Chapter 3: Chapter 3 – Dumpster Diving Dungeoneer, Part 3

The crawl through the first floor was uneventful. The city had laid out a stone path in the dungeon that led peacefully to the next floor. Wip’s new party members stuck to it.

Wip had personally never walked the path for more than a few minutes as he found that boring, choosing instead to delve into the many winding caverns that wormed their way through the first floor. Worse, his party members all walked behind him so he found it hard to talk to them. When he’d asked them why, they said something about letting the new guy lead them to the next floor. He didn’t get it.

At one point in their dull walk, Snik shouted from behind, “What’s with the oversized backpack?”

“Oh, this?” Wip said, happy that the monotony had been broken. “These are my new aftos.” Twisted things poked out of every hole in the backpack. Wip had a plan to show off every single one of them to his new companions.

Snik squinted at them. “But they’re all warped. Besides, how are you bound to so many of them. You’re only level—”

She cut off when Lofer nudged her in the side. “It’s fine. Wip’s really strong. I’m sure he can handle them, even if they’re a bit warped.”

Wip faced them with his brows pinched with concern. “Is there something wrong with it?”

The party members all exchanged looks. “It’s fine, Wip,” Lofer said. “They just look a little funny, is all. Keep leading. We’re nearly there.”

Wip stared at them a moment before turning around. He really wished he could walk with the rest of them, but his party gave the impression that he wasn’t welcomed. Behind him, he could hear Snik mutter, “But if he uses them without binding, he’s going to load himself with curses. You sure this is a good idea?”

“Just keep your damned fog up. Last thing we need is to get attacked on the way there.”

Wip wasn’t sure what a fog was, nor did he dwell on it too much. More importantly, he was bothered by his senses that were playing up on him. He could usually feel the enma around him, like pressure constantly pushing and pulling at the edge of his consciousness. He had always experienced the world this way and he used that pressure to guide him—mostly during fights.

Today, however, the ambient enma was uniform, lacking the high and low pressures signifying the presence of living beings. That was no good. How was he going to find monsters to beat up?

The stone path brought them to an innocuous hole in the limestone walls. It would have seemed like the entrance to any of the first floor’s narrow caverns if not for the fact that it went down steeply. And also because six dungeoneers were guarding it, carrying swords, shield, guns, and a host of other colourful aftos. Even to Wip it was obvious that this was the entrance to the second floor.

Wip was about to run up to them and ask them a hundred questions about the second floor when Lofer clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hang on, Wip. Let me do the talking.”

Deflating, Wip stepped to the side. “Oh, okay.”

Lofer approached with his thumb hooked around his belt. One of the dungeoneers waiting by the hole stepped forward to stop Lofer a few metres from the opening. He wore a helmet that had an opaque, orange visor that obscured his eyes. Resting against his right shoulder was a rod whose end sported a vicious set of prongs. A round badge was pinned on his chest that showed five lines, three on the left and two on the right. Each line ended in a dot such that they lined up vertically. All up, the image seemed to represent a circuit diagram. Wip had seen that badge around, but not on any city officials. He had no idea what it meant.

“Guild?” the helmeted man asked, his tone firm and carrying authority.

“Can’t say,” Lofer replied.

The helmeted man’s jaw clenched as his eyes ran over the party’s clothes. “Where are your badges?”

Lofer clicked his tongue. “Can’t say.”

“Then I’ll need some paperwork.”

Lofer remained silent.

The helmeted man leaned sideways and stared at Wip. His tipped down so that his visor tipped at Wip’s badge—a small, round disc of bluish hue. The badge was made of fuchite, so was harder than steel and would survive all but the deadliest attacks. Etched on its surface were two curving lines that vaguely formed an X shape. An “E”, for Wip’s class, was placed beneath the symbol. Wip’s nine digit DID, Dungeoneer Identification, was carved on the back. In the case that a dungeoneer died, their badge was how their mangled corpse would be identified.

“Who’s the E-class?” the helmeted man said. “He doesn’t look like one of yours.”

Lofer glanced over his shoulder. “New party member. We’re giving him the tutorial.”

The helmeted man didn’t make a move, but Wip had the feeling he was eyeing each and every one of them from beneath his visor. He recited each word carefully and slowly. “Four dungeoneers decked out in high level gear. No guild. No badges. No paperwork. Dragging along an E-class who’s carrying a bag of warped aftos. How’s that going to look when I report this to DARA?”

“What are you accusing us of?” Lofer’s voice was low and thick. He drew his coat aside to reveal his gun.

The helmeted man’s grip tightened on the handle of his rod. He wasn’t the only one of his party that reacted this way. People shifted into grounded stances. Hands gripped weapons. The air around them grew thick with tension. The faint rush of flowing enma surrounded Wip’s consciousness.

But more importantly, Wip was growing impatient.

“Excuse me,” he called.

Everyone looked his way. Lofer’s expression was part way between a scowl and a tolerating smile. Wip flashed his half-missing teeth. “Is it alright if we go now?”

The helmeted man’s visor shifted from Wip to Lofer’s gun, then to his coat, then to Lofer’s companions. The man swallowed saliva. “Twenty kin.”

