knife came half out of her sheath. "Some of my best friends are whores. Just pointing out, the way you're talkin' makes you look as green as that candle.

"Green, get it, like a sapling." Two fingers snuffed out the candle's light as the man continued, "No one lights a green candle or spills blood outside the pit. Not in the Guild. Not if they want to be taken seriously."

Eliora stared at the man's weathered face, trying to guess his age. Giving up, she looked towards the smoke drifting off the candlewick. She kept her hand on her knife. "Why have them if they aren't meant to be used? The guidebooks say—"

"Quoting guidebooks is another way to lower folk's opinion of you." The man tipped the candle over with a finger. "Everyone in this room will tell you they can read, but a third are lying. Can't decipher any written word that's not printed on their Status, and those words they memorized."

"That's an exaggeration." Eliora grabbed her glass and tossed down the rest of her cider. She pulled her hood farther over her face as she set the glass back down with a thunk. If the unwanted advice from the older man was right, she had made a perfect fool of herself.

"Might be," the man conceded, motioning to the barmaid for two fresh drinks. "But you might be confusing those that can't read with those that can't think, and you would be wrong to do so. Take you, for instance. What's your name?"

"Raven." Eliora threw out the name she had decided to go by, watching the man's reaction.

"Name Raven, wearing a black cloak, carrying four daggers I can see. Assassin?"

Eliora nodded unwillingly. The man's tone wasn't judgmental, but there was no approval there either.

"People call me Kosey, cause that's my name. Never did come up with a fancy handle." Kosey paused long enough to pay for the drinks and push one towards Eliora. "Now Raven, let me offer you some advice."

Kosey was patronizing enough that Eliora's hand settled on her dagger again. The man kept speaking as if he didn't notice. "One, every person in this room, probably everyone in this town, has a group already. Those that don't are outside the Dungeon right now, calling out their Class and Level, hoping someone will pick them up. You want to form a temp squad, that's where you should be looking.

"Only there isn't much point to that." Kosey squinted over his cup to

make sure he had her attention, and Eliora mentally added ten years to the thirty she decided he had. "No point 'cause you want to lead. Even if the Dungeon hadn't just changed, no one's following a green Copper unless they're desperate, and you don't want those types, am I right?"

He was but damned if she had admitted it. Eliora was perfectly still, and Kosey kept talking like she had affirmed his suspicions with a resounding yes. "What I'm thinking is you and I are in similar boats. We're both in town looking for talent, caught off guard by a Dungeon evolving under our feet."

"You're here looking for party members?" Eliora picked up her refilled glass and put it to her lips without drinking.

"Recruiter for a chartered company. Spend half the year here scouting," Kosey replied. "Level 23 Shield Warrior when I'm working."

"Are you here alone?" Eliora took a small sip and ignored the obvious hint requesting her own Level information.

"My partner is a Level 17 Marksman. He's holding a spot for us at the Dungeon entrance while I look around for lost souls to join us." Kosey lifted an eyebrow at her. "What about you?"

"Level 10 Assassin," Eliora said lightly. "There's your problem, Raven." He only put the slightest emphasis on the

name she had chosen for herself. "You need to give trust to get trust, and that was a lie."

"Level 10 Assassin," Eliora insisted, her hand tightened on her glass as she begrudgingly added, "And Level 10 Shadow Mage."

"Impressive," Kosey whistled, leaning closer, trying to peer into her hood. "Two slots, and 20 Levels. You sound young for it. Not that I'm judging. Don't suppose you—"

"I'm not looking to sign any charter," Eliora stepped back from Kosey's prying eyes though she knew the enchantments in her cloak hid her features.

"Fair enough, but for one delve? I lead." Kosey's teeth were white compared to the dark stubble in his chin when he smiled.

"Equal shares?" It was the best offer she was going to get. Eliora didn't like it, it didn't match up with her plans, but she hadn't actually expected to find a stable party the first time she stepped into the Guild at Bellrise.

"Equal split of the coin," Kosey clarified. "Stones and equipment to those that can use them. Any leftovers sold for coin. You provide your own potions. Fair?"

Fair offer or not, Eliora found herself hesitating. Kosey seemed honest in

a gruff kind of way. However, she couldn't shake her first impression of the man who claimed his best friends were whores. Her nod, when it came, was the smallest tilt of her chin, hardly noticeable in her deep hood.

"Great!" Kosey slapped her shoulder and called for a round. "One more for the road, Raven? Then we got to go. We need to get in line early. The Dungeon is going to fill up fast once it opens. Fortunately, we have a man at the front. Stand a good chance of first clear with our Levels. How's that strike you?"

One more round turned into three as Kosey outlined his preferred way to approach a Dungeon with the lineup they would have. Eliora stopped drinking after her second glass of cider. Her shoulders loosened as the man talked, and while a touch of unease remained, she put that down to the age difference between them.

Kosey did seem to know what he was talking about. As he drew diagrams on the bar with a finger wet with ale, Eliora started to admire his professionalism. A first clear looked quite likely if they moved as fast as Kosey planned. With a first clear of a changed Dungeon under her belt, the next time she lit a candle in the Guild, it might be her reputation more than the scent that brought people to her table.

Chapter Forty-Four Frost-covered grass had an odd quality to it. Moonlight was absorbed as

much as reflected, coating the forest floor in a shining blanket, sharp underfoot while soft and hazy to the eye. Trent knew that frost would evaporate when warm blood was splashed in it, and the added crimson never froze. By the time the blood stopped steaming, the Moonlit Forest would reset, cleaning up the ruffles of combat and restoring the pristine wilderness.

Trent was standing, not that it mattered. His body refused to move, much like it had resisted his commands when he was lying in the stone. His toes would not wiggle in his boots, any more than his neck would rotate to survey his surroundings.

Not even his eyes twitched. The scene they showed him lay directly ahead. A trail in the Forest, a path of brown edged by frosted evergreens, and at the end of the path, a Rat stood on two legs. The Wererat, with glistening fangs, sharp claws, and a whip-like tail which wrapped around its body, stood as if waiting.

Trent experienced a feeling of vertigo. He was drifting upwards, brushing past the branches of trees. His body remained below, as still as ever, but his vision was free to roam. The subtle colors of the Forest became washed-out shades of black and white. The only color left was a vibrant, glowing green, which hung over every living object.

Above the ancient, towering trees, numbers ranging from 2000 to 3000 were displayed in the cheerful color. Above the Wererat, 750 pulsed with gleefully menacing superiority. 630 drifted near Trent's own head, the smallest number to be seen other than the minuscule 5s and 10s that decorated the grass and bushes.

630 could represent either his Health or Stamina. The two were closely related, difficult to separate. Whichever it was, Trent had always felt he had a respectable amount of both. He had felt that way ever since he had gotten the Survivalist Class. Seeing that the Wererat, the weakest creature in this Forest, had more than he did, Trent was unable to determine where his pride came from.

However, there was no time for reflection. His body began to move. He was watching from above but still felt the Elwire sword in his hands and the

way his boots shifted against the earth. The Wererat moved to intercept him, its tail unwinding to be gripped in one misshapen paw.

The Rat stomped and lashed out with its tail. Trent smoothly pivoted to avoid the strike, casually slashing the tail as it whistled by him, severing it in the middle. His hands twisting on the hilt of his sword, he let out a breath and lunged forward with Long Slash, scoring a deep groove in the Rat's arm and side.

Trent hacked at the Beast's back as he stomped and whirled around it, avoiding claws and teeth. Had he been in control of his actions, Trent would have been thrown off by the red numbers that floated up from the wounds he inflicted.

‐10 from the severed tail. -45 from the slash to the creature's side. -50 from a nick to the side of the Wererat's overly muscular neck. The green number above the Beast's head declined. 740, 695, each hit

reduced the number by a small amount. Then, in a rush, the number began to fall. Red drifted out from bleeding wounds. Crimson 10s tinted with silver flooded out too fast to be counted from every cut Trent had made. The Wererat collapsed in moments, letting out a shrieking squeak as it railed against the unfairness of its death.

Silver. Liquid silver imbued in the wooden blade. A deadly poison to the Moon Cursed. Was that why the secondary numbers had been tinted with a bright grey? Trent wanted to turn the blade over in his hands and tried to look down at it. He didn't expect his body to respond, and when it did, and his vision rushed back to his eyes, he took a step back in shock.

He had returned to his original position. The Forest was once again alive with dark colors and shadows. A new Wererat replaced the vanished body of the one he had killed. Not waiting for him to recover his footing, it rushed at him with a wail.

Trent was still adjusting to his returned control. His hands were clumsy on his hilt, his feet hesitant as he met the charge. His first strike only grazed the Rat's tail, pushing it aside when it swept towards his face. Then his hands and jaw tightened. His second slash was low, cutting at the Beast's legs. His third hit hammered into the Rat's back, splitting the skin and sending the Beast to the ground, its weakened leg unable to support it.

He could still see the red numbers leaping into the air as he struck for vital areas, and the Rat withered beneath his blows, flopping over in a

desperate attempt to fend him off. It was a pointless struggle. How many Wererats had Trent faced with an Elwire blade in hand? He had lost count. Long after he had met the quota demanded by the Moonlit Forest, the Rats had kept coming for him, and he had kept sending them on their way. He knew where their weakness lay.

After the second Rat fell, Trent's vision soared once again. A slightly larger Wererat replaced the one he had vanquished. He killed this one twice, as well. Once as a spectator in his body, and once as master of his own movements.

There was no time for thought between each encounter. The Rats came, and Trent killed them. Each time he was in control, he refined his movements. It was not until the fifth Rat that he realized it wasn't Military Fencing or Basic Longsword that he was using to combat the Moon Cursed Rats. It was the unnamed Technique he had developed himself.

"The weapon is wrong." The world froze when Trent spoke. Both he and the Rat were held in place, and a sense, as if a listening ear had been turned his way, filled him. He was surprised when the words left his mouth. There had been no need for speech before. Floating in the air above his body, he hadn't realized he could speak. That someone might be listening was less shocking. Trials were always filled with ears and eyes.

The sword vanished from his hands, and the belt carrying Sorrow and Strife settled on his hips. His hands touched the heads of the hatchets, and Trent shook his head. "No, not for this."

Hatchets became heavy, curved knives with bone hilts. Trent shook his head again. It still wasn't right. They were too short. The curve was suitable for slashing, but the tips slipped when he thrust. The hilts grew longer under his fingers, and Trent drew two swords.

One was double-edged, straight, and narrow, the other more like a cleaver than a sword. The blades were short, less than two feet long. They didn't feel as comfortable in his hands as longer blades did. He had neglected the training of Basic Small Blades. His Clever Hands Skill did not reach the heights his other abilities had, but none of that mattered.

These were the blades meant for his Technique, the Technique that had combined so many of his other Skills. Thrust, Slash, Parry, and Acrobatics, they could all be put into play with these swords, if he was good enough. Trent's hands flexed around the hilts as that thought occurred to him.

A breeze pushed underneath his mask. The Trial had resumed. Trent

lifted his swords. The Rat he had been prepared to face was gone. In its place, a Shadow Wererat crouched, its shoulders hunched as it regarded him with milky white eyes.

