Dungeon Duel (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Thirty-Three

The timer on Roark’s Draconic Form spiraled down to zero, and he dropped to the floor, stumbling a few steps before catching himself.

“What’s the matter, trash?” Lowen taunted, beating his wings and rising higher toward the vaulted ceiling. In his right hand, he drew a shining Bastard Sword that rang with a thin, resonating tone, and in his left he prepared a fistful of Heavenly Wrath. “Did you use up all your best weapons already?”

“Hardly,” Roark snapped, equipping each hand with a Tattooed pistol and aiming. Perhaps he couldn’t shoot through Lowen’s bulletproof platemail, but that just meant he’d have to shoot the prat in his thick skull.

That was easier said than done, however.

Though Roark had spent the battle before this Dungeon Lord duel familiarizing himself with the guns from the heroes’ home world—and he’d leveled up the targeting skill for the pistols once already—he was no master with them. Shooting them was nothing like firing a bow, and he had hours’ worth of practice instead of years. Moreover, taking aim at such a small target as it swooped through the throne room, while simultaneously dodging a Bastard Sword, was no easy feat. Roark’s closest shot grazed Lowen’s jaw. The mere flesh wound hardly extracted a sliver of red from the Herald’s Health bar.

In retribution, Lowen loosed the colossal dose of Heavenly Wrath, golden light erupting outward in a wall of engulfing power.

Moving quickly, Roark cast the pre-inscribed web of Discordant Inversion and Deflection. The spell form flashed into existence a breath before the brilliant glare of the Divine spell would have slammed into Roark, batting him from the air.

Immediately the blast of blinding white flashed crimson and rebounded at Lowen, taking the smug bastard full in the chest like a battering ram. The Herald tumbled backward, stunned and wide-eyed as nearly a quarter of his remaining Health drained away. Besides his attempt to plant Talise close enough to assassinate Roark, Lowen had never bothered to wage a personal assault on the Cruel Citadel—Roark was sure the mage considered such a menial task beneath him—and as a result, he’d never tasted Ick’s potent form of spellcraft.

Not wasting the split second of distraction, Roark leapt, using Dragon’s Flight to race through the air like a comet streaking through the night sky. He’d missed from a distance, but perhaps he could make up for that by shooting from close range. Even a bumbling farmhand could hit the side of a barn if he was close enough.

Lowen regained his senses and met him in the air, grabbing one of Roark’s wrists and shoving the pistol away with incredible strength while swinging the Bastard Sword in an overhand arc at Roark’s head. Though Roark was larger in size than the Herald, the contest was a firm reminder of the level gap between them.

With a grunt and a heave, Roark threw up his free arm, catching the sword blade on his scaled forearm with a scraping clang. Orange sparks flew from the point of impact. Amazingly, he hardly felt the sting of the cutting edge.

[Your natural Draconic Chaos Harbinger armor has resisted 90% of the Slashing Damage from Legendary Bastard Sword of the Morning Star.]

Lowen jerked his arm back, this time winding up for a thrust at Roark’s gut.

Thinking quickly, Roark triggered Hex-Aura.

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Hex-Aura

Those who would dare lash out at the Hexorcist best be ready to taste the sting of Cursed! retribution. The caster emits a 30-foot-radius aura, which moves with them for the duration of the spell and affects all allies in the area. Enemies take .5n Damage (where n equals character level of the Attacker) when they deal physical melee damage to those protected by Hex-Aura. Hex-Aura is a Level 6 spell and can only be inscribed in Level 6 Spell Slots; Duration, 6 minutes.

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He slammed a blocking arm into the blade again, the Bastard Sword doing a minimal amount of harm to Roark’s filigreed Health vial, while Lowen took half his own level in damage. Forty-nine points of Health wasn’t much given Lowen’s level, but if the fool kept attacking, every shot would drain him a bit further.

Unfortunately, Lowen twigged to this rather quickly. He planted a boot in Roark’s gut and kicked him away, putting distance between the pair.

That suited Roark just fine, since it effectively freed up both of his pistols. He leveled the weapons and fired another pair of shots at the Herald’s head, the guns kicking in his grip. One shot glanced off a gilt-edged pauldron but the other caught Lowen in the ear. A sliver ran out of the mage’s Health bar, and this time, it flashed green as Zyra’s Poison of the Rotting Sun took hold.

Shock and fury warred across Lowen’s face in equal measure as black cracks spiderwebbed across his golden skin.

Roark didn’t wait for him to recover but pressed his slim advantage. He fired again, rounds slamming harmlessly into plate armor, then promptly switched the emptied pistol for a Cursed Head. The pistols were a precision weapon—not so the heads. Ripping the ring out of its ear, he lobbed it at Lowen.

The mage dodged with contemptuous ease, but the Head slammed into the wall just behind him, detonating. Tongues of green flame and a shower of Bone Shards peppered the Herald’s now-vulnerable golden flesh. Lowen’s augmented armor protected the majority of his body from the brunt of the shrapnel damage, but the Necrotic fires singed his hair, and more than a few chunks of yellowed bone lodged themselves in his cheeks and hands.

