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

It had taken half a day to weave the three strips together to form a bullwhip, attached to the nightbloom handle. One of the academy's craftsmen had carved out the place where the beast core would fit inside. It also had room for the crystal necessary to hold the enchantment's spell matrix. Malvorik much preferred keeping enchantment crystals inside the objects, even though the crystal was almost indestructible while the enchantment was still intact.

The mage had explained why an amethyst was the gem corresponding to movement and telekinesis enchantments, but Weylan hadn't quite understood the reasoning.

Weylan laid out the parts on his bed, trying not to think about how badly the last attempt to "make something magical" (in that case himself) had gone. "So… where do we do this? My room? A classroom? Outside?"

<Not your room,> Malvorik said immediately. <Not a classroom. And certainly not outside. A ritual at this scale requires precision, containment, and a caster who follows instructions without improvising.>

"I can follow instructions," Weylan protested.

<You say that,> Malvorik replied. <But if you botch a single sequence while channeling a level-nine core, it will detonate. Not 'explode a little.' Detonate! As in: vaporize the room, you, and anyone else inside.>

Stitch raised a hand. "Strong vote for not vaporizing us."

Weylan shot her a look. "What about somewhere reinforced? The academy must have something for enchantments."

Stitch blinked, then snapped her fingers. "There's a specialized enchantment room under the arena! It uses some of the enchantments of the arena or something. It's not used much, since enchantment isn't really a specialty of the academy. At least none above the usual tool enchantments like staves, which use…" She broke off, trying to remember.

<Tool enchantments don't use monster cores,> Malvorik interjected. <That would be overkill. They're powered by the user during usage.>

Stitch snapped her fingers again. "I've heard the room has something called mana anchors. Will that be a problem? I've no idea what that is."

<Mana anchors?> Malvorik said, suddenly far more interested. <That's perfect!>

Weylan frowned. "What exactly are those?"

Malvorik sighed like a professor about to explain something obvious to a student who definitely should know it.

<Anchors are stabilizers carved into the stone. Usually quite old. After the Necromancer War, powerful cores were hard to find, so enchantments needing them have been ever since. Mana anchors hold mana in place, keep flows steady, and absorb excess pressure. Without them, a long ritual has nowhere for the strain to go. Everything begins to warp or collapse, demanding constant regulation by the enchanter.>

"So they're like… magical bolts holding the spell together?" Weylan asked.

<More like lightning rods,> Malvorik corrected. <They keep the mana from trying to escape through the nearest wall or body. And since you are attempting to bind a level-nine core, the anchors will prevent the backlash from liquefying you. Ideally.>

"'Ideally'?" Weylan repeated weakly.

Stitch thumped him on the back. "Relax. Malvorik's just being dramatic. Probably."

<The core's overpowered for the purpose,> Malvorik said, unbothered. <Yes. But that excess power will make the artifact more robust. Its flexibility, movement, and durability will all far surpass a normal whip. If you channel it correctly.>

"And if I don't?"

<With mana anchors shunting away any excess power? It won't kill you. At most it'll blow off an arm or so.>

Stitch grinned. "See? Hardly a problem. I've lost a hand once, while assisting my master with an alchemy experiment. Grafting on a new one itches for a few days, but otherwise it's just fine."

Weylan looked at her waving around her left hand and gulped. "I'm quite sure that's only because you're a flesh-golem. It's not so easy when humans lose a limb." He looked at her grinning face and groaned. "Fine. We'll do it. But if anything starts glowing that shouldn't be glowing, I'm running."

<If anything glows that shouldn't be glowing,> Malvorik said, <you won't have time to run.>

Stitch nodded in absolute seriousness. "Yup. So, let's not do that."

Weylan buried his face in his hands. "Great. Perfect. Let's go play with the magical bomb."

<Excellent attitude,> Malvorik said dryly. <Now gather your things. And get Faya. We'll be needing her to supply additional mana.>

* * *

They chose one of the deep cellar rooms beneath the main building. One of the few existing chambers with permanent mana anchors carved into the stone. The walls hummed faintly with containment wards almost as old as the academy itself. Even so, Malvorik insisted on checking every part of the enchantment.

<This is not a spell you cast with a flourish and a clever gesture,> he warned. <This is a ritual. A true enchantment. If anyone opens the door at the wrong moment, the backlash will kill you… and possibly the rest of them.>

Stitch's expression went flat. "Then no one opens the door." She dragged a heavy reading table in front of it for good measure.