Stronger, more vicious and cunning than the average Were-Beast, the Shadow Rat lurked in plain sight, its tail twitching in the dirt. It was an opponent Trent had barely managed to surpass before. He felt a thrill looking at it now while realizing he would not be an observer in this fight.

Without thinking, Trent was on the balls of his feet and rushing forward. The Wererat rose from its crouch but made no move towards the Swordsman. A sneer played across its lipless mouth. It was a leader; it did not fight alone.

The sneer it wore faded as Wererats leaped out of the bushes and were cut down in an instant. The Swordsman neither looked nor slowed as his blades sliced, removing limbs and disemboweling with each stroke. A thrust with his right hand and the straight blade it held. A slash with his left, a pivot, and the Swordsman was moving faster.

The leader of the slain prepared its Shadow Lunge Skill too late. The Swordsman was on the Rat before it could channel its Mana. A thrust caused the Shadow Rat to step back, and it struck out with its tail to cover its retreat. The Swordsman flipped his body over the hairless appendage, absently cutting the tail as it passed below him. When his feet touched the ground, his left hand directed a slash at the Beast's snarling face.

Shadow Lunge activated, and the Wererat stepped through the void to come out at the Swordsman's back. A blade cut at its throat before it could bring its teeth to bear, drawing blood. The Beast's paw came up, halting the blade's progress at the cost of a clawed finger. A claw for a life, a fair trade, though not one the creature was glad to make. The Swordsman anticipated the attack like he had seen it a hundred times.

The Shadow Rat summoned more of its minions, striking out with its tail, trying to create distance between itself and the Warrior stalking it. Working for a time, it bought itself precious seconds while the Swordsman was a whirlwind of death, reaping the lives of lesser creatures. Then he came for the Rat again, and all it could do was hold him back.

It couldn't last. The Shadow Rat lost an inch of its tail every time it struck. A paw fell to the ground, a gash opened on its side. The Swordsman was relentless in his pursuit and his blades never stopped. The Wererat used Shadow Lunge to retreat, but every time it stepped from the darkness, the Swordsman was always facing it, his mask reflecting and amplifying the pale

moonlight. The thrust that sunk into the Rat's chest stopping its heart was almost a relief.

Trent ripped the straight sword in his right hand out of the Shadow Rat as it fell. He flicked his wrist, sending steaming blood to stain the forest floor. It merged with the rest of the crimson liquid there. Puddles of the viscous fluid drenched the ground; a few more drops were hardly noticeable.

The Shadow Rat had been a minor Guardian. Battling it, Trent had increased his proficiency in Basic Small Blades and Clever Hands. The unnamed Technique had also risen a level. These were all things he could feel if he set his mind to it. There was no need to check his Status.

And Trent had other things on his mind. He closed his eyes, and the world paused.

These were the right blades, but the Technique was far from perfect. There was too much in it. There were unnecessary steps, strikes that were too deep, and they all needed to be trimmed.

It was Ocean Meets the Shore. While that Technique was undeniably powerful, Trent was lacking the weapons or expertise to employ it. Despite that, it colored everything he did. His Elwire swords, weapons he had carved personally, were lighter versions of an Al'rashian longsword. A hint of a curve on a single-edged blade, a slashing weapon which narrowed at the tip for the rare thrust; it was a difficult weapon to master. He had never intentionally meant to carve the wooden swords that way.

In the hands of a master, an Al'rashian longsword was a devastating weapon of war. Trent was no master, and he felt no shame in admitting that. He wasn't entirely satisfied with the swords in his hands, one for thrusting, one for slashing. Still too complicated, but they would have to do. No matter how he channeled his thoughts, begging this strange Trial for a simple longsword and shield, the swords remained. He would have to adapt.

It occurred to Trent, as he opened his eyes, that if the short swords in his hands were the next form of Sorrow and Strife, he would have lost the additional damage caused by Liquid Silver. He would have to be precise without the poison's aid. A misstep would cost him dearly.

It was too late for second thoughts. His eyes opened and he was observing again as his body attacked a grey Werewolf. He felt the sting as the Wolf's howl ripped leather and flesh from his side. A misstep. He would have to fix that when he was in control.

A black Werewolf howled as it struck the tree next to it. -3500. The numbers in red flashed as claws cut the timber in two and sent the

ponderous trunk crashing down. Trent had seen sights like this a hundred times. Seeing it again, he expected to be numb to the display. That it could still send a shiver through him was unexpected. The 5000 in green numbers that hovered over the Werewolf's head might have had something to do with the cold sweat that broke out from his pores.

A single hit from this Wolf would be enough to kill ten Trents. Just a graze would rip the life from him. The pathetic 630 drifting over his head was nothing to this Beast. He had just watched as an avatar was crushed in this Beast's hands without scoring a hit. It wasn't a comforting image to have in mind as he took control.

The Beast roared, bellowing a challenge, shaking the trees mightily. Trent drew his swords, his palms sweaty inside his gloves. The black Wolf, twice as large as any Trent had seen took a step forward, lowering its muzzle and snapping at the air. Seeing Trent stand still, it reached down and ripped a tree, ten feet tall, from the ground.

Trent ducked into the Forest as the Werewolf hurled the tree at where he had been standing. The cracking of limbs and splintering of wood sounded behind him as he sprinted through the Forest. The sound was initially caused by the tree trunk hitting the path, but when the Werewolf realized Trent wasn't coming to face it, fresh branches were snapped as it howled in pursuit.

The Beast is massive. Confine its bulk in the trees. No shield. Use the Forest as a substitute. A blow or Skill that lands on a trunk is one that is not taking his head. These were the thoughts that flashed through his mind as Trent spun in the direction of the approaching Beast. He flung himself out of the way as an arm as thick as his torso swung for him.

Like he had thought, the trees sheltered him and slowed his enemy. Trent darted forward, cutting at an arm, and thrusting towards a chest covered in fur dense enough to be called armor. A broken tree trunk fell, striking the Wolf's shoulder. The Beast shrugged it off, staggering backward under the weight. Trent sliced at the Werewolf's legs, then dodged the falling tree himself, leaping on top of it to run away along its length.

He had gotten three hits in before retreating, but the red -9, -12, and -7 that popped up under his blades was discouraging. In the face of the green 5000, it was nothing. His thrust had sunk three inches into the Beast's chest.

On a man, that would have penetrated an internal organ. On the Werewolf, Trent hadn't even cut through the outer muscle.

A game of cat and mouse ensued. The mouse used his teeth when he was able, but mostly, he ran. The cat had bigger teeth and never seemed to feel the mouse's bites. Lacking a convenient hole to hide in, Trent would be at the mercy of the cat's claws the moment his feet failed him.

It was frustrating. Time passed uncertainly, but Trent had defeated an unknowable number of Beasts in this Trial. He fought without sleep, without feeling the need to sleep or eat, and without end. 1 on 1, 5 to 1, 10 to 1, his foes increased, and he defeated them. He would defeat this one as well. Somehow.

A wall of trees brought Trent skidding to a halt. He flung himself into a roll as the Werewolf, hot on his trail, extended its black claws at his back. Trent came to his feet, ready to Dodge falling trees and dart through the hole the Werewolf created. Sparks flew as claws connected with wood. The trees stood unwavering. Drool leaked from the Werewolf's jaws as it slowly turned its head and cocked it to the side.

Trent's shoulders sagged. Sparks were not the result he was looking for. Neither was the unbroken circle of trees that now surrounded him in a tight confining wall. Hadn't he run here to inhibit the Beast? Why was the Trial turning on him?

A circular room with no exit. A Beast too large, too fierce, and too intelligent for a single person to handle. This was a Guardian. A real one. Not a piddling Shadow Rat. Perhaps it wasn't a Dire Bear, a Beast which by all rights should be faced by a group of thirty well-armed Adventurers, but it was more than should be confronted by a single Level 14 boy.

Maybe Terah's Gift had matured. Poison was an excellent way to deal with impossible creatures. If it were possible, Trent would have risked diverting his attention to check the herbs growing in his Storage. The hitch was, Storage could not be opened. He had tried previously, and the space that housed all his miscellaneous equipment was inaccessible. He hadn't known that was possible.

He didn't even have his pouches with his darts. All this Trial allowed him were the weapons in his hands, and since he had switched to the two short swords, no other substitutions had been allowed. Had he known things would go that way, he would have put more thought into his choices.

The Werewolf, standing twice as tall as Trent, huffed in a mocking growl.

Its movements were slow and measured as it turned square on its trapped prey. A light of understanding lit its white eyes. Its knuckles rested on the earth as it leaned forward and sprayed spittle at Trent as it roared.

Trent reversed the curved blade in his left hand and held the straight blade out in front at shoulder height. He growled back at the Beast, swallowing his fear and burying it. He couldn't run? That was fine! He had cut the Beast, and it had yet to touch him. He would cut it a thousand times if that were what it took. He would bleed the thrice-damned monster and leave it on the Forest floor to burn under the moon's curse!

He knew its Skills. He had faced them in other Beasts. A howl to paralyze, a howl to rend flesh, a red light that surrounded the claws and withered all that came near it. Maybe there were others, but Trent had grown used to watching for and responding to the attacks of the Moon Cursed. He was not afraid!

There was a moment of uneasy silence. Then as the Beast started lifting an arm to swat the bug-like Swordsman, Trent surged forward. Ducking between the creature's legs, he hacked at an ankle and stabbed into a thigh. His feet brushed against the grass, never stopping. His hands painted a picture of pain, rage, and helplessness that belonged to him as much as the Beast. He met snarl for snarl while dodging trampling feet and crushing paws.

Trent cut a long gash on the Wolf's jaw when it snapped at him and struck a fang with the hilt of his sword. The tooth broke, and the Beast lifted its head in agony, momentarily forgetting the cause of its indignity. Trent also stuttered to a halt, stunned by the results of what was an instinctive strike.

A glow, white and cleansing, surrounded his sword when he struck the Wolf's fang. Trent had not engaged a Skill or channeled a Spell through his blade, but he had felt the drain to both his Stamina and Mana. He just didn't know why. The purifying effect of the blow had come from… the unnamed Technique? But how?

There was no time for thought. An answer came to him in a half- remembered conversation. A conversation about Ocean Meets the Shore. Every third… and fifth?... strike using that method of attack was powered. That seemed right; it clicked with the knowledge of that Skill, though it wasn't a complete understanding. Did his own Technique have a similar function? Trent had been using Skilled Strikes often, limiting them as his

Stamina decreased. The Werewolf's attention fell back onto him, and Trent was in motion

again, not activating any Skill other than Dodge and Dash, which he needed to stay ahead of the giant Wolf. He thought of nothing but his swords. He connected with them, felt them slice the Beast's hide, and tried to communicate with them. The swirling and stomping of the Wolf became the drumbeat that guided his dance. He found the state that he had tried to recapture after the Burning, and it spoke to him of the unnamed.

