Chapter 69 (Patreon)

Rob twiddled his thumbs as he loitered around the entrance to the motel that the Deserters had commandeered as a medical ward. He’d been there for ten minutes already, standing in the middle of the road and staring at the front door like it was a wild animal that would bite if he got too close. I can blow myself up without hesitation, but the idea of opening a door gives me the heebie-jeebies, he thought, sighing internally. Why hasn’t this gotten any easier after three days?

<Because you’re only here to assuage your own guilt,> Diplomacy remarked.

Rob winced. That’s...not fair, man. I’m doing my best here.

<Then prove me wrong and open the door. If you cared more about their well-being than how seeing them might make you feel, we’d already be inside.>

That was all the Skill said before it calmed and entered a state that Rob had dubbed ‘power-saving mode’. It was still active, conscious, and watching, but its emotional impressions were dulled and it wouldn’t offer up any peanut gallery remarks. Ever since Rob had awoken back in Esternard City, having slept through the shattering of the Dungeon Core – which he was still pissed about missing – Diplomacy had spent more than half its time in that state of pseudo-hibernation. It had brushed aside Rob’s worries by saying it just needed more rest, refusing to clarify what exactly Melancholy Resistance had done to put it in that state. Further questioning had turned up jack and shit, in that order.

Rob was having trouble deciding what was worse: the fact that Diplomacy was hiding things from him, or the realization that he was feeling a little lonely without a second voice in his head. He’d gotten used to its presence way too quickly. Rob had his theories on why, but exploring them would involve discussing the nature of Diplomacy’s existence at length with the Skill itself, in a manner that was probably going to come across as insulting at best, accusatory at worst. That would have been a difficult enough topic to broach under normal circumstances, and it was compounded by how Diplomacy had been acting just a tad bit prickly after the Crawl had ended.

It was a real conundrum to mull over, and one that he belatedly noticed he was using to procrastinate, as he was still walking in circles in the middle of the road. Rob smacked himself on the forehead and used the Ring of Teleportation to transport himself directly to the front door of the medical ward, feeling no shame at having employed fantastical magic powers to resolve his own social awkwardness. Without allowing himself any more chances to hesitate, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The front lobby of the motel had been rearranged to provide more space to walk, furniture sequestered into neat rows and anything with sharp edges removed from the premises. It was quiet, the only audible sounds being the occasional muted sob in the distance. Rob gingerly shut the door behind himself, feeling oddly like he was trespassing despite the open invitation he’d been given. The lone person at the front desk raised her head as he approached. She eyed his soft, careful steps with amusement, and he was inclined to agree with her assessment. It wasn’t like the ward’s patients were going to wake up if he made too much noise.

They’d have to be asleep first, and few of them had managed that since returning from the Dungeon Crawl.

“Hey, uh, it’s Rob again,” he said, once he’d reached the front desk. His bold declaration was met with a weary smile.

“Good day, Lord Blightkiller,” Inara replied. She was a woman who appeared to be in her mid-30s, her natural bullshit Elven beauty slightly marred by the heavy dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t believe anyone is in need of healing, but you’re more than welcome to ask.”

“You can just call me Rob,” he mumbled. “And yeah, I figured that was probably the case. Still wanted to be sure. In case, you know.”

She knew. Inara nodded, her smile fading. “Your concern is appreciated, Lord Blightkiller, but I can promise you that there haven’t been any incidents of that nature since the first night. We’ve kept a close eye on the Rangers to ensure that none of them make any attempts to harm themselves.” She let out a deep sigh. “Now that the shock of waking from their illusions has worn off, I believe that the danger of repeat incidents has passed. Most of it, at any rate, and we who stand watch will remain no less vigilant than before. I understand your concerns, but take heart. Your allies are in good hands.”

Inara fixed him with a resolute gaze, one that made the dark circles under her eyes look like war paint. “No further harm will come to the Rangers. I swear this on my life, Lord Blightkiller.”

Please call me Rob, he pleaded, wordlessly. Being called ‘Lord Blightkiller’ here of all places feels wrong. He didn’t press the issue. It meant more for the Deserters’ morale if legendary Blightkillers were walking in their midst than it did for Rob to feel skeeved out by the moniker every now and then.

