The tunnel broke off in two separate directions, each densely packed with the toxic miasma. A storm of weapons, held by silhouettes formed by the smog, clattered closer every second. Their hesitation was warranted as neither path provided any clue as to which was the right way.

Alis had sent two floating flames down both tunnels in an attempt to gain more visibility. Like a lighthouse swallowed by a coastline fog, the light of the flames disappeared into the murky dark. Her rippling air bubble showed that she was muttering, though it was indiscernible to understand. 

“See anything?” Al asked over his shoulder. He was already holding his greatsword out, prepared to fend off the following weapon swarm. 

Alis’ shimmering eyes strained further. “Nothing.” Frustration on her face, she turned to her brother. “What about you, Siv?”

The half-elf didn’t respond. Focused on the left tunnel, he peered through the fog for a hint of anything. 

The metallic clanks of clattering weapons behind them were becoming louder. 

It made Joel’s stomach churn. Since getting stuck here, he hadn’t faced something so strange and otherworldly. When it was all a game, he’d never given such absurdities — purple-black miasma ghosts wielding corroded weapons — a second thought. Now it was terrifying. 

He tugged on the straps of the rucksack, wishing he had a shortsword or quarterstaff. Originally, he’d avoided asking for one, not wanting to draw more attention to himself. With the way they carried themselves, it seemed certain that he’d only get in their way.

But now?

Sure, Al appeared to be a reliable defender. But the former knight wouldn’t be able to hold off the approaching weapons long, even with the advantage of a narrower tunnel. Not alone. 

If anything, with Al and him together, they might buy enough time for the siblings to figure out which way to go. 

Joel shook his head. 

Stupid. It wouldn’t matter how long they’d hold them off if they couldn’t figure out which way to go. More importantly, the right way to go.

Past the fishbowl air bubble around his head, he summoned the [Homebrew] screen.

“[Ability Score Upgrades], [FOCUS +250],” he murmured, his air bubble rippling. It was a hefty amount of EXP to dump, more than half of what he had. Honestly, he was more than ready to increase the stat further if necessary. Yet it was a risk he didn’t want to take willy-nilly, especially if Al ended up needing a helping hand. Passing Alis, he approached the mouth of the right tunnel.

“What’d you say?” the young mage asked as he passed.

Ignoring her, the suffocating coat of miasma that surrounded him became more present. It wasn’t heavier, just more felt. His eyes relaxed, no longer exerting itself to see. The clamour of encroaching weapons and Al’s battle cry became louder, almost acute. 

Then he heard it. Like an off-key note in a symphony of sound, a faint tune whispered out, echoing off the cavern walls. 

“I think I hear something here!” he shouted at the others over the clash of Al’s greatsword against the swarming weapons.

Sivren bolted over, putting a hand on Joel’s shoulder as he peered down the passageway. His soft features crunched, trying to find anything. Seconds stretched as Al’s grunts and parries rang in the background. His eyes widened. “I hear it! I think I also see a shimmer further down. Some sort of light. It’s dim but certainly there.”

“Better than nothing, right?” Alis darted past them, keeping a small ball of flame at her finger tips. “Let’s go.”

A pained grunt of Al stopped her. She spun around with the rest of them.

While holding a battle axe at bay, Al had blocked an incoming dagger with his gloved hand. Blood spilled down his steel bracers. He whipped his head out of the way, a shortsword missing his eye by an inch.

But not his air bubble.

The inky smog took full advantage, slipping in like water through a broken dam. By sacrificing some air, Al’s bubble reformed its borders to shunt out the invading toxins. Still shrinking, the bubble helmet had become dangerously small. 

“No!” Alis screamed, her blue robes shaking. In a puff of campfire smoke, she was next to Al’s kneeling form. She threw her wand-arm out to block the second strike of the shortsword. The blade dug deep into her forearm, forcing a scream from her lips.

The screech of pain became a roar of anger as she unleashed fire from her free hand. Torrents of flame washed over the gaseous silhouettes. Whistling as it burned, her palm was like the nozzle of a flamethrower.

She incinerated them all. The rusted armaments deformed as they melted. Each one clinked against the stone floor as their ghostly owner evaporated from the blaze. Despite her bleeding arm, her face reflected the fury of the fire she’d unleashed. Her air bubble had also begun to compress noticeably. 

Sivren ran up, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Alis, stop!”

The whistling cone of flame spluttered away as Alis started gasping deeply. Grimacing, she grabbed at her slashed forearm. The streaming blood had become a sickly black tar.

Joel ran to help up Al, who’d already pulled the dagger from his hand and let it drop. Up close, he couldn’t help but notice how much air Al had lost from that single swing. Not only that, the blood from Al’s glove had turned unnaturally dark. 

