The Classless Sorcerer's Self-Stealing System

A cacophony of weapons, voices, and spellcraft rippled across the dungeon corridors in an almost endless echo, accompanied by bursts of magical light, flaring battle auras, and streaks of bodies moving in hectic unison.

Blychert remained squarely centered inside the somewhat protective shell that comprised his temporary delving mates, distributing support spells to the best of his ability, though finding it increasingly more difficult to maintain the pace around him. Sweat-soaked bangs clung to the sides of his face, dripping down the length of his brow and around his chin. His heart raced, his muscles ached with nervous energy, and his body longed for a reprieve from such intense mana expenditure.

Brutal.

It was the first word—the only word on Blychert's mind as they made their hopeful ascent towards the fifth floor. Despite his best attempts to remain focused, Bly couldn't help his own anxious thoughts. How long had they been down here? He'd cast three light spells thus far, and they'd stopped only once, so it had to have been at least three hours since the initial teleportation. Was help coming? Were they stuck down here? Who else was stuck in this situation? It had to be dungeon-wide, surely. Were his friends—

Bly bit his tongue suddenly, refusing to feed fuel into that distressing fire.

He was just… exhausted. Yeah, that was it. He wasn't a stranger to dungeon anomalies, and his fellow adventurers were all capable. Besides, he'd already had an entire day of delving, so his mind was heavily worn down. He needed to remain sharp, for all their sake.

There was no rest.

There was no relief.

But that was okay. They were going to be okay.

A flash of brilliant yellow light filled the corridor suddenly, as Nazojan's battleaxe streaked across an iron golem's flank. With one felling blow, and a thunderous crack, the construct buckled and collapsed, its eyes growing dark within seconds of its demise.

Blychert squinted momentarily at the gust of heated wind generated by the golem's implosion passed over him.

"Trelen, need a hand on your right!" Merlind's voice urged suddenly.

Pivoting on his heel, Bly quickly dispensed a series of shield-icicle combos in the gestured direction, supporting Falco as best he could, as the injured fighter held his ground against a slew of vanguard goblins. Even despite his leg injury, Falco's agile movements paired off well with Merlind's earth magic, who supplemented the fighter's shortcomings with an array of impressively coordinated 'stone barrage' spells. The pair's synergy was unsurprisingly concise, though not entirely out of the ordinary, given the fact that they were both members of the Glumgully Ghouls.

Whatever the case, Bly was grateful to have them on his side.

"Ilhrae!" Nazojan shouted ahead, ripping his weapon from the swiftly deteriorating golem's body, "What's our heading?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Bly regarded the white-haired, elven ranger for a moment. Unlike Lisel, Ilhrae was a wolf totem specialist. Thus, her primary and currently active ability cast her facial features in a canine-like fashion.

Dispatching two vanguard goblins with a simple double swipe of her clawed hands, the ranger's elongated snout sniffed twice, her ears perking back momentarily, as she glanced ahead with her yellowed eyes, saying in a harsh tone of voice, "Fifty yards to the end of this corridor. Left at the second intersection."

"We've got a dozen more mobs spawning in on the flank!" Taren shouted, his magic aura a deep violet color given the extensive amount of summoning magic he'd been utilizing. Further back, the wizard's small army of summoned mountain lions were steadily becoming overwhelmed. However, the fierce twang of a Hugo's longbow next to where Bly stood at least ensured they didn't go down in vain.

"With me!" Nazojan shouted, otherwise wasting little time in getting the group moving again. Though not that they needed much convincing.

It wasn't before much longer that they had left the large group of newly formed spawns in their wake, putting good distance between them and the path ahead as the group proceeded forward. The sounds of heavy breathing and boots hitting the stone reverberated through the darkened corridors. Small tremors quaked the dungeon too, but no one dared stop to investigate.

"Guh—we need to stop!" Falko insisted urgently, steadily limping to a halt. The rest of the group stopped as well, and turned to look at him, as he added, "I can't go on any longer. My leg needs a rest."

