He took a slow and deep breath, syncing his heartbeat with the tension in his legs. Air Magika flooded around him in a pulse.
Air Gear
He shot forward—not at the Elite, not yet.
The four regulars flanking it were still standing.
Not for long.
He hit the wall mid-sprint, boots scraping, then kicked off into a curved dash. The hall gave him just enough room to bounce between surfaces like a coiled spring. The Scorchbacks turned their heads—but they didn’t get the chance to move.
The first dropped before it saw him.
The second tried to raise its slab, but Hope slid low, spun under the weapon, and drove his spear up through its ribs and out the neck.
The third caught a flash of movement and swung wild—but he was already past it. One quick twist, one reverse grip, and the point of the spear punched straight into the creature’s side and out its back.
The fourth turned just in time to see the others fall. It let out a growl—then choked as Hope came down from above, burying the spear clean through its throat.
Four down.
And now only one left.
Hope straightened and turned slowly, eyeing the Elite.
The big bastard had seen it all. And for the first time since he entered this place, Hope saw actual rage on one of their faces.
It roared, shield raised, mace dragging sparks from the stone as it charged.
Hope didn’t flinch. Just loosened his stance, kept the point of his weapon low.
And then… the Elite came.
Its massive body lunged forward, muscle cords snapping taut as it launched itself like a freight train.
Hope shifted instantly, boots grinding as he pushed off the floor, activating Air Gear with a sudden flare.
The mace came with a shriek of air, splitting the space he’d just vacated. The impact crushed stone, and sent debris flying like shrapnel.
Hope bounced off the left wall, shoulder-first, twisting in midair as the brute turned with shocking speed.
Fuck, is he fast.
The shield came up and caught his thigh mid-air. Hope grunted as pain flared—he barely redirected himself with a pulse of air, spinning off and landing on his feet in a hard crouch.
He didn’t wait.
His form blurred, feet sliding into motion as he weaved around another mace strike—closer this time, the wind of it slicing his cheek.
He darted low, aimed for the legs.
Thrust—clean and fast.
Shlink!
His spear struck true, but only scraped off thick hide. Not deep enough.
The Scorchbrute growled and kicked, feet the size of a bucket slamming forward.
Hope flipped back, barely escaping the arc. The kick skimmed his ribs. It hurt anyway.
“Shit—tough bastard.”
He gritted his teeth and surged forward again, this time striking high.
The spear moved like lightning, accelerated by pressure bursts. One. Two. Three—rapid jabs toward the shoulder, the neck, the eye.
Clang!
The shield caught all three.
The last impact numbed his arms.
The force reverberated up through his wrists, nearly cracking his forearms on the spot.
“Gah—fuck!”
Hope rolled away as the mace came again, flattening the spot where he’d stood with a thunderous crunch.
He coughed, breath hitching as dust filled his lungs.
Then smiled.
Blood leaked down his arms. His knuckles were raw. But he was grinning.
“You’re angry,” he muttered. “Good. Stay mad!”
He vanished again, dust flaring behind him as he launched off the ground, swerving to the side mid-stride, and used the wall to arc above the brute.
This time, he struck downward.
The spear sank into the gap between helmet and shoulder. Just a little.
Enough to make it bleed.
The ogre roared, spun, and slammed its shield back—Hope blocked with the shaft of his spear, but it was like catching a wagon wheel.
He hit the ground hard, tumbled, bounced, and slid to a stop.
Ribs cracked.
Something popped in his shoulder.
He groaned, spat blood—and forced himself up again.
“Still here,” he muttered, half-laughing. “Let’s keep going.”
The brute didn’t wait either.
It came stomping forward, shield raised, mace trailing gouges in the ground. Its bare feet slapped stone with wet, sticky impact—each step like a boulder falling.
Hope sucked in air through his nose, rolled his shoulder despite the flare of pain, and stepped left.
Then… vanished.
Air Gear surged beneath him again—but softer this time.
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Not just bursts.
Control.
Each pulse pressed the wind underfoot, each shift curled behind his calves, reducing the sound of his movement until even he couldn’t hear it. No whistle. No echo.
Only motion.
He spun in close.
The brute swung wild.
Hope was already crouched low. One breath. One tight spiral. Then he launched up, jabbing under the shield and into the gut seam.
Thud—crack!
The flesh was like leather-bound bone, but the point dug halfway in.
It howled, but didn’t back off.
Instead, it twisted. Fast. Shield bashed sideways.
Hope barely caught it.
The impact exploded into his side, lifted him off his feet and sent him spinning down the hall.
He rolled twice before stopping on one knee, coughing blood.
His side felt like broken glass, but his grip hadn’t slipped. Not once.
The spear spun in his hand again. Still good.
“Alright,” he hissed, flicking blood from his lip. “Let’s see how you like this.”
He pushed forward. Zigzagged low to high.
One feint left. Then real strike right. The ogre adjusted its shield.
Hope dropped to a slide under it and jammed the spear straight through the brute’s foot.
The scream it gave out was raw.
It stumbled.
Hope yanked the spear back with both hands and came up spinning, slicing the back of its thigh open wide—deep muscle, thick blood, jetting hot and fast.
The ogre twisted and tried to crush him with the mace.
Too late.
Hope was already up the wall, bounding left—then jumped off again, flipping over the Scorchbrute’s head.
