Chapter 168: Chapter 160 – Headhydra

Chapter 160 - Headhydra

Pulling his sword out of a dead turpedo’s throat. Zelos Redleaf turned his eyes on the nearest tree. The leafy palm immediately abided by his will; it sprouted a new branch from the base of its trunk, grabbed the reptile by its rear hooves, and lifted it into the air. The lifeblood that flowed from the creature’s neck fed into the plant’s roots, providing it with all the energy and nutrients required to compensate for its sudden, unexpected growth.

The elf walked along the beach whilst his organic servant handled the bloodletting, his eyes focused on one of many far-off islands. The particular sandy shore he was watching sat roughly two kilometers away, on the opposite side of Sky Lagoon. It was a brand new construct, a piece of land installed only after Alfred’s most recent announcement.

In a completely unexpected turn of events, the demigod had suddenly declared that his operations would temporarily be put on hold. The artificial dungeon that was the lost library would remain fully functional, with all its various pieces persisting exactly as they were. But his victims were captives no longer. He had even offered to facilitate their departure, hence the portal’s addition. It had been placed immediately after the battles were concluded, but only activated the morning of Zelos’ return.

It had been a week since the elf last visited the citadel; he had abandoned it after his less-than-inconspicuous betrayal and never returned. He had even shied away from Sky Lagoon, until his wife demanded a meal crafted from the flesh of an ascended turpedo. The high elf knew that she had made the request for his sake. She had not exactly been fond of the way he had spent the past few days moping around at home and shutting himself behind locked doors.

Unable to ignore the stunningly beautiful woman’s pleas, the elf acquiesced and returned to the domain made of equal parts water and sky. Brand new island aside, it looked no different from how it was just a few weeks prior. The buildings had been restored, the stampede of monsters was gone, and all the local ecosystems were already back to normal. Everything was back to normal. Except his damaged relations.

Beckard was the only one of his friends that still lived. The others had all been killed. By his very own daughter, and her bloodthirsty friend.

Pressing a hand to his face, the elf leaned back against another palm and looked at the new island again. Despite his distaste for the human celestial, he found himself impressed by the man’s handiwork. The magical formation was incredibly stable. It had seen an obscene amount of use in the four-odd hours since its activation; a dozen groups had stopped by in the last twenty minutes alone, with about half of each departing, some for their homes, and others for lands unknown.

The lost library’s torches were not the only ones that found themselves on the other side of the portal. Because no magic was required for the device’s activation, some of the local animals and monsters had also ventured through, more often by accident than not. One by one, the curious creatures were teleported, sent to whatever lands the last sentients had happened to choose.

One such group, a collection of turpedos, was on the cusp of repeating the mistake. They ventured towards it curiously and prodded it with their flippers, but an adventurer shooed them off before they found themselves spirited away.

The individual in question was Eric. He was accompanied by Neil, the only other Sthenian soldier to have survived the Llystletein experience. Of the thirty-seven transported to the library, roughly two dozen years prior, only twelve had lived the first week, and nine the next. They were down to just four by the time they arrived at the citadel. And Gurd was the sole individual to retain his will to fight. The others were all broken, unwilling to train themselves from scratch and regain their lost power with their own hands.

Gurd had been a promising fellow, but his ambition had also been his downfall. From what his companions had gathered, he likely fell, after dueling the equitaur. His bones were found in a hellhog’s lair, a sure-fire sign that he had been slain before he could fully recover from his bout. Meghan, their third companion, had met a similar demise. Zelos had watched her flame flicker out, when he stared into the celestial’s fireplace and observed the encroaching hordes.

With the werebears gone, the turtles approached the portal again, but a different group chased them away before their curiosity came to consequence. The second party consisted of two previously disjoint cliques, one centered around Lova, and the other by Marleena. It was a strange cast. Centaurs and Kryddarians often found it difficult to get along; their racial characteristics were effectively at odds, and each group found the details of the other’s limb count grotesque. It was not just their physical features, but also their cultures that drew them apart. The half-equines were barbaric and often practiced a belligerent warrior culture. Their societies valued strength and thought it only right for the strong to reign over the weak. Meanwhile, the moths preferred unity; they sought to build civilizations where all were treated equally, regardless of power, race, or position. But the stereotypical traits were irrelevant. Because they were demonstrated in none of the individuals present.