"Fool." Nazojan dismissed the request, stepping through the party ranks to where Falko stood, "We cannot stop. Look around you, the floor is shifting. If we stop now, we're as good as dead. Spawns aside, all of us have just come off an entire day of delving. So, unless anyone here has enough supplies to spare, we keep moving. Hunger, we can withstand. We simply cannot survive without water."

Blychert's ears perked up, and he raised his hand awkwardly, "Uhm… I can create ice? Like, a lot of ice. We could melt it?"

"Hm?" Nazojan glanced over his shoulder, his broad brow creased, "Hmph. That's not my point, boy. Though I commend your willingness to contribute."

"Hey, Naz? I don't think we'll be leaving at all, actually…" Ilhrae's voice echoed across the chamber, her tone filled with a small, quavering trepidation, bordering fear.

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The party turned to where Ilhrae stood, each with expecting and confused expressions of their own, and Bly certainly among them.

Belatedly, Nazojan stepped forward, "…Why?"

Slowly, Ilhrae's features shifted and softened back into her usual ones, as her ability expired. She turned to face Nazojan, her eyes telling of something wrong.

"This… is the way out." She gestured over her shoulder. Shaking her head, she added, "The map data confirms it. Even if the floor was shifting, the data would be valid for several hours at least. It's just…"

"What is it?" Nazojan insisted, a touch of impatience, and maybe even worry in his voice.

"The chamber up head?" Ilhrae looked down at the ground momentarily, then up again, "It's not on the map."

It was hard to tell how much time had passed.

Maybe… hours?

It was quiet in the chamber, too quiet in some ways.

Fortunately, the rest of the group was much higher leveled than Blychert was, and so fortifying the chamber—the "dead end"—against incoming spawns seemed moderately manageable. With a few well-placed illusion spells, their "hiding" place at least prevented the group's need to expend more resources than necessary, even though they couldn't quite proceed forward just yet.

Despite their predicament, allowing stamina and mana to regenerate was crucial to their long-term survival.

It wasn't lost on Bly just how tired and hungry he was. Water had proven no issue, thanks to a few ice spells, but that didn't exactly help the rest of their issues. Some of the others slept, and others still spoke softly to one another, but Bly simply sat quietly with his back against a wall.

He was too tired to speak. He was too tired to even think really. Sweat and grime caked his face, his robes clung to his arms and legs, and both the mental and physical fatigue of so much spellcasting today seemed to numb his senses.

And yet, his mind couldn't help but turn to the dungeon itself.

Unlike the second floor of the dungeon, the sixth floor barely spawned any basic or intermediate level enemies. Iron golems, soulforge living armors, younger frost dragons, basilisks, and ogre champions roamed the corridors freely, each possessing a wide array of dangerous attacks and abilities, given the high average spawn rating. It didn't seem likely that the group could continue to fight the way they did, further draining their collective resources with each passing encounter. Physical exhaustion simply wouldn't allow it, regardless of replenishment,

But there was more to it than that.

Alyse had been certain that the "anomaly" had left the Gleaming Caves. At the time, Blychert had been okay with that theory. However, the small part in the back of his mind that felt that connection—couldn't help but think that this was more than just a coincidence.

But the Pale Lady had helped them. Right? It had shown him and Xander to the Iridescent Blade…. sort of. Maybe it wasn't the thing behind any of this. Maybe there was something else? Something it was working against.

That didn't explain the pull, though—the overwhelming sensation that "creature" seemed to have over people's minds, over Bly's mind. And the words she'd said to him in that vision…

"I am winter. I am ruin."

A shiver ran down Blychert's spine.

Something was at work in Calvergia, he had no doubts anymore. Something secret, something sinister even. Every fiber in his being felt it, as if that thing's very nature were somehow a part of him too. This wasn't a coincidence, it was almost as if… by design.

