Oz couldn’t stab Foxglove yet. Well, he could, but it would just amount to waving a knife in the air given the spirit was still intangible. Oxley had to arrange for the spirit to have a Template to pilot first. That would give them a magically crafted body of flesh and bone.

  Then the stabbing could begin.

  Foxglove was at the far side of the ring, angrily complaining about the Templates Oxley was offering them off a pane of illusion glass. They were whining that the options would be too weak to handle Oz. Oxley was pointedly ignoring them.

  Oz was beginning to approve of Oxley more and more.

  They finally settled on a Template of a standard half-plate armoured delver. While they negotiated the powers that it would get, occasionally calling over to Oz to check if anything specific was needed for testing, he had managed to find some chains to serve as his other weapon. These seemed to be part of the training equipment, but they were weighted for someone below the peak of F-Tier and so barely weighed him down.

  “Right, let’s get this beat—testing started,” Oxley called out. He stood to the right, behind him was an impressive mirrored wall. Oz could see the room reflected in it, Oxley’s robe and strong frame all the way to the tips of his horns, which he now noticed were capped with bronze bits of jewellery.

  His opponent, Foxglove, whose body was a bit too stocky to be an elf, didn’t have the right ears either. The shape was closer to that of a vampire without the fangs, or a werewolf who’d not changed shape. The Ozzer, sounding indignant, said that it was obviously a human.

  The ‘human’ was taller than Oz by around half a head, but nowhere near as broad. Oz would easily outmass them if not for the plate armour that covered much of their front. The steel was scratched and dull, and using the mirror Oz could see it was far more limited in the back, with chain mail or sturdy fabrics the only defence from behind.

  A long spear was clutched in heavy gauntlets.

  Finally, he looked at his side of the field. Oz looked different and yet the same. He’d stripped his uniform down to his shirt, trousers and boots. Sleeves were rolled up, revealing his clanwraps, and in his hand was the obsidian blade, just waiting for a fight.

  Oz looked like an office worker who’d stumbled into some kind of apocalyptic scenario, trying to make the best of some powers dumped on them by a cold, uncaring system.

  That was until you noticed the eyes. They were still the trollish orange of iron ready to be worked on the anvil, but even as combat loomed, as the threat stirred, they were utterly steady. The stance was not like his indifferent defensive posture from the scuffles back home that dared idiots to come and break their pride upon him. No, this was closer to when he used to spar with his father, where the only option was to move forward and attack.

  Beside him was Chops, gaze fixed forward, all four eyes watching their opponent with barely controlled aggression. The familiar could sense his intent, and Oz could feel the dog’s desire to work with the pack to take down the foe.

  “Start at the back of the arena, foot on the coloured plate. Chops can start beside you, his back legs must also be touching the arena edge,” Oxley said, and Oz adjusted, sending a message to Chops who also shifted their position before barking in impatience, wanting the bout to begin. The spirit flinched.

  Good boy!

  “Why don’t you check if he has any pre-battle buffs to cast first,” Foxglove dithered. Oz ignored the oddity of their genteel, cultured voice coming out of the unfamiliar face, before the spirit slid a heavy helmet over the heavy helmeted form of the template.

  “Nope. I’ve got Chops. I’m ready,” Oz called. He’d got his knife at the ready, [Runic Empowerment] sat on the edge of his awareness, and his signature skills were primed for an opening. His outfit had been properly hoodlummed. He’d discarded the jacket, rolled up the sleeves, and wore the cravat like a bandana. His arms were, of course, already in their clanwraps. The sturdy slash and stab proof fabric being empowered by his skill gave him an extra level of confidence.

  Oz could feel Hoodlum pulsing through his gear and into the blade.

  On the other side of the ring Foxglove stretched and brought up their spear, ready for battle.

  “Three, two, one, begin!”

  Oz exploded forward. Beside him, Chops kicked up sand as they pounded towards Foxglove. The fighter slammed the butt of their spear into the sand, and a wave of oily energy rolled out towards them.

  [Dwarven Stubbornness and Blessing of Defiance has helped you resist a mental attack]

  The Ozzer started to pester him relentlessly. The blessing had changed! What did this mean? Maybe they should pause and investigate. Then he noticed that beside him, Chops had stumbled and fallen, skidding along the sand.

  They’d hurt their dog again! Focus was back on the fight. Time to get stabbing!

  “Why do you keep attacking my dog?” Oz shouted, closing the distance, knife coming up in guard position, the chain dragging behind him.

  “It was an AOE confusion shout! Did you not even feel it? Your mental resistance is too damn high.” The spear shot out at Oz’s face, but he dodged it, swinging the chain at the haft to try to bind it. Foxglove, keen not to lose their weapon, jerked back to avoid that fate, giving Oz the opening he needed.