-8 -14 -350 The glow shone off the blade of the sword in his left hand. It bit deeply

into the creature's thigh, and the Werewolf staggered back, screaming. The straight sword in his right hand lit up, and Trent thrust at the Beast's groin.

-425 Red, flashing like a warning flare, brighter than ever before, drifted from

the wound as Trent scored a hit on a critical area with a powered thrust. Trent was thrown to the ground as a leg brushed against him, but it was no attack. The Werewolf howled in wretched disbelief as it sank to its knees.

Trent scrambled upright. His Stamina and Mana were half depleted from the two strikes. That worried him. He had enough for two more hits and no potions to restore what he spent. The Wolf had over 3000 HP left. Too much for Trent to drain. Then he saw it.

-50 -50 The two wounds he had dealt the Beast bled freely, and continued to sap

the creatures HP. The knowledge was there in his head. The powered strikes of his Technique contained the effects of Bloodletting and the purification of Heart of the Inferno. It was a devastating attack against the Cursed and the Undead. Both were prey of the Shadow Hunter, and now Trent had the weapons to fight them!

Trent scraped his blades together and rolled his shoulders. It was time to end this. Unfortunately, the Wolf had the same idea.

Howling, it forced itself to its feet, the moonlight washed over it, and the Werewolf began to shrink. Muscles convulsed as they folded in on themselves. Grunts of pain and anger burst from the Beast as it turned to face

Trent, heedless of the blood that soaked its legs. Smaller didn't mean less dangerous, though. The gleam in Trent's eyes

matched the Beast's in intensity, and resolve could be seen in the set of his shoulders. He rolled his tongue to moisten his mouth which had gone dry, but he didn't back away.

The Guardian was the size of an average black Werewolf now, but its speed and precision were much greater. Trent's eyes were hardly able to keep up with the Wolf's claws. Using instincts that he had learned to trust, his body maneuvered quickly out of reach, claws passing within a fraction of an inch of his torso. Teeth snapped next to his ear. For a time, the Wolf held the advantage, pressing Trent and forcing him back.

The stomp that crushed the Beast's instep and the hilt strike that thudded against its chest, breaking its momentum and forcing it back, were attacks from Military Fencing. Trent used them in desperation, too overwhelmed to bring a more elegant style to play. The Beast's grimace as it fell back was a gift to Trent's eyes.

Smaller, faster, more precise, and apparently, less durable, the creature had traded Constitution for Agility. Trent tested his theory with a follow up strike. The red -75 that appeared caused him to bark in coughing laughter. The Werewolf would not be regaining dominance after that.

At first, Military Fencing continued to influence his swordplay. Elbows and kicks drove the Beast back, and Trent kept close, battering the creature with his body and hilts as much as he cut with the edges of his blades. Trent delivered a head-butt to the end of its snout, causing the Wolf's eyes to tear. With space and time to adapt, Trent switched back to his original style.

The Wolf learned to dread the appearance of the white flash before it fell. The burning slashes and thrusts sucked the life from it in unmerciful bursts, drawing humanlike screams from its animal muzzle. Trent couldn't use them often, but when his energy allowed, he struck for 500 to 600 Damage. With his average strikes doing nearly 100, and the Werewolf always caught in its back foot, Trent paid it back for the panic he had felt when he first saw it.

The slash that tore open the Werewolf's body was overkill. The Beast doubled over Trent's blade as he stepped to the side and hacked deep into its belly. The green health indicator above its head vanished, and it slipped to the ground. Dead.

Trent's chest heaved as he stared skyward. His hands were empty, his blades disappearing as the Guardian ceased to exist. He pushed his mask up

and stared at the full moon with naked eyes. Her approval shone down on him. He had learned what it meant to be a Shadow Hunter.

Not one who stalked in the dark but one who confronted that which hid there. The Cursed, the Undead, soulless Beasts that haunted the World, Awakened that had lost their reason and conscience. It was part of the answer to a question Trent had had since acquiring the title.

You may now name your created Skill. A voice carried on the wind reached Trent, urging him to do what his

Status had asked of him so long ago. It informed him that it was his right, the first time the unnamed Technique showed up amongst his Skills. Staring at the somber moon, Trent spoke in a rusty voice.

"It's called, Moonlight Banishes Shadows."

Chapter Forty-Five Trent lowered his cowl and wiped sweat from his forehead. The trees that

hemmed him in were gone. The moon was sinking behind a mountain, and he expected to feel dawn's light warm his face, but the sun never came. He stood in a clearing, a valley, surrounded by majestic peaks. This wasn't the Moonlit Forest! He saw the flickering of a campfire and moved towards it.

His feet found themselves walking on stone. Trent stopped and pulled his cowl up, tugging his mask into place in order to study his surroundings with the aid of Dark Vision. Looking at the walkway under his feet, he observed that not one paving stone matched another in color or size. Up close, it was a random mess. Trent turned and faced the mountains again.

The peak he picked out wasn't grander than any other. Even with Far Sight, Trent was unable to make out the viewing platform he knew was there. He did not have to climb the mountain to confirm it. It was a fact, ingrained in him, not to be questioned.

If you stood on that platform at dawn and looked down, the sun would illuminate the whole valley. Rays of light would reveal a hundred walkways like the one Trent stood on. Viewed from on high, the walkways would form a pattern, a mural. As the sun traveled across the sky, hitting the stone from different angles, the pictures would change. A day on the peak, a lifetime shown on the valley floor, that was the way it was.

"Whose life?" Trent mumbled to himself. He should know the answer. It was there, caged in his mind, broken into pieces, but those pieces refused to come together.

Trent turned away from the peak and his uncertainty. The campfire in the distance still flickered, beckoning him, and Trent let it draw him forward. He walked through the dark, and when he came within range of the campfire, he paused.

He had thought he was in the Moonlit Forest. Even realizing he wasn't, Trent still expected to find a white-haired man with wolfish features waiting for him at the end of the path.

What he actually found was a brown-haired Al'rashian, sitting on a log, poking at the fire with a long stick. The man's face was scarred and weathered. He was dressed in armor made of close-fitting leather covered in

dark steel plates. A sword was resting across his thighs, and his free hand laid on it as if he were comforting the blade.

His eyes were like Ranar's, solid orbs without pupil or white. However, this man's eyes were not the silver of the traveling merchant Trent had met. Trent reached under his mask and rubbed at the corner of his own violet eyes, the same color as the man's at the fire.

"I know you," Trent said, stepping closer. "I know this place." "I should hope so," the man smiled warmly and lifted an eyebrow. "Come

talk with me." "Your name is…" Trent took another step forward. The man's voice was

kind, and Trent felt an unspoken connection with him. That connection shuddered when the man raised his hand from his sword and grimaced. "The Sword Ghost."

The white scars on the man's cheeks deepened as he frowned. "Ghost for short. I gave up my name long ago. Leave it to you to remember it."

"Names are important." Trent met Ghost's frown with one of his own. "You can't toss them aside."

"So you said at the time." Ghost's face softened into a rueful grin. "I still did, though. All the original Dusk Wraiths did. We thought to honor Al'rashia with our sacrifice. You called us fools."

Short logs lay in a circle around the fire, and Trent sat on one, across from Ghost. "I know you, but we've never met."

"I've never met Trent Embra," Ghost clarified, "but you and I are old friends.

"It is strange, being here as your guide." Ghost stirred the fire with his stick, pushing rounds of firewood closer to the center of the flames. "I never thought there would come a time when you would need me to show you the way."

Ghost spoke quietly, softly, but steadily, never giving Trent a chance to interrupt with the stream of questions that filled him. "Trent Embra. I would have expected you to come as a Dross. You admired the Embras. Their fire and refusal to compromise was the backbone of the Clans. It was the Dross you favored though, for their foresight and resolve."

"Who am I?" Trent leaned forward, tossing the question at Ghost like he would a dart.

Ghost merely shook his head. "Trent Embra. You know that. As for who you were, it's not my place to say."

Ghost tossed his stick into the fire and looked at Trent's masked face. "Do you know where we are?"

"I know there's a creek flowing a mile to the east of here," Trent replied without thinking, "and an aspen grove three miles west. I know that if you travel to the mountains in the north, you'll find a mine and valleys full of rare herbs. That's all. Why I know, the name of this place, those won't come."

"I see." Ghost stroked the blade of his sword. "Or rather I don't. I'm a guide, not a Keeper. I can't see through you like they can. Hints of what you might become, of what you've been through, hang all about you, and I am supposed to advise you, but I can't.

"How ridiculous is that anyway?" Ghost slapped his thigh and laughed freely "Me advise you? As if you need it. From what I can see, the best decisions you've made were contrary to advice you were given. Walking into a Trial of Perseverance, choosing an Advanced Class at Level 1, fighting a Hill Troll, and chasing a Truce Breaker into the den of a Dire Bear. Insane actions, all of them, made instinctively.

"So no advice," Ghost continued, "but maybe a little clarity." Trent stirred anxiously at that word, clarity. Hearing it, he felt an ache in

his chest. Ghost kept speaking despite the way Trent drew back. "This is a sacred place for Al'rashians." Ghost set both hands on his

sword, squeezing lightly, heedless of the razor-sharp blade. "There shouldn't be a fire here. It's only fitting because you've activated the Shadow Hunter title. You should be allowed the warmth when you have the chance.

"People of all races have always gathered around the fire at night. Strange really. Fire is destructive, and the dark can hide you. Always we cling to the former and fear the latter." Ghost spoke randomly as he gathered his thoughts.

"Civilization they call it. Aldren Dross built the Al'rashian civilization. Long before the Awakening, he gathered the Clans. We were semi-nomadic before Aldren. Hunters and wanderers, we had no great cities or monuments. The Clans hardly admitted they were related to one another.

"It was Elven pride that forced Aldren to bring us together." Ghost cleared his throat and spat. "Always comes back to Elven pride, though they have cause to be proud. They weren't the first, but they found greatness and unity while the rest of us were struggling to survive. Aldren learned a great deal from the Elves. He studied architecture at their universities. He learned warfare and leadership under their tutelage. Then he brought it all back and

used that knowledge to keep them from nibbling at our borders. "He was a great man, Aldren Dross," Ghost whispered. He threw out his

arms and gestured at the valley around him. "This place is his memorial. Watch from dawn till dusk, and you'll see his life played out. You'll see him anointed king, and his eyes turn gold. You can watch him fight on the borders and drive back our enemies. You can witness the beginnings of our first cities. Lastly, you'll watch as he is murdered by his own son for the sin of declaring that only the Spirit of Al'rashia could name his successor."

"What does that have to do with Shadow Hunters?" Trent had to ask as Ghost trailed off.

"Because Aldren knew," Ghost took up his sword with a flourish and with both hands drove the tip into the soil, "a society may huddle around the fire, but without Warriors walking in the night, it cannot last.

"Shadow Hunters are not holy Warriors like Paladins or Church Knights." Ghost gripped his pommel until his knuckles turned white. "They are nature's answer to the cursed and the damned, and there are never enough. Mostly they die young, dirty, with none to mourn their passing."

"That's… good to hear." Trent leaned back from the intensity in Ghost's eyes and the jumbled mess he spewed. "Something to look forward too."