Incensed, Lowen darted in with a sloppy lunge, stabbing the Bastard Sword at Roark’s throat. Roark batted it aside again with a swing of his scaled forearm. A tiny amount of damage bit at him, while a larger portion was ripped from Lowen’s Health bar.

“Two can play at that game,” the mage snapped, a wild spark in his eyes.

He flapped his wings, opening space, and cast Retribution Blast at Roark.

With a roar, Roark cast his final Discordant Inversion web; the spell of woven shadow bloomed around him. The Retribution Blast rebounded and transformed, engulfing Lowen in a nimbus of black sparks. Driven by rage, Lowen charged through the cloud of Undead power, lashing out with his Bastard Sword. When Lowen struck again, both the Hex-Aura and Retribution Blast backfired, stealing away Health.

“You bleeding street-whelped cur!” Lowen bellowed.

He folded his falcon-like wings and dove. Roark soared to meet him.

When they slammed into one another, Roark suddenly felt cold metal pressed to his stomach—but not the edge of a sword blade. No, something flat and smooth. A thunderous boom rocked the Vault of the Radiant Shield. Agony tore dozens of fiery holes through his guts, and his filigreed Health vial drained as if it had been punctured as well.

[You have suffered Massive Internal Damage! Continue to take -11HP Bleeding Damage per second for 2 minutes or until you remove the source of the Damage.]

[You are taking Divine Damage! Continue to take -11HP Divine Damage per second for 2 minutes or until you remove the source of the Damage.]

Stars exploded across Roark’s field of vision, black closing in on the edges, and his ears rang with an endless muffled whine. He dropped to the closest surface—the hanging dais that held the Vault’s Golden Throne. He landed gracelessly on his stomach and dug in his toes to keep himself from sliding off its polished and slanted surface. With one hand, he clutched at his torn midsection, blood pouring through his fingers. Sweat soaked his face, and his body trembled from the pain.

That had been no spell. Roark knew every ability at the Heralds’ disposal. That wasn’t one of them.

Lowen landed in front of him, laughing. He had his sword leaning casually against one silver pauldron.

“Say what you will about overpowering everything I touch,” he sneered, “but if I’m going to take damage every time I attack you, then I’m damned sure going to make that damage count.”

With weak thrashing motions, Roark flipped onto his back and fought to pull himself up. He slipped in the blood, a new wave of torment washing through his body.

Lowen held up a twisted hunk of olive-green metal with his free hand. The thing’s remains were still smoking.

“You didn’t think the armor was the only thing I asked for from the Hearthworld god, did you? What kind of fool do you take me for, von Graf?” With a shake of his head, Lowen tossed the destroyed bit of explosive at Roark. “A Claymore mine is what they call it, if you’re interested in telling anybody in the next life how you died.”

“I’ll tell your mother when I get to the seventh hell,” Roark spluttered between gritted teeth, a coppery salty tang filling his mouth.

Lowen smirked. “Your kind are fond of cheating, so you’ll appreciate this. Though I don’t have your commoner’s love for crafting, I did manage to align the Claymore with the Vault, so every little metal ball inside is considered a Divine weapon, which we all know you Infernal creatures have a weakness to. Even in your new half-Undead form, it seems you’re still suffering a spot of difficulty from it.”

Roark’s shoulder bumped a sharp corner. The Dungeon Lord’s throne.

Immediately, his vision filled with a bit of paper covered in text.

[World Stone Pendant has detected Temporal Resonance! Compatibility: 51%. Would you like to attempt to bind Temporal Location Vault of the Radiant Shield with Prime Temporal Location, Cruel Citadel? Yes/No?

Warning: Temporal Location, Vault of the Radiant Shield, is in a state of flux. This dramatically increases the likelihood of failure to bind locations.

Warning: The higher the compatibility, the greater the stability of the final location. The lower the compatibility, the lower the stability of the final binding. Attempting to bind incompatible locations could destroy both locations.

Warning: Binding Temporal Locations is irreversible.]

It was the very same message he’d seen back in the Other World, after sitting upon the throne of the CEO of Frontflip Studios. He had dismissed the notice then because the compatibility rating had been so low—an appalling 32%. In truth, 51% wasn’t confidence inspiring, but now he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. There was a glimmer of hope. Lowen hadn’t cursed or inscribed the Claymore mine—he’d aligned it with the Vault. But what if the Vault suddenly merged with the Cruel Citadel? Much like using a Transmutation Core to alter the evolutionary path of a monster, who could say what type of dungeon would be formed?

Unable to contain himself, Roark laughed. Pain flared through his torn stomach muscles and more blood pushed up the back of his throat with every chuckle.

A shining gold-and-silver armored boot slammed down on his shredded midsection. Roark doubled over with a strangled scream, his mind blanking with the pain as Lowen ground his heel into the wound.

“What’s so funny, half-breed?” the mage demanded. An edge of insane desperation tinged his words. “Shut up and die like the worthless dog you are. You’ve lost.”

Roark forced out another chuckle. “Not bloody yet, I haven’t.”

