CHAPTER 128: DEFEND THE CITY [1]

The spiral staircase finally ended.

It didn’t lead to a floor, but to a massive, cavernous expanse that defied logic. Towering stone shelves lined the walls, stretching up into the darkness, but the floor itself was a twisted forest of petrified trees and jagged rocks. The mist here was red, smelling of iron and wet fur.

[Floor: The Archive of Fangs] [Trial: Survival of the Fittest]

Oliver stopped, raising a hand. "Quiet."

Amy and Sophia froze, clutching their staffs.

"Do you hear that?" Sophia whispered, her voice trembling.

Huff... Huff...

It wasn’t wind. It was breathing. Hundreds of lungs, heavy and wet.

From the shadows of the petrified trees, eyes ignited. Yellow. Red. Green.

"They’re waiting for us," Oliver muttered, his grip tightening on his sword. "Defensive formation. Back to back. Don’t let them separate you."

A howl tore through the silence—a sound so loud it vibrated in their chests.

Then, the shadows lunged.

Great Wolves.

Dozens of them, size of horses, their fur matted with dried blood, rushed from the tree line.

"Fireball!" Sophia screamed, launching a sphere of flame. It struck the lead wolf, exploding in a burst of orange, but the beast only yelped and rolled, getting back up with singed fur.

"They’re tough!" Amy cried, casting [Shield of Light] around them as three wolves crashed into the barrier, their jaws snapping against the magic.

"Save your mana for the big ones!" Oliver roared.

He charged out of the barrier.

[Wind Edge!]

His sword flashed. A crescent of compressed air sliced through the neck of the nearest wolf, decapitating it instantly. He didn’t stop. He pivoted, ducking under a snapping jaw, and drove his blade into another’s chest.

But the wolves were just the vanguard.

THUD. THUD.

Heavy footsteps shook the ground. From behind the wolves, hulking shapes emerged. Green skin, tusks like daggers, muscles bulging under crude iron armor.

Orcs.

Climbing up the underside of the floating stairs were greenskins—heavier, armored, their eyes glowing red. They pulled themselves over the ledge, surrounding the trio.

"We’re pinned!" Oliver gritted his teeth. "Amy, barrier on Sophia! Sophia, keep casting! I’ll hold the front!"

He became a whirlwind of steel. He slashed a wolf, parried an orc’s axe, and ducked under a werewolf’s swipe. But the stairs were narrow. There was no room to maneuver.

"They are not alone guys!" Sophia cried, her mana flaring as she blasted an orc off the ledge.

And leading them—a creature that stood on two legs, towering over the orcs, covered in black fur and muscle. A Lycanthrope. Its claws were long, curved scythes, dripping with saliva.

"Human meat!" the Orcs roared, charging with rusty axes.

"Sophia, aim for their legs! Amy, keep the barrier up!" Oliver commanded, his voice cutting through the panic.

He met the Orc charge head-on.

An Orc swung a massive club. Oliver didn’t dodge. He caught the blow on his sword, the Rune of Vigor flaring in his back, granting him strength that shouldn’t belong to a human. He shoved the Orc back, then spun—

Slash.

The Orc fell, chest opened.

But the Lycanthrope was fast. Faster than anything Oliver had fought since the Spider Queen.

It blurred past the Orcs, ignoring its own kin, and leaped straight for the backline.

"Sophia!" Amy screamed.

The mage girl froze, staring at the monster descending on her.

Oliver turned. He was too far away.

No. Not again.

He pushed the Rune of Vigor to its limit. His muscles screamed as he exploded into a sprint, the stone cracking under his boots.

The Lycanthrope raised its claws to shred Sophia.

Oliver threw himself between them.

CLANG!

The claws slammed into his sword. The force was immense—like being hit by a battering ram. Oliver grunted, his boots sliding backward, carving grooves into the stone floor.

"Get back!" he snarled at the girls.

The Lycanthrope roared in his face, spit flying. It swiped with its other hand—a backhand blow aimed at Oliver’s head.

Oliver jerked his head back, but not fast enough.

CRACK.

The claw caught the edge of his mask.

The black mask shattered.

Shards of porcelain fell to the floor, tinkling like bells amidst the roar of battle.

Oliver didn’t pause. He used the momentum to drop low, sweeping the Lycanthrope’s legs. As the beast stumbled, he thrust upward—driving his sword through its chin and into its brain.

The monster went stiff, then collapsed, dead weight.

Oliver stood there, chest heaving, blood (not his own) dripping from his chin. His hair was messy, sweat plastering it to his forehead.