Instead, he forced his shoulders to relax and gave her a nod. “Thanks. Seriously. What you guys are doing here means a lot. It’s heroic, honestly, and I mean that in the true sense of the word.”

Inara tilted her head an inch to the side. “We’re heroic? You-”

Her eyes widened. Rob followed her gaze and turned to the side, tensing as he noticed their visitor. Randor was leaning against the entrance to a side hallway, panting mildly but with an expression of relief on his face. “You’re here,” he said, without any fanfare. “Good. I was waiting for you to come back.”

“What? Oh, right,” Rob said. He sent Randor a mental Party Invite, flinching in surprise as it was summarily denied.

“The offer is appreciated, but I don’t need healing,” Randor said. “A quick conversation will do.” He turned around and began to walk back to his room on shaky legs, gesturing for Rob to follow. Rob exchanged a look with Inara, searching for answers, but she seemed more surprised than he was. So, eh, fuck it. He had zero delusions that this conversation was going to be a pleasant one – especially as he had an inkling of what it would be about – but there was nothing to do except take his lumps like a man.

Or avoid Randor for the rest of his life.

Hmm. Rob shook his head. No, wouldn’t work. I’m too high-profile. Boy do I ever miss the halcyon days of hiding myself in my room and descending into a weekend Netflix binge whenever I fucked up real bad. The Lord Blightkiller actually has to consort with the common folk and hear their pleas.

Silence. Rob frowned as he followed Randor down the hallway. Really, Diplomacy? That wasn’t enough to get you to pipe up? I used ‘common folk’ like a douchebag and everything. If I admit I was trying to bait you into responding, will you please help me out with this next conversation? I think I’m gonna need it.

Diplomacy stirred. The ephemeral core of energy that made up its being started to shift, transforming from a sphere into something else entirely. Rob almost tripped over his own feet once the Skill finished rearranging itself into its new form: a clenched fist with a raised middle finger.

…Honestly, I’m impressed. I didn’t know you could do that.

A miserable scream pierced through the quiet. Rob turned around so quickly that he felt his joints crack, heart catching in his throat as he ran towards the room where the scream had come from.

“Don’t.”

Rob skid to a halt. He shot a look at Randor, demanding an answer. The fledgling Ranger gulped, and with a bit of effort, Rob managed to tone down the intensity in his gaze. He motioned for Randor to elaborate.

“Screams like that are common,” Randor quickly explained. “Less so than on the first night, but people still...remember. Whoever cried out is already being tended to by their watcher. You would do no better a job at soothing their anguish, and speaking truthfully, you might worsen matters. No man or woman wants to look weak in front of their savior.”

He paused. “I appreciate that you care, though. Makes me feel like a proper asshole for what I’m about to say, but we’ve already come this far, so fuck it, I suppose.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Rob muttered. The reminder that he was surrounded by people nursing mental trauma from an extended stay in a Dreamthief had been humbling. Suddenly, the notion of an uncomfortable conversation didn’t seem so daunting anymore.

Once they’d reached Randor’s room, he opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Bela? I’d like to have a private conversation with the Lord Blightkiller, if that’s alright with you,” he asked, sounding like a kid asking his mother permission to have a friend over. Bela, an Elven woman with an aged appearance, exited the room to give them their privacy. Before Rob closed the door, she sent him a severe glare that plainly stated ‘Don’t make things worse’ without having to say a word.

It sent a chill down his spine, which was encouraging. Inara wasn’t kidding when she said that the Rangers were in good hands.

Randor eased himself back onto his bed, and Rob took a seat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. Neither spoke for about fifteen seconds.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Randor said, emphatically.

The edges of Rob’s lips crept upwards. “Least I could do. Gonna assume that’s not what you dragged me over here to discuss, though.”

“Unfortunately, no.” He hesitated.

“Whatever you have to say, I’m not going to mind,” Rob assured. “I mean, I might mind, but I won’t take it out on you. Contrary to all expectations, I’m perfectly capable of having a reasonable conversation like a grown adult.”

