Chapter 06

  Michael stared at death in the face, and time stretched until it felt as if life was nothing but a movie left on pause. But even then, he knew that it was just an artifice born of a mind that knew it had to squeeze every ounce of processing power out of the meaty brain that made it, if it wanted to survive.

  It was during this window of time that Michael remembered his gun. It wasn’t as if he had forgotten it, but in that moment he knew with perfect clarity that if he wanted to survive, then the gun was the only thing that could help him. It didn’t matter how much he suffered, and he probably blacked out for a moment because he didn’t even know how he did it, with his broken arms and all, but suddenly he was gripping the handle of his gun and aiming at the center of mass of the incoming skeleton.

  Three point-blank shots rocked the cave, the impact of the bullets on the far wall sending sparks flying like little secondary flashes of light. The first bullet blew through the ribs of the skeleton but did nothing to stop it, but the second and third hit further up due to the recoil Michael’s wounded arms could not manage to stop. One of the two dislocated the skeleton’s shoulder, and the second one beheaded it.

  Out of bullets, Michael jumped to his feet, muscles and tendons tearing, wounds opening in an exquisite symphony of pain that was blindingly hot. On unsteady legs, he raised his feet and stomped on the writhing skeleton until all that was left of its bones were shards and dust. Then he collapsed, feeling the ground become like writhing water right as the door to the boss room appeared, his back sliding against the cold rock that dug into his wounds.

  He panted, gulping down air until his chest hurt. Healing took a long time, time during which his panicked mind decided that it was too dangerous to continue, that he was stupid to think that he could do it, that he finally understood why even those who had struck gold and found the dungeon had stopped before delving too deep, and that he was a damned fool who had avoided death not once but several fucking times by the tiniest hair’s breadth.

  Then he saw the stack of coins that had stealthily appeared right beside him. One, two, ten, fifteen, twenty copper coins. He salivated as all thoughts of stopping fled him. He could do so many things with them. He could literally turn his life around just with those twenty coins. If so, what could he do if he had more? Not just more coins, but more skills too. More magic. And, of course, he knew that if he had more magic, then he needed more coins, or else it wouldn’t work for long outside of the dungeon.

  The panic subsided, vanishing like a dream he couldn’t remember. After all, he argued in his own mind, he had survived, had he not? This could be a learning opportunity for him, and next time he would be more careful until he found the right balance to get loot without putting his life in unnecessary danger.

  He was convinced already, but then he saw the glow coming from below a rock. A skill stone.

  He used it immediately.

  Now he had no more doubts. This dungeon was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He was fully healed and had food to spare, and his competitive spirit was burning. He felt more alive than ever. Battle had made his blood boil, adrenaline raging, and then he had been rewarded fairly for his efforts. The same couldn’t be said for anything else in his sad life.

  The world was finally recognizing what he was due. He could not stop now, could he?

  The boss room was next. He crossed the threshold gingerly, cautiously. He told himself that he wasn’t letting the euphoria of magic blind him to danger. He told himself that he was smarter than a generic other delver. That he had figured it out.

  One of his flashlights was broken, casting long shadows, but the room was bright in his mind’s eye. He had a plan, a middle ground between the excessive safety of the first room and the recklessness of the second.

  A huge skeleton greeted him with a roar that should have been impossible for a being without vocal cords. Air had moved, like a strong gale that rattled his teeth, but Michael had no time to contemplate the impossible before the battle started. For a moment, the two enemies sized each other up, and the skeleton seemed to snarl and make strange faces at him even though its bones did not move at all. Michael’s face was a mask of concentration. He had his shield up, gun hidden behind it and fully loaded.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Then the stalemate was broken when the skeleton lunged at him, opening the dance with a wild haymaker, and the blow was mighty enough that Michael decided to dodge it rather than taking it with his shield. He found it easier than expected, his new passive skill already paying dividends. For a while, all he did was dance around the danger, dodging, learning the fighting style of the skeleton, predicting its patterns.

  Then came a blow he could not dodge. With a sharp breath, he readied himself, feeling the mana drain from him to empower his shield with [Distortion Field]. The impact rattled him, but the shield held strong and repelled the gigantic fist that had descended upon him. He felt the blow in his bones, arms aching, but he was fine. The skeleton was too, unfortunately. It had not shattered from the blow, its bones much more resistant than the normal skeletons of the previous room.

