Forty-eight Store-enhanced Evenonians burst into the hallway, then sprang in every direction. The first two men out pried the cudgels from the hands of the guards Grant had slain. He followed them closely as they clattered down the hall, newly acquired weapons pulled back, bellowing hoarse cries. Around the corner, a cultist stepped out of his room to investigate the commotion, groggily rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  “Eh? Who are—”

  A cudgel crashed into the side of his skull, and he spun in a wild circle, shouting and spraying blood, crumpling to the stone ground. He twitched, his elbows pressed together above his stomach, fingers curled in every direction like a puppet with its strings pulled taut.

  “I just hit level two!” The man who’d struck him gave a giddy laugh and stared at the dripping cudgel, face creased up with disbelief. The other former prisoners erupted into manic cheering and shouldered their way past him, eager to earn the next kill.

  “Murder them all!”

  “The next one’s mine!”

  “Give me a sword, and I’ll carve them to pieces!”

  “Has anyone seen my glasses?”

  Grant couldn’t stop his smirk. Cultists, meet Evenon’s finest.

  They burst through the sanctum like a rockslide, a week of pain, degradation, and helplessness feeding their fury, ripping open doors and smashing everything and everyone inside. The cultists didn’t have a clue how to react. Bay’kol’s fortress had never been attacked. They’d obviously never planned a defense. They barked contradictory orders, squabbled as they tried to organize a repelling force. Some barricaded their rooms and screamed curses or promises of negotiation while the Evenonian prisoners tore their blockades apart piece by piece.

  Grant didn’t bother to translate. The prisoners probably got the gist of it all anyway.

  Most screamed for help in their last breaths, some threatened, and a few just kneeled with their eyes closed, their palms on their thighs, lips murmuring prayers to Bay’kol. But all died, and every felled member of the cult was another weapon in a former prisoner’s hands, more levels, and more Attributes. The prisoners shrugged effortlessly around the swords, knives, and cudgels the cultists waved at them, and before long, the stink of death overwhelmed the halls.

  The Evenonians had been empowered by the Store, and in spite of their low levels and malnourished bodies, a single one of them was worth five cultists. The scale was rapidly tipping even further as they mastered their abilities.

  One man’s cudgel was wrapped in fire. The flames danced from its head, licking the air, sparks leaping and crackling like a bonfire. He swiped it at a defender, missing by several feet, but the cultist burst into fire when a wisp of black smoke bulged forward and singed his robes. His skin smoldered and blistered as he rolled on the floor, screaming hoarsely, tearing at his face. His cry was cut off with a whimper when the next strike landed square on his chest, and a squeak rattled out on the next, far less necessary attack.

  A woman planted her feet and shrieked down a hall at cultists forming a shield wall, flinging their bodies in every direction. They cracked against the sides and top of the tunnel, then slid down helplessly, stunned and disoriented.

  Another woman transformed into a cloud of smoke and flew forward for a split second, reforming in a lunge. Her short sword sank into the belly of a cultist trying to regain his footing, and she pulled it out and flicked it across the neck of another. Grant could tell it wasn’t the first time she’d done that, but something still made no sense.

  “Why didn’t you fight back before?” he asked her. “You could have easily overpowered your captors.”

  The cultist whose neck she’d cut sat upright against the wall, clutching his gurgling throat. She wiped her blade on his robes and shook her head. “We tried. The bindings they had us in cut off our access to Skills. We could only cast Spells. Nobody had one strong enough to get us out of them.”

  Grant looked back where their material lay for a moment, thinking about how he might be able to use it. He discarded the idea immediately. He had killed, now. Taken several lives, one Human, two Airet. Men who would still be alive, if it weren’t for him, and there was no denying it. But he couldn’t imagine a situation where he would tie an enemy up as the cultists had, let them fester in their own filth. Rob them of their dignity.

  The line of fallen shield bearers they overran had been guarding the entrance of another room. Some of the prisoners ducked through the doorway, and Grant followed. When he stepped in, his boot splashed and filled with water. It was an ankle-deep pool with a thin layer of moss on its top. Across the colossal chamber, white eggs half his height were laid atop nests of straw, separated by low stone walls. He’d entered just in time to see a man with a cudgel pulling it back with a two-handed grip.

