NOVEL NEXT 66 - The Sarcastic Peasant Does Something Useless
Archmund's Infrared Lance seared through the three horses that had just emerged from the Dungeon. Not through their heads, and not through their hearts, but straight shots through their bodies, meant to burn through as much of their structural integrity as possible, eradicating them utterly and totally. A sweeping beam that went so quickly that all three collapsed simultaneously, so that none would become stronger on the death of its brethren.
It worked. The three fell and didn't rise again and didn't join the Hundred-Eyed Centaur to get consumed in depraved cannibalism.
A lot can happen in a few moments during the heat of battle, but sometimes the most significant changes happen so slowly you don't notice them at all.
It was called "change blindness". You could look at a tree from summer to winter and not take note of which specific leaves had turned color and fallen, but at the end of the season, the tree would have gone from verdure to dormancy.
Or maybe change blindness was something else. People tended not to notice changes they didn't see. He didn't remember.
Archmund turned back to the fight.
The Hundred-Eyed Centaur had changed, beyond the obvious, glaring Hundred-Eyes. It sallower and thinner. Its musculature had been depleted. Before, its human half had looked a strongman. Now, it looked famished.
It wasn't smart enough to not regenerate itself. Every time it did, it burned away part of its spirit. And so long as it was focused on regeneration, it wasn't focused on offense.
The dead were rage and pain. Lashing out with rage, and shirking away from pain.
The living could push through both.
He felt the currents of the magic shift, saw the glimmering of gold in his air. Yet his own Gemstone Rapier remained passively dim in his hand.
"You stupid… damned… horse!" Xander spat, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing. "Stupid, mewling, creature!"
Xander. Of course it was Xander.
The beast bucked, staggered, stumbled towards him, reeling back from Xander's blows without Archmund's to serve as the counterforce. He jumped back, out of the way, but no need — the Centaur kept its balance. But it started to turn on Xander, tearing its eyes away from Rory's taunt just for a few seconds longer. And longer. And longer.
Diminishing returns? Mithraditism? Conditioned immunity, like inoculation? Rory wasn't going to keep its attention forever. And Xander seemed hell-bent on venting his rage on it.
He couldn't do nothing. He moved to draw his Gemstone Sword —
As Xander vaulted on top of the Centaur's back, clutching its wild, manelike hair with his left hand, flailing his Gemstone Rapier with his right.
"You idiot!"
"Fool!"
Archmund and Rory shouted simultaneously. Their eyes met grimly. They had to keep this idiot alive.
Perhaps a less benevolent noble would've let Xander die a hero, but Archmund had seen enough of blood.
The Centaur started bucking wildly, the eyes on its back and flank tracking Xander and blinking wildly. Xander hit the Monster's back with the side of his blade, striking and striking and striking, without the leverage to stab effectively. The Centaur bucked and bucked, but Xander held on, shoving himself for dear life against its back.
He landed blows against the beast's back, its shoulders, and with a reach of the arm, its chest. Not deep blows, leaving shallow welts that regenerated rapidly. But not random blows, either.
With every buck, every motion of attack, the blade crept higher, and Xander clambered up the beast's back. It was all Archmund could do to strike at the Centaur's arms, keeping them too occupied to throw Xander off like an errant flee, while Rory kept the monster from biting Xander's head off, keeping its eyes turned away.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
It was immensely frustrating. As if Xander was wasting his life, whether for vanity or folly.
Until he slit its throat.
It would have roared. But he had severed its voice, so instead it gurgled, even as the black blood spouting from its neck coagulated and sealed the wound.
And Xander cut it again.
Again, the blood, thick as tar, oozing instead of spurting, scabbing and hardening.
And he cut again.
Again, the blood, runny like wood sap, pooling like resin upon the gash.
And he cut again.
Again, the blood, dribbling out, like the beading droplets of blood from a light wound.
Even as the Hundred-Eyed Centaur bucked and tried to throw him off, Xander held on to it with his left arm and clutched for dear life with his legs. And he cut, and cut, and cut.
"This…. is for… my brother," he panted between attacks.
Archmund had to admire the rash and brute stupidity. In an unkinder world, Xander would have died to pure chance already.
Yet he had cut so deep through the Monster's throat that Archmund could see bone. It still moved, animated by the strings of darkness, but it was soon to fall apart.
