deposited the Redgrave daughter beside them with gentle care, and the Duke's daughter shook her head exasperatedly at the pair. Meanwhile, the vassal knight—surprisingly, given her common birth—began applying healing magic with practised efficiency, her hands glowing with soft golden light as she worked on the baron's more visible injuries.

"Clarice," Deirdre interjected, her tone distinctly sultry. "I think I might not even wait till next year if the Bellefleur son is promising."

Clarice could see the sudden, sharp, pointed glare Margot shot Deirdre—the kind of look that promised violence—but Deirdre just ignored it as if it were nothing, her fan already out and waving with calculated grace. She could only shake her head as she exhaled—dealing with Deirdre's provocations was a problem for later—and took it upon herself to approach the Baron and thank him for saving her life, pushing past her friend's schemes. It was the least she could do after what he'd done.

-=&&=-

End