It explained the smell.

The mound of dead giant beetles covered the entire ground of the massive pit. There was nowhere to walk, so they stepped on the bugs. Their steps crunched loudly as they went, sometimes slipping on something wet. It was like stepping on a carton full of eggs. The main culprit of the rancid odour was the enormous beetle that laid on the apex. It’d been a goddamn hike to just reach the dead monster.

Another pulse of life from Wirbald’s orb lit the cavernous room, allowing them both to continue investigating as they climbed. The sound of splashing water in the distance was interrupted by their echoing steps. Where one would expect to find the Bronzeback beetles’ characteristic metallic armor, there were only frightful tears on the carapaces. Now in the thick of the pile, it was clear that the same had occurred to each and every one of them.

“Is that normal?” Joel asked, pointing to one beetle that was still relatively intact. The insect’s back had been peeled off in the same violent way.

“The beetles will eat the bronze off of each other’s bodies. But a feeding frenzy to this degree is unlikely.” Wirbald turned and motioned to the larger one ahead. “Especially with such a formidable rival nearby.”

Joel glanced up at the huge beetle. “Do you think it’ll be the source of miasma?”

The wizard shrugged casually as he hiked. “Perhaps but I’ll need to properly examine it.” He took another careful step through the protruding insect parts.  

Four times the size of any of the other beetles, the massive corpse laid on its side like a beached whale. Decomposition had clearly set in. However, it was uncertain how much of the damage and decay came from the now-cleared miasma.

Joel choked back a gag at the overwhelming smell. The closer they’d approached the giant beetle, the air began to taste like the world’s worst locker room. He stood there, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, as Wirbald investigated the enormous bug. 

The older man took his time to circle the dead beetle. He was being careful as he walked around, testing each step before committing. During the hike up, some of the black chitin had degraded severely enough to break at certain spots. Having one’s foot slip into the viscous insect goop was not a fun experience. 

Joel tried his own inspection, though he didn’t know what he was looking for. He followed Wirbald’s footsteps exactly. Even rotting, the hulking exoskeleton wasn’t crumbling apart. He ran his hand across a cleaner part of the head’s shell. Cool to the touch, it felt as dense as an armored wall of a tank. 

He turned to the corner to spot Wirbald staring at the beetle’s outer carapace. The scraggy mage’s head was cocked to the side, a surprisingly serious expression upon his face. Joel froze when he saw what Wirbald was examining. 

The back of the monstrous bug had been torn out. Same as all the other beetles.

“A bigger one…?” Joel heard his own disbelief. 

“Not necessarily,” Wirbald interjected, walking up next to him. “During our climb up here, I was looking for any passage ways that could fit a beetle of this size.” He rapped his knuckles against the dark, thick shell. “I spotted two that would squeeze one of this size. None that would allow something larger.”

“Maybe scavenged by the regular Bronzeback beetles?” It was the only other explanation that Joel could muster. “It would’ve been easy pickings, right?”

“A possibility,” Wirbald said. His eyes narrowed at the long tears across its carapace. “But there’s a considerable lack of mandible cut scars upon it. The decay makes it difficult to judge.” 

What he said was true, the wounds’ edges looked melted. Joel had seen similar dissolving effects within the miasma, though they were more humanoid corpses. He’d noticed how depleted the insects looked; there were endless examples as they climbed the pile. Now that he was so close to the colossal one, he realized how truly hollow the beetles appeared without their metal backs. 

There was something sad about the beetle husks — their emptiness. 

Wirbald had used those same words when describing him, that he was empty.

“Wirbald, back with the others,” Joel said, trying to sound casual. “You said you could sense us going through your barriers.”

“Mhmm.” Wirbald was still inspecting the beetle. 

“You said you could just barely sense me. Like I was…” 

“Empty.” If the thought intrigued the mage, he hid that interest well. 

Joel grimaced, though he wasn’t sure exactly why. “Is that something I should worry about?”

