Scholarly Entry #R54-728-Nv1:

  The Traits of Success

  People, being people, have, since the dawn of professional foolhardiness, asked what makes one Dungeon Delver succeed where so many others end up as a brief footnote, a scorch mark, or—on particularly bad days—a decorative smear.

  Is it overwhelming firepower? A mastermind’s brain with extra shelving for cunning strategies? Is it impeccable preparedness in the face of the unpreparable? A good team, a good sponsor, and a generous helping of improbable good fortune?

  Or is it all of these, tossed together and left to simmer in the bubbling cauldron of circumstance?

  If I may—and since I’m the one writing this, I absolutely do may—I’d like to propose another trait entirely: adaptability. The quiet, stubborn talent of looking at a situation that by all logic should not exist—a room full of singing slimes, say, or a cursed sword demanding passionate love—and simply saying, “Right then, let’s roll with it.”

  Because in the end, survival isn’t about strength or brilliance or luck. It’s about the quiet, stubborn refusal to stop improvising when the world starts taking notes.

  ***

  In a darker, but by no means drier, corner of Ashenmoor’s crumbling confines—the kind of place where mildew felt like it paid rent—two unlikely figures were engaged in what could loosely be defined as “a tactical operation.”

  The air was heavy with the smell of wet stone, damp cloth, and regret. Water dripped from the ceiling with the patient rhythm of something that had nowhere better to be, while critters scuttled about with the quiet urgency of creatures that very much wanted to remain unseen.

  “Annabel, use Cartwheel!”

  The command rang out, echoing off the tunnel walls like a call to glory.

  A pink blur shot through the misty corridor. To any unfortunate creature close enough to witness the event, it was a sight of pure terror.

  For the past half-hour, the underworld’s rumour network—which, for clarity, consisted mostly of creatures with more legs than sense—had been alive with panic. Between squeaks, chitters, and the occasional fainting fit, word had spread of a new horror stalking the tunnels: the Deathcaller.

  This time, the victim, a Giant Rat (Level 3), met its end with the abruptness usually reserved for bad puns. It managed a half-hearted squawk before collapsing in a heap of bad life choices and damp fur. A moment later, the System tidily converted the whole tragic business into a single rat tail, which landed with a sad little plop on the damp stones.

  “Surprisingly effective,” said Lionel J’Khall, stepping through the fog with the serene expression of a man whose relationship with common sense had recently ended on difficult terms. He bent to collect the rat tail, only to click his tongue as an afterthought.

  “Annoyingly so.”

  “Hey, that’s mine!” came an indignant voice from down the tunnel—specifically, from the direction in which the pink blur had last been seen trying to achieve flight.

  Annabell Smith emerged from the haze, brushing bits of wall dust off her goggles and dignity. She’d just completed another of her trademark maneuvers: a graceful collision with something solid. It tended to cost her a few hit points but did wonders for her cardio.

  “And I’ll have you know,” Annabel continued, disgruntlement practically steaming off her, “it’s highly demeaning being treated this way. I am not some trained battle-pet for you to order around!”

  Lionel eyed the outstretched hand for a thoughtful moment before tossing her the rat tail. She caught it, scowled, and shoved it into a pocket already bulging with the spoils of questionable enthusiasm.

  “Definitely not trained,” Lionel agreed. “But the more I get to know about the limits of your capabilities, the smoother our—” He paused, choosing his words with care. “Highly temporary cooperation will be.”

  “Cooperation?” Annabell huffed. “What cooperation? So far, I’ve been the only one getting my hands dirty. You’ve just been following me around yelling things for me to do. Things I was already planning on doing, thank you very much.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Lionel, wisely, chose not to comment on her definition of “dirty hands.”

  So far, he had witnessed those very hands rooting through what could only be described as the rejected material of nightmares—rat tails, beetle shells, and at one point something that had almost certainly belonged to a Merpole’s slimy eye socket. He suspected her pockets might legally qualify as hazardous zones.

  So instead, he said, “Even if you don’t care about the rules, I do.” He walked past her, making his way further down the misty corridor. “I’m from the Lower Layers. I’m not meant to be here. If I let loose in a Dungeon like this, there’s no telling what penalties the System might impose. I’d rather not incur debt or cause—”

  Behind him came the unmistakable sound of someone dramatically vomiting. Pretending to, if not actually overturning the contents of their stomach.

