Dungeon of Assassins [LitRPG Through the Eyes of the NPCs]

The forests north of the academy were quiet at this time of year, autumn winds scouring the canopy and painting the world in red and gold. Mist coiled between the roots, carrying the smell of damp soil.

The Harbingers moved through it like a disease, killing animals and monsters alike.

OrkSlayer strode at the front, his plate freshly lacquered in muted autumn hues. Deep brown, russet, ochre, that blended seamlessly with the trees around him. Despite the heavy metal, every step landed without sound, as though the forest itself conspired to carry him. Behind him lumbered Umblai the troll, his club slung lazily across one shoulder. Shannara followed, her eyes sharp with disdain for everything she surveyed. Last came Sef the anubian Defiler Druid, his jackal head adorned with beads and charms that swayed with each step. Where his staff touched the earth, the soil darkened.

The trees thinned. The air seemed to shift.

After some scouting, they'd found a thicket on a hill from where they could see their target. A clearing where silence ruled, where birds were too afraid to sing and insects dared not hum. Knots swelled like eyes along the trunks, and the ground itself seemed wary of their tread.

"Here," Sef rasped, hunger lacing his voice. "A remnant of Fliedabarr's worship. Forgotten by men. But not forgotten by the land."

Shannara's lips curled. "And guarded, no doubt. Sacred places rarely lie empty."

"Of course," Sef agreed. His clawed fingers gestured toward the grove's heart, where they could now make out the guardians unmoving form.

It towered three times the height of a man, a grotesque shape of bundled roots and twigs, knitted into the rough parody of a human form. Branches bristled from its shoulders, bearing autumn leaves. Its hollow sockets burned with green fire. Thorns ringed his head like a crown.

Sef whistled impressed. "A Konnroot King, the last stage of the Konnroot development. Wherever the tiny bundles of twigs appear, quests are issued to regularly decimate them. It is vital to keep them from uniting and reaching the next phases. Two and three are manageable, but as soon as their numbers reach the numbers to unite to their fourth phase, it becomes a real pain to get rid of them. The king form is… their seventh phase? Not sure about that, but as soon as they reach it, all Konnroot from a wide area unite with him. They are a force of nature."

OrkSlayer's hand brushed the hilt at his side. The sentient longsword whispered instantly into his mind, its French lilt thick with derision.

Ah, merveilleux. Another wooden puppet.

OrkSlayer smirked. "Don't sulk. You cut wood as well as flesh."

Couper du bois? Cut wood? I was born to taste le sang! Hot, red, alive. Not to do the work of a lumberjack's axe.

"You'll cut what I tell you to cut."

Un maître cruel. You are without poetry, without style. Always duty, never pleasure. Cruel fate, that has bound me to you.

The sword fell silent.

They crouched in the thicket and planned their next move.

"Fire will not work," Shannara observed. "Fliedabarr's divine enchantment still lingers on the grove and even the surrounding wood. Flames will do nothing."

"Good," Umblai grunted, grinning tusks bared. "Means more smashing for me."

Sef crouched and drew lines in the dirt, runes flickering red where his claws traced. "I will prepare a containment circle. If it falls there, it cannot rise and I can drain its essence. The core will be ours."

OrkSlayer rose. "Then we make it stumble."

Shannara smirked. "And how do you plan to lure it? A knight shouting challenges?"

"No," OrkSlayer said simply. His gaze swept to the guardian. "I'll be the shadow it never sees."

He moved and almost vanished from sight even for the observers that knew where he was. The lacquered armor caught no glint of light, blending with the mottled reds and browns of autumn leaves. Despite the plates, he was silent. Unnervingly so. A predator in steel.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

The Konnroot King stirred, sensing the threat too late.

The sword hissed in his mind.

Oh, magnifique. You sneak like a thief while dressed like a knight. And for what? To strike at driftwood?

"Driftwood or not," OrkSlayer whispered, "it bleeds in its own way."

It does not bleed, imbécile! It cracks. It creaks. I will taste nothing!

He leapt, blade flashing.

Steel carved into roots. Fibers tore with a sound like screaming timber. The Konnroot King's leg gave way, and the giant toppled sideways, crashing through a birch.

See? Bois mort! Dead wood! Nothing! Not a drop of the red liquid of life! Why me?

"Because you're sharp and you are here."

For a heartbeat, it seemed like an easy victory. Unable to stand, the King would not stand a chance against his team.

Then roots writhed from the stump, knitting a new leg in the time the Konnroot took to make a single step. The Konnroot King's gaze burned brighter as it fixed on OrkSlayer.