Sivren was already ripping Alis’ sleeve to get a better look at her wound. The shortsword had done its damage. A deep crimson cut, below her elbow, ran halfway down the width of her forearm. Grisly, but not nearly as alarming as the blackened veins festering around the gash.

Al let out a stifled grunt as he yanked his glove off of his hand. His wound was poisoned in the same manner, with ichor-like blood pulsing out. 

“Joel, the antitoxins please,” Sivren said, amulet already in hand. “I could heal the poison too but I want to err on the side of caution. So I’ll seal the wounds for now.” Hovering his hand over Alis’ wound, a bright glow began healing the damaged flesh until a pink scar sealed it. “That’ll stop the bleeding.” He turned to Al in a hurry, hand still glowing. 

The antitoxins were the one thing within the considerable rucksack that Joel was certain of locating. Reaching in the protected middle portion of the rucksack, cushioned by the bedrolls, he pulled out a bundled leather satchel. Unravelling it, four tucked potions clanked, fastened to their individual pouches. A long needle was tied to the very bottom of the length of leather.

After healing Al, Sivren carefully took the needle and a vial, punching its point through the cork to draw the clear liquid out. He pricked it into Al’s knuckles while simultaneously casting some healing magic, letting the antidote counteract the darkened veins.

Baron Valgruv had warned them that the concoction, made by his personal apothecary, was no cure-all. It would painfully purge whatever was within the body, assuming that one was quick enough to administer it, while the toxins hadn’t overwhelmed your vitals.

Sivren hurried to Alis with the needle. She already knew what to do, quickly burning the tip with a small flame. With practiced movements, the antitoxin was injected into Alis’ arm with the same healing light accompanying the needle.

Given no more than a moment’s relief, the clamor of weapons —  distant but closing — returned. 

“Hells, will they ever relent?” Al muttered, picking up his weapons bag.

“Time to go!” Joel took the vial satchel, tying it back together and stuffing it into the rucksack. He jerked his head towards the right tunnel.

There was no need for agreement or argument, only haste. 

They ran as quickly as they could, through the thick miasma. Sivren took the rear while Alis led the charge. The tune became more audible, faintly more than a whisper still. It sounded like someone singing poorly. Meanwhile, the pinprick shimmer grew brighter with each step.

Haggard breaths from Al made Joel look back. His bubble barely contained Al’s head anymore, more like a rippling plastic bag. His strides were still mostly steady, only betrayed by the slightest quiver. It was something Joel wouldn’t have noticed before.

Even Alarion had mortal limits after all.

Joel slowed down, planning on taking Al’s weapon bag off of him. Only Sivren beat him to it, pulling the strap of the bag over his friend’s shoulder and onto his own. The half-elf’s brown hair was drenched in sweat but he steadied his pace for Al.

This time Alis knocked into Joel, abruptly stopping as she stumbled. He caught her hand to balance her. Pain seared through his hand like accidentally touching a hot stovetop. Her skin was blisteringly hot.

They both flinched away from each other. 

“Sorry,” Alis muttered. Her bubble was also getting too small. She motioned downwards. “I think there’s a body on the ground.” 

At their feet, a large corpse laid on its side. It was clearly newer than the ones they’d previously come across. The armor, reflecting the emblazoned sigil of a sun, was less corroded. Same with the mace tha— 

Instinct took over. His arm shot into an X-shape guard, blocking the mace as it fired towards him like a rocket. Something in his arm cracked loudly, sharp pain erupted after. 

[Damage taken. HP: 81%]

The blow staggered him into the wall, rucksack digging into his back. The hazy smog coiled itself around the mace’s handle. Swinging in wide arcs, the mace forced the rest of them to leap back. 

Al drew his greatsword instinctively. The bubble barely wrapped around his face as it rippled from his loud heaves. His strength was waning; the mace smashed his shaking parry.  

A conjured shield of light emerged to block the second swing from crashing into Al’s breastplate. Everpresent, Sivren was already there with his magic. The burden of everything suddenly returned — every cumulative advantage of the [Grace] spell dissolved, unable to be held alongside the magical shield.

Joel’s limp arm thundered with agony. Rucksack turned heavier alongside the endurance-sapping aches. Awful singing muffled. His footing wobbled. Vision hazed.

He ducked another incoming swing of the mace. The head scraped against the stone wall above him. Chunks of rock rained down and chipped into his bubble. Like an angry swarm, the miasma leaked into the punctures.

His air bubble did the same as all others, fighting to reestablish its protective barrier and pushing the toxins out. It was all at the cost of precious air. The bubble helmet was becoming bubble wrap as he could begin hearing his own breath loudly, both from the compressing space and from his elevated gasps. 