"Isn't it, though?" Ghost chuckled, his fingers slipped from pommel to crossguard and hung there. The fire burned lower, and Ghost's expression was hidden in darkness. "You have one advantage over other Hunters. You're a Survivalist."

Reaching down, Ghost picked up a bundle at his feet. "The history of Survivalists has become as muddled as all legends. Our story started with Endurance, the only requirement of the Class. The ability to endure will see you through most things."

In the fading light, Trent couldn't make out what Ghost held, and he was tempted to get up and look, but Ghost's words held him in place.

"Survivalists began with Sorrow and Strife." Trent felt a jolt as the names of his knives were mentioned. "They were the first weapons I used when we left the mountains. I was always better with a bow, but I learned. Had to. Elven Rangers put my marksmanship to shame. Since we had to be close to face them, hatchets and knives were good for that.

"Sorrow and Strife were just a beginning. Blood and Ash made us what we were. Men swear by those because they're an ending. Hopefully, for you, the ending is for someone else. It was good to see you again… Trent Embra. I

hope I made you proud. Don't forget, not all advice is good advice. Sometimes, you know yourself best."

When the bundle was tossed at him, Trent's hands were up, checking to make sure his mask was still in place. The night was getting thicker, and Dark Vision was no help against its encroachment. He caught the bundle as the last of the light faded, and his arms sagged under the weight.

Then everything went dark. The Trial had ended. *

"Blood and Ash," Trent groaned. They were good words. On Trent's lips, they were more a prayer than a curse. An ending sounded perfect at the moment.

Pain was easy to deal with when you saw it coming. Sudden, unexpected pain, not so much. Trent didn't know how long his personal Trial had lasted. but it was long enough that he forgot his injuries. The wounds he had suffered while fighting in the Forest had sealed after each Beast was defeated. The throbbing that struck him from every angle now let him know that whatever had just happened to him, it hadn't brought healing along with it.

His legs were burned, the skin on his shins and calves tight when he tried to move them. His arms refused to lift him off the ground. One arm and shoulder cracked, possibly broken, the other numb for unknown reasons, Trent was as helpless as he had been…

5:50 The countdown in his Status said less than a minute had passed. It had

certainly seemed like more time had gone by. Trent was smart enough not to argue with his Status. Ten minutes since he had put the Token in place and entered a fresh layer of the Trial. One or two minutes since he had used Heart of the Inferno to eke out a victory against a stronger opponent.

Not enough time for his Stamina to recover, and he noted his Mana was draining instead of recovering as the Self-Repair Charm on his armor sapped it. Had he been able to move his arms, they would have trembled too much to lift him. He waited for his empty reserves to fill, and with a groan, flipped onto his back. His numb left arm flopped, and his right shoulder objected with piercing agony as he rolled over it.

Trent stared at the ceiling and considered his options. His Health potions were gone, the glass vials that once contained the healing liquid crunching beneath him as he shifted. They wouldn't have done much for the bones of his shoulder anyway, though they might have helped with the numbness. He

suspected that was caused by a venom or toxin. An antidote would be better, but a Health restorative could blunt the effects.

Not an option now. What did that leave him with? The Wild Garlic in his Storage was ready to be picked. Getting it to his mouth would be the problem there, and its benefits were minimal on its own. Ghost had said he didn't need any advice. Trent disagreed.

He wished someone had told him how he could have prevented this situation. Act on his instincts? His instincts wanted him to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.

Not all advice is good advice. Sometimes you know yourself best. What did that even mean? What advice should he ignore? The questions prompted Trent to act, and he found himself opening his

Status and staring at his Classes. Swordsman and Survivalist, Trent read the words, and his eyes passed over them and concentrated on the 5 open slots for additional Classes.

A voice whispered to him not to do it. You shouldn't choose a new Class until you've reached a point where you are stuck, either by the amount of XP necessary to level or a requirement you can't meet.

But why have so many unfilled Class Slots? Trent channeled 500 XP into an open slot. If he couldn't move and he

was likely to die, what would it hurt to see what was available? Dozens of choices! Most of them Trent had never heard of. Would Earth

Warden bring a healing Skill with it? Charm Specialist probably wouldn't. Charms were amazing, but the changes they made were small. Maybe Poisoner came with poison resistance that would cleanse the venom from his veins and return control of his left arm.

What he did know was that he had thirteen thousand XP. More than enough to level Swordsman or Survivalist once, or…

Trent thought it and acted. Mage, Archer, Rogue, and Warrior, all Basic Classes, all costing 500 XP, added themselves to his Status. The one Basic Class that might have made a difference in his situation, Healer, wasn't available. That was odd. He was sure it had been at one time, but he didn't dwell on it.

16 Free Attribute Points for four levels up, and Trent was done. He leveled each Class once with 4,000 XP. He was able to add one more Level to Mage, Rogue, and Warrior before he was left with 1,000 XP. It was enough for another Class, but his only choices were Specialized. Those

brought Skills and also came with restraints. As a Swordsman, Trent had difficulty learning to use a Spear. A pure

Warrior wouldn't. Trent hadn't gained any lifesaving Skills with his new Basic Classes. However, he now had a foundation on which anything could be built. As for Skills…

Free Skill Points should be treasured. They should be saved and spent on rare Abilities, Spells, and Skills you can't get anywhere else.

That was one line of advice Trent threw away without blinking. The list of Skills came up as he concentrated on his Skill Points. Hundreds of lines of text greeted him. Trent shoved down the urge to look for Swordborn, the Ability he had been saving up for and which was still far outside his reach. He had 11 Skill Points and somewhere in this jungle of words was the solution to his problem.

But what? A Spell? He was a Mage now; the perk of that Class was that Mana requirements for Spells would be reduced. Cleanse might cure his numbness. It wasn't as effective in the hands of a Mage as it would be under the guidance of a Healer, and for 1 point, it probably wouldn't be very powerful. Trent kept looking.

He concentrated on Abilities and looked deeper into the list. Finally, his eyes shone when he found Major Regeneration. The cost of 20 Points caused his held breath to leak out in a sigh. But where there was a Major Ability…

Regeneration: 10 Points Minor Regeneration: 5 Points Nearly half his Points or almost all? With 6 Points left, he would be able

to purchase at least two more Skills. It never crossed his mind to save them. Once he started spending, Trent had an almost frantic need to spend it all.

He chose Minor Regeneration, and started searching for his next pick. The creak and grind of his shoulder as bones ground together and popped into place stopped him. The tingling sensation of a thousand ants crawling beneath the skin of his legs, chewing at the torn and blistered flesh, made him suck in air violently. The feeling of acid gathering in the veins of his arm and forcing its way out of his pores had him biting his tongue to keep a scream from drawing Beasts to where he lay immobile.

The process was slow. Trent had no trouble keeping track of the time. The countdown for the Trial kept him well informed as the seconds trickled by. Five minutes and the ants left his legs. Ten minutes before he regained control of his left arm, and the burning ceased.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position and scrambled to set his back against the wall. His right shoulder continued to grind with glacial slowness. Gritting his teeth, Trent brought the Skill list back up, trying to focus on it.

1 point for the Spell Firebolt. A ranged attack and no need for studying. 3 Points for the Skill Silent Casting. That was the impulse buy Trent

almost regretted. Using the Level 1 Silent Casting increased the cost of Spells so much that it negated the effects of his Mage Class. Worse, once knowledge of the Skill placed itself in his mind, he realized it was one that could be learned with practice. It merely internalized the chant necessary for shaping Mana.

The regret was enough for Trent to decide to save his last 2 Points. He closed the Skill list and went over his Status.

Name: Trent Embra

Age: 13 Race: Al'rashian

Level: 21 Sub Level: 5

Class: Survivalist Level 3

Class: Swordsman Level 11

Class: Mage Level 2 Class: Warrior level 2 Class: Archer Level 1 Class: Rogue Level 2

Profession: Miner Level 3

Profession: Herbalist Level 2

Health: 675 Stamina: 675 Mana: 130 Strength: 43 Agility: 37 Dexterity: 42 Constitution: 15 Endurance: 3 Intelligence: 13 Perception: 2 Wisdom: 17

Free Attribute Points: 28

Free Skill Points: 2

Skills Unarmed Combat Level

2 Basic Small blades

Level 7 Basic Shield Level

1 Basic Longsword Level

10/max Thrust Level 6 Triple Slash Level

3

Chop Level 8 Long Slash Level Basic Archery

7 Level 1

Disarm Trap level 1 Create Traps Level 4

Detect Traps Level 3

Tracking level 6 Dash Level 10/max

Dodge Level 6

Mining Level 1 Appraisal Level 1 Identify Level 5

Herbalism Level 6 Harvesting Level 5

Armor Crafting Level 1

Riding Level 2 Animal care Level 1

Mana Control Level 1

Stealth Level 3 Camouflage Level 3

Mana Manipulation Level 1

Throwing Level 5 Climb Level 1 Ocean Meets the Shore Level 1

Three Steps Level 5 Acrobatics Level 2 Steady Footing Level 3

Military Fencing Level 1

Block Level 1 Parry Level 1

Disarm Level 1 Leadership Level 3

Weapons Crafting Level 3

Sewing Level 1 Light Armor Level 1

Flash Strike Level 1

Enhanced Jump Level 1 Arrows Flight Level 1

Bloodletting Level 3

Spear Level 10/max Basic Spear Level 1

Create Arrow Level 1

Free Diving Level 1 Triple Shot Level 1

Clever Hands Level 3

Moonlight Banishes Shadows Level 2

Silent Casting Level 1

Abilities Map Storage Level 5 Heart of the Inferno

Fire Manipulation Level 3

Far Sight Level 2 Earth Manipulation Level 1

Minor Regeneration Level 1

Spells

Spark/Charm Level 4 Ember/Charm Level 1

Spirit Flame/Charm Level 1

Self-Clean/Charm Level 4

Dust/Charm Level 1

Balm/Charm Level 1

Mend Level 1 Prepare Hides/Charm Level 6

Firebolt/tier-one Level 1

He was a year older. That must have happened in his Personal Trial. Time had been suspended for Trent, and yet he still aged. He wondered how that worked.

Several of his Skills had also leveled on that place, and with those levels, his Attributes had increased. With the 28 Free Attribute Points he had to spend, Trent would walk out of this Trial with a lot more growth than he ever expected.

He was Level 21 now. A higher Level than Kirstin had been when she first saw him and spit with disappointment. What would she think of his Status now?

Maybe later that thought would gain traction in Trent's mind. Right now, he couldn't care less. It was an abstract idea that was absolutely no help.

Trent closed his Status without increasing his Attributes. As much as he wanted to add to his Constitution, his shoulder was still healing. It was not the best time to apply serious physical changes to his body. Leaning against the wall and clawing with his left hand, Trent stood up.

He turned towards the staircase that led back to the fourth floor. He was still in no condition to fight. It was time to leave this place.

The eyeball, as large as his head, black as night and unblinking, that shoved itself into his face seemed to disagree with him.