It pursued.

The sword shrieked in his mind.

It lives without blood. Une hérésie! How can such a thing walk this world?

"Complaining later. Running now."

OrkSlayer fled between trees where faint wires gleamed in the mist. He darted lightly, guiding the monster with every step.

The Konnroot King barreled after, shaking earth. Its feet caught on the wire.

It stumbled.

Umblai roared and erupted from hiding. His massive club swung in a savage arc, striking the guardian's back with bone-breaking force.

The Konnroot King reeled… and toppled directly into the glowing circle Sef had carved.

Runes ignited, red light spearing upward. The monster thrashed, but the circle constricted like chains.

Sef's eyes blazed. "Now… your strength is mine."

His staff touched the edge of the circle. Power and lifeforce arced up along his staff into the defiler druid's body. The Konnroot howled, a sound like forests splitting under storm winds.

The Harbingers fell upon it from all sides.

Umblai smashed its torso, each blow cracking roots into splinters.

OrkSlayer danced in close, cutting bundles apart with precision.

Encore! Encore! But for what? Splinters in my teeth? You humiliate me, maître.

"You'll live."

Without wine, without blood, am I truly alive?

Shannara scowled at the monster. "Do you know how many monsters resist my art? Golems, slimes, and of course plant monsters. My mind bends kings, yet here I am, reduced to lumber work!" She swung an axe they usually used for making firewood in double-handed frustrated arcs.

The Konnroot strained, dragging itself toward the circle's edge.

"Oh no, you don't," Sef growled, driving more energy through his staff. Black rot spread across the monster's bark, slowing its regrowth.

But still it fought.

"Use the scroll!" OrkSlayer barked.

Shannara stepped back, dropped the axe and pulled out a parchment. As she read the incantation aloud, the words started glowing. The scroll burned to nothing in a flash, then a grey ray struck from right above at the plant monster. A wave of decay burst outward. Roots withered, and bark turned brittle.

Umblai leapt high and smashed down, breaking an arm entirely.

Still the creature reformed its body and tried to rise.

"Potion bombs!" Sef commanded.

Sef hurled a vial. Frost burst across a leg, freezing it solid. Shannara lobbed another. Ice crept over branches.

Frozen sap… ugh. Cold as a corpse without blood. At least corpses had blood once.

"Shut up and cut!" OrkSlayer snarled, driving the sword deep. The blade sheared through the frozen limb, which shattered beneath Umblai's next strike.

Sef's circle flared, crushing the guardian inward.

"Now!"

They struck together.

Umblai smashed its chest. OrkSlayer's sword cleaved upward, shrieking its discontent. Shannara managed just in time to pick up her axe again to join in. Sef held the staff against the circle, his other hand making a pulling motion as he drew essence out of the Konnroot King.

The King quivered. Green light drained from its sockets. Then its vast body collapsed, roots curling like worms in death.

Silence fell.

The sword exhaled in OrkSlayer's head.

Enfin… fini. Next time, blood. You owe me, maître. A river of it.

Inside the hill of twigs, a crystal lit up and pulsed. Emerald bright, thrumming with life.

Sef plucked it free, holding the level ten monster core aloft. "That must be the strongest core I've ever seen or heard from," he murmured.

Umblai cracked knuckles. "Good fight. Tree broke well."

Shannara flicked sawdust from her robe. "And my art, wasted. Again."

OrkSlayer sheathed the sword. Its voice muttered sulkily.

Un jour, je te quitterai. I will leave you. Find another tool to cut your firewood.

"Not today," OrkSlayer thought back.

Sef wasted no time. He placed the core at the grove's center, surrounding it with bones, feathers, and shards of obsidian. His staff carved sigils into soil, turning it into lifeless grey dust wherever it touched the once black humus.

The grove shivered. Leaves blackened, falling like ash. The air soured to rot.

The Konnroot's remains convulsed as their last essence drained into the core. Roots cracked and curled, trees groaned.

Shannara's eyes glittered. "You can drain the entire place?"

"Yes." Sef's voice was reverent. "Fliedabarr's gift, but twisted. The forest's blessing, remade as a curse."

As the ritual climaxed, the last enchantment fled. The grove died. What had been sacred now lay as husk and ash.

Sef lifted the core. No longer pure green, but veined with crimson, pulsing with corruption. Power radiated outward, and even the others felt it.

"Fliedabarr's power," Sef intoned, "belongs to us now."

The Harbingers all grinned. The grove was dead. The Konnroot King was no more.

But the hunt they were waiting for had yet to begin.