The remaining wolves and orcs, seeing their alpha dead, hesitated.

Oliver glared at them, his eyes—no longer hidden—burning with cold, murderous intent.

"Who’s next?"

The monsters broke. Whimpering and grunting, they scrambled back into the shadows, fleeing the predator that had just killed their king.

Silence returned to the Archive.

Oliver exhaled, wiping the blood from his cheek. He sheathed his sword with a click.

Then, his boot hit something loose.

CLICK.

It wasn’t a loose stone. It was a pressure plate hidden in the step.

The runes on the stairs suddenly turned crimson.

"Trap!" Oliver roared, reaching out to grab the girls.

He was too late.

The gravity in the stairwell inverted. The stone beneath their feet dissolved into liquid shadow.

"Oliver—!" Amy’s scream was cut short as she was sucked into the darkness.

"Sophia!"

He tried to grab her hand, but the void swallowed her too.

Then, the floor dropped out from under him.

[Teleportation Sequence: Initiated] [Target Location: The Crucible of Memories]

Scenario: The Last Stand

Oliver’s eyes snapped open.

His head was pounding, a rhythmic thudding that matched the chaotic noise assaulting his ears. The smell of ozone and damp stone was gone, replaced by the acrid stench of smoke, sweat, and copper blood.

"Damn this dungeon," he groaned, pushing himself up from the cold stone. "How many times is it gonna teleport us?"

He froze.

The voice that had just come out of his mouth... it wasn’t his.

It was deeper. Rougher. The voice of a man who had spent forty years smoking cheap tobacco and shouting orders.

He looked down at his hands. They were huge, calloused, and scarred. He wasn’t wearing his adventurer’s coat. He was encased in heavy, battered plate armor that weighed a ton.

What the...

Before he could process the change, a massive hand grabbed his breastplate and yanked him to his feet with effortless strength.

"What are you dawdling about, soldier?! Do you want to die?!"

Spit splattered onto Oliver’s face.

Standing in front of him was a burly man in knightly armor, his face smeared with soot and blood, eyes wild with adrenaline. He shook Oliver hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Get to the ballista! They’re breaching the outer gate!" the man roared.

He shoved Oliver forward and ran off, diving back into the fray.

Oliver stumbled, catching his balance against a cold stone battlement. He looked around, eyes widening in horror.

He wasn’t in the dungeon corridor anymore.

He was standing atop a massive fortress wall, high above the ground. The sky was choked with black smoke and falling ash. Around him, soldiers in silver and blue armor were running, screaming, dying. Arrows rained down from the sky like black hail.

He looked over the edge of the wall.

Down below... was a sea of nightmares.

Thousands of them.

Orcs, trolls, siege beasts, and things that defied description swarmed the base of the wall like a tide of black oil. Siege towers groaned as they were pushed forward by ogres. Ladders were being hooked onto the battlements.

It was a siege. And they were losing.

Where the fuck am I?

Just as the thought crossed his mind, a sound resonated inside his skull—clear, mechanical, and utterly indifferent.

[Trial of the Guardian Initiated.] [Scenario: The Fall of Aethelgard.] [Objective: Defend the Inner Gate.]

Oliver blinked. A simulation? A mental test?

It had to be. The dungeon was messing with his head, putting him in some historical battle scenario.

Okay, he thought, gripping the heavy sword at his hip. It’s just a game. Just a test. Survive for thirty minutes. Simple.

But then, the voice sounded again. Lower. Darker.

[Warning: Neural Synchronization at 100%.] [Damage sustainment is shared.] [If you die here... your consciousness will cease in reality.]

The blood drained from Oliver’s face—or rather, the face of the soldier he was inhabiting.

A massive boulder, launched from a trebuchet below, smashed into the wall ten feet away. Stone exploded. Shrapnel tore through the air. A shard of rock grazed Oliver’s cheek.

The pain was sharp, hot, and undeniable.

He touched the wound. Real blood.

"Shit," he whispered, the deep voice trembling slightly. "It’s not just a game."

A ladder slammed against the wall right in front of him. An orc, frothing at the mouth, vaulted over the parapet, raising a jagged axe.

Oliver didn’t have time to think. He drew the heavy sword—which felt unfamiliar yet strangely natural in these borrowed hands—and swung.

CLANG!

The parry rattled his bones.

Survive,* he told himself, kicking the orc back off the ladder. Just survive.

"INCOMING!" someone screamed.

The sky turned dark with arrows.

The trial had begun.