  [Twice for flinching]

  [Vandal]

  Oz had thought about this yesterday. There was nothing that said he couldn’t use two skills together like this, and now, as the two attacks from his chain slammed into one of the fighter’s pauldrons, he saw the metal deform a bit under the blow. The second attack Foxglove dodged by throwing themselves into a sideways roll, their armour kicking up sand as they got some distance from Oz’s attacks. The spirit clearly remembered [Twice for flinching] from their first fight.

  “You hit like a falling ceiling,” Foxglove rolled the fighter template’s shoulders uncomfortably.

  “Stand still and fight!” Oz growled, readying the same attack before Oxley called out from the sidelines.

  “Both of you, remember I want to see a full suite of skills, both defence and offence. I also want to see what Chops can do.”

  “Wait, where’s the dog?” was all Foxglove managed to say before the full weight of Chops slammed into their side.

  Chops was a smart dog. When he’d recovered from the mental attack, he’d, without prompting, run round to flank their opponent. Chops was also smart enough to recognise the spirit even in a new body, and just as capable as his master of holding a grudge.

  The dog weighed a fair bit and staggered Foxglove as the body and paws crashed into them. But the real threat was the heads. Both darted out, snarls pulled across their muzzles as they tried to clamp down on the less defended parts of Foxglove’s armoured form. The left head got its mouth round the exposed back of the warrior’s thigh, the right had to make do with clamping down on their armoured wrist, the teeth drawing out a horrible shrieking sound as they scraped across the armour.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “Void and Night,” Foxglove cursed. One arm incapacitated, they let go of the spear and pulled out the dagger at their side to remove the attacker. The blade dripped with a sickly green liquid.

  [Frightful Glare]

  The attack stalled as Foxglove flinched under the mental assault. Oz closed the distance and lashed out with his own clan knife, [Runic Empowerment] flooding through him.

  The obsidian blade’s edge glowed red and trailed a heat haze behind it. Runes ran on sympathetic concepts, and obsidian, thanks to its strong volcanic heritage, was exceptional at holding heat-related runes. Oz aimed to attack under the armpit of the fighter where the armour was weakest.

  The other thing obsidian offered was an unparalleled cutting edge for a sharpness rune to enhance.

  The black blade sank in so smoothly Foxglove might as well have still been a spirit for all the resistance the flesh it wore presented. The spirit hissed as its arm went limp, knife falling from unresponsive fingers.

  The clan knife ripped out of the armpit, a burst of [Vandal] letting Oz slice through the straps of the armour that might have otherwise caught it. Oz kicked over Foxglove and sent a mental command to Chops as they both pulled back.

  The fighter didn’t move, just slumped in place, and Foxglove appeared hovering over the body.

  “Well, that body is done for. I told you I needed a better template, we didn’t even test his resistance to poison or other ailments.” Their tone was of mild annoyance, like someone complaining of an overcooked steak.

  “I will admit I may need to calibrate my expectations of your combat readiness. That knife is lethal in combination with your [Runic Empowerment],” Oxley nodded.

  “I’m still fresh and we’ve got more things to test.” Oz began to do some post-battle stretches. Chops, after a moment, tried to copy him, and he let out a laugh.

  “You are far too comfortable with violence.”

  “I mean, it’s not like I killed a person, and it doesn’t actually hurt you, does it?” Oz paused. He never actually liked hurting people. He liked hitting people plenty, a few of his fondest memories began with the meaty sound of a punch silencing some loud-mouthed slag head, and he had a lot of great memories of sparring with his father.

  Causing pain though was never his goal.

  “Don’t worry, pilots don’t feel pain. Even skills which enhance pain just create distortions in the link between the pilot and their avatar,” Oxley called out before Foxglove could respond, playing with his short beard as he spoke, his eyes watching Oz carefully. The spirit threw up its ghostly hands and pointed back to the corpse on the ground, which was already starting to dissolve into motes of grey dust.

  “Still, most find the blood and assorted viscera a little disturbing.”

  “As long as Chops doesn’t try and eat it, I don’t really care. It’s not like I haven’t seen blood before.” Oz replied, before the Ozzer elbowed him in the cerebellum, and he turned to see Oxley staring him down with a concerned expression.

  After this and the beatings, he was totally getting dragged into a ‘friendly chat’ after this.

  Oz’s experience with ‘friendly chats’ was tainted by the nearest thing he’d viewed as a mortal enemy in Greywater, the school counsellor.

  It was ironic that Oz was friendlier with the lads he performed aggressive dentistry upon than his ‘friendly’ conversational partner. Oz shuddered as he recalled the terrible office filled with pastel colours and motivational posters with statements like ‘Every respawn is a learning experience’.