Chapter Forty-Six Trent shouted a snorting, coughing exclamation as he swatted at the

curious orb in front of him and stumbled backward. The eye retreated, and a sucking noise could be heard as it retracted. It shrank as it whizzed back until it was a normal-sized eyeball, ticking back and forth in the air, a few feet away from him.

Size was the only thing Trent could see that was normal about the eye and its owner. The eye had two companions that waved about on stalks eight inches long. A nose that was just as long, more snout or trunk than what Trent was used to seeing, hid an oval mouth and complimented the eyestalks. Trent didn't know what to call the creature he was looking at.

Drooping lips and sagging skin, a body that wobbled and stretched while standing still, seven limbs that could be arms or legs depending on where you were standing, the creature was a mishmash of parts. It would have been terrifying had it been taller, but at three feet from toes to top of eyestalks the thing was almost cute, in a hairless and hideous sort of way.

"Trial restructuring," Whatever it was, the thing spoke in an emotionless voice that rumbled with authority, completely unlike the peeping noise Trent expected to hear from such a creature. "Keeper is incapacitated. Conditions to evolve have been met. Studying current layout."

Trent stood still and kept his hands as far away from his weapons as his aching shoulder would allow. Two of the creature's eyes bobbed up and down, while the third circled in place. All seemed focused on Trent. He cleared his throat to speak but was at a loss for words. The creature was not so stymied.

"First floor… acceptable. Second floor… unreasonable challenges detected, adjusting. Third floor… unacceptable. Restructuring. Fourth floor… mostly acceptable. Adding Traps and secondary tunnels to increase difficulty. Fifth floor… acceptable for current challenger. Will reassess once Trial has been cleared or failed."

Trent's shoulder popped loudly, causing him to wince, and an eye to enlarge as it extended to view him more closely.

"Determined that Keeper has used greed to lure an appropriate challenger and fear to discourage companions. This is within the rules. Detecting entry

to fourth floor Guardian room has been modified to prevent all but one from entering. Unacceptable." The eyeball slurped back to its smaller size and briefly became entangled with the other two. "Keeper's success and subsequent incapacitation judged to be suitable explanation and punishment. This must not happen again."

The hallway grew quiet as the creature's voice faded after its pronouncement. Trent took a careful step to the side and sought to step past the creature towards the exit. The eyes followed him.

"Can I go now?" Trent kept his voice polite. It did not take a genius to figure out that he was looking at a Trial Spirit, or that the Spirit had appeared because it wanted something. Manners were called for.

"Trial incomplete. Exits have been sealed. Respawning of Beasts on prior floors suspended until current situation is resolved with Keeper's return or replacement."

Trent thought that was good news. No respawning meant he could sit in the fourth floor Guardian room for the next five hours and thirty minutes without worry. He could take a rest, eat, and sleep while his arm repaired itself. He had no Quest and was under no obligation to finish the fifth floor. He was supposed to be able to leave whenever he wanted!

"Trial will become dark if not completed," sensing his hesitation, the Spirit continued in its monotone voice. "Current Keeper will be replaced by demonic entity. Trial's difficulty will subsequently soar."

"That isn't a bad thing," Trent offered cautiously. "A harder Trial means more XP, greater rewards."

The Spirit's eyes pulled in close to its scalp and grew wide. "A dark Trial evolves through death. Many will die. The new Keeper will see to it."

"People risk death in all Trials." Trent had never heard of a dark Trial before, but Kerry had nearly perished on the second floor, eaten by ants. He and Felicia would have been cut in half had Trent not warned them to lay flat when the Ants came.

"Many will die." For the first time, emotion seeped into the Spirit's voice. Its trunk extended, wrapping around its head, and covering its eyes, reminding Trent of the pink scarf in his Storage. "Many will die, starting with current Keeper. Requesting Shadow Hunter finish what he started."

"I started?" Trent had been on the verge of giving in. The Spirit was too pitiful, hunched in on itself and begging. Then the blame came, and Trent lost all sympathy for the manipulating wretch.

"I started?" He repeated, slapping his hand against the wall. It was his right hand. The motion jarred his still-healing shoulder and did nothing for Trent's mood.

"I would have stuffed the bleeding Token into the Rat hole and been done with it," he shouted, stepping towards the Spirit with a growl, heedless of the fact that the huddled, wobbling thing was capable of crumbling the walls around him. "It was your Keeper who pushed for this. The Spider didn't want Rats or Goblins. It wanted to be unique!"

"She, not it." The Spirit trembled and pushed one eyestalk out from the covering of its trunk to peer plaintively. "She is young. Not even a thousand years old. The young make mistakes… please. Please finish the Trial."

"She? Young? I'm barely thirteen! Why is it my responsibility?" The Spirit didn't answer.

Trent's shoulder hurt. The pain radiated to his neck and his head throbbed. The blood that pulsed in his temples added to that, but that one word, please, stabbed deeper than the ache.

"Blood and Ash, and damn!" Trent tried to remember the names of gods that Cullen swore by. None came to him, just the image of Tersa swinging upside down after she blasphemed against a goddess in her own temple.

"Damn, and damn twice! Thrice damn!" Trent exhaled explosively and whirled on his heel. "Fine! You'd better provide Healing potions in the drops. This Minor Regeneration will be a distraction if I have to rely on it."

When the Spirit didn't respond, Trent looked over his shoulder. The corridor behind him was empty.

"Do you hear me?" He shouted at the ceiling. "All rewards are predetermined and cannot be adjusted. Trial Spirits and

Keepers are not to be extorted." The emotion had left the Keepers voice again as it echoed through the tunnel. "A Beast, fifth floor's Devouring Fiend, approaches. It was attracted by the challenger's noise. This warning breaks the rules and will not be repeated."

"I have a name!" Trent started to draw Sorrow with his left hand. His hand lifted away from the knife without drawing it. He could see a figure swaying in the distance, as disturbingly inconsistent in its movements as the one he had killed before.

Jerking and shimmering, the Devouring Fiend closed the distance between it and its presumed prey with the unnatural swiftness Trent had observed the last time. This Fiend stared at Trent's upraised and empty palm

as Trent began murmuring under his breath. "Firebolt?" It croaked, in a chilling whisper, "You underestimate…" "Firebolt!" The chant for a Level 1 Spell of the first tier was distressingly long. The

Fiend had time to mock Trent as he tried his new Spell. It had no fear of such meager magic. It sniffed at the air, identifying Trent's actions and savoring the scent of his blood and pain. If it had had eyes, the Fiend's would have grown large at the sight of the flame that burst from Trent's palm.

White with intensity, two feet long, and filling the tunnel with its width, the Firebolt in no way resembled a tier-one Spell cast by a low-level Basic Mage. The air sizzled, and the mist swirling on the floor evaporated as the magic slammed into the Fiend. It flew backward, the scraps of cloth that covered it burning, and flames tore into its emaciated body.

"Fire Manipulation and Heart of the Inferno," Trent calmly explained. "I may have used too much. I overestimated you."

Watching the Fiend shriek while being consumed, Trent found one thing bothersome. "What kind of Trial Beast talks before it attacks? Are all these ugly things Minor Guardians?"

"Current Beasts on fifth floor supplied by potential Keepers' home dimension," the Trial Spirits voice sounded directly in Trent's ear to be heard over the wails of the dying Fiend. "They are not truly part of the Trial and may act outside of parameters. This is not a warning and does not break the rules."

The Spirit seemed to be in a hurry to explain itself. Trent merely nodded and reached up to rub his tender shoulder. Still not healed completely, he would have to avoid using it as much as he was able.

"Blood and ash." He grimaced as his fingers touched an area that was still misshapen. He let his hand fall away, and he spoke quietly to himself, "Sorrow and Strife were the beginning."

He looked around at the floor of the tunnel. Mist covered everything. Trent swept his feet around, moving to the area where he had fallen. Glass tinkled, breaking into smaller pieces as he kicked it aside. He found but didn't pick up his sword, which had become a twisted hunk of metal. The enchantments that allowed it to become a ring were broken. Trent continued sweeping the floor with his feet. A satisfied smile broke out on Trent lips as his boots connected with a heavy object, concealed under the ever-present fog.

"Blood and Ash, an ending for most," Trent bent and picked up the short swords that Ghost had thrown at him before sending Trent back to this pit, "but it was in blood and ash that the Dusk Wraiths were born."

Trent couldn't say how he knew. It might have been the comparison to the knives on his hips. The flicker of Mana he sent into the swords to bind them came a second before he Appraised them.

Short swords: Blood and Ash

Paired Rare Items/Excellent Quality

Soul-bound/ Will grow with user

Damage 75

When wielding Ash alone, user's speed will increase by 10%

When wielding Blood alone, user has a 5% chance to absorb Health equal to 3% of Damage inflicted.

When used together, Speed will increase by 15% and user has a 5% chance to absorb Health equal to 5% of Damage inflicted.

Swords for a Swordsman. The blades were already superior to his knives in almost every respect. Moonlight Banishes Shadows would compensate for the loss of the ability to channel Spells into his weapons. The added speed would be an edge he needed for facing Fiends and their unpredictable stride. The health-absorbing effect was nice, though a little too uncertain to be counted on.

What mattered most was that Trent's highest leveled Class was Swordsman. As long as he was wielding a sword, the Damage Rating increased by a third. It wasn't much when using lesser blades, but with these soul-bound weapons, an extra 25 Points of Damage would be noticeable.

Still, Trent felt a hint of unease as he put Sorrow and Strife into Storage and awkwardly swung the new weapons belt around his waist with one arm. Later he would move all four weapons onto the same belt. It would take

experimentation to arrange them properly, and he didn't have time for that now.

Putting the belt on with one hand was difficult. Taking it back off and switching the swords so that the straight blade, Ash, could be drawn with his left hand was even more of a chore. It was the opposite set up to the one he preferred. Until Minor Regeneration finished pushing his bones into place, it would have to do. He needed speed right now, and Ash could provide that.

He checked the corpse of the Devouring Fiend before he set out. The body was crispy and still smoking. Trent wrinkled his nose at the thought of cutting into it. Still, he hunkered down with his Harvesting knife in hand and a firm grasp on his gag reflex. Drops were drops, and he needed every one he could get.

It was a small mercy that the skin of the Fiend collapsed into powder when his knife touched it. When that powder drifted under his mask and filled his nostrils with the scent of baked Beast, it became less merciful. Between sneezes that further aggravated his healing injuries, Trent spotted a shining sliver of bone and ripped it from the open torso. The smell permeating his nose remained, but the rest of the Fiend dissolved, exposing the Beast's drops.

"Two coppers and a sprig of parsley?" Trent was tempted to throw the loot aside. "Fifth floor is being a little stingy."

He spoke to himself. He was not so disgruntled that he would directly criticize a Trial Spirit. Not now that he had accepted his lot in life.

"The Challenger has been grossly overcompensated on prior floor. Drops have been reduced until a balance is reached."

Trent made no comment to that. He had pushed his luck previously, and he had done it again when he yelled at the omnipotent mini-god of the Trial a few minutes ago. He stored the coins and stood up. The parsley he tucked into a pouch to remind himself that the Trial had ears as well as eyes. A peevish Spirit with the capability to open the ground beneath him and send him falling into a pit of boiling acid was the last thing Trent needed.