Wirbald fired off another flare of light from his orb. “Certain proficient mages can conceal their spirit. I take it that you aren’t a master of the arcane?”

“Nope.” Joel shook his head. “I’m unlearned in magic.” Technically untrue as he had access to [Mana Hand], but it was a minor spell.

“As unfortunate as it sounds, magic would be a difficult path for you to pursue,” the former guildmaster said, turning to Joel. His face was grim. “But your daily life should remain unaffected otherwise. You were simply born a tad unlucky. Your condition, if we can call it that, isn’t a death sentence.”

It felt like one, with the way he spoke. 

Wirbald’s face wrinkled into a smile. “And I’ve seen you work with a blade.” He went back to study the beetle while casually motioning to the cloth-wrapped sword in Joel’s hands. “You’ve worked hard to overcome any magical deficiencies. Trust your journey, friend.”

The words made Joel’s ears go red. He was thankful the orb wasn’t flashing to expose his guilt. He hadn’t worked hard at all. Back at the lodge, he’d spent a week training, watching his stats go up slowly. It was a snail’s pace compared to the way he earned EXP from battle and spent it through the [Homebrew] feature. 

Worked hard? He was doing anything but that. All of his skills were paid for in blood. He was sitting on his own pile of bodies.

Yes, some of them were nasty folk. He’d cut them down again in the same situation. But others still hung heavy like sinking anchors. The sour smell of the cavern disgusted him less than himself.

“It’s not here.” Wirbald muttered, interrupting Joel’s thoughts. “The source of the miasma isn’t here. Four damnations, I was certain there’d be something here.”  

Joel understood his frustration. Several tunnels riddled the cavern walls, each patiently waiting to be explored — if only they had the time.

“Where then?” He didn’t know what else to ask. 

Wirbald scratched at his unkempt beard, pausing. “We’ll have to continue searching.” He let out a sigh that told Joel that they were sharing the same thought. “We should be able to cover some more ground before the rendezvous. Let’s hope the others have been more successful.”

The hike down was more uncomfortable than the ascent up the beetle corpse hill. On the way down, both of them broke past the chitinous flooring and submerged a foot into slime. It would’ve been enough to irritate the world’s most stoic man.

Wirbald stopped walking, suddenly enough to bump Joel to the ground and onto gunk. The mage was sure-footed and more sturdy than he appeared. Wiping his mouth, Joel grunted back to his feet, ready to give the old man a piece of his mind. 

“The others have gone through my barriers,” Wirbald said with an uneasy calm. 

That changed the words that fell out of Joel’s mouth. “What? Why?”

“How would I know? I sensed the three of them leaving the safety of my magic.”

“You’re sure it is them?”

Wirbald nodded back solemnly. Another pulse of orb light revealed the worry across his wrinkled features. 

“Maybe the beetles forced them out?” Joel hoped.

“Perhaps.” Wirbald’s brow furrowed. “Let’s hurry back.”

Once they’d made it out of the pile of enormous bugs, they ran back through the way they came. Despite his age, Wirbald was surprisingly fleet footed when healed and fed, which forced Joel to break into a full sprint to keep up. 

Light pulses from the orbs announced their approach. They finally arrived at the agreed rendezvous location, the same place where they’d almost traded blows with Wirbald. The open cavern space was dotted with several tunnels, some of them blocked off by Wirbald’s lit barriers. 

No beetles here.

“Can you tell which one?” Joel’s head snapped to each of the barriers as he wiped the sweat from his cheek.

“None of the ones here,” Wirbald replied, already moving towards the tunnel that the others had entered. 

Joel hesitated briefly from following the mage into the tunnel. How certain was he that this wasn’t some sort of scheme from Wirbald? Some addle-brained plot to assault him? An ambush?

He shook his head, remembering how the scraggy mage had utterly crushed the beetle from earlier. If Wirbald wanted him dead, he’d be dead. There wasn’t a point in second guessing everything now. After all, he’d volunteered to go along with the former guildmaster. With a deep gulp of stale air, Joel bounded off after the mage, following the glow of his orb. 

