"Rowan!" The exo-muscles of Eden’s armor carried her across the laboratory in three long strides.
Pablo dismissed the notification that had appeared in his vision—QUEST COMPLETE: RESCUE THE EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECTS—with barely a glance. The details could wait. He moved to Eden's side, Razor still in hand, his eyes scanning for threats even though The Vivisectionist's corpse lay in a heap ten feet away.
"What's wrong with him?" Sasha asked, her armor vanishing in a flash of orange light as she joined them. Without the armor's support, she swayed slightly, exhaustion catching up. “He doesn’t look injured.”
"I expect it’s Aetheric Energy depletion," Eden said, her hands already glowing with golden light as she checked Rowan over. "He burned through everything controlling that algae construct. His FAE reserves are probably completely tapped."
"Can you fix him up?" Zoe limped over, one hand pressed to her ribs. Her armor remained active, probably the only thing keeping her upright for the moment.
"Not with Lay on Hands. That only heals physical damage." Eden chewed her lower lip, thinking. "But if I can get him into water, Aqua-Healing can infuse the recipient with my own aetheric energy. It might jumpstart his system."
Sam stood nearby, those yellow goat-eyes watching everything with unnerving intensity. The bone-blades had fully retracted, leaving only bloody wounds on his forearms that were already closing. His Y-shaped incision had sealed completely, leaving fresh pink scars across his abdomen. Shockingly, after all he’d been through, Sam seemed the most steady on his feet at the moment.
"Sam," Eden said gently. "Can you help me get Rowan into the tub?"
Sam blinked, seeming to come back to himself. "I... yeah. Yeah, I can do that."
Together, they lifted Rowan's unconscious form and carried him to the camping tub Eden had filled. The water sloshed as they lowered him in, submerging him up to his neck. Eden knelt beside the tub, both hands pressed to Rowan's chest beneath the water's surface. Blue-white light pulsed from her palms, spreading through the water in rippling waves. Pablo watched for a moment, then forced himself to look away. Eden had this handled. He had other work to do.
We need the damn dungeon core. Pablo turned toward The Vivisectionist's corpse, pulling the Stitcher's Scalpel from his Inventory. The small blade gleamed under the laboratory's harsh lights, pristine. Turning, he saw that in the center of the room, where the surgical table had been, a black portal hung in the air. Near as he could tell, it was identical to the dungeon's entrance. That had to be the exit. Their way home. Only not yet.
Regrettably, his armor lost charge at that moment and vanished in a flash of light. He caught Sasha’s eyes and they exchanged a nod. Sasha moved to stand casually in the doorway to the lab, buying him a bit of cover with her own body. Striding across the room in his tattered date clothes, Pablo crouched beside the remains of the dungeon boss, and a notification appeared:
LOOT AVAILABLE
The Vivisectionist (Dungeon Boss - Defeated)
Extract items? [YES] / [NO]
He focused on [YES]. Light flashed, and several items appeared in his Inventory interface. Pablo barely glanced at them—more tonics, some kind of surgical tool set, what looked like cybernetic components. None of it mattered right then, but he’d half hoped the dungeon’s core would appear with the rest of it. No such luck.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the scalpel to gray flesh. The alien's leathery gray skin parted easily under the impossibly sharp blade. Green blood welled from the incision, viscous and foul-smelling. Pablo's stomach churned, but Iron Mind kept the nausea at bay, wrapped it in cold steel detachment. He inexpertly widened the cut, peeling back layers of tissue.
Delta said the system provides clues, Pablo reminded himself, forcing his hands to keep working. The Stitcher's Scalpel. Looted from this very dungeon. I’m betting that’s not a coincidence.
Reluctantly, he reached into the chest cavity with his bare hands. The sensation was indescribable—warm and slick and wrong in ways that made his skin crawl even through Iron Mind's buffer. His fingers slipped around organs he couldn't identify, past cybernetic implants still faintly pulsing with power.