He caught Rory's eye. Rory nodded. Together they aimed their weapons — Archmund's Rapier, the tip of Rory's staff — and pierced the Centaur's arms, forcing it into its flesh, binding its arms in place.
And Xander swung his sword a final time—
To lop its head clean off.
The rest of the night passed in a blur.
He remembered swaying on his feet, his eyes fixed upon the mouth of the Dungeon, unsure whether the fight was truly over. Picking Xander up from the dissipating back of the Centaur, the scent of Xander's soiled clothing suddenly hitting Archmund now that the danger was passed. Collecting his own Gems, which had flown to the four corners of the battlefield like caltrops or drones. Still on edge, watching the ominous mouth of the Dungeon.
They saw monstrous horses emerge. He cut them down before they could run amok. He didn't want a repeat of that fight.
His flesh ached. His bones ached. He didn't know how he was alive.
Well, he did know. Bodily Barrier. But he didn't know how it worked, what it truly cost, or if he could do it reliably. Frankly, he was very lucky to be alive.
He'd had every opportunity to simply ask Garth about it, but had focused on swordsmanship and mundane training instead. He was treating this world as one where hard work and diligent effort were rewarded, not whatever secret mechanism was most efficient for developing more Skills.
It was completely necessary to reprioritize. Skills would lead to power. Skills could come from Gems or Gear. He'd made more progress than most, but he still wasn't thinking big enough. Not fast enough.
Angelina, disguised as Mercy, had appeared, though whether from sky or slope he didn't know. She'd looked at him inscrutably, at Rory measuredly, and at Xander pityingly, before raising a beautiful radiant diamond that shined like a second moon.
The Dungeon remained dark — it was the dead of night, after all, but a mundane darkness. Just the absence of light, not the inky malice of the dead. And it was more than the Dungeon. The night itself seemed lighter, purer and less oppressive than it had just moments before. Like innocence, or peace.
He asked, really pestered, Mercy for updates on how everything had gone. A perverse form of fear of missing out. In clipped words — she had raised her emotional barriers, especially in front of Rory — she gave him an update on all that had happened.
A few Monsters had, in fact, managed to escape before they'd arrived. Two had been intercepted by the Lord Granavale and the militia, and been killed with minor but widespread injuries. There was one person who might be on the brink of death. A very lucky break, all things considered.
One Monster had made its way to Granavale coliseum. It was attracted to the ambient power radiated by the Diamond the Princess was carrying. Mary, Gelias Greenroot and Beatrice Blackstone had dispatched it, Beatrice with her frankly unsporting way of dancing in and out of perception, Gelias with his elven power to channel the memories of wood, Mary with her handfan.
There were minimal injuries. Beatrice had stubbed her toe kicking the beast, but that was about it. In fact, they'd even made a bit of a spectacle of it, fighting the Monster in the coliseum, playing keep-away from Angelina, Raehel, and Sister Catherine. The captive townspeople watched, knowing that if the nobles failed they'd be on the menu.
Raehel and Sister Catherine had supported the Princess with their magic, and they were no worse for the wear. Mercy said this in a way that implied permanent trauma was a real possibility, but she didn't elaborate. And Archmund was in no state to challenge her.
Few had died.
Among them were some of Granavale County's best prospective soldiers.
He didn't remember, looking back, the order in which he'd learned all this. How he'd pulled himself out of the Dungeon. Whether he'd gone home on foot or by carriage.
He remembered collapsing, and then pushing himself back up to his feet, supported by Mercy and Rory. Without the adrenaline, without the life-or-death stakes on the line — well, it was as if the magic stopped forcing itself back into him. Or he couldn't force it into the Gems. Without the activation of his flight-or-fight response, it returned to equilibrium.
And that equilibrium couldn't keep him on his feet.
Mercy looked at him with concern. "What happened to him?"
"He took a hit. Went flying," Rory said.
"And he's alive?"
Archmund gurgled. He could feel the depths of their magic from their support. How it was obvious that Mercy's persona was a sheath around her true power and identity, while Rory was as straightforward as could be, bold and brash and in your face about it all.
"I'm glad," was all Mercy said.
But though many of Archmund's memories were occluded, he couldn't help but imagine a slightest twinge of hidden regret on Mercy's face.