Trent used Stealth as he advanced down the tunnel. He had noticed the way the Fiend had licked and sniffed at the air while talking. Camouflage wouldn't hide him from the Beasts. He hoped Stealth might limit his presence so that he could get in the first strike. An unannounced blow to an enemy who was unprepared was always devastating.

His precautions paid off. The next Fiend he encountered had its back to him as he slipped closer to it. Ash was a blur as it severed its skinny neck and sent the Fiend's head bouncing away. Trent admired the sharp blade and smiled in self-congratulations. Then the sound began, and his triumph was overshadowed.

A low moan like the creaking of rusty door hinges had Trent assuming the ready stance of Moonlight Banishes Shadows. His sword tip fell when he identified the source of the eerie clamor that was rising in volume.

The sound came from the bodiless head. Trent was at a loss trying to understand how a head without lungs could produce any noise. The why of the noise became apparent while he was still struggling with the how. Even in death, the Devouring Fiend summoned reinforcements.

The corridor came to a T further ahead. First, one Fiend came from the right, rocking as it paused to lick and sniff at the air. Trent's sword came back up. It wavered when two more Fiends drifted from the left. The three made snickering, tittering whispers as they uncovered him with their senses.

Ash held low at his side, Trent spun and ran, with no thought for Stealth. His feet splashed into puddles and tossed water into the air as he stretched his legs and claimed every extra inch he could. To the Fiend's sensitive ears, Trent's breath was broken and gasping, filled with fear. That fear invigorated them, filling the three with desire, and they howled with hunger as they pursued him.

They flicked from spot to spot as their hands reached for Trent's back. They were unable to catch up to a Swordsman whose speed was enhanced by Skill and enchantment, but their claws ripped at the fluttering fabric of his cowl. The jerks that tugged his head back fueled Trent's adrenaline. He flew down the tunnel.

The Fiend in the lead readied a Toxic Strike. When it was certain of a connection with Trent's shoulder, it unleashed the blow, eager to see the Al'rashian squirming on the floor, but its hand breezed past Trent's shoulder as he turned and thrust. His sword sank to the hilt into the demonic creature's chest.

However, that wasn't enough to kill the Fiend. It slammed to a halt and was forced backwards by Trent's greater weight. If it had eyes, the creature would have been staring into its own reflection as Trent faced it squarely. It would have been looking at the wrong place had that been the case.

The Fiend's ears picked up on the fact that Trent's breathing was easy, and its nose recognized that the scent of fear that lingered on him was an old, stale scent. It missed that his right palm was turned outwards at waist height. It did not miss the word he spat out though, Trent made no effort to be heard.

"Firebolt."

Trent stepped back and smoothly drew his sword from the Fiend's body. His Spell tore through the first creature and engulfed the two that were close behind effortlessly. The air shimmered as it grew hot, and mist turned to steam. Devouring Fiends had no particular weakness to fire, but they were still consumed like dry tinder under the purifying effects of Heart of the Inferno. They drew in superheated air to scream and collapsed as their insides boiled.

Concentrate on one thing.

Learn to walk before you run.

Swordsmen don't use magic.

A Mage Class will confuse your progress.

All advice that needed to be thrown out. Trent only wished he had done so sooner. How much pain could he have saved himself.

He sagged to one knee, his stomach turning. On the other hand, maybe he

needed to learn to regulate his Mana usage. He had overdone it this time, and he was already low from his first exploration into the world of tier-one Spells enhanced by his other Abilities.

While his head swam, Trent took the time to add 4 Points to Wisdom to increase his Mana regeneration. He added 4 more Free Attribute Points to Intelligence for the increased MP pool. He started to feel like a real Mage as his Mana returned at a noticeably quicker rate.

However, he did not forget that his strongest tool still relied on his physical attributes. 2 Points went to Constitution after he rolled his right shoulder, confirming that he was beyond the worst of the damage. He hissed when he moved the tender body-part, but it did not resist him. He resolved not to spend any more Points until he was completely recovered.

That resolution lasted five minutes. When his Mana was a quarter full, Trent stood up and dumped 2 Points into Agility to contrast with his recent Strength increases. Thinking about how his left-handed thrust had missed the Fiend's heart, 2 more Points went into Dexterity to support the Clever Hands Skill.

With that, he firmly closed his Status and left 18 Points for later. He had to adapt to what he had spent first. Besides, he had five hours left until whatever was going to happen happened. He needed to be quick. No playing around.

Of course, testing whether the sightless Fiends were as blind to his created flame wires as Zombies and Skeletons had been in the Land of the Undying Lord, that wasn't playing. Trapping the field was a legitimate tactic of war and adventuring.

It turned out that tier-one Spells work even better than Charms when Fiends ran into them. It wasn't enough to make Trent dismiss his first love as petty, everyday magic like so many others. Though it did convince him to spend his last 2 Skill Points for the Spells Earthen Spikes and Flame Wall.

He honestly had no idea why he ever thought to save them in the first place.

Chapter Forty-Seven The Devouring Fiends weren't the only occupants of the fifth floor. Pit

Hounds, monstrous canines covered in scabs and weeping sores, joined the Fiends and Winged Devilkin in spreading destruction and pestilence.

With no Keeper in place, the inhabitants were free to roam. Not confined to set areas, they maintained their sense of self-awareness. The mindless violence of Trial Beasts was absent, and in its place was the natural cruelty and cunning of species that lived for the kill.

Bound together by a mild telepathic field, the Abyssal Fiends heard and felt the death of their kind. They relished in it as they moved to punish the interloper responsible. There was no desire for vengeance in their actions. Their motivation was purely a lust to torture and drain the life from a foe.

Under ordinary circumstances, they would have held the upper hand. Tales of a Trial going dark would be the nightmares that brought Adventurers bolting upright in their beds if any had survived such an event to spread the stories. Trent was as ignorant to what he faced as any would be, and the Fiends never got the chance to tell him how scared he should be.

With a minor talent for telepathy, the Fiends had it the worst. Their sense of smell and keen ears led them to their prey. Up close, psychic abilities outlined a target's physical status and hinted at the power of their magic. They saw no threat in a Swordsman, much less a Mage with three tier-one Spells and a handful of charms.

Finding Trent standing in front of a tunnel filled with flames, they might have paused in their pursuit. Seeing Trent turn and dash through his Spell, they scoffed. They could taste his inexperience. They knew he was no Pyromancer. A Mage was as susceptible to the effects of a miscast Spell as an intended target was. The first group that came for Trent rushed after him, confident that anything he could resist was no threat to them.

It was only when they had all entered the Wall of Flames, cast lengthwise to crowd the narrow tunnel, that they discovered how wrong they were. The

Spell's intensity increased, and white-hot flames melted their skin. They were robbed of the chance to scream as the oxygen in the air was ripped away.

That aspect of the Trap had made Trent sweat. A natural cave with no ventilation would have no way to replenish the air he wasted roasting the Fiends. He trusted that, like all else in a Trial, the Spirit would replace and restore what was lost. Eventually.

That eventually concerned him. He cut his Spell as soon as the last Fiend crumpled to the floor as a charred husk. The Trap had worked, but he intended to try a different tactic on the next group just in case.

The second wave was more cautious in their approach. The loss of fifteen Fiends to a single Level 21 Adventurer was unnerving. They sent the Winged Devilkin and Pit Hounds to scout the way. Those lesser, sighted creatures moved erratically as they charged and were quickly cut down by the Swordsman. But the Fiends felt nothing off about the way Trent eliminated their forward line. His swordsmanship was the most dangerous aspect of this insignificant bug. The pitiful Hounds were only supposed to spring any hidden dangers. Confident the way was clear, the Fiends charged, already tasting the sweet warm blood that would temporarily sate their unending hunger.

The Fiends impaled themselves on stone skewers and bled out, never knowing why. They were intimately familiar with the Trial's layout. They knew every corner and twist. They were aware of each dip and hole in the floor as the rightful rulers of the dark. Every breath they took informed them of active magic in the air. There was no need for caution.

Earthen Spike, when cast, did hold the signature of an active Spell. When held in place by Earth Manipulation, it was inert. The Hounds and Winged scouts avoided the six-foot spiked obstructions that erupted from the ceiling and rose from the floor. The Fiends did not. Their uncanny speed served to drive them so deeply into the spikes there was no hope of crawling off. If they did, the gaping holes in their thin torsos would spill their withered organs to the ground.

Trent ran down the corridors tossing severed heads in front of him so

Fiends would be drawn to his Traps. He was not aware of it, but that sound was the last Skill of the species and was meant to rattle their foes, not bring aid for the fallen. His actions did outrage the Fiends, though, and so, in a way, accomplished his purpose.

Trent struck fear into the empty hearts of beings that had only tasted the sensation on the air, absorbing it from their prey as part of their sustenance. He brought slaughter to the slaughterers, and they let him travel uncontested for a time.

He slipped through the winding passages, searching for the Guardian's chamber. One wrong turn led him to a dead end, and when he turned, the Fiends seized their chance, flickering toward him with their swaying motions, cackling and hissing at the dead man they had cornered.

Trent drew Blood to assist Ash. With both swords in hand, he lunged into the steps of Moonlight Banishes Shadows. For a second, pale drifting light illuminated the tunnel and coated his blades. One step brought Trent twenty feet forward in a modified Long Slash. The Fiends gnashed their teeth when they saw their signature movement mimicked.

Bodies fell as the frail forms of Fiends were split in two by the subtle light of Trent's sword form. Trent twisted, a slash from Blood cleaved through one Fiend, and the point of Ash broke through the roof of a second's mouth, piercing its brain. Another step and Trent flashed through the last of the assembled creatures, an unstoppable force leaving the slain in his wake.

Trent fell to his knees at a split in the tunnel. His arms shook and his chest heaved. One more Fiend could have snapped his neck as he dropped Blood, laying his palm flat on the stone. He had put too much into his last attack. His Stamina and Mana were gone, and he was defenseless.

But there were none left to take advantage of his weakness. He had killed them all. A white line on the front of his armor, where a Fiend had accidentally landed a scratch, was all the resistance they had managed to present.

Trent's shoulders sagged as he rummaged in his pouch and withdrew a

vile filled with a mixture of green and yellow powder. Coppers, parsley, and Witch Toe, a type of root, had been the drops on the fifth floor. Trent would have complained if he thought it would do him any good. It wouldn't, so he collected them and tried to show a cheerful demeanor.

That act turned to genuine gratitude when he took the time to appraise the Witch Toe. He did so more on the off-chance Appraisal would level up than out of any hope the ugly hunk of yellow root would prove useful. What he found reminded him that all items in Trials had value whether inside or out of the Trial itself. There was no trash to be found here.

Witch Toe, when chewed, increased Mana regeneration. Not by a lot. A Mage with a good supply of potions would reject the root every time. To Trent, who was expending precious energy at an enormous rate, that tiny amount was a life saver. A closer look at Parley led to the revelation that it had a similar function for Stamina.