Then his hand closed around something that didn’t belong. Cold, hard and smooth. Pablo's fingers tightened around it, and he pulled. The dungeon core came free with a wet schluck sound that would haunt his nightmares.
I did it, he thought with relief at completion of the grisly task.
Through Iron Mind's sheltering detachment, another thought began to crystallize: This was who Pablo was. He would strike first, and he would deal the killing blow, but not because he enjoyed the task. He didn’t crave the violence. He was—whenever possible—the one who stood between his team and the often horrific new reality that had been thrust upon them. More than protecting his team, he was there to protect the whole damn world. At his core, that was what being a Paladin of Power meant to Pablo.
I am the shield, Pablo thought. The resonated within him. They felt true in a way few things ever had. I’m not just a weapon.
Power thrummed through him—a deep bass note that began in his bones, and echoed out into his flesh, into the metal he carried, and the very air around him. Without quite realizing it, Pablo felt something unlock inside his aetheric pathways. Then the feeling passed, leaving only an echo.
A notification blazed to life in his vision, red and urgent:
DUNGEON CORE EXTRACTED
WARNING: DIMENSIONAL COLLAPSE IMMINENT
TIME TO CRITICAL FAILURE: 01:19:44
The core itself was roughly the size of a softball, a crystalline sphere that pulsed with inner light—swirling shades of green and purple that reminded Pablo uncomfortably of the algae that had filled those vats. Unlike the Air Core they'd captured from Velgrin, this core was encased in a lattice of wire—thin metallic strands that formed a cage around the crystal.
That's... not what Delta described.
A countdown timer in sync with the fading notification appeared in the corner of his HUD, ticking down relentlessly. One hour, nineteen minutes, forty-three seconds. Forty-two. Forty-one.
"Everyone!" Pablo's voice cut through the laboratory. He stood, holding the caged core high. Green blood dripped from his hands. "Core's extracted. We've got just under an hour and twenty minutes before this whole pocket dimension collapses. I want to be out of here long before that happens."
"Can Rowan be moved?" Pablo asked Eden.
In the tub, Rowan remained unconscious, his breathing shallow. Eden's hands glowed with blue-white light as Aqua-Healing pulsed through the water. The infusion was working—slowly—but Pablo knew she must be burning through her own energy at an alarming rate.
"I need to speed this up," Eden muttered. She pulled an Aetheric Renewal Tonic from her Inventory. "Rowan, can you hear me? I need you to drink this."
No response. He was too deep in aetheric exhaustion to wake. Eden tried anyway, tilting his head back and bringing the vial to his lips. The liquid spilled down his chin and into the water. She produced a second tonic from her Inventory, then hesitated for only an instant. Pablo could practically hear her mentally weighing the associated risks of the backlash. Then Eden drank down the Aetheric Renewal Tonic herself.
“You alright?” Pablo asked.
"Time to eat later," Eden said grimly, pouring more energy into Rowan. The enhanced reserves let her push harder, flooding his aetheric pathways with her own water-aspected energy, jumpstarting his depleted system.
Rowan's eyes finally fluttered open. He blinked slowly, disoriented but conscious. The water around him still glowed faintly with Eden's healing power.
“Good work, Eden.” Pablo rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
"Give me thirty more seconds," Eden said, sweat beading on her forehead. "His aetheric pathways are still stabilizing."
"We’re not that rushed. Do it right," Pablo said, sending the dungeon core to his Inventory. The wire cage worried him, but there'd be time to examine it later. He turned to Sasha and Zoe, “Since we’re not keeping this dungeon for future grinding, we need to extract every resource we can in that time. Loot and scoot. Sasha and Zoe, check the other compartments on this damn ship. I’ll take a quick peak topside for anything we might have missed.”
"On it," Zoe said, though her voice was strained. Her armor had run out of charge and without it she was clearly running on fumes. They all were.