Light flashed in front of him, peeking through the miasma. Matching the mace’s blows, Sivren’s magical shield was their last defense. A new tide of weapons rang out from behind them, another swarm that would give chase. He felt the wind of the mace’s missed swing, a hand’s length away from smashing into his ribs. 

Letting his fractured arm dangle, Joel leapt to his side to dodge another wayward strike that collided into the ground. Every small movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm. 

Stupid fucking mace. Goddamn miasma. So unfair.

He kicked at the handle of the mace with his heel, skidding back down the tunnel’s length. The clash of metal crashing into metal told them all that the wave of weapons was getting nearer by the second.

“Joel, help Al! I’ll cover us from the rear.” Sivren wasn’t bothering to mask his desperation. Placing Al’s arm across Joel’s shoulder, he took his hand off of his amulet and drew a dagger. 

It was a curved blade with a simple wooden hilt. Even in this thick smog, Joel could tell the blade was sharp and well-cared for, as the light of Alis’ guiding flame reflected off of it. To say the least, it was surprising because the half-elf appeared completely unarmed beyond his amulet.  

“Go, go!” Siv hurried them all along.

The shimmering transformed into a growing beacon of light as they continued to run. It was a sluggish pace. The off-key singing, once their hope, now felt like a dissonant taunt.

Alis tried her best to lead with her floating fire, calling out any obstructions as they fled. Meanwhile, Sivren would disappear behind them momentarily, only to reappear after the thunder of clashing steel. Every time he caught up with them, his bubble had grown smaller. 

Sweat stung Joel’s eyes as he tried to blink it away. It was so strange. He was certain his arm was broken and his rucksack, alongside Al’s leaning frame, felt heavier than before. Yet, there was nothing he wanted more than to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

At least the awful singing had ended.

The wall of white that emerged made him momentarily forget his troubles. Shining brighter than a downtown billboard at midnight, a sheet of scintillating light emerged in front of them. It walled off the rest of the tunnel, creating a dead-end. Purple miasma rolled away before reaching it, as if there was a fan blowing the toxic fumes back. 

“No…,” Alis said, her voice trailing off with a mixture of awe and despair. She ran a hand across the surface. “Barrier magic.”

Before any of them could even respond, they heard the racket of weapons approach, gaining them on once more. Sivren didn’t say anything, immediately turning with his dagger drawn. With a resolute face that could rival Al, he dashed back the way they came —  straight into the suffocating smog.

Joel gently helped Al, whose pained gasps made Joel’s stomach sink, to sit next to the shining wall. Dropping the rucksack down, he ran up to the barrier, slamming his fist against it. 

Nothing. Not even his knocks sounded back as his clenched hands were repulsed. It felt like trying to drive two opposing magnets together.

Protective magic that was this powerful? He’d remembered only higher level player characters able to do such a thing, through spells like [Shell] or [Barrier].

“Get out of the way,” Alis said, her eyes narrowing at the light. She was already pointing her singed wand towards the barricade. 

Joel barely got out of the way as bolts of fire shot from the wand tip. Small spheres of flame crashed into the barrier at machine gun speed. All of them poofed away, dissipating as they struck the wall.

Whether it was out of displeasure or desperation, Alis erupted more little blasts of fire, each one as ineffective as the last. Her bubble was becoming tiny, only a thin layer trailed her as if she donned a face mask. Like a switch being flipped, she started to heave for air and reached a hand to lean against the wall.

“We need help here!” Joel shouted back to Sivren, as he ran to catch her with his good arm. She was so scalding to touch that he bit down on his lip to withstand the heat. Her golden hair, tied in a neat bun, was drenched, beads of boiling sweat evaporated as they dripped down her brow.

Despite the searing pain, he tried to place Alis gently down next to Al. He leaned her shoulders forward to tilt her head downwards, enough to avoid disrupting her compressing bubble further. The flimsy layer of Al’s bubble was thinning, each of his breaths more haggard than before.

Sivren was already back, sweat dripping down his cheek. The fog screamed after him with the clatter of more weapons. He checked on the other two, hand clasped over his amulet while sheathing his dagger. 

“Neither of them have long.” He moved to examine the bright barrier. His hands frantically searched the entire wall. “I don’t know if I can dispel protective magic this powerful. I’ll try to channel through but it’ll take time.” 

His tentative look said a thousand words. 

Joel yanked Sivren’s dagger from the sheath with his working arm. He sidestepped the half-elf, who moved to block his way.

“No,” Sivren protested. “It’s too risky and we promised to keep you saf—” 

“You said it yourself, you need time.” Joel didn’t even know if this was the right plan but he was sick of fleeing. If he was going to run out of air, he wanted it to have some meaning. He wanted to be fighting. “I’m tougher than I look.”

Sivren didn’t need to voice his doubt; his glance to Joel’s broken arm was enough.