“I wouldn’t suggest otherwise,” Randor said, clearing his throat. “I was trying to think of a way to phrase this without sounding ungrateful, but I can’t, so I’ll just come right out with it.”

He stiffened. “You haven’t been fair to me, or to anyone else that you’ve recently granted a Class Alteration to. Who you choose to include in your Party is your decision, but even so, you have to be aware that people new to their Classes are those who are in most need of Fast Learner. Most of us are struggling to increase our Levels while your friends – who have a head start and greater combat experience – fly ahead of the rest of the pack. Lothren’s grace, I feel as if I blinked and Orn’tol’s little sister went up by ten fucking Levels. If you had included me in your Party before we entered the Dungeon, or if I’d just been a higher Level before starting the Crawl, perhaps-”

He cut himself off, visibly taking pains not to get too worked up. “That’s all. I understand that complaining that I’ve received Class Alteration without Fast Learner is like wishing upon two stars and lamenting that only one came true. But after what happened in the Dungeon Crawl, I felt it would be a disservice to myself and others to continue holding my tongue.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Randor blinked. “I am?”

“What, did you think I was some sort of tyrannical dictator?” Rob replied, sounding – and feeling – a bit offended.

“When Marconez argued against your decision to offer a Class Alteration to me instead of him, you purposefully antagonized and then summarily blacklisted him.”

Rob paused. “Yes, but Marconez is a cunt bitch. If you’d read the same Identify Status Description I did, you’d agree. As far as I can tell, you’re an alright guy, and even if you weren’t, your logic makes sense.”

If Rob was a cunt bitch like Marconez, there were several arguments he could have and would have used to turn the situation around on Randor. He could claim that Randor was being ungrateful after being given an incredible opportunity that no one outside of a select few in the Deserters – in the world, really – would ever be able to take advantage of. He could point out that Randor had accepted the risks when he demanded to join a Dungeon Crawl. He could point out that, if Randor had been part of Rob’s Party upon entering the Dungeon, then the Party freed from the Dreamthieves wouldn’t have possessed enough total manpower to clear the Dungeon without casualties. They’d barely scraped by with a full group where everyone was competent.

But this was a conversation, not a debate. Rob wasn’t here to beat Randor into submission by using low blows and swinging his Lord Blightkiller authority-dick around. He was a Berserker, not a middle manager. In truth, he agreed with the spirit of what Randor was saying, and the counterarguments that the combative side of him had produced on reflex were full of holes, anyway. Randor wasn’t being ungrateful about the opportunity, he was pointing out problems created by Rob’s own stubborn biases. Neither could Randor be blamed for wanting to go on the Dungeon Crawl and snag some EXP, because while there was always risk involved in an endeavor like that, absolutely no one expected it to turn out to be the complete shitshow it ended up being. All things considered, going on a Crawl with around twenty other experienced veterans was about as safe as it was going to get.

And while including Randor in the initial Crawl party would have been a fatal error, that was with the benefit of hindsight and knowing that the Dungeon was so warped that it could kidnap and mentally imprison everyone at the drop of a hat. The smart decision would have been to include their weakest member in Rob’s Party from the get-go. He wasn’t going to let Dungeon bullshit prevent him from making the right choices moving forward.

“I’ll include you guys more often in my Party from now on,” Rob said. “And I’m sorry for giving too much preferential treatment to my friends. You’ve been shortchanged, and it’s my fault.”

It was in the spirit of Diplomacy – who hadn’t helped at all, the sulky bastard – that Rob made sure not to burst out laughing at the dumbfounded look on Randor’s face. He looked like a boxer who stepped into the ring, raring to go, only to find that his opponent had surrendered before the fight began. “Oh. In that case, thank you. I look forward to it.”

“Awesome. Anything else you want to talk about?”

“No, that was the one topic of import.”

Rob grinned. “Then it’s settled. See you on the outside, Randor.”

He was mentally kicking himself the entire walk back to the front desk. ‘See you on the outside?’ The heck does that even mean? This is why I’m not cut out for leadership. Who ever heard of an authority figure with lame parting lines?

