NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

Fen's cocoon slammed into the earth with bone-jarring force, boots skidding as the pod cracked open like a blooming iron flower. Thorned brambles erupted outward in a violent surge, curling and knotting into a curved barricade. All around him, hundreds of pods slammed into the torn ground in rapid succession — each one bursting open in a spray of dirt and shrapnel before the vines wove themselves into hardened bulwarks.

Arrows hammered against the fresh defenses before they had even finished forming, the steady, punishing rhythm thudding through the brambles like war drums. Screams and shouted orders cut through the chaos; the air was thick with smoke, splinters, and the stench of scorched earth.

To Fen's left, a soldier half-fallen — his pod pierced mid-transformation — bled out against the half-grown vines. To his right, another dropped to his knees, an arrow buried deep in his throat, his gargled breath drowned out by the roar of incoming fire.

A streak of molten light tore overhead, smashing into the dirt just meters away. The explosion ripped a jagged hole in the nearest bulwark, showering Fen with hot soil and shattered vine. He ducked low, ears ringing, as heat clawed at his face.

"War casters!"

Desmond's voice cut through the storm. Fen's head snapped toward him just in time to see the man pointing toward the bridge, where red-cloaked figures stood among the enemy archers, hands blazing with fire. Another spell flared — a lance of crackling blue energy vaporizing a pod mid-descent, leaving nothing but smoking thorn vines where a soldier should have landed.

Desmond caught Fen's gaze and jerked his chin toward a huddled knot of soldiers sheltering behind their fully-formed bulwarks. "They're yours, Fen. Move them up!"

Without waiting for a reply, Desmond vaulted the bulwark in a flash of his enchanted armor, landing hard on the far side before sprinting toward another section of the battlefield. Fen caught a glimpse of him plowing through the chaos, shield up, driving toward the next hotspot without a backward glance. He knew Fen had this flank handled.

Fen didn't hesitate, rolling across the dirt to the squad's cover. "Heads down! You heard the man, listen up," he barked, sliding in beside them.

Five soldiers crouched there, dirt-streaked and sweat-soaked, weapons clutched tight. They were bloodied but holding the line.

"Names and squad?" Fen demanded.

The first to answer was a lean, grim man with a jagged scar cutting across his jaw equipped with a short sword and shield. "Vaelin Stonefang. Fifth Assault Company."

"Luthair Ironvein. Same squad." A stocky fighter with a serrated axe strapped to his back.

"Rennic Thorne." A wiry archer, already drawing another arrow.

"Soren Duskbrand." Younger, but his grip on his spear was steady.

The last one hesitated, then muttered, "…Fred."

Fen blinked. "Fred?"

Fred sighed, the expression on his face suggesting he had already lost patience with this entire war. "Yeah. Fred."

"Just Fred? No 'of the Ashen Peaks' or 'Stormcaller' or anything?"

"I missed orientation, alright?" Fred tugged off his dented iron cap, running a hand through a mess of bright red hair before shoving it back on. "No one told me I could pick a cool last name, like this mountain-dwarf legend over here." He jabbed a thumb at Luthair, who looked particularly pleased with himself.

Fen squinted at Fred, eyes flicking to the mismatched red cloth peeking out from under his breastplate. "Okay, so your name is just Fred," he said slowly, "and you're wearing a red shirt."

Fred shifted his eyes followed Fen's eyes down, as if only just realizing the color choice himself. "Yeah. Why?"

Fen exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Oh, no reason…" He glanced toward the battlefield, then back at Fred with a look that landed somewhere between pity and resignation. "Just… don't wander off, alright?"

Luthair cut in, his voice tight. "Squad leader's dead, sir. Pod got hit on the way down."

Fen's attention snapped back, gaze hardening. "Alright, listen up. You're with me now. Name's Fen."

The soldiers tensed, eyes widening slightly. Luthair's jaw worked. "…like Fen. The boss's bodyguard Fen? What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be… you know… guarding the boss?"

Fen snorted. "We've got the boss stashed in the secure command room back at the Bastion. He needed me here to keep you sparking motherboards alive."

That seemed to settle it—they straightened instantly. "Yes, sir!"

Fen peeked over the barricade, assessing. The casters were maybe a hundred, hundred twenty-five meters out, clustered near the bridge. Their fire-lit hands pulsed with the promise of more devastation. Arrows hissed overhead in steady sheets, the space between volleys barely wide enough to breathe. Beyond them, ranks of pikemen braced, shields overlapping, a wall of steel waiting for the signal to advance. The trap was still waiting to be sprung—but they had to survive long enough for it to matter. Long enough for the Legacy to get within range.

He turned back to the squad. "We push forward and deal with the archers and casters. If we don't take them out, they'll shred us before we ever turn to face the canyon."