“I’m tougher than I look,” Joel repeated. It wasn’t clear if he was convincing Sivren or himself. Sivren’s pause was all he needed, sprinting past him and into the dark. 

The clatter of weapons built as he ran forward. Some of them were getting dragged on the ground or clanking against the wall, a mess of metallic sounds. He paused twice because he thought the clamor was loud enough to be only a few feet away. 

It was wise to be cautious about going too far. He wanted to keep the swarm of miasma-held weapons far enough away from Sivren and the others, but close enough that he could sprint back with the air available. 

He bit on the dull side of the curved blade, freeing his working hand. Activating [Lay on Hands], a soft light illuminated the hand as he placed it on his limp arm. A soothing warmth washed over the bruised flesh as he used the Paladin ability to dull the white hot pain. 

The fracture still grumbled at him, the ache staying as a reminder. He’d pumped five percent — half of what he had available — to apply some sort of healing. His status screen flickered, updating his hit points.

—

…

[HP: 82%]

…

—

His stomach dropped. Half of his [Lay on Hands] had equated to less than two percent gain. The stat difference was a conversion killer for some abilities. As much as he hadn’t wanted to, he’d have to rely on his [Second Wind] to make himself whole.

A spear tip came flying at his neck, deflected by a quick slash of his dagger. Throngs of assorted weapons launched towards him like missiles, each sharp point aiming to skewer him. 

Any thought of preserving his air disappeared as the storm of smoky silhouettes and their weapons crashed upon him. Half of his movements were from sheer instincts, ingrained through the [Dagger Proficiency] from his clash with Bhas. 

A dodge to avoid the chopping axe, followed by a swift parry to knock a shortsword out of the air. All in time to block another incoming rusty blade.

Sivren’s dagger was light and surprisingly sturdy. The wooden hilt — worn smooth from use — felt natural in his hand. Each heavy impact blocked made him worry about the blade shattering. Yet the simple dagger rose to the occasion, staying strong. 

Confidence swelled within as Joel chained another combo of blocks and parries.

For a brief moment, he was the barrier of light behind him, the line in the sand. He matched the storm with his own determination. His limp arm dangled like a waving flag as he dashed to and fro, the pings of deflected metal following his step. 

Nothing was going to get past him. 

Stars exploded his vision as a warhammer dug into his side. 

[Damage taken. HP: 73%]

So much for that healing.

He staggered, wildly swinging to create space and sucking in deep breaths. The air was thin, as if he was hiking on a mountain top.

Taking further steps back, he held the dagger out at arm’s length, eyes darting to track the approaching assault. The film-like layer of his bubble helm was so close to his face that it started to obfuscate his vision. 

“[Ability Score Upgrades], [FOCUS +150].” He spat the words out. It was all the EXP he had left, a hail mary. He still couldn’t see the weapons clearly, hazed by the miasma; he didn’t need to.

All he needed to track was the smog itself, each breeze now noticeable. Like taking a life of their own, his eyes tracked the way the miasma parted for each weapon strike. It was his turn to be the swarm. His dagger was a stinger, deflecting and parrying.

High, low. Slash, thrust. Too slow, too obvious.

He let the aches and pain fade into the background, not because of some upgrade purchased, but the surge of concentration and confidence. Pings echoing, he was a symphony of slashes and slices. 

Time warped with each parry; seconds and minutes blended with one another. 

Jaw gritted, he pushed through the mounting heaviness in his blade arm and the weight in his legs. The bubble was a mask, no more than a half-inch from his face. Every breath he took brought it closer. He tried to ignore it, simply focusing on the next incoming weapon, a mace this time. 

He slapped the bludgeon away with the crossguard of his dagger. His eyes strained to track the next approaching strike; he refused to blink. 

To get cut was a death sentence, an entrance for the toxic air to seep into. But he no longer bothered with that. He threw his full weight into each strike and smashed through it all. Even the miasma seemed to start to flinch away from his flurry. 

After chaining together several defensive strikes, the weariness of his legs were exacerbated by his shallow gasps. White splotches blotted his vision as his lungs screamed for air.

A little longer, just a little longer, every second was precious.

A downward sword slice caught against his dagger. The heft of the blow staggered him, and he almost fell to his knees. Driving forward, the sword pushed him back, forcing his feet to slide under him. 

He roared a silent scream, no air to do anything else. 

Blinding light illuminated the tunnel, shooting from behind him. It caked the walls in a shining lustre of unnatural white. The miasma, and the weapons it held, shunted back like a shrinking shadow afraid. 

Joel stumbled forward, his push no longer opposed. Only he was steadied by a yank on the back of his collar.

A chuckle came from an unfamiliar voice. “Now that was too close, wasn’t it?”