“I presume that it went well?” Inara asked. “You appear much more at ease than before.”

Rob sighed in an exaggerated manner. “It went pretty good, I guess. Stumbled over the finish line, but what else is new.”

She hummed in contentment. “I’m glad that you two were able to reach an accord. When Randor heard of the lengths you and your friends went to rescue him during the Dungeon Crawl, he wouldn’t keep quiet about it for a full solid day.”

Rob scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t tell him that you told me that. I’m turning red just from the secondhand embarrassment alone.”

“That would be firsthand embarrassment, Lord Blightkiller,” Inara stated. “As you possess a complete inability to accept compliments. Would you prefer I directly state the degree to which your Party’s heroics have spread among the Deserters, akin to a wildfire in Ixatan’s dry season?”

He said his goodbyes and very casually powerwalked out of the building, Inara’s laughter ringing in his ears.

--

Guttural wailing assaulted Malika’s ears. The sounds of animals, Elves, Humans, and every other race in the world were mixed together in one continuous pitch of displeasure. Its grating discordance matched the misshapen figures of the plants located within the underground farms, as if the faces of various living creatures had been grafted onto every kind of plant without any rhyme or reason – and certainly without an eye for aesthetics.

Malika put their sight and sounds out of her mind, but was unable to ignore their smell; according to Elder Duran, in the short time since the mutated plants had been discovered, they’d begun to rot and fester. The underground farms currently reeked like a thousand skunks had been thrown onto a pile of a thousand rotting corpses, because of course the horrid things wouldn’t be satisfied with assaulting just two of her senses. She’d plug her nose if she could, but she still had to breathe, and doing so through her mouth might actually be worse. The air was so thick with the plants’ pungent aura that she could taste it, foul vapors settling on her tongue and causing her to gag.

And she preferred every one of those sensations combined to what she experienced when she Sensed the plants’ mana.

All in all, she was looking forward to expunging their existence.

Malika retched as a particularly revolting aroma tickled her nose. The Mana Link she’d established with the other Mages flickered, prompting concerned glances that burned her cheeks in embarrassment. “I’m doing my best, alright?!” she said. “This is difficult and I learned it yesterday!”

“No one is judging you, Malika,” Elder Duran replied. The kindly smile he sent her way was mildly infuriating. How could he talk so openly and easily while acting as if continuing the Mana Link was no burden at all? The tenuous connection she’d formed with the other Mages’ mana signatures had been simple to establish, but keeping it steady was something else entirely. It felt like holding up a heavy weight while trying not to blink, requiring raw mental energy and consistent concentration in equal measure. The former came easily enough to her, but the latter…

Orn’tol will never let me hear the end of it if he finds out I endangered the Mages’ efforts to expunge the Blight by being too scatterbrained. Frustration mounted, which just made concentration harder, which frustrated her more. It was a vicious cycle that she didn’t know how to put a stop to.

Objectively, Malika recognized that she shouldn’t be so harsh on herself for not perfecting the art of Mana Linking in a weekend. That she’d mastered as much of the Skill as she had in two days was already causing the other Mages to look at her like she was abnormal. The dilemma at hand was that they didn’t know how long it was before the Blight located the Locus of Power within Esternard City. Rob assured them that the Locus hadn’t been compromised – because he could sense them now, apparently, why not – but the Locus wasn’t especially far away from the underground farms. For all they knew, the Blight’s Infected plants had already spread their roots under the entire city. More plants would start growing outside of the farms, popping up in the middle of the street or under someone’s bed. Eventually the entire city would be overrun by horrid mutated plants grasping at people with tendrils and pulling them into gnashing maws.

Less dramatic than a horde of mutated animals descending from the hills, but if left unchecked, no less deadly.

The Deserters had tried fire. The plants grew back. They’d tried excavation. The roots had retreated deeper underground like wriggling worms, returning to the surface once the threat had passed. Nothing they’d attempted had managed to do more than inflict superficial blows against the Infected plantlife. Perhaps things would have been easier with additional spellcasters, but between her, Elder Duran, four other generalized Mages, and two specialized Healers, that left a mere eight of them to try and magic up a solution to the Blight’s encroachment. Elder Alessia would have been a great help, but she – and the remaining two Healers – were recuperating from their extended imprisonment in the Dreamthieves and wouldn’t be casting magic for at least another day or so.