The soldiers exchanged quick glances, nodding.

Fred leaned forward slightly. "So… what's the play?"

Fen unsheathed his umbral blade, the void-forged steel drinking in the morning light, pulsing faintly in his hand. "We move fast, hit harder, and kill anything that slings fire or arrows."

Fen's grip tightened, the weapon humming faintly as it drank in the chaos around them. He surveyed the squad quickly—every second spent talking was a second wasted in battle.

"Rennic," he called to the archer, flicking his chin toward the enemy line. "Hang back a few meters, keep moving as we push up. Watch for casters and anyone trying to draw a bead on us."

The wiry man gave a sharp nod, already adjusting his stance.

"Vaelin, Luthair, Soren—you're with me. Watch my back, keep anyone from getting cute and trying to circle us."

The three gave quick affirmations, weapons tightening in their grips.

Then Fen turned to Fred. The red-haired soldier stood tense but eager, sword held in both hands like he was bracing for impact. He looked ready to charge, ready to fight—but there was no hiding the nervous energy beneath it.

Fen exhaled. "Uh… try not to die on your first away mission, yeah?"

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Fred blinked. "What—?"

"Move!"

The battlefield roared—the twang of bowstrings, the snap of spells igniting the air, the screams of the dying. The thick scent of burning wood and seared flesh filled Fen's nose as he dashed for the next line of cover, his squad pounding after him.

The terrain looked ripped from another era—twisted, jagged, broken by bulwarks and trenches. The living bramble had turned the open field into a staggered maze of cover, some sections still shifting, curling into place as more troops landed. But the enemy had adapted quickly.

Arrows hissed through the air—a blur of steel and fletching. Fen's cloak flared behind him as he dropped low, boots skidding through the dirt. The umbral blade was firm in his right hand, its black edge drinking in the light, while the tome at his hip pulsed faintly in rhythm with his steps. Rennic kept a line back, loosing arrows between the bramble gaps, while Vaelin, Luthair, and Soren ran close enough that Fen could hear the rasp of their armor and the grunt of their breathing.

A whip of flame snapped past, close enough that the heat kissed his cheek before crashing into a bramble wall, igniting it in a bloom of embers.

Ahead, the enemy infantry held their ground—an unbroken wall of shields and leveled pikes, planted at the mouth of the bridge. They stood bristling, their formation unyielding, every spear angled to turn a charge into slaughter. But even as the wall stayed firm, skirmishers—lightly armored troops meant to harass flanks and pick off stragglers—were already pushing into the bramble lines.

Fen caught the chaos as it unfolded—fighters spilling into the trenches, blades flashing, spells erupting in bursts of light and shadow. A man shrieked as a bolt of lightning tore through his chest, his armor blackened, smoke curling from the seams. Another soldier stumbled past Fen, an arrow buried in his thigh, before a second took him through the neck.

Two bulwark lines down and his squad crashed into cover behind the next wall. Fen skidded to a halt, breath sharp, eyes scanning the carnage.

This was only the first fifty feet.

His pulse pounded behind his eyes. They were moving too slow. If they stalled here, they'd be buried before they ever reached the bridge.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed up from cover. His hand swept to the square holster at his hip, and the tome slid free on its own—rising into the air as if drawn by unseen strings. Dark aether curled from his palm, a living tether that kept it hovering at his side, runes along its cover already flaring to life as void energy coiled at his fingertips.

The first shot ripped through the air—a bolt of black light streaking toward the bridge. It slammed into a waiting archer, his body seizing as the energy devoured the breath from his lungs, turning his scream into a silent, empty gasp. Fen had fought in battles this intense before—more than he could count—but the sight churned his stomach in a way he wasn't prepared for. These weren't softcore fodder or disposable NPCs. Every fighter in Fisck's army was hardcore. Every one of them dying here was dying for real, all for the slim chance of a promotion. The casualties were heavy, but still within projections. It didn't matter. Watching his own side vanish into the mud felt wrong in a way he couldn't shake.

[Ability: Arcane Bolt — Fires a focused blast of magical energy. Stored charges can be expended to cast powerful spells. Synergy: Strikes landed with the Blade of Umbral Resonance transfer energy directly to this conduit, unlocking stronger effects at full charge.]

Fen turned, teeth bared, already casting again.

A barrage of void lances erupted from his tome, streaking toward the shielded mass of soldiers at the bridge's mouth. The first impact shattered a section of their line, hurling bodies back with bone-crunching force. Another shot pierced through a warrior's breastplate, leaving a gaping, hollow wound where his heart should have been.

The line buckled, but held.

Fen didn't stop.