  “Gee, Wallace, get a load of this guy,” Annabell said, her voice practically curling its toes and looking away in shame. She put on an exaggerated baritone and clutched at her chest, “‘If I let loose…’” only to shudder with embarrassment. “And here I thought you were going for the mysterious broody type, but then you drop a line like that? Yikes. Would’ve been a miiillion times better if you’d just said you didn’t want to get your fancy-schmancy shoes dirty. Or maybe—”

  The sound of a wrapper being slowly, deliberately undone cut her off mid-theatrical flourish.

  She froze, her eyes locking onto the culprit.

  “Less talking,” Lionel said, flashing her a smile sharp enough to qualify as an edged weapon. He unwrapped another inch of the calorie bar with the deliberate menace of a man who knew his power, “more walking.”

  Annabell saw the moment he snapped off a piece. She witnessed the instance he flicked it casually into the air, and she moved before the laws of physics could object. Lunge, catch, somersault—she landed in a perfect crouch with the grace of an athlete, or possibly a very ambitious disaster.

  And then she stopped dead.

  Because she realized, in that single dawning moment of self-awareness so rare and so cruel, that she’d just caught it—

  Like one of those things catching a frisbee.

  The silence that followed was the brittle kind—the kind that suggests everyone involved is trying very hard not to admit what just happened.

  Annabel turned, eyes narrowed, pride bristling. “Don’t say it,” she hissed.

  “Say what?” Lionel said, strolling past with a smirk that could have powered a small city out of pure smugness. “I thought we were supposed to be friends, and who else could compete for the position of man’s best friend if not a—“

  “Don’t say it.”

  “If you don’t like my treat,” he gave an exaggerated, infuriatingly annoying, shrug as he kept walking down the misty corridor, “feel free to throw it away.”

  “Maybe I will,” she declared, lifting her chin with conviction. Then, she glanced down at the food in her hand, only to, with the solemnity of a person used to making compromises with her dignity, stuff it into her pocket. “Later. I’ll throw it away later. Unless Wallace wants it. Or… What are you doing?”

  Lionel had stopped. Dead still. His hand went up—the universal gesture for ‘shut up and listen’.

  He didn’t have to explain. Annabell heard it too.

  A sound was echoing down the tunnel. Faint at first, but growing. The sort of sound that made you feel like you’d just been personally invited to someone else’s funeral. Screams—long, ragged, and very, very desperate.

  And, as if the universe thought the situation needed some light administrative commentary, a glowing prompt blinked into existence:

  Sanity crumbles.

  Hurry, or witness Ashenmoor be claimed by the Depths.

  00:18:01…

  00:18:00…

  00:17:59…

  ***

  As she left the Clatterwane, Yenna had thought herself fine. She had been wrong.

  Now, despite having done her best to hurry after them, she’d been forced to settle into an awkward, lopsided trot. Her initial attempt at a light jog had resulted in several near-meetings between her face and cobblestone.

  The constant downpour had turned the street into a slippery mess of puddles. Every few steps she had to steady herself against a wall or slippery railing, both of which seemed to have joined the rain’s conspiracy to soak her through. Her breathing came out in strained wheezes, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood clung to her tongue. Somewhere beneath the layers of wet fabric, one of her wounds had reopened.

  Still, she pressed on. The little timer, flickering insistently in the corner of her vision, refused to let her stop.

  00:12:54…

  00:12:53…

  Although morning had broken, the sky remained the colour of old porridge. The hissing oil lamps of the past night still burned bravely through the fog, smearing light across the cobblestones in smudges that barely qualified as helpful. And there, looming over the crooked rooftops, rearing out of the mist like an eldritch creature of nightmares, stood Ashenmoor’s Church.

  “As long as I reach that place,” she got out between ragged gasps, addressing the sky, the city, and whatever governing entities might be listening, “you’ll give me an answer, won’t you?

  “You’re not just leading us to our deaths, are you? There’s something—”

  That was as far as she got before the screams arrived.

  They came tumbling through the rain, desperate and human—Mari’s voice, pleading, bargaining with something that didn’t seem to care. Yenna’s stomach sank.

  She forced herself forward. Another handful of steps. Staggered. Hurried. Heels clacking against stone. A corner rounded, nearly slipping, and where the road widened into that same square she and Gami had once chased a different scream—one that now seemed forever ago—she could see them.

  Two figures—Mari and Alana—stood back-to-back, ringed by the ghostly silhouettes of the townsfolk. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. It was hard to tell through the thickening mist.

  What wasn’t hard to tell was that they’d been waiting.

  As if they’d known they would come.