Faya drew chalk sigils on the floor under Malvorik's guidance. Weylan laid out the leather strip, the beast core in its glass vial, and Alina's nightbloom stem. It was only after he placed them within the primary array that the circle began to react. Faint ripples of mana rising like heat from sun-baked stone.

"What you're doing," Faya said quietly, "is something even priest-enchanters won't attempt alone."

"Good thing I'm not alone," Weylan said. His voice was steady. His hands were not.

Stitch planted herself behind him like a one-woman fortress. "Say the word when you need mana flow. I'll pour until I drop."

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Faya nodded. "And I'll regulate it. If Stitch overloads you, you won't survive. As a healer I can better judge the amount of mana a human body can handle."

"Hey!" Stitch protested. Then paused. "Okay, fair."

Weylan knelt at the center of the circle and held the leather whip.

Malvorik's presence poured into his mind like an open gate.

<You will channel my spellcasting through your own mind. You are the conduit, not the caster. Just relax. And do not think too loudly. Your stray thoughts could fracture the array.>

"Oh, that's comforting," Weylan muttered.

<Let's begin.>

After a few calming breaths, Weylan touched the whip and infused the first rune with his shadow mana. The runes ignited. One by one, in the exact order he had written them. Lines of shadow-light slithered along the leather strips, pulsing to an unheard rhythm.

<More mana,> Malvorik ordered.

Stitch placed both hands on his shoulders. Faya touched her fingers to Stitch's spine. A soft hum vibrated through him as their combined mana flowed into his channels. Just as he'd been told, Weylan relaxed and let the power flow. It was a strange feeling as it started to form patterns and flow along the inked lines without his involvement. Crossing through his body, the mana also changed its affinity to his own.

He heard Malvorik's thoughts like a silent whisper at the edge of hearing. A mix of gibberish and mathematical formulas… which to him were just another kind of gibberish. Images flashed before his eyes: complex lines of mana surrounding the runes he'd drawn. Stronger lines, surrounded by runic script, connected them to the beast core.

The beast core reacted. Even contained in the vial, it pulsed violently, almost eager. Tentacle-like tendrils of light coiled within, mirroring the sigils on the leather.

The nightbloom stem responded next. Its pale fiber flushed with soft blue, then flexed as if stretching after a long sleep.

Weylan felt sweat run down his back. Ritual work was different from anything he'd ever done. Slower, heavier, deeper. Normal spellcasting was like throwing a knife. Ritual enchantment was like forging the blade from ore with your bare hands.

Minutes stretched. Then hours. The runes grew brighter. The core's pulse synced with their rhythm. His arms shook, his throat burned, and every muscle in his back screamed at him to stop.

Stitch's mana flow wavered for a moment. Faya steadied her, fingertips glowing. "Hold on. Not yet."

<Three more cycles,> Malvorik said. <Do not falter.>

The quill trembled in Weylan's hand. His vision blurred. The Verdant Hare felt his unease and pressed closer into his lap, lending a faint grounding warmth.

The ritual circle flared. White, then violet, then a deep ocean blue. The beast core shuddered violently.

"Now!" Malvorik commanded.

Weylan thrust the nightbloom stem into the bundle of glowing leather strips. The runes leapt onto it like living things. The beast core burst free from its vial and sank into the forming handle. A glowing copy of all the mana lines they'd constructed lifted from the artifact and folded into a tiny dodecahedron, which then slipped inside the amethyst.

Light roared upward in a twisting column, whipping the air into a miniature storm.

And then… silence.

The ritual circle dimmed. The glow vanished.

A long, braided length of shadow-touched leather rested before him, the handle fused seamlessly around the core. It twitched once. Softly, like something breathing.

The light from the ritual circle started to fade. Then Weylan felt mana moving again. Malvorik sounded tense. <Name it! I can't hold the ritual open much longer!>

Weylan was surprised, since no one had told him this would be part of the ritual. But after hearing the story of Stitch's naming, he had prepared a name in advance.
"Shadelash."

The circle flashed once, then finally faded.

Weylan exhaled a single, shaky breath. "Is it… done?"

Malvorik's sigh filled his mind like the fading echo of a storm.

<Yes and no. The enchantment was successful. Perhaps too successful. I can feel the faintest spark of an artifact soul. A level-nine beast core was vastly overpowered for the design, so there was enough residual energy to reignite the life that was still glimmering inside the fresh core. The weapon is alive, if only barely. That's why it had to be named immediately. It happens from time to time. Sometimes the spark withers, but if you manage to nurture it, it can become a truly sentient weapon. So, it must learn you just as much as you learn it.>

Weylan stared at the whip. Its surface rippled faintly, like some deep-sea creature adjusting to new water.