He kept firing, the tome bleeding power—each shot a relentless hammer against the wall of steel ahead. An archer crumpled as a bolt of arcane energy slammed into his chest. Another dropped mid-draw, his bow falling from lifeless fingers as the magic drained the breath from his lungs.

But Fen felt it—the tome's power waning with every shot. The crackling runes along its iron clasps dimmed, its hunger growing.

Resonance. The word tugged at him every time he thought of the blade's name—Umbral Resonance. He couldn't shake the idea that when it had transmuted, it hadn't just picked the term at random. Maybe it had pulled the name from him… from them. From Auri's resonance. This one was weaker—colder, quieter—but it would do in her absence.

His gaze swept the chaos around him. Gods, he could have used her here. Her power could turn the tide of a fight like this in seconds, bend the battle to their will before the enemy even knew it had shifted. But she wasn't here, and he was running out of room to breathe.

The tome's dimming light told the rest of the story—its hunger gnawed at him, low on energy and eager to be fed. It wasn't dry yet, but it wouldn't last much longer at this pace. To keep casting, he'd need to wade in close and let the Umbral Resonance do its work, each strike sending fresh power surging back into the tome. Sitting back and trading spells wasn't going to win this fight.

[Ability: Shadowstrike — A precision melee attack that disrupts magical wards and gains power when used after casting a spell. Synergy: Charging successful strikes with this blade fuels the Tome of the Arcane Nexus with stored energy.]

His grip tightened on the weapon. This fight wasn't going to be won from behind cover.

Fen slid into the shadow of a half-collapsed bramble bulwark, an arrow hissing past close enough to clip the edge of his cloak. He pressed a shoulder to the living wall, breath steadying as he flicked his HUD into view. The elegant combat interface of the SynthNet unfolded across his vision, rows of weapon stats and ability readouts streaming past.

He'd already planned this part—built the fight around it—but his eyes went to the spell again anyway. A quick flick of his gaze brought up the sub-menu beneath the Tome's abilities, and there it was: Cavern of Souls. He lingered over the entry like a duelist testing the edge of his blade one last time. His thumb moved over the real sword in his hand, tracing the familiar contours of the Umbral Resonance's hilt, the gesture echoing the checks running through his mind.

If Cavern of Souls worked the way he needed it to, they could have the bridge under control in minutes. He'd never cast it before—but he remembered what Grasp of the Hollow had done, and that spell had only demanded a fraction of the synergy charges this one needed. He didn't know if it would work the way he envisioned, but if it did… it could break the enemy's hold before they had time to recover.

[Tome of the Arcane Nexus – Bound Conduit]
"A relic reforged, given voice through the will of its wielder. Its whispers carry forgotten power, its pages inscribed with spells waiting to be unleashed."

[Stored Charge: 5%]
"Power drawn from the blade fuels its wrath. The more it drinks, the greater the storm."

[Ability: Cavern of Souls – Full Charge Required]
"Open the path to the Forgotten. The veil fractures, the earth screams, and from the abyss they rise—fiends wreathed in ethereal fire, howling for vengeance."

He read the lines again, letting them sink in, steadying the spark of doubt curling in the back of his mind. Cavern of Souls demanded more charges than anything else in his arsenal—every point of energy would have to be carved from the enemy up close. He'd get there. He had to.

Right now, the book was running low. The blade would have to feed.

Fen dismissed the spell menu with a flick of thought and pushed out of cover, the HUD winking away from his vision. He sprinted the twenty-five feet to the next bramble bulwark, boots pounding through churned dirt, the rest of the squad on his heels. Rennic, their wiry archer, hung back a line, bow already drawn—loosing an arrow over their heads as Fen slid in behind the living wall. An arrow hissed past, close enough that he felt the air break against his cheek, the steel tip ringing as it struck and bounced off the bramble at his back.

His gaze flicked toward the bridge. How big would the blast be when he finally cast it? Would it wipe the shield wall clean, or just tear a hole wide enough to matter? The spell's description had been maddeningly vague—more poetry than tactics.
The veil fractures, the earth screams.
He grimaced. "Fantastic," he muttered under his breath. "Very dramatic. Maybe next time, include a warning label."

The tome floated beside him in its tether of dark aether, runes faint, its hum weakened. No charge, no spell—the thing wouldn't answer him until the Umbral Resonance drank its fill.

A flash of movement ahead snapped his focus. Two bulwarks up—about fifty feet—shapes moved low between the bramble walls. Not the heavy shield-bearers at the bridge, but lighter fighters in piecemeal armor, slipping from cover to cover. Each carried short spears and curved blades, their pace steady, deliberate.

Trench-cutters. Harriers. The kind sent to slip into the lines, find a gap, and bleed a squad dry before anyone noticed. And they were headed straight for him.