Trent had filled empty vials with ground Parsley and Witch Toe shavings to replace his lost potions. His Herbalist Profession increased the potency of the concoction and earned him considerable XP.

Pulling the cork from the vial with his teeth, Trent dumped the chunky powder into his mouth. He chewed with determination before swallowing the mixture that tasted of dirt and fungus more than anything else.

His churning stomach settled, and the gong in his head lessened its racket. Trent gathered up his swords and staggered to his feet. The effects of the powder were immediate, slow but persistent. It had made the difference in the last few fights.

He consulted his Map before he set off. There was one tunnel left to explore. It would require a lot of backtracking, but as long as the tunnel didn't split, it had to lead to the Guardian's chamber.

It would be the last place he looked. On the first and second floors, Trent had insisted on checking every inch of the Trial. On the Fifth, speed was all he was looking for. Somehow, he still managed to cover all the corners and turns.

Trent sighed in self-reproach. He sheathed his swords and stretched his wrists. They ached a bit from exertion. He had overdone it in that last attack. Minor Regeneration would ease the strain in a few minutes or an hour. He could still fight, though maybe he would get lucky and he wouldn't encounter more than one or two opponents for a while. Few enough that he could deal with them with Spells instead of steel.

It was a hollow daydream, and Trent kept it from his lips as he forced his feet to trudge back the way he had come. Successful ambushes with overconfident Trial Beasts did not make him a great Mage. Resourceful, maybe, but a long way from great.

Endurance and his powder showed their worth. Trent picked up the pace from a crawl to a jog. When he had the energy again, he drew Ash for the added speed and left Dash deactivated. He would save his active Skills until his Stamina was full. Maybe not even then. He had drained it so often lately, its recovery was suffering. He needed a potion or a good night's sleep to fix that. Neither of those promised to be in the works anytime soon.

"Blood and Ash. An ending."

Whether he had finished the last of the Beasts or the Trial's denizens had decided to leave him to their boss, he couldn't say. Either way, no ugly faces had spoiled his journey to the arched opening he stood outside of.

He hadn't made the best time. Of the original six hours, fifty-nine minutes were left. It had taken him over an hour to reach this place from the dead-end where he had last fought. Thankfully his Health, Stamina, and Mana were all full now. According to his Status, he was in top condition, ready to fight for days on end. Unfortunately, a person was more than the numbers in their Status.

Trent felt a fatigue that went beyond bone-deep. There was a stitch in his muscles that minor Regeneration couldn't seem to touch. The shackles on his legs and the mountain lying on his shoulders were no less real just because he couldn't see them. All he could do was pretend they weren't there, telling

himself he was fit and limber.

The title of Shadow Hunter demanded that he press on despite how he felt. If he ignored this, the worst thing to happen would be losing the title and the perks that went with it. Perks that only applied when facing the Cursed.

It was the insubstantial behemoth that lurked at his back that kept him racing forward, not his title. He could smell the tobacco on Cullen's breath, feel the Sergeant's expectations as he leaned in to whisper in Trent's ear.

"Tired, Runt?" He would say, "Feeling like a nap? Maybe a bath and glass of warm milk to lull you to sleep?

"Well, go ahead!" No whispering now. The roar was sudden, stabbing into ear drums as it dripped with disdain. "Lie down. Get comfortable! Tuck your fucking arm beneath that empty fucking head and go to sleep. Maybe you'll get lucky, and some slob of a snot-licking whore's son will slit your throat for you!

"That's what you have to look forward to! It's that or you drink piss, gargle with vinegar, and stop acting like a tit-sucking baby! Stand up straight, runt! I've seen straighter spines in Slimes!"

A board inserted itself down the back of Trent's shirt, forcing the slump from his back. "I've never seen a Slime, Sergeant. What are they like?"

"All you need to know about Slimes is they lack balls and still manage to have more testicular fortitude than you do! What are you waiting for Runt?"

"You, Sergeant," Trent sounded off in a tight voice. "Just this once, handle this for me."

"Ohhh, does the Runt want Sergeant Cullen to hold his hand and take him for walkies? You want I should carry you on my shoulders and feed you cookies and cake?"

Trent knew better than to answer that.

"Not going to happen, runt! Now stick out your chest and get moving, or

by Noemi's Mercy and Rindel's left nut I will shove my boot so far up that lazy ass…"

"…I'll be tasting leather for a week." Trent finished the Sergeant's favorite threat.

Blood and Ash had drawn themselves, and their hilts filled Trent's palms. They must have placed themselves there of their own accord. He had no memory of drawing them.

Well, if they were that eager to be of use, it would be a shame to disappoint.

Trent didn't immediately move forward. He looked over the entrance to the Guardian's chamber one last time. Felicia claimed you could find clues about what to expect from careful observation of the Trial's surface. She said Dungeon, of course. That lapse put her words in question, but Trent chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.

An archway supported by grand columns. Out of place with the rest of the Trials decor, the difference might indicate a new Keeper's preference. Safe Zones had contained sculptures of beetles and bugs, and Trent had seen multiple carvings that he had taken for hints; none of those were exactly like he was seeing here.

Snakes with unhinged jaws swallowed weeping women. Fiends prodded at anguished men with tridents and knives. Scorpions stung the tongues of dogs as they howled and tried to run.

All the carvings on the columns had one thing in common. Their faces, all of them, men, women, and dogs, resembled Trent's. Not exactly a subtle message.

Obviously, he was expected. As a threat, Trent found the pictures overdone. As a warning, they were comical. As an instigation… entirely effective.

"Wish me luck, Sergeant!" Trent clucked his tongue and rolled his

shoulders.

"Who the fuck taught you to rely on luck, Runt? When I find him, I'll rip off his leg and beat you with it while you eat his intestines raw. Get in there and kick ass with style and skill. You don't need any thrice-damned luck."

Trent was glad Cullen was only in his head. Kerry had taught him the phrase, "wish me luck." Being beaten with Kerry's chunky leg while choking on raw intestine was a much more effective threat than the columns managed to convey. He quickly entered the chamber and began scanning for the Guardian.

Trent's eyes flickered from side to side, taking it all in. The checkered floor of white and black marble was a curious departure from the Trial's natural stone. The hanging chandeliers filled with blazing candles that dripped wax onto the polished stone gave the impression that bones were raining from the ceiling. Suits of macabre armor, all hooks and barbs, stood guard at each corner.

Two more suits stood behind the throne of skulls at the far side of the room. On the left of the throne, a pale girl with jet black hair was curled up, whimpering to herself on the floor. She was out of place in a dress of Spider's silk. Trent thought he could make out a pair of Beetle's wings on her back but wasn't entirely sure.

The figure to the right of the throne, standing at least seven feet in height, fit the chamber like a glove. A broad torso covered in a black robe with a sword belt at his waist almost brought a smile to Trent's face. He would enjoy testing himself against a Guardian who was also a Swordsman. His smile faltered when he realized the head above the Guardian's shoulders was a deer's skull covered in reptilian skin and scales. Antlers climbed above the Guardian's head, adding to his already impressive stature.

In contrast, the man on the throne was unassuming. Clothes of linen, a circlet of iron, he would have looked human if not for his grey skin tones and flaxen-colored eyes. He slouched on the throne, presenting a bored image. Yet his gaze tracked Trent relentlessly as he stepped to the middle of the room.

"Keeper," Trent pointed Blood at the unconscious girl, "she has gotten bigger since the last time I saw her."

Ash came up and stabbed in the direction of the antlered freak with the sword. "Guardian, has to be, with that invincible aura that he, it, wears like a cloak."

Trent lowered his sword and tilted his head to the side. "That makes you the new would-be Keeper, right?"

"I am Keeper now," the man on the throne drawled. "Forty-seven minutes left till my coronation. I feel confident in calling it now. You won't be able to defeat my Guardian in that time. A pity, I was looking forward to watching you. AAHHH."

The rival for the Keeper's title screamed when the Flame Wall covered the dais. Trent didn't pay it any mind. His Spells couldn't harm a Keeper; he didn't have that kind of power. The man probably only shouted from surprise.

Surprise at Trent's audacity, the sheer nerve Trent must have to interrupt his betters. He would have been even more shocked to learn that Trent had started speaking only to buy himself the time it took to use Silent Cast to attack the Guardian with Flame Wall. The wannabe Keeper and his babble were a tool. As long as the rules were in place, the man's presence could be ignored.

Trent almost hoped the Keeper did step in and attack him. He had seen a Keeper punished once. The lightning that would scorch the man's grey skin would not be blocked by a stone ceiling. It would spare Trent the effort of fighting the deer-faced sword carrier, the true target of his Spell.

In his mind, Trent had already downgraded the Guardian from Swordsman to a person who owned a sword. Trent rushed forward in an attempt to keep the Guardian contained on the dais and within the flames. In the time it took him to attack, Trent could have drawn the broadsword ten times. The Guardian was just clearing his sheath when Trent slashed Blood into the Beast's waist and stabbed Ash towards its chest.

Trent felt like he had struck an anvil. His blades failed to penetrate the Guardian's robes. While he was still dealing with the shock of his attack's ineffectiveness, Trent was forced to duck a backhanded swing as the Guardian leveled a swipe at his head. Trent lashed out at the creature's arm as he moved out of the way, and his mouth puckered into an unhappy frown when his hands went numb from the impact.

Surrounded by flame and showing no sign that it had noticed Trent's valiant efforts, the Beast took a two-handed grip on its broadsword and lifted the blade high overhead. The sword crashed against the marble floor, cracking the tiles as Trent leaped backward. The Guardian followed him, swinging its sword like a Farmer cutting long grass, pushing Trent towards the center of the room.

"I've been watching you." The man on the throne settled back. He held out his hand and let the flames of Trent's Spell wrap around it as he spoke. "Since you opened the gate that brought me here.

"Swords, fire, and earth! You are no Arcane Swordsman. I think Spellsword, at best, is all you can claim. A new one at that." The man's mouth pouted as Trent's Spell dissipated, as if he missed the warmth of the fire. "I prepared this Guardian specifically for you. Shadow Hunter will not help you. You've already learned the worth of your Spells and weapons."

Trent circled around the Guardian, his blades slamming into its body. The creature made no move to stop him. Trent did not understand it. Even if they weren't cutting, the impact of his swords should bruise skin or break bones. More tiles cracked as Trent angled his body to avoid a slash.

"Since I opened the gate?" Trent looked beyond the Guardian and saw the exit was open. Since the Beast was slower than he was, it wouldn't be able to stop him if he did decide to run. "So just on this floor then?"

"Isn't that enough?" The man chuckled. "You've given your all on this floor. I've seen your tricks."

Trent brought Blood down on the back of the Guardian's hand. A strike with all his strength behind it left an indent, that was all. "Strength and

Constitution at the cost of Agility, a robe that protects from blades, fire and earth. That had to create a weakness—"

Trent gasped as a shouldercharge caught him off-guard and flung him across the room. He landed at the steps to the dais. The sudden increase in speed had to be a Skill. He would watch for that.

It was the exit that his eyes flickered to as he pulled himself to his feet. The grey-skinned man sat up straight and leaned forward, his arms gripping his throne as he observed what Trent was thinking.

