With a touch of flair—my innate talent, the one I've carried since birth, now woven into this world—I twist my body mid-fall, just right when I was thrown back by the force of clash of those two blades. The motion gives me a burst of momentum, just enough to hurl the broken weapon still gripped in my hand, sails through the air. Striking the undead square in the forehead… Slicing a shallow gash across its rotting skin.
Not enough to kill it—but enough to stagger it.
Yet my landing is rough… I tumble across the floor, rolling to absorb the impact. There's no time for grace; my body was already too low to stick the landing cleanly on my feet.
Suddenly there's a shift in the air behind me.
A blade whistling through the darkness.
A clean, horizontal strike aimed straight for the back of my skull.
Reflex kicks in, I instinctively dodge to the side, just right at the time when I see it—hanging from the waist of the undead right in front of me. A dagger, completely untouched by rust, eerily similar to the one I used yesterday.
So before my mind even processes what to do, my body moves on its own.
I lunge forward, my hand already reaching for the hilt, snatching it in one swift motion before retreating flawlessly.
"Deon! Again!"
Without wasting a single moment, I respond to the shout with a quick incantation. Casting my spell toward the source of the voice. But instead of just aiding Garrik, something unexpected happens—my status window flashes… I've reached level 6.
"Garrik… have you leveled up yet?" I ask, hoping—just a little—that his answer is no.
"Uh… Not yet… Almost there."
"Roger that."
With renewed energy, having received exactly the answer I was hoping for, I dive back into the fray—cutting down as many undead as I can. Fifteen minutes pass in a blur of relentless combat before the boy—now far off in the distance—finally yells out, announcing his level-up and calling me to go back to the center of the massive chamber.
So we run.
At first, our pace is slow, as if nothing is chasing us. But the closer we get to the dim light at the center of the chamber, the louder the sharp clatter of chains grows from up ahead.
Garrik and I exchange glances. No words are needed—just a single nod before we break into a full sprint, pushing our legs to their absolute limit.
"Vekir," I murmur, dispelling the orb of light once I'm certain the glow ahead is enough for us to see what lies before us… the massive iron cage that has fully risen from the water, its wet metal bars gleaming under the dim light.
But seeing that Garrik and I aren't the only ones still running—scattered throughout the chamber, other children are just as far from the elevator as we are—it keeps me from panicking.
Besides, even if we're a little late, I should be able to jump higher now thanks to my level-up. If it comes down to it, I'll make the leap.
Then I glance at Garrik. He also doesn't look the least bit worried—if anything, there's a quiet confidence in his expression despite how far behind we are. As if he already has a plan.
And considering his agility isn't exactly impressive, I doubt he's thinking about jumping like I am. No, he must have his own way of making it into the cage that's rising higher with every second… And it's not just him. Everyone has their own way of making it in—some more graceful than others.
By that I mean, some fling themselves into the cage, barely clearing the edge. Others leap and slip mid-air, ending up dangling off the bars, their fingers clutching the cold steel as they claw their way up, kicking and scrambling like their lives depend on it—because they do.
Yet one by one, the stragglers vanish into safety—until only Garrik and I remain, still lagging behind, still pushing forward with everything we have.
Then the ground rumbles. A deep, bone-shaking tremor. The unmistakable rhythm of something massive—something with four legs—thundering toward us from behind.
"That damn thing again…" Garrik mutters under his breath.
"You can make it up there, right?" I ask, eyes still locked ahead.
"Yeah, of course. Even if the cage was a little higher, I could still reach it with my magic. What about you?"
"Just consider me covered."
He glances at me—sharp, skeptical. That slight hesitation in my tone didn't slip past him. I sounded unsure. Too unsure.
So realizing the slip, I try to smooth it over. "You go on ahead. If we both keep running straight like this, that thing's just going to chase both of us down."
A beat of silence.
Then he gives a small nod. "Alright… Take care, old man."
Old man?
Have I ever even told him my age? Where the hell did that idiot get that from… My attitude? Do I act old?
I duck under a swipe from behind—a clawed limb slicing through the air where my head was a moment ago—but even as I dodge, my mind's still stuck on that insult.
Old man, seriously?
Of all the things to overthink right now, this is apparently what my brain chooses to fixate on… Not the towering beast behind me. Not the fact that the real old elevator is still rising—higher and higher—threatening to leave me behind down here in this hellhole.
"Vael... Ascendral... Skaythe..."
I hear the incantation faintly from afar—just as Garrik is hurled into the air, fast and high, like a spell-guided projectile. And his trajectory is perfect, aimed dead-center at the rising cage's entrance, where Siona is already there, her hand shooting out, followed by the executioner boy—the head-chopper from yesterday—and a girl I don't recognize.
Together, they catch him just as he collides with the bars, dragging him into the cage before it ascends any farther.
"Deon!"
Voices call out from the cage just as I slam the chimera's head into yet another stone pillar with a thunderous crack.
And honestly? I think I'm the one getting bored here.
"Aren't you tired of falling for the same trick?" I mutter, not loud enough for it to hear—just enough to keep myself entertained… Still, I don't waste a single second.
I break into a sprint, bursting through the cloud of dust, moving as fast as I possibly can toward the center of the chamber.
At this height, I should still be able to make the jump. With my current level, and the cage hovering five meters off the ground... It should be doable.
I mean by my calculations, it's well within range. After all, my original plan was to pull this off with a raw leap—no magic, no tricks, just pure physical effort.
But Garrik's chant from earlier... I'll admit, I'm a little tempted to try it.
So yeah—I go for it.
Ascendral means boost… While Skaythe translates to velocity.
I remember hearing from either Siona or Garrik that there are buff-type spells out there, similar to that light orb I used earlier. Those spells are toggles—they stay active until you cancel them manually with a Vekir.
But this one doesn't have anything like that. Which means it's not a sustained buff—it's an offensive spell, I can tell. It meant to accelerate a weapon or projectile.
And yet, Garrik... the clever bastard slipped Vael into the incantation—redirecting the spell's effect onto himself.
So I give it a shot—I recite the three incantation words, focusing as precisely as I can, sending me hurtling through the air—but the cost slams into me just as hard. My HP nosedives, plummeting all the way down to five.
And unfortunately, that's not where the trouble ends.
Everything I tried to calculate, all the makeshift planning I relied on—it's nothing close to as simple as I hoped it'd be. The spell works—of course it does. I'm launched by an invisible force, fast and powerful. But my angle is off. Just a few degrees to the side, but it's enough to ruin everything.
Even with my arm stretched out as far as I can reach, my fingertips barely brush the edge of the iron bar—just fall short of grabbing it. As I'm sent flying—violently—away from the iron cage, my body spinning through the air like dead weight.
And from this height, it's almost guaranteed that I'll hit the ground hard enough to lose the last of my HP.
~~~~~