Vowron Prime
patreon
Soulweaver 127: The Haves and Have Nots
🕑 Added 2024-11-15 19:00:10 +0000 UTCPhilip’s world was a blur, and it wasn’t on account of the heatstroke. Well, that too. Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake asking Greg to take them along.
Until now, Philip had never once stepped foot outside Basecrest. Traveling had never interested him, even when he obtained the means to do so. The city was life. It was all Philip knew, and he knew it well. Its ins and outs, its alleyways and its politics.
Of course, he knew all about the Trial, as well. He’d seen plucky fighters enter, only to come out changed. Forged and tempered. He’d also never seen a good number of them again.
Still, he’d felt for some time that his knowledge and experience was, on average, in excess of even those who made it. Philip had fought all his life. He knew the measure of a warrior, and he knew his own strength. This wasn’t the inflated ego of a teen swooning after his first kill. This was, rather, his professional assessment, after having fought and taught in the City Guard for decades.
Philip knew his strength. That was fact. And yet, here in this volcanic hellscape, he felt as though all that knowledge was nothing more than delusion. Could he have bested the swarms of Lava Leapers that attacked them? Could he have defeated the Ash Golem with a party that lacked a Blessed or Boonworthy?
Philip knew the answer. His skills and his experience amounted to naught in the face of such terrifying foes. To say nothing of the environment. In some way, he had always known. Just that it was easy to forget with the routine of daily life, where such concerns were a world away.
The truth was, Philip couldn’t jump the incredible distances Greg and Aerion somehow could. He couldn’t take blows that would render most men dead. Nor could he slice through rock with a sword and make it look easy. Philip would be lying if he said he never wanted that. Who didn’t? Yet, for the first time in his life, he found himself truly craving that sort of power.
For how could one go back to mundane normalcy after witnessing something so transcendent?
Even as he hung helplessly, carried effortlessly under the arm of a skinny elf even smaller than his late wife, Philip wondered just what joke the gods had played upon the world to allow such a sight to come to pass.
He glanced at Rogar, his cheeks turned ruddy red. Philip could only imagine his employer was thinking the same thing at that moment.
They landed on an island of cooled lava, touching down only an instant before bounding off again, jumping a distance many times what the strongest men could only ever dream.
What was her Blessing? Philip wondered. The strength of Dominion? But he’d seen her engage her mad rampage ability. Was that then another Blessing? Did Aerion possess not one, but two powers of the gods?
And then there was Greg. Philip craned his neck to glimpse his friend, wearing armor that looked identical to his own.
Greg was, by all rights, an enigma. Philip had always known the man was special. He thought he’d finally revealed his Boon at Rogar’s forge, when he’d miraculously hammered those strange darts like a master smith.
Then he’d gone and unleashed what Philip could only call an angry firestorm of devastation. What in Dominion’s name was that? Why hadn’t Greg used that power in his fight against Tarquin?
Philip knew why. It was a Blessing. It hadn’t been as strong back then, and must have evolved in the Cataclysm Dungeon.
That’s right… The Dungeon… What horrors had they all seen in there? What hells had they endured?
The city lauded them as heroes, and heroes they were… But people tended to gloss over the darker side of heroism. The risks. The torture. The trauma.
Greg was not the same person he had once known. Nor was Aerion, and though he didn’t personally know him personally, so too was the elf that rode on Greg’s back.
At least Richard, Philip could relate to. He felt in him a kindred spirit. Someone normal in this group of freakishly strong warriors. Richard lacked the strength of the Gods, nor did he appear proficient with weapons.
Philip didn’t doubt his strength. His presence seemed to have a way of weakening foes in a way Philip couldn’t describe. Whatever his power was, it was strong. It had to be, to survive the Cataclysm Dungeon. In a way, his mysterious power made him even more terrifying.
But at least he was normal. An everyman. Or, elf, he supposed.
Soon, Philip thought. Soon, he would possess powers like them. His life would be forever changed, and… After all these long years, after spending so much of his life powerless, he would finally be able to protect his friends and his family.
He would never have to watch idly by, cursing his uselessness. He could make a difference…
Philip set his face. No matter what it took. No matter the danger, no matter the humiliation he had to endure, Philip would do it. He needed this, more than anyone knew.
And he would have it.