Midair, he reangled. Strike.
Straight down.
Crshh!
He buried the spear head just above the eye socket.
The ogre roared again—louder this time, but not with rage. With fear and pain.
It was confused now, the way its eyes flicked around, the way its grip tightened on the mace like it still believed it could win this fight.
It was bigger, tougher, and faster than the others. It had better armour, sharper instincts, stronger hits… but it still wasn’t enough.
Hope hit the ground hard behind it, gasping for air, sweat stinging his eyes, ribs on fire. His legs screamed with every movement, arms numb from the earlier blocks, and the copper taste of blood still coated the back of his throat.
He barely had time to brace before the brute twisted, snarled, and brought the mace down in a violent overhead slam.
He raised the spear shaft to catch it, muscles burning as metal clashed against steel-reinforced wood with a booming impact that rang through the tunnel like a war drum.
The blow forced him to one knee, legs buckling beneath the weight.
It felt like the bastard was trying to split him in half—like the earth itself had risen to crush his spine.
Hope growled in defiance.
He grit his teeth and rolled under the next stomp just in time, the ogre’s bare foot crashing down and carving a crater into the floor.
He used that motion to push back up to his feet, boots skidding across dust and blood.
He charged again, eyes locked forward, jaw clenched, breath ragged.
Low and fast.
The spear raised up as if to aim for the chest, and for a moment the brute reacted just as expected—raising its shield, shifting slightly to meet the attack head-on.
But it was a lie.
At the last second, Hope dropped low, twisted, reversed the grip in a flash—and rammed the spear up beneath the ogre’s chin.
The point didn’t just stab.
It pierced, cutting through thick hide, flesh, and soft bone until it slammed into the inside of the helmet with a sickening wet crack, the point denting the metal from within. Blood and grey matter sprayed up through the gap, painting the ceiling in a violent splash as the ogre’s body convulsed.
A final breath choked out of it as the mace slid from its fingers with a metallic clang, the shield dropping moments after.
It took two staggering steps back, blood gushing from its throat like soup spilling from a broken bowl.
And then… it collapsed hard into the ground.
Hope stumbled over the body, panting so loud it echoed through the tunnel, his chest rising and falling like a bellows.
His hand, still clutching the spear, was slick with blood and trembling from overuse—but he didn’t care.
He just stood there, towering over the corpse that had nearly crushed him.
His mouth was dry.
His ribs were cracked, just slightly.
His shoulder throbbed with a pulsing, angry beat.
But as he looked down at that ruined face, helmet caved in from within, blood still dripping… he felt nothing but pride.
Level 49 ? 50
Hope smilled. He had finally tak—
Tier 1 - Progress Gate
Required Conditions:
- Any two Magika Handling Skills equal or above Level 7 [Not Achieved]
- Any Weapon Handling Skill equal or above Level 7 [Achieved]
- Magika Sensing equal or above Level 7 [Not Achieved]
- Any Physis-based Skill equal or above Level 7 [Achieved]
- One or more Discovered Active Skills [Achieved]
What the…
Hope stared wide-eyed at the screen. He understood most of it—he’d been keeping up with the reading and writing lessons with Eve—but being able to read it and actually make sense of it were two very different things.
What the fuck was this?
He barely noticed as the Scorchbrute vanished and a coin took its place, merging with the one he already had. Same thing with the other four he’d slain before.
‘6640’
The number had changed quite a bit. So it gave… 250 credits?
He shook his head. That wasn’t the concern right now. This—this so-called Progress Gate with its weird conditions. What did it even mean?
Wait…
He had heard that term before. When was it…?
Yeah. He’d been talking with Eve about the tier system and stuff. She had mentioned a Progress Gate—something that blocked your levelling until certain conditions were met. That much was clear.
But if he remembered correctly… wasn’t that supposed to start in Tier 2 for everyone?
Hope narrowed his eyes. Was this something special for him? An anomaly? A glitch? Or was it the sky fuckers pulling strings again?
Either way, he needed to stay sharp. He couldn’t go around asking Eve directly—not if this thing really wasn’t supposed to happen yet. And if levelling was blocked, then fighting more brutes now would be a waste, maybe even dangerous if someone caught on it.
Hope sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. One step at a time. He’d meet the requirements quietly. Maybe steer the conversation with Eve later, subtly, without raising alarms.
Best play it smart. Eyes low. Mouth shut. Just like back at the camp when one saw weird shit.
Hope turned and saw Eve standing calmly at the entrance of the chamber, watching him with that same soft smile she always wore. Truth be told, he’d grown kind of fond of his little writing teacher over the past few days. She carried a backpack too big for her size, but she walked like it weighed nothing.
“Not too shabby, ey?”
Eve nodded. “That was rad.”
Hope chuckled, wiping blood from his chin. Somehow, she’d picked up that word recently and now used it like punctuation. Kinda cute, really, the way she said it.
“Alright. Big guy gave a stingy 250. Guess that’s a win.”
He rolled his shoulder with a faint grunt, then glanced around the now-empty chamber.
“Let’s call it a day early. Head back to Gob’s. I wanna go over some stuff. Train. Maybe pick up somethin’ new too, yeah?”
Eve raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him. Just turned and started walking.
Hope followed, footsteps echoing over cracked stone and dried blood.