The one silver living in their dreadful predicament was that Malika had come back from the Dungeon with 13 more Mind and 20 more Magic than she’d had when entering. Without that, she wouldn’t have been able to learn Mana Link on such short notice, and their current stratagem wouldn’t have been possible at all.

“We needn’t rush,” Elder Duran continued. “There’s no sign that the Blight has spread closer to the Locus, or is even aware of where it is. Additionally, it’s not nearly as powerful or far-reaching as the Infected animals that attacked The Village. We’ve caught the beast in its larval state, and while we must take advantage of this opportunity, rushing forward ill-prepared would be to our detriment. It may be wise to spend a few extra days refining your expertise in the art of Mana Linking. While you’ve done well to learn as much as you have in so short a time, Linking is-”

“Dangerous, I’m aware. I have eyes and ears, Elder Duran,” Malika said, without any venom. The act of forming words while simultaneously staying tethered to the Mana Link was making her head throb. “The Blight itself isn’t the only problem to contend with. You’re on half rations again. And attempting to feed me full rations while hiding your growling stomachs and gazes of longing at larger meals.”

Now it was Elder Duran’s turn to blush in embarrassment. Malika rolled her eyes – had he honestly thought that he was being sneaky? For as smart as Elder Duran was, he could be very foolish sometimes.

“Every day we spend preparing to expunge the Blight is another day where we eat into our supplies,” Malika continued, pressing her advantage. “I’ve seen the scavengers at work. Too much of the preserved food in Esternard was looted by the occupying armies or destroyed in The Cataclysm. If the Blight doesn’t take us, then starvation will. Esternard has nothing left to offer us. The sooner we travel north to Broadwater City, the sooner we can replenish our stores and fill our bellies.”

Her eyes shone in determination. “And I refuse to leave Esternard while the Blight yet lives. It won’t hurt us ever again.”

Elder Duran sighed, looking very sad for reasons she couldn’t understand. “Malika...what transpired in the Dungeon Crawl is not your fault.”

“My fault?” She echoed, confused. “Why would I think it’s my fault?”

“I’ve spoken to many a person who returned from a disastrous Dungeon Crawl,” Elder Duran said, speaking in an undertone that the other Mages wouldn’t be able to hear. “Invariably, most of them feel a need to assume responsibility for the events that occurred, whether logically or illogically. Your tone and your countenance suggest a great deal of pain, young Malika. When you speak, I hear righteous aggression, a desire for justice – and buried under all of that, guilt.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” she snapped, and the Mana Link snapped with her. Stars and colors twinkled in her vision as she collapsed with a strangled cry. Elder Duran caught her before she hit the ground.

“You are not to blame,” he said, in a hushed voice. “And I want you to be aware of that fact. There was no fault in your actions.”

Malika’s face twisted into a scowl as she covered her eyes with an arm. “I already know that,” she said, betrayed by the warble in her tone. “It’s not my fault that the Dungeon captured everyone the second we stepped inside. I only demanded I should go because I thought there would be so many others to protect me. And I needed Levels, and my low Stamina shouldn’t have been that big a deal, and the Dreamthief, i-it showed me-”

She bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood. A few seconds later, she took a deep breath, sniffed, and stood up.

“I’ll have a good cry later,” she admitted, too mentally worn-down to be ashamed at her admission. “Right now, the Blight needs to die. I hate it, and I want it dead. Killing it will make me feel better than anything else will.”

Elder Duran examined her closely. Whatever he found, it passed his test. He stepped back to his place in line next to the other Mages – who had thankfully looked away during her embarrassing performance – and extended his mana towards her. Malika pushed at her own mana, feeling like she was stretching her arm out by ten feet as she compelled it to extend outwards from herself. Her mana grabbed Elder Duran’s, and she rejoined the Mana Link once more.