— —
The pillar finally arrived in sight. A journey that would have taken most delvers days was crossed in a matter of an hour or two.
Just as they bounded the final steps to the pillar, the ground fell out from under.
Philip had heard of these creatures. Had seen the sketches, and though he’d never seen them with his own eyes, he knew them for the abominations they were.
“Heat Worms!” he cried.
Aerion bounded away almost before the words were out of his mouth. Even then, he nearly missed their terrifying maws.
“What the fuck are these things?” Greg asked.
“Heat Worms!” Philip repeated. “They burrow underground, lying in wait until you pass overhead. Then they bite your leg off.”
“Huh,” Greg replied. “Good to know. Let me just kill them real quick. Been meaning to test this thing out.”
By this ‘thing’, Philip understood that Greg meant one of his magical weapons that seemed to materialize out of thin air.
Except, this was a weapon unlike any other. One that Philip couldn’t have predicted. Yes, he’d seen the lava spray Greg had fired—he’d almost gotten caught in the crossfire.
Terrifying, that. Philip didn’t know what to fear more, that his friend had such an awe-inspiring ability, or that Philip was so weak he’d have died to the mere overspray.
Yet what emerged from Greg’s invisible arsenal wasn’t like the spray. It wasn’t a spray at all. It was more of a… jet. Like high-pressure water, except orange and hot. And so fast that Philip barely saw the beam of light before it penetrated the terror that would have ended most Hunting parties.
Phlip watched as Greg calmly walked the beam of death across the their enemies.
When it finally winked out, the Worms looked largely as they did before. There were no signs of obvious damage, no blood to be seen.
Something was different, though. Of that, there could be no doubt. The Worms’ incessant slithering had stopped. Their soft-hiss had ceased. When just moments prior, their chittering had filled the air, now there was only silence.
The Worms were no longer moving.
An instant later, they cracked and crumbled, the bottom half of their torsos detaching from the upper.
Philip gulped.
There was no blood because the heat of Greg’s attack cauterized the wound. There was no wound, because his blade of pure lava was so fine, so deadly, that the cut was cleaner than the cleanest healer’s incisions.
What powers were these? What Blessings bestowed such terrifying abilities? Were Dominion’s gifts really this powerful?
The seed of doubt sprouted, somewhere deep within Philip’s mind. He dared to hope, and yet he knew the truth of those who retuned from the dungeon. Spells that lit an opponent on fire. Spells that ripped limbs of those lacking suitable defensive Blessings or Boons. These were within the bounds of what this Emergence-Rank dungeon could bestow.
The strength of the gods? The ability to forge weapons on par with a master smith? Materializing weapons out of thin air?
These were far beyond the scope of this lowly Trial. No, they seemed more akin to what an Ascendance Class Trial might bestow.
So that was it, then, Philip concluded. This was the secret both Aerion and Greg held.
They were Divergence Rankers who had somehow bested a high-rank dungeon. It was the only explanation.
It wasn’t so farfetched. After all, wasn’t Philip here, delving a dungeon far beyond his means? All thanks to the proper friends. In his case, the situation had manifested as a grand, cosmic coincidence, but there were certainly those with enough coin and sway to buy their way into such power.
There was always risk in such an approach, of course. Several died in the attempt. Yet those who survived always came back changed. Demigods.
Whatever the case was with Greg and Aerion, the fact that they stood before him, with these powers, redoubled his respect for them. Not only had they played a pivotal role in the downfall of one of the greatest crime lords in Basecrest, they had saved the city from a Cataclysm Dungeon, as well.
There was only awe in Philip’s eyes as they proceeded past the swarm of dead Worms as though nothing had happened.
Like a dream, they’d breezed past the first floor, and thanks to Aerion’s knowledge, were now swiftly on their way to the third, ascending the infinite spiral staircase.
Aerion took the stairs five at a time, and he was sure the elf could have taken more, had it not been for the curving nature of the stairs.
As for Greg, he bolted on ahead, taking the stairs two at a time, but at a pace that left Philip’s mind reeling. His every motion was sped up in what could only have been magic.
Yet more magic… Philip wondered if the miracles would never end.
Philip knew then, that if the gods were to descend this moment and ask what he valued most, there would be only one reply he could say.
That, more than anything, he was thankful that Aerion and Greg were on his side. For never in his life would he want to fight any foe as fearsome as they.