"Oh," he said faintly. "That's… reassuring."

Stitch patted his back. "If it strangles you in your sleep, I call dibs on your boots."

"Stitch!" Faya hissed.

Weylan wasn't sure if that was a true possibility or just a joke.

But the whip seemed to pulse at his feet. Hungry, curious, waiting.

The room stayed quiet long enough for Weylan's pulse to finally slow.

He reached out and brushed his fingertips along the handle. The leather felt cool. Cooler than it should. Its surface thrummed faintly with stored mana, like a heartbeat muffled by layers of cloth.

"Does it have a soul?" Faya asked softly.

Malvorik answered before Weylan could.
<Yes, but it is weak. Barely a spark. A flicker. It isn't a thinking thing… yet. Simply a vessel that remembers motion. A seed. But seeds can grow, depending on how they're used… and fed.>

Weylan swallowed. "Fed how?"

<Through mana, primarily. Intent. Practice. Use. But right now, it is as harmless as a sleeping mouse.>

Stitch squinted. "Mice bite."

"Stitch." Faya elbowed her.

Weylan took a breath and rose to his feet. "Let's test it."

* * *

Weylan stepped to the center of the circle, lifting the whip with both hands. The handle balanced perfectly. Nothing moved. Nothing pulsed. Nothing tried to coil around him.

Good.

Tentatively, he pushed a thread of shadow mana into the binding runes.

The effect was immediate.

The leather strips stiffened, then flexed. The whip snapped forward in a sudden blur. Far faster than he anticipated… then turned back and cracked across his cheek with a sound like splitting wood.

Weylan staggered backward, clutching his face.

Stitch shrieked. "It attacked you!"

Faya hurried over and used a healing spell to close the split skin.

Malvorik's voice was dry as old parchment.
<It did not. The artifact has no autonomy. That lash was your mana flowing through the runes. You told it to move. The issue is that you didn't know what you were telling it.>

Weylan groaned. "Feels like it knew exactly where my face was."

<That is because you know exactly where your face is,> Malvorik replied. <Artifact reflex echoes the caster's subconscious intent. Next time, try not to fear hitting yourself. Your fear shaped the motion.>

Weylan touched his cheek; it throbbed hotly. "Great. Fantastic."

"I'll get some protective gear," Stitch declared, already removing the reading desk and opening the door. "Lots of it."

* * *

By the time they resumed, Weylan looked less like an aspiring assassin and more like a badly padded training dummy. Thick leather vambraces, a reinforced collar, and a padded face-guard from the fencing classroom that made Stitch snort every time she looked at him.

Faya adjusted his bracers. "This won't stop a full-force strike, but it will stop you from rending your flesh."

"Wonderful," Weylan muttered behind the padding. "Let's continue before I lose my nerve."

He steadied his breathing and this time fed only a thin, steady trickle of shadow mana into the handle. The runes responded in a whisper, the leather relaxing under his touch, bending with a slow, graceful coil rather than a violent strike.

"There," Faya murmured, pleased. "That seems to be its baseline."

Weylan was awed at how easily he could feel the motion now. Not a mind. Not a voice. Just… feedback.

Stitch thumped him on the shoulder. "Good. Now hit something that isn't yourself."

Weylan smirked. Carefully, because smiling under padding hurt, and cracked the whip toward a training post in the corner.

The whip curved like a living ribbon, the runes tightening the motion into a clean, sharp strike that hit the center of the target with a satisfying crack.

"That," Stitch whispered, eyes wide, "is going to bruise some egos."

Weylan lowered the whip, feeling the faint echo of its potential hum beneath his palm.

"All right," he said. "Let's train."

It took only two tries to get the whip to grip tightly around the post. Tight enough to hold his whole weight as he pulled with full force. When he wanted it to, it relaxed and curled up into a handy coil.

"So much for my equipment. What do we do next?" Weylan grinned at the two others.

Stitch pulled out a blueish coin-sized token. "I still have to learn mining to unlock the class I want. My master got me a dungeon token for the upper level of the Meklang dungeon. Do you want to be my plus one?"

Weylan stared at the token. Vivid memories of his last visit to a dungeon raced through his mind. Poison mists, alchemically enhanced monsters, and a boss monster pumped full of enhancement elixirs. He managed a weak smile.

"Sure. What could go wrong with visiting the first level of a well-known and documented dungeon."