Marleena was strict. Many thought her rigid adherence to the rules as more of a nuisance than a strength, but she never abandoned her creed. The warrior-tribe’s descendant rarely resorted to violence and avoided conflict at every turn. Likewise, Carter mostly kept to himself. He was quieter than most and often spent his days walking along the beach and gazing off into the distance, even though he claimed that he was guilty of murder.

Despite his reluctance to fight, the man had regained almost half the levels he lost, with all his non-racial classes hovering at around level 150—a recent development for sure. Zelos was well aware that the supposed convict had only been around level 70, prior to Alfred’s attack. Marleena and Lova’s group trailed slightly behind, but they were all in roughly the same range. The elf was unable to determine if any of them had acquired their class’ Llystletein variants, but he believed it likely. There were too many lords for them to have missed the requirements.

Their relative incompetence aside, Lova’s group never left much of an impression. He knew that they were focused more on their craftsmanship, but the elf and his friends had done the same without sacrificing their efficacy in combat. They had gotten around the losses by unifying the abilities they used for art and battle; Fred had harnessed the flame of his forge by producing it within his body, Archie covered for his weaknesses with machines, and Beck called upon his scriptures for power. Zelos was no exception. He weaponised both his musical compositions and his runic writings. With the two combined, he was able to draw out more power than most adventurers in his range, and he had been confident that Fred’s students should have been able to do the same, but none of them had ever achieved the mastery required, neither during the battle, nor the time preceding it.

Thoughts of his friends still spinning around in his head, Zelos frowned and lowered his eyes. Two of them were dead. The only one left had scorned him after hearing his reasons, labeling him a backstabber, a blasphemer, and a sellout. And he was right. As much as the elf wanted to deny the claims, he knew that the priest had spoken no slander. At the end of the day, he had turned traitor. He had thrown away his mission even after the goddess provided him the opportunity to meet and impress the love of his life. He knew that Flux had given him everything he had ever wanted. And that he had failed to fulfil his duty.

But he did not regret his choice.

Like every other Llystletein fox, Dixie was born at level 250. Having two ascensions naturally baked into the core of her being, her lifespan was longer than most; it was rare for a fox not to live at least a full thousand years. But that was it. She would eventually age and fade with time. Because for all the picture perfect parts of her absolutely adorable personality, the fairy was not without her flaws. Her greatest weakness was a lack of motivation. The only levels she gained were passively acquired from the things she did in her everyday life. She never went out of her way to kill, and she was far from growing fast enough to extend her ticking timer.

Zelos himself was met with a similar set of limitations. Elves were short-lived. Most of the unascended greenwoods would turn into spirits or plants by age sixty. As a level 800 high elf variant, the rune mage had a little longer than most of the others that shared his blood, but even then, he was unlikely to last any more than five hundred years.

Eventually, they would both breathe their last.

A thought that only sent shivers coursing through his spine.

As a seasoned warrior, a true master of the blade, he had long come to terms with the possibility that he would one day fall in battle. But only in battle was he willing to accept his end. He was never truly helpless with an opponent standing before him. His songs could quite literally warp reality and provide him the opportunity to seize victory with his own two hands. Time, however, was not something he could battle against. Its passing, its flow, could never truly be stopped or reversed, only altered. A tenet at the core of his goddess’ teachings.

That was why he had agreed to Alfred’s proposal. That was why he had tried to render the other paladins incapable of combat, why he had given up on his mission, even though he had already been paid in advance.

It was all worth the tiny pocket of time he would buy. For the many years they would be able to spend in Llystletein. Together.

Balling his hands into fists, he raised his head and looked back towards the portal. The previous group had already departed, replaced by a single, tiny, hooded figure.

Seeing Beckard with his face obscured reminded him of when they first met. They were hostile back then as well, but the terms they were on now were far worse. There was no longer any potential for recovery. No way to amend their relationship. He was responsible for the deaths of their two closest friends. And the failure of their joint divine quest.

Still, he walked across the water and approached the old priest, the orphan once sold as a pet, and the man that had fought a leviathan by his side.

Beckard was leaving. It was his last chance to make amends.

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And he had every intention of allowing the priest to at least air his grievances.

It was the least he could do. As the only friend that the old cat-sith still had.

___

With the miniboss behind them, Claire’s group blazed through the dungeon at an alarming pace. They made it to the twenty-first floor by the end of the first day, and the twenty-eighth by the end of the second. The levels themselves remained roughly the same size, but the amount of time required to complete them grew with every flight of stairs. Every set of halls from the twentieth onward had a notable spike in both the number of enemies and their relative power. Even the klimgor tyrant that guarded the fifteenth floor was turned from a rare guardian to a common lackey. Floor 26 had them in packs, floor 27 introduced their variants, and floor 28 had each group led by a level 350 unique.

