Rosalia’s eyes grew wide. “Why?” she fell to her side. Blood puddled around her.

You killed one high human, you gained 400 Exp.

LVL 9. 505/2000 Exp.

“Wait. No, isn’t supposed to happen,” muttered Feodor. He ran to Rosalia, got on his knees, and propped her up. “This is Rosalia no?” He turned to me. “Why did you kill her? Are you not of Rosalia?”

I didn’t speak.

“Are you not the king of the kingdom of Rosalia? Tell me!”

“I’m not.”

Feodor’s eyes went blank. “But how did you enter the dungeon?”

“I ate the prince’s heart.”

“A Ravn.” He dropped Rosalia’s head. “Imposter! How could they let a raven out of all animals eat a royal’s heart.” He jumped up and flashed in front of me. I raised my sword, however, as soon I did, his hand drove a hole through my heart. I looked down. Globs of bloodstained stone.

A being has directly interfered with his own mission. The mission giver is to be purged and the mission taker is to be rewarded with what was promised.

The mission taker has already received the rewards.

Reverting negative changes caused by the beings' direct interference.

The lich in the sky, bones on the ground, and the townscape disappeared. A warm light, incomparably warm compared to that of Diana’s, enveloped my heart and closed the hole in my chest. The scenery returned to one of a stone prison. However, Rosalia’s body remained. Her hair wasn’t as black, her muscles as built, or her body as tall as before. Yet her blood still smelled of food and her heart made my mouth water. I got down and ripped away her flesh with my left hand, my right still injured from Liliana’s strike.

I bit into the ball of muscle. It was cold but good. Chewy and fresh. Nutritious and delectable. There was another body not too far away, most likely that of Liliana, however, I had had my fill and fell asleep.

#

The room smelled of rotten meat. Maggots crept over the dead bodies. I scoured for my fire lion sword, but it was gone. I tried to get up, however, a piercing pain wrapped my right shoulder. Yellow pus flowed out of the wound. I gritted my teeth and pinched the surrounding flesh, my eyes teared up and my teeth ground. Yellow puss came out, but I couldn’t get it all out, I needed to find a light mage.

After recuperating for a bit, I got up and stumbled over and into a passageway. The echoes of my steps accompanied me to the exit, a small hole in the ground from which light shone. I sat, my ass on the edge of the hole and took a deep breath in. I closed my eyes and scooted over until my body dropped. This time, stomach full, spirits calm, I did not have butterflies in my stomach nor want to puke. I wanted to land in bright dirt and fresh moss.

Cold. I opened my eyes. I was underwater. The tide pushed and pulled. The waters were too murky and moved too quickly for me to see anything. My wound hurt, but drowning did more. I swam up. My chest hurt, jolts shot out my lungs and I had to consciously keep my nose shut. Still bubbles rose from my mouth. The current threw my back against a rock, and then shot me out onto a sandy beach. I got on my knees and coughed out water, seaweed, and pebbles. Saliva dribbled out. Waters touched my feet. I crawled further up the beach and collapsed. Why did that dungeon have to throw me out here? I rolled over onto my back, and with less pressure on my chest, I finally got a few good breaths. There weren’t any trees above head. That was a first for me, thankfully birds still wandered in the skies. When my breath steadied and the adrenaline passed, my shoulder started to burn once again, and much hotter at that. I sat up and inspected the wound. Puss, river grass, and what looked like tiny slugs dribbled out the wound. I quickly squeezed everything out. First, beige slugs popped out, then small pieces of grass mixed in puss and water, and finally a thin stream of blood flowed down my arm.

I needed to find a town with a healer. I looked down stream. The beach grew wider, and the distant forest thinned. Upstream the beach grew smaller and was replaced by a cliff on which a dense, dark trees grew. Downstream the trees were sparser, and all around more welcoming with thin pale barks and wild berry shrubs.

With tired steps, I dragged my feet across the sand.

#

Sand scrapped against my pallet. I spit it out, but I had no saliva. My mouth was humid, and the sand stuck under my tongue, gums, and throat. I stuck out my tongue and brushed off what I could.

“Are yo…” I heard a voice; however, a high-pitched hum covered it up. I looked around to find the source, but the sun expanded and painted the world white. It was a memory. I had diverted mental dam’s efforts in the dungeon and now, I couldn’t do anything but accept the memory. Hopefully, the person I just heard didn’t have ill intentions. Perhaps he could lead me to a white mage. But for now, I had to get through this memory.

#

Julian’s POV

I flew back and skidded across the dirt court. Clutching my chest, I got on my knees. My wooden sword had flung out of my hand and landed behind the sword instructor.

“Get up.” The instructor, Sir Richard threw over his sword. “How do you expect to fight the Lilies like that? Without magic nor the will to learn the art of the sword?”

I rolled over onto my stomach and struggled up. I spat out dirt and sand. “I don’t need to.”

“Would you say that to his Majesty?” He threw back my wooden sword. “Let’s go again.”

I had had enough.

“You’re not going to move?” His steps approached and kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind out my lungs. “What’s the motto of the Rosalia?”

“…O…Once one, now to, tomorrow one once again.” I tried to hold back, however, Father had me spell it out too many times.

“Grab your sword.”

I did as told and stood on guard, my sword held up, ready to attack or defend. One foot behind the other, my hips slightly off-centre, ready to pivot, whether that be to dodge or generate more striking force.

“Good.” The man held up the sword in the same manner, however, he didn’t seem to pay much attention to his footwork. “Again,” he repeated.

He ran to me and swung down his sword. I brought my sword up, drew my front foot aside, and let the sword glide off mine, missing me in the process. I quickly brought down the sword and blocked a horizontal slash. I skidded through the flattened earth training grounds. I jumped back. The trainer only gave me time to take one breath. This time he came at me with a diagonal strike. He leaned into his blade, the wood grazed my hair, but now I was on his side, undefended. I swung my sword towards his flank; however, his blade came from below in a flash and slashed my hand. My fingers burned; I dropped the blade.

“You’re too slow. You need at least know the basics of swordsmanship if you wish to reunite the kingdom of Flora.”

“I don’t need two crowns.”

“Then perhaps you don’t need any. An artist must be creative, a mason must be precise, and a king must be greedy. Now.” He threw back my sword. “How many crowns can your head fit? If it is just one, then it is less than the one and a half which can fit on Albert’s head.”

I clasped the sword and pointed it towards the man. Behind him gardeners trimmed plants and bushes, maids hung clothes, and serving boys ran around with boxes filled with spare nails and iron. I tuned them out. My mind fixed on the one who stood in my way, and I ran forward, sword close to my chest.