The tunnel walls blurred into one another as he ran. He kept an eye out for any freshly dug holes, for any indication that Bronzeback beetles had bored into the passageway. A sheen of slick condensation began to collect upon the walls. They splashed into small puddles as they ran. But still no sight of holes or displaced earth to make them worry.

So far, so good. 

“Keep up,” Wirbald barked back to him. “They haven’t passed back through the barrier.” His face wrinkled, sweat dripping off the creased forehead.

The words drove Joel to run faster, closing the gap between him and the mage. He could feel that he was pushing himself dangerously close to slipping on the wet floor. It didn’t seem to slow Wirbald.

They arrived at a rocky incline, elevated ten feet up. Wirbald’s barrier stood bright. Beyond the magical barrier, a thick cloud of murky smoke obfuscated any line of sight. The dark miasma was more dense than anything they’d seen on their approach. It raged like a storm. The fumes spun and swirled with an incensed anger. 

“They’re in there?” Joel said, breathless. 

“Yes, but listen. Do you hear that?”

Joel paused, tilting his ear to the barrier. His eyes went wide when he heard the screaming. Beyond the buffeting winds of the miasma, a faint chorus of shrieks. Too many voices to be simply the others. He turned to the older man with a grimacing nod.

Wirbald summoned his orb back to his outstretched hand. Dimming briefly, the orb erupted another wave of light — strong enough to make Joel take a step back — before coalescing around the barrier.

The mage grunted as pushed against the orb, his hand trembling as he strained. Beads of sweat dripped down his face. His barrier shook violently, yet remained unmoving. He clenched his hand into a fist, summoning several waves of light to reinforce the barrier. The barricade of light began to quake the tunnel. Joel covered his eyes with a raised hand as dust and debris fell. He’d never seen such a look of concentration on the old mage’s face.

With a heavy exhale, Wirbald released his fist, stopping the countless pulses. “I can’t break through,” he said in quiet bewilderment. The older man walked to the shimmering barrier, eyes squinting at the miasma beyond. “Could it be?”

“Want to fill me in?” Joel joined Wirbald at the top of the slope. He gripped the cutlass tight as he watched the tornado of toxic gas billow. 

“Sanctum magic,” Wirbald replied, as if that was something easily understood. He glanced at Joel, marking his confusion. “Only a hypothesis, based on the fact I cannot push my spell through. It’s a powerful arcane technique that forces you to fully tap into the Siphon.” He ran his hand across the light. “Allows a parameter of reality to embody your arcane self. Elven scholars like to call it your true self.”

Joel stayed quiet, allowing the mage to continue. 

“Whoever is generating this gains a significant advantage within the Sanctum,” Wirbald explained, turning to him. “Every aspect of the individual and their magic gets elevated while reality will bend against their enemies.”

“I’m guessing that the source of the miasma could be in there?”

Wirbald nodded. “Very likely. Your friends should’ve been wise enough to wait for me.”

A pit formed in Joel’s stomach. “Are we heading in?”

“Yes.” Wirbald didn’t look particularly pleased with the idea. “Once we go into the Sanctum, I’ll be able to cast my spells again. Hopefully. Close your eyes and hold your breath. I’ll apply a protective barrier around our heads once we enter. It won’t be as comfortable as your young half-elven friend’s bubble, but it will be sturdier. ”

Joel unclothed the Seahorn sword, exposing the ivory hilt. Unsheathing the blade, he gave the weapon a small flourish. The twirling did nothing to stop his heart from pounding in his ears. He took deep breaths, tapping his foot anxiously.

As his heartbeat slowed, he turned to Wirbald and gave him a nod. 

Wirbald adjusted his cracked glasses. “Follow me.” The gaunt mage pushed past the barrier and disappeared into the smog. 

“Fuck me,” Joel muttered before gulping. He let his sword hand shake before tightening his grip to steady himself.

Closing his eyes, he passed through light and into the dark.