Was it because he was classless? Did Alyse feel these things too? Is that why she left? Or was it something else entirely.

Blychert rubbed his temple with a groan, the familiar flare of a migraine rising up to the challenge of his troubled mind.

If by some good fortune he made it out of here, it was time to come clean and tell Bartolo everything. But there was more to it than that.

Glancing up, Bly noticed that Nazojan was still sitting cross-legged, facing the mysterious chamber ahead in a sort of meditative state, as he had since the group split up and rested. As if spurred on by circumstance, or perhaps just to get his own mind off of things, Bly rose to his feet and slowly crossed the chamber floor, taking a seat next to the massive orc.

"You should get some sleep, boy." Nazojan murmured softly, his voice deep and hoarse as a result, "I do not know when you will have the chance to rest again."

"Can't." Bly shrugged, "Too hungry."

"Mm." Nazojan grumbled with a frown, "I forget, you are only a child."

"Hey, I'm almost seventeen." Blychert argued, "And besides, that was just a joke." Pausing, Bly also frowned, "I guess… I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Then you must clear your mind." Nazojan shifted his bodyweight slightly, "There is no room for errant thoughts in the dungeon. It must have your complete, undivided attention. Especially this deep."

"Easier said than done…" Bly grumbled. A long spell of silence hung over them after that, before Bly thought to ask, "Would you have really killed that guy? Reingard, I mean, from earlier. You know, just to challenge the boss?"

"Hm?" Nazojan seemed confused, His expression softened, "No… I do not make a habit out of killing friends. Or fellow adventurers, for that matter."

"Sheesh, he's your friend? I'd hate to see what your enemies look like." Bly chuckled. However, he sobered quickly, and gestured ahead of them, "What do you think's really in there?"

The qith tensed somewhat, "I do not know… and I am not especially eager to find out."

Bly nodded slowly, thinking to himself, before saying, "I think I am."

Nazojan seemed to chuckle at that, "Do not be arrogant, boy. You have made it this far because of the strength of our group. You should not tempt the ire of the dungeon against us. It will not respond so kindly as you might think."

No kidding. Bly thought to himself, not needing to be convinced of that.

"Yeah, I know." He then agreed out loud. Shaking his head though, he added, "I know I'm not the strongest one here, far from it, and that I could die at any moment. But even still…"

Pausing, a flash of his fight through the Gleaming Caves with Bold Arrow just to find Xander, and his time fighting for his very life with Xander himself, rushed through Bly's mind. He wasn't afraid of the dungeon. He was afraid of what might be lurking inside of it—of what he might have brought into it, intentionally or not. He'd fought dangerous monsters and lived to tell about it. Whatever else was going on in the dungeon, he felt compelled to do something about it. Because if not him, someone who already seemed to be tied to it, whether he liked it or not, then who?

"I have to try." Bly insisted, "Because… nothing will change if I don't, and I can't accept that."

"Af qa sakum, jarvol okaad." Nazojan murmured unexpectedly, a small grin etched into his features,"Af qa sakum…"

Blychert was too slow to activate his ring of comprehension, and so asked curiously, "What does that mean?"

"Jarvol okaad." Nazojan replied, "One whose will burns the brightest in matters of unforeseen consequence. That is to say, in your own tongue, I respect your courage."

However, before Blychert could even thank the older man for the compliment, Nazojan was on his feet in the blink of an eye, battleaxe in hand.

"What is it?" Bly asked, hurriedly rising to his own feet. The rest of the group evidently heard the commotion as well, because everyone was on high alert.

"My ward has been broken, and it wasn't a spawn…" growled Nazojan, before exclaiming, "Everyone, up! On your feet—weapons ready!"

"Ward…?" Bly mumbled worriedly, squinting towards the way they came in.

Nazojan was a level twenty-six guardian. Who in the hell could break a ward of that level?

"Prepare yourself, boy." Nazojan stepped in front of Bly, pushing him back a little as he moved forward, "They are already here."