A group of spellcasters that had Linked their Mana could accomplish greater things than if they were separate. Greater, not more. Spellcasters who Linked were not granted the ability to cast more than one spell per person; in fact, the opposite was true. While Linked, one person held the reins, and only they could use magic. If your goal was to cast numerous spells at once, then a Mana Link was counterproductive. But if your goal was to accomplish something greater than the abilities of any one spellcaster in your group, then Linking together was invaluable. It was the difference between sending eight people with wooden sticks to kill a lion versus sending one person with a sharpened sword. The leader of the Mana Link gained stats, MP, Skills, and expertise from each person in the Link, elevating their power to heights far above their personal Level.

The process was imperfect. Creating a Mana Link took time and could not be done on a whim. The leader didn’t gain the full measure of his allies’ capabilities, just a portion. Maintaining the Link was difficult, and those who broke it during a critical moment would receive mental backlash akin to a debilitating migraine – if they were fortunate. And the leader of the Link needed to be a true master of the arts to control it effectively. But the surge of power it afforded was, in this case, well worth the risk. With the collective sum of their power, the Blight would fall. Eight spellcasters would come together as one and do the impossible.

For one brief moment, they would taste godhood.

...That’s how Malika liked to think of it, anyway, and she wouldn’t let anyone else spoil her fun.

“Concentrate on sustaining the Link for the next twenty minutes,” Elder Duran addressed to the room, but mostly to her. “If we’re able to hold it for that long, then we’ll proceed to the next step and conduct an investigation attempt. A preliminary investigation attempt.”

Twenty minutes?! Malika grimaced at the awful, sensible injustice of it all. Alas, she had no choice but to be patient and meet his expectations. The minutes dragged on, twenty minutes stretching into an eternity of discordant cries and foul aromas. If nothing else, the distractions were helping her learn to focus on keeping her mana signature’s connection to Elder Duran’s signature unbroken. The notion that the Blight was – in a roundabout way – helping improve the Skill that she needed to kill it was a thought that brought her no small amount of vengeful amusement.

Mana Link Proficiency Level Increased! 2 → 3

Malika let out an internal sigh as sustaining the Link became just a little bit easier.

Finally, mercifully, twenty minutes had passed. Elder Duran looked at each of them in turn, his eyes lingering on her before giving her a small nod. “Very well,” he said. “Be on your guard. This will be unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.”

Malika doubted that. Sense Mana Level 17 meant that she’d already experienced sensations that the average spellcaster would never dream of. Elatra was a tapestry of life and color, and she’d borne witness to so much. The good and the bad, the wondrous and the monstrous. Things she thought were commonplace – and which, apparently, were not.

It was why they needed her. Pure power wouldn’t be enough to expunge the Blight. They needed to be able to sense it, to get a grasp of how deeply underground it had spread its roots – and where to strike to injure it as grievously as possible. Much like Rob shared his Vitality buffs, she was in the Mana Link so that Elder Duran could take advantage of Sense Mana.

She would find the Blight’s heart, and he would strike at it.

The pressure within the Mana Link intensified as Elder Duran drew upon the mages’ power. Her mind felt like a rope being stretched to its limit, but the sensation was worth being granted the opportunity to watch an Elder at the height of his craft, putting centuries of knowledge and experience into practice, now unfettered by his own bodily limitations. Within seconds, he had constructed a dowsing spell utilizing the shared limits of their Sense Mana Skills – mostly hers – and sent it plunging down into the ground. The Infected plants screeched and snapped their tendrils forward, but Duran turned them aside with a wave of his hand, sending cutting gales of pocketed air that traveled along the ground and diced the plants into upturned bowls of salad.

I can’t wait until I can do that, Malika thought, smiling wide like she’d been given a promise of cookies in the near future.

The dowsing spell continued to sink underground. Like a lantern being lowered down a hole, it illuminated what awaited below, prompting a round of curses from the other spellcasters. Malika suppressed a smug grin. Despite the circumstances, the mages’ abhorrence raised her spirits. At long last, people were going to see exactly what she saw, and feel exactly what she felt.

Maybe now they would understand why she hadn’t wanted to wait any longer to try and kill the Blight.