Pablo thread back through the ship and climbed the ladder back up to the throne room. He hauled himself up through the hatch and into the wicker-and-bone throne room. The structure was exactly as they'd left it—primitive and grotesque, a stark contrast to the advanced technology hidden below.
Pablo stepped outside into the ruined encampment. The sky had changed. When they'd entered—maybe twenty minutes ago—the green sky had been bright, lit by whatever alien suns had blazed overhead. Now, darkness crept in from the horizon like a closing iris. The sky directly overhead remained noon-bright, but in every direction Pablo looked, night was falling—or rather, nothing was falling. The darkness wasn't natural. It was an absence of the world. The edges of this pocket dimension were collapsing inward.
A ways off, the rescued prisoners stood in a loose group outside Sasha's fortress, each one motionless as statues. Twelve people in crude fibrous clothing. They stood perfectly still, faces blank, not even seeming to breathe.
Like NPCs in a video game, Pablo thought. Gone idle due to lack of player input.
One of the prisoners—a middle-aged man in a tattered tunic—spotted Pablo approaching. His head turned with mechanical precision. Then, like dominoes, the others all turned to look at him. Instantly, they became alive. A woman slumped to the ground, sobbing. Another rescued prisoner fell to his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. The man that had spotted Pablo approaching stumbled forward a few steps, mouth moving as if shouting, though Pablo heard nothing.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
They went back on script once they detected my presence.
Pablo moved through the encampment, using Inspect on monster corpses as he went. Most had already dissolved, but a few remained intact enough to loot. A Boar-Man near the ritual table. Two Raptor-Hounds at the base of the fortress ramp. Each corpse yielded tonics, crude weapons, or small amounts of aetheric energy that flowed into him.
As he worked, Pablo watched the prisoners from the corner of his eye. Several of them were beginning to fade. One man’s edges grew translucent first, like he was becoming a ghost. Then the sobbing woman on the ground began to fade. Their forms grew less solid with each passing moment, and as they diminished, motes of aetheric energy—the same multi-colored lights that rose from defeated monsters—drifted out of them.
The motes spiraled through the air and flew directly into Pablo.
Oh.
The undeniable realization hit him like a physical blow, even through Iron Mind's warding. The prisoners weren't real. They'd never been real. They were dungeon constructs, no different from the Boar-Men or Raptor-Hounds. NPCs in the Nexus's twisted game. Part of some story the system had concocted—or perhaps recreated from elsewhere in the cosmos—and presented to them.
We risked our lives for this, Pablo thought, and despite Iron Mind, irritation flared hot in his chest. We fought and bled and nearly died to rescue these people.
I am the shield, he'd thought just minutes ago. Paladins protected people. That was the whole point, but if the people weren't real…
No, Pablo told himself firmly, shoving the bitterness down. It doesn't matter. We didn't know. We couldn't have known. We did what Paladins are supposed to do—we saved everyone we could. Most importantly, we saved Rowan and Sam.
The first prisoner to spot him faded completely, his final motes of energy drifting into Pablo. Then the sobbing woman. Then another and another. One by one, the rescued prisoners dissolved like morning mist, leaving only the aetheric energy that had created them behind.
Pablo continued looting methodically, his movements mechanical. The sky continued to darken, the collapse accelerating. By the time he finished a circuit of the encampment, only four prisoners remained visible, and even they were translucent as glass.
The countdown timer in his HUD read 00:51:17.
Time to go. Pablo turned back toward the throne room structure and descended into the ship one final time. His mood was soured, his hands sticky with blood. He silently resolved not to tell the others about the NPC prisoners. Not immediately. They'd been through enough. Let them believe they'd saved real people. Let them have that victory. He could carry this truth alone for a while longer.
I am the shield, he thought again, and this time the words felt like a burden as much as a purpose.