Lofer made no move. He stared at the helmeted man without wavering.

“Listen, there are rules,” the helmeted man said, holding up a gloved hand defensively. “The city wants to make sure dungeoneers aren’t doing anything they shouldn’t. The way we see it, if you can’t cough up twenty kin that you farmed yourselves, then you’ll struggle on the next floor.”

Lofer stepped forward and put his face a few centimetres from the helmeted man’s visor. “And who’s enforcing these rules?”

The helmeted man made no move to back away. However, his companions were unconsciously shifting backwards. A stare-off took place between the two men that lasted almost a full minute. Then, the helmeted man sighed. He stepped aside and tipped his head towards the exit, urging Lofer through.

“You made the right choice, lads,” Lofer said. He didn’t take his hand off his gun until he was well down the stairs.

Wip waved to the people on his way through. They didn’t wave back.

The next two floors were uneventful, other than the few times Wip was yelled at for wandering off. That made him pout. What was the point of adventuring if you couldn’t adventure? Sticking to the path was boring.

Each new floor revealed a completely novel environment for Wip to marvel at: rolling hills on the second, sandy dunes that reached into he horizon on the third, and then the fourth floor presented a jungle so thick that Wip couldn’t see more than twenty metres away from him.

As soon as they reached the fourth floor, Lofer directed them off the path. Wip was almost bursting with excitement. Finally, they were going to fight monsters! Or so he thought.

Things were quiet as they crawled through the jungle. Too quiet for Wip’s liking. That odd sensation of uniformity was still surrounding him. He asked Lofer on more than one occasion when they could finally fight.

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“Soon,” the striker said for the third time.

“How long is soon?” Wip asked.

Snik brushed up next to Lofer. Sweat was pooling on her forehead. “Hey,” she huffed. “I think we’re far enough now.”

Lofer nodded. “Alright. Wip, scout ahead a little. You’re looking for monsters.”

Wip’s excitement grew tenfold. Finally, a chance to show off some of his cool aftos! He showed his respect by clasping a hand over his fist and did as he was ordered.

To his disappointment, Wip still couldn’t find any monsters. The whole situation was getting really weird. He was beginning to think that maybe there just weren’t any monsters on the fourth floor.

The vibrant undergrowth made travel difficult. Wip was constantly barging through overgrown plants sporting leaves as large as his backpack. Vines dangled from trees that towered overhead, and he spent just as much time knocking vines out of his path as he did whacking away at shrubs. The few times he brushed up against a tree, he paused and admired their strangeness. Their bark was as black as night and twisted in odd ways. Wip could have sworn there were faces in them, locked in expressions of surprise. He wondered if he had scared the trees somehow.

Wip lost sight of his companions more than once. Sometimes they remained separated for a few seconds before he backtracked in search of them, other times for several minutes. Whenever he tried to feel out their enma, nothing showed up; the whole dungeon floor felt samey.

When they did show up, they’d ask him for a report. He’d tell them there was nothing, which he thought was strange, and Lofer would encourage him to keep scouting.

Then, on one of his scouting missions, everything changed. The push and pull of enma was all around him again; the weird uniformity had vanished entirely. Wip stopped in his tracks to feel out his situation. His heart began to race.

All around him were spots that pulled instead of pushed. It was as though enma was being vacuumed into tiny little pinpricks and vanishing forever. He knew that sensation all too well. Monsters, and they were close.

He slowly reached over his shoulder into his backpack, seeking an afto. All the while his head was on a swivel. The thicket he was standing in was dense. Scores of vines and dense undergrowth further obscured his vision. Nothing had shown itself yet, but they were right there!

Then the vines lashed out at him with no warning. They tangled around Wip’s torso, his legs, his arms, his neck. The hand that was reaching into the backpack was locked in place. At once, they all reeled in and tightened around Wip. His movements were sealed. The vines cranked up the tension with bone-crushing might and pulled until Wip was hoisted into the air. In the distance, he heard hooting and hollering from every direction. Those empty spots that marked the monsters, where the ambient enma seemed to be sucked into the abyss, were coming closer and closer.

Struggling against the pull of the vines, he twisted this way and that to find his companions. His neck was constricted, making it hard to breathe.

“Guys, there are monsters here,” he gasped.

There was no response. He couldn’t hear the sounds of combat nor see the flare of aftos between the foliage. His companions could have been dead. They could have been lost. They could have been hiding, leaving him to fight alone.

No, he didn’t want to think that. They were his party! His first ever party. He had to trust them.

The nearest tree began to stir. Wip fixed his gaze onto it, onto the weird face imprinted onto its bark. The enma surrounded the tree pulsated against the edge of his consciousness, before sucking inwards. Then the face ripped out of the tree.

It was a strange face, somewhat like a monkey’s. Its head, dangling out of the tree’s bark, twisted to stare up at Wip with dark eyes like buttons. Its small mouth was fixed in an O shape so that it seemed curious rather than harmful. Then it yanked forwards. A black, gelatinous substance oozed out from the tree and solidified two hulking arms that almost reached the ground.