With one hand, he clutched the World Stone and recalled the Temporal Binding text. He selected Yes.

Lowen frowned. “What are you—”

The World Stone burned with icy energy in Roark’s fist, and the pendant flared with a brilliant amber light so powerful that it flung the Herald backward. It didn’t stop there, however. The power grew and grew, the stone transforming into a golden sun in Roark’s hand. The raw force of it was too much, overwhelming in its terrible heat. Roark gritted his teeth, attempting to hold tighter, but the aroma of burning flesh wafted to his nostrils, and his already diminished Health bar plummeted toward empty. With a strangled shout, he tried to rip his hand free. A significant patch of flesh remained stuck to the stone as it tore loose. The stone slipped between his fingers.

It didn’t clatter to his chest, however, but soared into the air, snapping the silver chain around his neck and rising high above the dais. The World Stone hovered, pulsing with cosmic power on a scale Roark couldn’t begin to comprehend.

The Vault of the Radiant Shield began to shake and rumble, the force of the sudden quake making the dais come unhinged from a second point and pitch farther askew. Roark slid to the edge and just barely managed to grab a corner before he tumbled off the side, likely to his forever-death. As he hung there, clinging to life with weakening fingers, another message flashed.

[Warning, proximity of unknown distortion rift {Designation: Traisbin} detected! Warning, proximity of unknown dimensional anomalies detected. Temporal transcription location error imminent! World Stone Pendant, now seeking to bind Temporal Location Vault of the Radiant Shield with Prime Temporal Location, Cruel Citadel… World Stone Pendant, now seeking to stabilize dimensional space-time coordinates… Hidden ability, World Forge activated…]

Suddenly, darkness flashed through the Vault. Its golden walls and marble floors turned to dingy gray flagstone lit with sconces giving off oily smoke.

Reaver Bats hung from the shadowed ceiling, and Stone Salamanders prowled the walls, winking out of the visible spectrum when they saw their new and strange location. From down below, Roark heard Mac chirp an astonished greeting to his former fellow Stone Salamanders. In that brief, blessed moment of darkness, the fiery agony in Roark’s midsection disappeared. He was able to take a shaking breath.

Then the bright golden light of the Vault came screaming back, bringing with it the Divine damage Lowen’s Claymore mine had inflicted. Roark lost his grip on the dais and tumbled over the edge. The floor rushed up to meet Roark, but then the world pivoted once more, the Vault giving way to the Cruel Citadel. He landed with a heavy thump on the stone, in terrible pain but still alive.

Arched windows appeared and through them Roark watched in astonishment as the familiar jagged peaks of Korvo tore across the skyline—only to be replaced a moment later by the wind-battered black dunes of the Onyx Sands. Another flash and he was staring at a different mountain range: the San Gabriel Mountains, outside of Frontflip.

The World Stone hung overhead, pulsing with light like the beating of some great galactic heart. With every strobe, the dungeon transformed anew as the Temporal Binding fought to stabilize the location, straining to meld the two locations into one. But not just the two dungeons, it seemed. If the glimpses through those arched windows could be believed, the World Stone was seeking to merge realms—or at least parts of them.

Red canyons, littered with the corpses of mobs…

Vast pine forests, dusted with snow…

Looming pyramids buried in sweeping dunes of black…

Cityscapes clogged with horseless steel carriages…

Standing around the throne room, Heralds and allied mobs alike stared in horrified disbelief at what they were witnessing. Roark wondered idly if the binding would fail and kill them all. He’d taken a terrible gamble with the World Stone’s Temporal Binding property, but it seemed that terrible was the only type of gamble left open to him lately. In truth, whenever the dungeon flashed back to the Vault and the metal in his gut regained its Divine alignment, he was ready for the whole thing to end as soon as possible. Anything to stop that pain.

Finally, with a rolling boom of thunder, the location solidified into a twisted yet beautiful new version of its component dungeons. Vaulted ceilings of dark stone gilded with ornate golden patterns, floors alternating between marble and flagstone. The arched windows became vividly colorful stained glass, illuminating scenes of gorgeous winged women and powerful horned men. Unfortunately, nothing he saw gave him any clue as to which realm the dungeon had ended up in.

[Newly Bound Location, the Radiant Citadel, established!]

[Warning: Radiant Citadel is currently Unclaimed Territory! To claim this Dungeon as yours, take a seat on the Dungeon Lord’s Throne.]

Roark dismissed both messages. There would be time to worry about where they were later.

Of foremost importance to Roark was the fact that the neutral alignment of the new Temporal Location nullified the Divine damage emanating from the metal embedded in his shredded organs. Right away, Roark’s Health-regen began to work at repairing the internal destruction. He raised a hand and cast Necrotic Infernal Invigoration, feeling more soothing relief whisk away his wounds.

When the last of the bits of metal had dropped out of his stomach and the flat planes of muscle there were once again closed over his organs, Roark pushed himself to his feet.

He found Lowen staring dumbfoundedly at the modified version of what used to be his throne room.

Roark spit a wad of blood onto the floor. “Let’s finish this.”