Nearing the laboratory entrance, Eden was helping Rowan out of the tub. He was unsteady on his feet but conscious, his skin still faintly glowing with residual healing energy. Beyond them, Sasha and Zoe were back from their own scavenging and waited in the ruined laboratory near the dungeon’s exit.
“All set up top.” Pablo helped hold Rowan steady as Eden drained the camp tub and returned it to her Inventory.
“What about the—”
“The dungeon is taking care of the rescuees.”
“If you say so.” Eden slung Rowan’s arm over her shoulders, and Pablo proceeded them into the lab.
“Find anything?” Pablo asked.
“More tonics and a few bits of system registered tech,” Sasha reported.
“Well done. We’ll sort though everything once we’re the hell out of here.” Pablo nodded.
"Sam?" Eden called softly. "Time to go."
Sam stood looming over The Vivisectionist's corpse. He transformed yellow eyes stared down at the alien's remains with an expression Pablo couldn't quite read. Satisfaction? Revulsion? Both?
"Sam," Pablo said, moving to his side. "We need to leave. The dungeon's collapsing."
"He did this to me," Sam said quietly. His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something raw and bleeding. "He cut me open. Changed me. I could feel it happening. Could feel myself becoming something else."
"I know." Pablo put a hand on Sam's shoulder, and felt the tension thrumming through the other man's body. "But you're still you, and we're getting you out of here."
Sam finally looked away from the corpse. When he met Pablo's eyes, there was a question there. Am I? Am I still me?
Pablo didn't have an answer. Not one that would help. So instead he said, "We’ve got resources. You may have noticed, we came in somewhat prepared for this shit show. If anyone can help you figure this out, it's us. But first we need to get home."
"Okay.” Sam nodded slowly. “Okay, let's go."
Pablo took quick stock of his team as they gathered. Everyone was running on fumes. Sasha's skin still glowed faintly orange from the Regeneration Tonic. Her movements were stiff—Beast-Blood backlash catching up with her too. Eden kept one hand pressed to her stomach, the Aetheric Renewal hunger clearly hitting her as well. Zoe could barely stand without her armor supporting her. Multiple injuries from the vat crash, exhausted from power usage. Rowan was conscious but weak, leaning heavily on Eden, his Flora energy still depleted despite her intervention.
We look like we've been through a war, Pablo thought.
The timer read 00:19:33.
"Everyone through the exit," Pablo ordered.
***
"Ummm...uh oh."
Warren had just finished pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head when Delta's voice crackled through his earbud. He froze, one arm still tangled in the sleeve.
"What is it?"
“I’m afraid we have acquired a new problem.”
“Nope. Sorry, we’ve already hit our quota for problems tonight. Try again tomorrow.”
Warren was parked a block from the clinic, sitting in the driver's seat of Mark's Jeep with the door open. His rave clothes—neon-splattered and reeking of smoke and sweat—lay crumpled on the passenger seat. He'd been using wet wipes to scrub the glow-in-the-dark paint from his skin, but it was slow going.
“Really? I was unaware that such a metric existed. What if I classified this as an exciting new opportunity for you to risk life and limb?”
“I was being sarcastic. Just spit it out, Dee-Vee.”
"It appears those two errant Raptor-Hounds have realized that the clinic is currently packed with warm, delicious animals," Delta said with the clinical detachment of a nature documentary narrator. "They're attempting to breach the building. Specifically, the back door."
"Damn it." Warren yanked the shirt down properly and grabbed his jeans from the passenger seat. "I'm on my way."
"Might I suggest haste? The security door is holding for now, but it's only a matter of time before—oh dear, one of them is starting to understand how door handles work. That's...actually rather impressive for a non-sapient dungeon spawn."
Warren was already moving. He left his rave clothes where they’d fallen while he changed into jeans and a t-shirt and took off barefoot down the dark street.
"Where exactly?" Warren asked, already calling Nova from his Inventory. The morningstar materialized in his grip, familiar weight and heat spreading up his arm.