"Yes, you can leave," he mused, one hand stroking his chin. His lips curled upward, and his free hand gestured imperiously. "Leave anytime you like. My General is too slow to catch you… but will my Knights hinder your escape?"

Four suits of armor lifted spears and battle axes as they moved from the corners. The scraping of metal on stone behind him told Trent that the two there were in motion as well. Six heavily armored Knights and a robed Guardian he couldn't harm. Trent looked wistfully at the exit that two of the Knights were moving to block.

He spun to block a thrust leveled at his back. The Knights were fast too. Trent ducked and swayed as the two that had been behind the throne joined forces to crowd him back to the center of the room where his largest, invulnerable opponent waited with black eyes shining.

Blood and Ash worked independently as Trent parried and tried to counter. He kept the Knight's blades from his skin, but it was a near thing. A third knight charged from the side, and Trent spun away from a spear tip, nearly walking into an axe blade. He hacked at the haft of the axe, empowering his strike with Disarm. The Knight kept hold of his weapon, but Trent was gratified to see it loosen in the Knight's gauntlets.

The armored figure stumbled into the path of its comrades as it struggled to keep hold of his axe. For a moment, Trent was free of the constant assault. His knees bent. When they straightened, Enhanced Jump sent Trent skywards. Blood and Ash clanged as Trent released them, and they fell to the

floor.

Trent's hands closed on the metal beams of the chandelier he had been standing beneath. He pulled himself up with a grunt. His legs dangled, just barely missing the antlers of the Guardian who had lunged for him. Trent heaved himself up, setting his knees on the ornate beams and praying they would support him.

"What do you think you've accomplished?" The would-be Keeper sounded amused at Trent's flight. "Weaponless, and still within reach of my Knight's spears. I look forward to watching you die!"

Trent didn't answer. Unlike the rest of the Trial, this room was brightly lit. Three chandeliers supplied plenty of candlelight, and their flames prevented any shadows from encroaching into the room. The abundance of light was absurd, considering all the Beasts of this Trial had some form of Night Sight.

Trent had practiced Fire Manipulation on every campfire he had sat in front of. Connecting with natural flames was different than changing the shape of a Spell he cast. They resisted and fought his control. They wanted to be coaxed and flattered. Touching hundreds of small, flickering lights at once brought sweat to Trent's brow and caused a throbbing behind his eyes.

Trent grabbed hold of the chain which kept the chandelier suspended. It took three-fourths of his Mana to sap the energy from the candles. His knees were weak as the room plunged into darkness. Below him, the knights milled around the Guardian, confused, slashing at the air futilely with their weapons.

"Do you think that's clever? A snap of my fingers is all it takes to undo your efforts." The Keeper slapped the bone armrests of his throne as he stood. He snapped at the chandeliers, once, twice. Nothing happened.

"Temporary Keepers may not interfere with their Guardian's battles. This room is outside of your control until the issue has been decided. Keeper will be silenced to prevent meddling."

Trent silently thanked the Trial Spirit as he took his Runic Battle Bow

from Storage. The chandelier spun and wobbled as he set his feet. The bow had a base Damage of 35. The arrows supplied by his Skill added 25 to that —a far cry from what he could do with a sword.

A slowly revolving archer and targets that stumbled as they slashed and poked around in the dark tested Trent's accuracy. Triple Shot and Create Arrow sent three steel-tipped arrows racing downward. Trent's fingers had hardly released the first volley before he was drawing again. He peppered the room, depending on the bow's own mana to fuel his barrage.

Arrows hissed through the air and pinged off armor. The Knights faltered, spinning in place as broad heads found the joints in their protection. The Guardian bugled its head lifted in panic. Two arrows had pierced its robe and plunged into its shoulders.

Not invulnerable, merely resistant to swords! The Keeper had watched him on the fifth floor. He had never seen Trent with a bow. He had no reason to suspect he carried one. He might even have imbued his Guardian with a weakness to Archers. After all, Trent was a Swordsman and there wasn't an arrow slinger in his party. The man had not taken possession of the Trial yet. He lacked the all-seeing eyes that a Keeper needed to devise the best challenges for the Adventurers entering their territory.

One Knight vanished as it fell, and Trent put a shaft through the visor of its helmet. A second dropped its spear when its elbow was pierced. A third lost its axe as an arrowhead tore through its neck. One by one, Trent disabled the minions, targeting their weakness as he grew used to the motion of the chandelier.

Trent started to draw his bowstring for another volley. His fingers slipped from the string before it could be brought to his ear. The Skill had been taking energy from his own MP. The dozens of arrows he had shot had depleted the bow's supply.

Two of the Knights were gone. The only sign they had ever been were the drops they left behind. Trent marked that loot as he Stored his bow. It would be useful for finishing the four surviving Knights and their bestial general.

Trent jumped lightly from the chandelier setting the light fixture to spinning. The creaking of the chain covered the patter of his boots as he dropped to the floor. The blank eyes of Trial Beasts looked upwards at the noise. One Knight, kneeling with an arrow in his leg, twisted his head to the right when the sound of coins rattling on marble was heard over the rusty moaning of chains.

A spear point took him in the neck, pushing him to lay flat. Whatever type of Beast it was wearing the armor of Knights let out a wet, garbled croak before it died. The agonized panting of the Guardian paused at the muted death cry. It struggled to turn toward where it felt one of its minions perish.

The Guardian couldn't turn fast enough to keep up with the wave of death that surrounded it. In Trent's hands, the eight-foot polearm was light as a feather, flickering in the dark as quickly as his arrows had. The Knights collapsed, and then the spear tip plunged into the Guardian's chest.

Black ichor oozed from the wound when Trent withdrew the spear and stabbed out again. The Guardian bellowed as it stumbled back. It swung its broadsword wildly, but the five feet of steel never came close to Trent's thrust.

Trent stabbed and twisted, his spearhead tearing open the Guardian's thigh. The creature was stubborn; it's high Constitution kept it on its feet. Trent was equally as stubborn. The spear was no enchanted weapon. It had no poison. Each strike managed 50 Damage, not even as much as his arrows. However, some of that would be mitigated by the Guardian's defense.

Trent could picture the damage he did. In his mind, red 35's floated up from bleeding wounds. Occasionally, a higher number would join them as he hit a sensitive or vital area. Those numbers would get bigger as Bloodletting took effect. They would grow again as the Guardian's defenses were broken. The more Damage one took, the more Damage one was going to take. Trent had experienced that personally.

Trent began to grow sick of the one-sided slaughter. The creature's screams reminded him of a tiny pink pig squealing as it ran from the clumsy hands of, what were in its eyes, giants. The creature was blinded by the

environment, but Trent could clearly see what was happening thanks is to Dark Vision.

Foam dripped from the Guardian's mouth, and its black eyes were wide as it tried to ward him off. Black eyes. He had noticed that before. Now it dawned on Trent what those eyes signified.

Guardian of a Trial, not yet a Trial Beast. This was a living, thinking being that the temporary Keeper had enlisted to protect that obscene throne of bones. Trent could see the desire to flee in the beady black eyes. It would surrender, given the chance. He wanted to let it.

However, that wasn't an option. There was too much at stake here. Trent only had one form of mercy to offer. His spear tip scraped against the creature's throat, drawing blood. He stabbed into the same spot again, widening the wound. The Guardian's sword slipped from its hands. Trent stabbed again, and the Beast's natural defense finally gave way. Trent's spear sunk deep. Eyelids covered rolling black eyes. The Guardian's hands closed around the shaft of Trent's spear as it sunk to its knees.

Chapter Forty-Eight "You have cleared a minor permanent Trial. Trial has gained a new floor;

clear counts as a first. Awarded 3000 Experience. You may claim your reward."

Trent would have rather read the message in his Status. Hearing the words delivered in the Spirit's emotionless tone while standing over the body of a creature that may have had a name dirtied the achievement. There was no beauty in the Guardian, nothing to admire. It had served a master that Trent would call evil, without hesitation. Still, he felt it deserved a cleaner death.

He closed his eyes and tossed the spear aside. He wouldn't be taking it with him. It wasn't a bad weapon. He had been looking for a spear just like it. Now he knew he had outgrown Basic weapons like that. His enemies were stronger, and he needed tools to match.

His hand reached for his mithril Harvesting knife. Patting the empty space on his back where it should have been, Trent felt a pang of shock. He spun, looking to see where it could have fallen out, and his elbow brushed the hilt of Ash. That sent another spark of surprise coursing through him. Hadn't he discarded Blood and Ash?

Soul-bound weapons! Like Guild Tokens, they could not be separated from their owners for long. The short swords had returned to their sheaths at some point without his noticing. That could be useful. Maybe he would use Sorrow and Strife as throwing weapons. His darts had lost their effectiveness, but the knives would grow with him and never be lost.

The thought jogged his memory. The Devouring Fiends, Pit Hounds, and Winged Devilkin had little on them that was Harvestable. Much of what was Harvestable ended up ruined by his Spells. The remainder Trent had hacked out or off with his swords. He had been in too much of a hurry to Harvest with precision. His mithril knife had been on the belt with Sorrow and Strife where he had left it when he switched to Blood and Ash.

He drew Blood now and used it to separate the Guardian's antlers. He slashed on a hunch and was gratified when he proved to be right. The Guardian's body vanished, leaving behind the dead bone. Trent collected the spoils and Appraised them. The antlers were those of a Felpah, probably not an Awakened race, since as far as Trent knew, those didn't have Harvestable organs or bones. A Beast, most likely an intelligent and Advanced one. The creature had never spoken; the Keeper had done all the talking. Trent wondered whether it had been capable of speech. Not that it mattered. The creature was dead, and the antlers would make good crafting material.

The throne and the grey-skinned man who had sat there were gone. In their place was a silver chest. Trent glanced at it as he crossed the room. He doubted that it would contain a bribe big enough to make up for what he had endured to obtain it. He didn't open it immediately, turning instead to where the Trial Spirit's wobbly body cradled its Keeper with three arms.

"Is she all right now?" Trent crouched down over the Keeper. He could see hints of a Spider in her. She looked more like the man who had wanted to replace her now, with grey skin and a mere four limbs. Maybe he was seeing what he wanted to, but if the Keeper had sat up and begun to crawl around the floor, climbing the walls like an insect, he would have taken it in stride.

"She will be." Two eyestalks stayed focused on the Keeper. The Spirit spared one to regard Trent. "She will wake soon. Wiser, and stronger… perhaps just stronger. She is very young."

"Don't underestimate the young. They are capable of great things." The eyestalk bobbed at Trent's words, as if the Adventurer whose Status said he was thirteen was an equal. Later Trent would find that odd. Looking back, he would find all his interactions with this Trial Spirit as strange.

Keepers and Trial Spirits were supreme in the spaces they ruled. All the others he had met had given him the sense that they looked down on him, that he was insignificant to them. They marveled that he could see them, then dismissed him. Not this Spirit. It asked. It begged. Even the one time it had reminded him sternly that the rewards were set and could not be changed, its chiding had been considerably gentler than he would have expected.