  Grant tried to shout a warning, but he was already swinging.

  “No! Don’t tou—”

  His weapon slammed into the one nearest the entrance. With a sickening crack and haunting shriek, the wyrm hatchling inside perished.

  There was a rumble in the distance.

  “Who dares intrude on the Sanctum of Bay’kol?”

  The thunderous voice came from above, shaking the walls of the spawning pool. Dust and pebbles rained down on their heads and water sloshed around their ankles. They stared up, frozen, mouths hanging open and eyes wide with terror.

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Nobody dared move an inch. Then a horrible crunching sound reverberated through the entire fortress, followed by the unmistakable roar of metal screeching across a floor and crashing into a wall. The prisoners ducked for cover as more rocks fell.

  Bay’kol was leaving her throne to deal with the revolt personally.

  “Run!” Grant bellowed.

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  He did not have to say it twice. They scrambled out left, right, and straight from the spawning grounds, tripping in their panic and picking themselves back up. They scattered down separate tunnels as the walls themselves trembled in fear and the fortress swayed. Images from his nightmares flashed through his head. His heart climbed to his throat and thumped there. Memories of being ripped into the dark depths of the sea and crushed in her maw flashed in his eyes.

  Bay’kol was coming.

  Tunnels sprawled before him. Grant sprinted up. Toward only place he knew she would not be. Her throne room had to have an exit. So he hoped, at least. Rounding the first corner from the spawning pools, he found two bright-red wyrms the size of horses cornering an Evenonian who waved a sharp plank of wood at them. Grant Resummoned Siphoning Fang, paused, then Dismissed it and activated Perfect Invisibility. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself against the wall, trying to ignore the sounds of the man being torn apart.

  There was nothing he could do for him.

  Inhuman screeches and cries traveled down the halls. They were interspersed with voices begging for mercy and help. Some were Evenonian, and others were Airet cultists. With the size of the fortress, Grant hoped some of the Cursed would escape, but he knew most would not. There was simply too much ground to cover.

  He moved forward.

  More wyrms poured out, emerging from the ground and ceiling. Blood stained every wall. Most of it belonged to the cultists and Evenonians, but not all was human. A few of his countrymen had surrounded and bludgeoned some of the smaller wyrms to death, who lay belly-up, still twitching and spasming. Some wyrms fed on the Evenonian men and women’s bodies.

  Every path he took was uphill, toward the top, toward the massive doors of Bay’kol’s throne. It had taken him most of his Invisibility for the day, and now only the sound of his own breath echoed in the narrow walls.

  He came out from the maze and into an enormous cavern, four times as large as the second largest he had discovered. At the farthest end lay bent and broken stairs, and on the other side twisted heaps of metal. A wall near the broken doors opened in a massive hole, where Bay’kol must have tunneled through.

  Grant climbed up the steps. Beneath them was nothing but a pitch-black hole that sank into the depths of her fortress. He jumped a long gap, and then clambered up a small platform, trespassing on the throne of Bay’kol.

  He stopped a stride past the entrance, reeling back in shock. Her chambers were larger than Iori. Massive paintings of the gigantic wyrm adorned every surface of the black rocky walls, in all manner of poses and situations, monuments of her bottomless narcissism. Vivid murals further cataloguing her conquests were even painted on the domed ceiling, without so much as a chip of paint missing.

  There was only one entrance, which Grant had used to enter, and a much smaller door at the far end. He rushed forward, the soft carpet crunching softly under his feet, holding his breath, praying for an exit. He closed his eyes and turned the handle, pushing the door open to reveal another chamber.

  It was more a hallway than a room. There were four glass display cases on his left and four more on his right. Another staircase stood at the end. The flooring was beige tile—the first he had seen on this world.

  He jogged forward, then stopped in front of one of the curios. A skull that seemed unremarkable sat inside. He tried to Identify it, but the Spell could not recognize the Item through the cover. Grant Resummoned his dagger and, with a chopping motion, broke the glass with the hilt. He cast Identify again.