With hands large enough to engulf Wip’s head, it dragged itself forwards until another pair of arms oozed out, followed by another pair, then another. With one final effort, it emerged entirely from the tree and landed on the ground, its dark eyes fixed on Wip the whole time. It had no legs—it didn’t need them, since its eight arms served that purpose well enough. Without a change in expression, it hunkered down, hooted, then leapt at Wip.

Gritting his teeth, Wip sent a spike of enma through his arm that was reaching into his backpack and pushed outwards. The vine gripping his arm slackened and he slipped out. He drew out a twisted wand from his backpack. Suspended in the air, he pointed it at the leaping monster and sent a spike of enma into it.

The air at the wand’s tip began to warp. A dark hole opened between the wand’s tip and the flying monster. With a deep woof, the monster was sucked into the hole and was gone. An instant later, the air returned to normal, as though nothing had ever happened. Before Wip could even lower the wand, it buckled of its own accord and twisted itself into scrap. Spent.

The hollering grew louder. Wip went to grab another afto from his backpack when the trees redoubled their attack.

Vine after vine lashed out from deep within the thicket, as though every tree in a hundred metres wanted to see him dead. The vines pulled tighter and tighter until Wip could feel his body tearing. His shoulders were on the verge of popping. His legs creaked and cracked. He flowed enma through his body to try pull everything back in place and barely managed to keep his limbs from being torn off.

More of the many-armed monsters emerged. Wip needed to escape but he couldn’t draw near enough enma. The effort to keep his body in one piece was taking everything he had. Desperate, his addled thoughts went to his collar. If only he used it, if only he let it out once more…

As soon as the thought came, he thrust it aside. He wasn’t going back to that. He’d had enough of the violence, the carnage. He wanted to be a dungeoneer. That was his choice—he could make that choice now. Besides, he had aftos, and plenty of them. The only problem was that he couldn’t reach them.

Another vine wrapped around his backpack, causing its contents to stab into his back. As uncomfortable as that felt, it was also what Wip needed. He sought out one of them, a blade piercing the skin next to his spine, and sent a small spike of enma into it.

The air around Wip burst. An invisible force sliced at everything in a bubble around him. The vines were diced apart. Once the tension was released, the severed vines snapped back and got tangled in the trees.

Wip dropped to the ground with a thud. He tore the loose vine ends off him. Then he slammed his backpack onto the earth, its contents clanging ominously.

He ripped out the first afto his hands settled on and pumped enma into it. Flames burst out and set the jungle ablaze. When that afto twisted into a pretzel, he took out another and kept blasting away. Lights flashed, fire and ice clashed, and thunder boomed. The whole dungeon shook. A many-armed monkey snuck up behind Wip. He slammed a crooked hammer into the ground and spikes shot out of the earth, impaling and killing the monster instantly.

The monsters’ numbers slowly dropped, but so was Wip’s bag getting thinner. Not only that, but Wip was taking on curses from each one of his aftos. Excruciating pain wracked his body. The world spun and terrifying visions haunted him. Each breath felt like he was drinking fire. Pushing out more enma felt like wading through mud. He wanted to collapse into a ball and scream, but as long as the enemies kept coming, he would fight.

In a few minutes, the dungeon was a wasteland. The trees had been cleared and the earth had been blown away to expose dark stone. Another dozen many-armed monsters charged through a cloud of smoke, hooting and hollering.

Wip’s bag grew was growing lighter and thinner by the second. He didn’t panic—he’d been in worse situations before. However, his gut was telling him that he might not have enough aftos, that he was cutting it way too close. He tried not to think about it and kept fighting. That was all he could do. It was all Wip could ever do.

Slowly, the backpack emptied until he couldn’t find anything. Gritting his teeth, his hand scurried around until it settled on a tiny orb, no bigger than a marble. He ripped it out and held the afto in front of him, ready to throw everything he had into his last attack.

That was when he realised that there were no more monsters. Certain his senses were messing with him again like earlier, he looked around, sniffed, tasted the air, even tried to feel for subtle changes in air currents on his skin. The smoke from the barrage of explosions slowly drifted up to the dungeon’s ceiling—a false blue sky—and vanished. It was barren. There was nothing but dark stone. No trees, no many-armed monkeys, and no party members.

The fight was over. He could finally relax. He sunk to his knees and, between his panting, chuckled in the face of death. “Woo! That… was fun. I think I killed… twenty?”

The recoil from using so many aftos in quick succession caused aches and pains like he’d never experienced before. It wasn’t the worst pain he’d felt, but he’d never before felt like his left arm was numb while his chest was on fire.

But worse was that his body was messed up. Wrong. Bone-like spikes protruded from his shoulders, head, and chest. His left arm had bloated to almost twice its normal size. Fire raged within his stomach—literal fire. Licks of red flame shot out every time he exhaled. It took everything he had not to pass out from the agony, and then more to stop it from turning into something fouler.

That agony was wonderful. It meant that Wip was alive.

“I think… the others should be safe… at least,” Wip huffed.

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

Wip was sluggish. He couldn’t react in time. Something bashed him in the back of the head with a metallic klunk. His body went stiff and he fell forwards. His head crashed into the exposed stone floor.

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