  The counsellors seemed to believe it would help to talk about his problems and think about his feelings. Even the actions they proposed were of no use, like talking to medical professionals about his dad.

  Trying to get Urstal near a healer was like trying to get a cat to take a bath. No one wanted the kind of scratches a C-Tier dwarf could hand out.

  Oxley was still looking at him, and so before more questions could be asked, Oz pointed at the dissolving template. “Why is it turning into dust so fast? That didn’t happen with the jackals.”

  “The dungeon is reclaiming the essence it spent forming the template. As to why it’s happening faster, the closer to the sentient species a template is, the faster it is broken down. Despite the whole shtick the Gauntlet made up, the jackals were functionally monsters mutated to walk around and attack. Monsters have lots of parts that delvers might want to preserve, so they only break down after an hour or two.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We feel it best not to encourage the desecration of the bodies of fallen templates. One thing you’ll learn as you run dungeons is that people can be awful, especially to something they don’t consider a person.” There was a dark look on Oxley’s face. Maybe he needed a friendly chat with someone?

  The moment was disrupted by a fresh bout of whining from Foxglove. “You’d better give me a template worth a damn this time, Oxley!”

  “Of course, let’s look at our options.” The professor raised an eyebrow and showed the spirit the slate. The indignant shouts told Oz that Oxley was not done with Foxglove’s punishment.

  First, there was the troll who spat poison clouds that Oz cooked with his knife. It was a regular swamp troll, so the extreme heat of the blade was enough to destroy its regeneration. Oz didn’t even need to try out [Healing Breath] after inhaling the noxious fumes. Between his Dwarven Constitution and Trollish Regeneration, what little poison got through was wiped away in as long as it took him to clean out his beard.

  Next came a spell-casting golem. Oz turned it into rockery. [Vandal] tore chunks out of the clay body, and when spells did get cast, Oz found he could disrupt them with a well-timed burst of the same skill.

  It wasn’t perfect and didn’t work every time. The golem did manage to get off one spell, some kind of force magic, three bolts that smacked into Oz and sent him reeling like he’d been hit by a runaway mine cart.

  In response, Oz used his chain to trip Foxglove’s golem and then dismantled the stupid thing.

  He growled and stood up. That fight had annoyed him. He hadn’t had a lot of chances to train against people with skills. Using skills turned what might otherwise be a minor brawl that the police had no time for into a whole thing, the kind where lawyers got involved.

  He picked himself up, and ignoring Foxglove’s wittering, took the opportunity to try out his latest power.

  Healing Breath

  Activate with a rhythmic breathing pattern. On the first breath your body is suffused with healing energy that offers an immediate significant healing effect, maintaining the breathing pattern offers a minor boost to regeneration as long as you have the magic to sustain it. The size of the initial effect is an expression of your Physique, and the efficiency and potency of the regeneration is an expression of your Willpower. Continued use is required to understand the skill in more detail.

  The skill implanted the basics of how to use it directly into his mind. The starting breath was a deep pull through the nostrils and down to the gut. Oz could feel the magic within him buzzing, like it was charging the air with something.

  Then a blast of minty healing lightning exploded within him. Oz almost choked and lost control of the flow of the breathing. It was the opposite of pain, in the same way that extreme mint could be the cold version of extreme spice. It offered relief and yet felt overwhelming at the same time.

  The power coursed through him, the lightning crackling down hidden paths through his bones, muscles and skin to target where the bolts had hit him. Tiny threads of lesser energy broke off to target all the other minor scrapes and cuts he’d accumulated.

  Before his very eyes, small cuts disappeared and the shadows of still-forming bruises washed away.

  The next breath was shallower, and the power that charged it was far less potent. This power still crackled, but it was a low-level sensation, a constant thrum of energy like standing before a storm that threatened to deafen you with thunder.

  Oz also felt that this power spread through his body more evenly, leaving him feeling rejuvenated and fresh. He tried to step forward, but even that simple movement was enough to disturb the breathing. The skill fell apart.

  “What the shit was that?” Foxglove whined.

  “Language,” Oz muttered.

  “Indeed, you’re meant to be a professional,” Oxley chuckled as the spirit thrust his finger up at him in a rude gesture. “Well, that about completes the testing for today. While the spells crunch through the details, I’d like to start our tutoring practice.”

  “Yes, the tutoring.” Oz shifted nervously. He’d been enjoying himself so far, it had been lots of doing.

  “That sounds fun,” Foxglove gloated, clearly sensing Oz’s discomfort.

  “Let’s start with your performance in the Gauntlet. I’m particularly interested in how you handled the Champion.”

  “Why must you be like this, Oxley?”