  [Skull of Prince Nico]

  [Age: 26 years]

  [Current Owner: Bay’Kol, Firstborn of The Noxious Wyrm]

  [Previous Owner: Prince Nico Thorne]

  [Monetary Value: 1,000 Celand Gold]

  [Point Value: Not Available]

  Nothing of value, he thought. Perhaps the kingdom from which Prince Nico hailed, if it still existed, would like to have it back so they could properly bury their prince, but it seemed to be little more than a war trophy. He’d rather not carry an Airet skull around with him, so he left it behind and moved on.

  He feverishly stormed through her hall, breaking every glass case as he Identified everything. During his search, the walls periodically rumbled and the harsh shriek of Bay’kol echoed through the chamber, but Grant worried little about her returning so early. He checked to make sure he had shut the door behind himself, just in case.

  He soon found himself disappointed. The only items were other trophies from her conquests, like more skulls, strands of hair, and a mummified ear. A purple fossilized egg looked promising, but Identify revealed nothing special about it.

  He scanned the room one more time. The glass on every display case was broken, and their trophies had all been Identified. He was leaving empty-handed, but with his life.

  As he approached the final door, the fortress jolted violently again, nearly knocking Grant off his feet. At the same time, a small panel on the side wall loosened and fell from its place, clattering against the floor, making Grant jump. It was about one yard high and one yard wide, and it opened into a hole.

  Grant crept forward and stooped down, squinting into the darkness. There was a short tunnel leading into a dimly lit room. Excitement flaring in his chest, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled through.

  There was a short drop at the end, and Grant fell forward, coughing on the thick layer of dust settled on the stone floor.

  Nobody had been in the room for years.

  In its center sat another display case. Grant stumbled to his feet to find a small golden globe resting atop a red velvet pillow. It glowed dimly, and Grant let his eyes linger on it. He could tell from the way it looked and the way it was hidden that it must be valuable. He Resummoned his dagger and shattered the glass with its hilt.

  [Orb of Advancement]

  [Rarity: Epic]

  [Affiliation: Soul]

  [Prerequisites: N/A]

  [Monetary Value: N/A]

  [Point Value: ????]

  [Crush the Orb to advance any Class by one rank, up to the Epic Rank.]

  Grant trembled as he lifted the Orb. It wasn’t only valuable. It was priceless. “Lira would be proud,” he whispered, slipping it into his pocket as gently as his shaking fingers would allow. He did not have a Rare Class, but many Campaigners did, and not one of them wouldn’t trade all their fingers and toes to advance it to the Epic rank in an instant. The difference between a Rare Class and an Epic Class on the Store was hundreds of thousands of Points.

  While the likelihood of some noble buying it with Points he gained from killing innocents turned Grant’s stomach, he needed more Skills, Spells, and Items to survive.

  The walls rattled again, and he paused. The back end of the room had shimmered, just like the imperial palace grounds he had seen from the wagon. He slowly shuffled toward it, fumbling at the spot. A large explosion in the distance made the wall flicker for a brief second, revealing a cavern behind. Grant ran his hands up and down it, finding cold, solid rock. He leaned his body against it and yelped as he fell through, squatting deep with his front leg to stop his forward pitch.

  Grant went into a coughing fit when thick cobwebs matted his face. He ripped them from his lips, coughing and searching for any spiders in them.

  “What is this place?” he wheezed. It was a small, circular chamber, the only light source a lantern that lay in its center. The lantern was the same as any he had ever seen. But there was something wrong about it. The room had been closed off for long enough to accumulate dust on every surface, but the flame still roared as if it had a full fuel bottle. Grant lifted and swung it gently by its handle as he peered into the flames. He cast Identify.

  [????]

  [Rarity: ????]

  [Affiliation: ????]

  [????]

  “Odd,” he whispered. Grant had never seen his Identify Spell fail to provide him any information about an Item. The more he watched the flames, the more they unnerved him. They did not flicker or dance. They bulged, but never broke from a round central mass, like a whale beginning to emerge from the surface before diving down again.

  Grant brushed his fingers against the glass and recoiled, nearly dropping it. It felt like he had plunged the entire side of his body into an ice bath. He stared, half a mind to forget he ever saw the damn thing. He even set it down for a moment and turned his back.

  But whatever the item was, Bay’kol had put great amount of effort into hiding it. After the fortress rocked again, he clutched its handle tightly and headed toward the exit.