Its roots had spread deep, deep underground, the lowest of which was longer than the tallest building in Esternard City. In actuality, they appeared more like snakes than roots, wriggling and flinching back from the dowsing spell as it revealed their presence. She could practically hear the hissing. One root lashed out as the dowsing spell neared, snuffing it out with a surge of corrupted mana.

Didn’t matter. They’d seen all they needed to see. And more importantly, they’d felt everything they needed to feel.

The group fell silent.

“It’s vile,” Malika said, putting the stunned spellcasters’ thoughts into words. “Poison and hatred. Sickness and death. We kill it, or it kills us. That’s all there is to it.”

“Do you always Sense this?” One of the Healers asked, in an awestruck tone. Malika would have appreciated the awe more if it hadn’t been tinged with pity.

“Ever since I entered one of the underground farms,” she explained. “It had concealed itself before then. Either I learned how to pick up on its mana signature after getting close, or it’s stopped caring and isn’t bothering to hide anymore.” She shuddered. “Either way, I can feel it from anywhere in the city now. As far as I’m concerned, this entire place stinks to high heaven. Blech. Like rotten eggs in my face, every second of every day, except a hundred times worse.”

Malika glanced at Elder Duran, who had an expression of fierce contemplation. “What now?” She knew she was being impatient, and she didn’t care. “How many more dowsing spells must we send down until we figure out how to kill it?”

“Zero.”

Her eyes widened as the Elder pulled hard on her mana and the mana of the other spellcasters. His genial eyes had turned thunderous with rage, glowing blue as the surrounding air began to thrum with power.

“It will not happen again,” Elder Duran declared, furious. “Barren or otherwise, I will not stand by and let another city fall prey to the Blight. This invader will be torn out, root, stem and all, and be thrown onto the pyre it so well deserves.”

Malika struggled to maintain her place in the Link as a huge blue spear materialized in the air. It was ten feet long, formed of pure, crystallized mana, and its tip was shining red. Elder Duran siphoned most of their collective MP into its formation, and when that well had run dry, proceeded to grab every last scrap of mana out of the air that he could, fortifying the spear with as much energy as it could contain. Three spellcasters collapsed, physically unharmed but unable to bear the mental strain of maintaining the Mana Link and keeping their balance at the same time.

“I saw the heart,” Elder Duran said. A twinge of fear spiked within Malika at the sound of his voice. He didn’t sound like, well, him. Less like the kindly Elder that had taken her as an apprentice, and more like a distant force of nature. “The abomination dies. Here, and now.”

Malika had witnessed lightning strike at a distance on plenty of occasions. Once or twice, she’d idly wondered what it would be like to be at the epicenter of an instance of nature’s fury. To hear the thunderclap up close, to feel the pressure on her skin. Minus the electrocution, of course.

She didn’t need to wonder any longer.

Her eardrums burst as the spear was launched directly into the ground, drilling through solid dirt and clay with nary a hint of resistance. Within a tenth of a second, it had reached the ‘heart’ of the Blight; a gray, pulsating mass located within the largest root. The spear pierced into the mass and stopped cold. An instant later, white-hot mana flooded out, in, and up the roots, injecting itself into the Blight’s bloodstream. Broken screams rang out through the city as the Blight was burnt from the inside out, its regenerative properties scoured away by the sheer force of the cleansing mana that Elder Duran had formed. The ground trembled as the abomination's massive roots shook in their death throes. Small geysers of mana exploded out of the soil as any traces of the corruption’s presence were eradicated.

And then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. The Blight was no more.

The group of spellcasters stared dumbstruck at Elder Duran, whose facial expression had morphed from ‘wrathful demigod’ to ‘I require a nap’. He blinked in confusion several times, gently dissolving the Mana Link as he rubbed his temples. The Elder mouthed words that Malika’s damaged ears couldn’t hear, but that she assumed were something resembling ‘What just happened?’.

Malika had many things she wanted to say. She settled on the thought that was ringing loud and honest from inside the very depths of her soul.

“THAT WAS SO COOL!”

--

Thanks for reading!