And yet, Claire found her levels refusing to budge. She had gotten a few from the first couple of kills, but the klimgors soon became as worthless as Llystletein’s lords, with each giving only a tiny bit of experience. The lyrkress had her hopes up for floor 29, but reaching it left her deflated and annoyed.

Because it was empty—completely devoid of life.

“Where are the monsters?” she asked, in a whisper. The tone was a product of the environment. It was dark and quiet; there were still torches lining the walls, but none were lit aflame. She didn’t want to speak aloud and break the status quo, even though her ears could tell that there was nothing creeping around in the dark.

“I don’t think there are any.” Lia stepped forward and peered down the hall. Her feline eyes almost seemed to glow like lanterns in the night, but she soon shook her head. “None nearby, at least.”

“I can’t find anything either,” said Sylvia. “This whole floor just feels kinda weird and dead.”

Claire frowned, but pressed on, wandering through the darkness with her ears peeled. She could feel some sort of gaze on her, other than the catgirls’, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The odd sensation persisted until they reached the next set of stairs, but they remained completely unmolested. It never struck, no matter how long it watched them.

“Lia. Wait.” Claire grabbed the catgirl’s shoulder, stopping her just before she descended the steps. “I hear something.” The sounds she heard weren't the ones she expected. There were no bestial roars, clattering blades, or pounding footsteps, only shouts of an entirely sentient nature. Two people were yelling at each other, a pair of men, both screaming insults of a crude and phallic nature.

Natalya turned around and nodded, her face adorned by a charming smile. Her silence was preserved only by the lykress, who had pressed a finger against her lips.

With the half moose moving forward and taking the lead, the group descended the steps at a snail’s pace. Claire’s hooves were naturally loud; they would clatter against the stone even with her sneaking skill active, so she turned herself into a lamia about a third of the way through the downwards climb. Likewise, Lia’s boots drew too much attention. Sylvia had to put her in a bubble and bump her along with her nose.

“Be reasonable! You’ve slain everything on both floors for gods know how many days! At least give us a turn!”

“We haven’t slain anything, dickhead! Both floors were empty by the time we arrived!”

“Bullshit!”

One of the two frustrated men was clearly a dwarf; his voice carried the characteristic gruffness and his heart was too close to the ground for him to be anything else. The other, she couldn’t immediately identify. His anger was all that leaked through.

Reaching the bottom of the staircase revealed that he was a lizardman. And unlike the tiny anomaly she saw in the citadel, he stood at a full six feet. He bashed his tail against the floor each time he shouted, but the dwarf wasn’t intimidated, not by him, nor the giantess towering over them both. He had his arms crossed, his brow creased, and a clear frown on his clean-shaven face.

“I don’t know what to tell you, mate. We haven’t killed it yet ‘cause it’s not here. Never was.”

“What do you take us for, greenhorns? Everyone knows that Farenlight never leaves its arena!” screamed the lizard. “This is an insult! An affront to our pride!” His veins were on the verge of popping out of his scale-plastered face.

“Well maybe, y’should take your pride and shove it up your arse, mate. ‘Cause I ain’t a liar.”

“Bullshit!” Every exchange drew the lizard’s fingers closer to the hilt of his blade; it would only be a matter of time before the circumstances got out of hand.

It wasn’t as if the other party was unaware of the danger. The dwarf’s eyes remained focused on the weapon. And that was precisely why he failed to see the attack. The giantess’s foot crashed down on him from above. Her massive, cast-iron greaves caved in the tiny man’s head before he could react and quite literally blew his mind all over the floor.

The deceased mountaindweller’s party members, a pair of figures hidden beneath their cloaks, immediately drew their weapons, but their chances were looking grim. They were outnumbered and encircled. And the lizardman didn’t appear particularly bothered by the giant’s outburst. As could be seen by the sneer that made its way across his maw.

“We’re stepping in,” said Claire.

“Okay,” said Lia, with an innocent smile.

She seemed to think that the lyrkress was working to uphold some sort of justice, to subdue the guilty and aid the innocent. But Sylvia knew better. She could only watch over the pair with a strained smile as the lyrkress sought to claim the free experience for herself.

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