  It was time to change things around. The skeleton was getting faster as the fight went on, its enormous bulk digging holes in the fortunately smooth stone of the ground as it moved, rage mounting, and it was only a matter of time before Michael was unable to dodge a fatal blow.

  “I’ve trained my reflexes enough, it’s time to get serious,” Michael muttered, throwing himself to the ground and finally showing his trump card.

  He made use of the window of opportunity to take aim with his gun, shooting at the bony knee of the monster, shattering calcified cartilage. The monster staggered for a moment, and Michael used the opportunity to advance with his own shield like a battering ram, changing angle of attack at the last second and transforming all his momentum into upwards force. He swung the shield in an arc, [Distortion Field] active, hitting the monster’s right arm like a tennis ball being hit by a powerful player. The hand flew, along with several fragments of shattered bone that further broke apart when they hit the far wall at incredible speed.

  Even though Michael felt the drain of the skill tax his body and whatever part of himself where magic resided, he knew he had to press his advantage. The skeleton’s balance was destroyed as it tried to right itself, its weight suddenly redistributed by a powerful force.

  He activated his skill… only for it to fail. Color drained from Michael’s face. He jumped out of range of a savage kick that still managed to nick him in the leg and draw blood. Now he was on the defensive. Now the tables had turned.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the loss of magic made him powerless.

  He snarled, refusing to admit defeat, letting go of his gun to free his hands in an unplanned move that was as reckless as it was necessary.

  He thrust his hand into his pocket where the copper coins clinked like a lifesaving weight. He absorbed five of them, topping off his mana, and brought his shield to bear again. With [Distortion Field], the punch from the monster only felt like he had been hit by a truck, but it did not break bone. It pushed him against the edge of the room, where the cold, unfeeling stone of the wall pressed against his back.

  With restricted movement, it was a very dangerous position to find himself in, and the skeleton was suddenly much faster than before, charging at him. That’s when a nasty idea came to Michael’s mind. In a day filled with risky ideas and questionable decisions, a wicked smile appeared on his face and his shield glimmered with the repulsion effect of his magic skill.

  This was going to be dangerous.

  He planted his feet against the wall and pushed. He flew up, gaining his footing and breaking into a mad run, shield held up high with both of his hands, its surface glimmering with unspent power. Then the collision happened. The impact was violent. He didn’t know where or when he had hit the skeleton, but he felt something give, and then he was tumbling on the ground, both arms broken, body battered and bruised. Around him, a shower of shards of white bone slowly being dissolved into raw mana obscured the light from his flashlight.

  Then he heard the sound of the wall opening up, and light from the outside filtered in. It lit the cave with bright, blinding sunlight.

  It was only after he was all healed up that Michael went to see what he had gained from this battle. He was hungry, but he could eat later. The spoils of war had been calling to him while he had been healing, and he could not resist their call anymore. A message was also blinking in his vision, beckoning for his attention.

  A third effect had been added to the skill, the magical ability evolving to accommodate the novel way in which Michael had used it.

  He grinned.

  It was only the second time he delved the dungeon, and already he was seeing huge gains. Not only that, but with all the physical effort and healing, he felt stronger and faster than ever before. It had not occurred to him before, but all the little aches and pains he always felt in his body were gone thanks to his healing skill.

  In that moment, he felt better than he had ever felt in his life. Then he went over the spoils. More coins, thirty of them, bringing the total to forty-five. Not exactly what he wanted to see, but fair enough that he couldn’t really complain. Buried under the coins he found a small metal bar, shining silver and not too heavy. He had never handled silver himself, and for all he knew it could be aluminum or some alien metal, but if he was lucky, then perhaps the small bar was indeed silver and could prove to be a life saver for his broke ass.

  Driving back home, he stopped at a small group of buildings by the road. They were in the middle of nowhere, in a flat valley between hills, where trees and lush vegetation were strangely absent. The dusty parking lot made him think of states much further south.

  An old warehouse had been repurposed into a new shop. Old Dave’s Pawn Shop, the sign read. The right place to get ripped off, Michael thought, but he went in anyway.

  The risk was worth it. This place was in the middle of nowhere, but it only added a dozen minutes to his commute back home. He could get the bar appraised and sold and be relatively sure that he wasn’t going to attract too much attention to himself.

  The sign glowed in the twilight, its neon lights flickering in the darkening light of the late summer day. Michael took a deep breath, gripping the bar in his right pocket and the feeling of what few coins he had stashed in his left pocket as insurance, and walked in.