"Continue straight for another thirty yards, then turn right into the alley. That will bring you to the rear parking area. I'm tracking both Raptor-Hounds via the security cameras—they're focused entirely on the back entrance. The animals inside are going absolutely mad with fear, by the way. The clinic staff is going to have quite the mystery on their hands come morning."
Warren rounded the corner at a full sprint, feet slapping against cold pavement. He could hear it now—the snarling and scratching, the metallic thud of something heavy hitting the security door repeatedly. More distantly, through the walls of the clinic he heard the howls and hisses of terrified domestic animals.
"May I suggest that you try not to set the building on fire this time?" Delta’s tone was droll, but the words brought Warren up short, just for a moment. Intense emotions had blazed to life within him as he’d run, eagerness, anger, warred for dominance and demanded maximum violence. Burn everything to ash and cinders to eliminate the threat.
Warren took a deep breath. He held it and let it out slowly.
Control. I need control. Damn it.
He forced the fire down, wrapped it in discipline, until it was a steady warmth instead of an inferno. Just enough simmering tension to banish his nerves and leave him ready for a fight. Then, almost casually, he began whistling a Johnny Cash song.
Warren strolled around the corner into the back parking lot, still whistling, Nova resting casually over one shoulder. The two Raptor-Hounds spun to face him immediately. They were smaller than he'd expected—maybe five feet tall, built vaguely like velociraptors with reversed knees and wicked claws. Their torsos and arms were more human-like though, their hides were mottled green and brown fur. Their snouted faces were some grotesque middle-point between human and lizard.
For a heartbeat, the three of them just stared at each other. Warren and the monsters, with the damaged security door between them. Then both Raptor-Hounds shrieked and launched themselves at him.
Without so much as pausing his whistling, Warren swept Nova up in a horizontal arc. He caught the first one mid-leap. The morningstar's spiked head connected with its ribs with a satisfying crunch, and the creature went tumbling across the asphalt. The second one came in low, claws extended, going for his legs.
Warren spun, using the momentum from his first swing to bring Nova around in an overhead strike. The Raptor-Hound dodged—damn, they're fast—and Warren had to adjust mid-swing, turning it into a spinning kick that caught the creature in the shoulder and would have made Chuck Norris proud.
He was still whistling the melody as he fought, moving himself and the monsters away from the battered clinic and toward the center of the parking lot. Give himself room to work. Keep the collateral damage contained. He hoped.
The first Raptor-Hound was back on its feet, shaking its head like a dazed dog. It circled wide, trying to flank him while its companion came straight on. Warren tracked both with the ease of someone who'd spent months training with Delta's holographic opponents.
But these aren't holograms, a small voice reminded him. These things are real. They can kill you.
Instead of fear, Warren’s blood burned with excitement at the thought.
Warren reached the chorus of the song and called to his power. Fire erupted around the three combatants in a perfect circle, fifteen feet in diameter. Flames leaped six feet high, creating a wall of heat and light that turned the parking lot into an arena. Warren stood at the center, wreathed in warmth that felt like coming home. The fire didn't burn him—not anymore. It was his element, his domain, as natural as breathing.
The Raptor-Hounds screamed, recoiling from the flames. They paced along the inner edge of the ring, looking for an escape, but Warren kept the fire dense and hot. No way out.
"What's wrong?" Warren asked, finally breaking off his whistling to grin at them. "Not a fan of the classics?"
They came at him in unison, desperation driving their aggression. Warren met them with Nova ablaze. Not unlike the spinning glow sticks at the rave earlier that night, each swing of the morningstar left trails through the air. He caught one monster across the snout, leaving blistered flesh. He ducked under the other's claws and brought Nova down on its back with bone-breaking force.
The fight was brutal and fast. The Raptor-Hounds were strong, but Warren was more skilled, collected, and just better than them all around. Not that they didn’t score a couple of good shots, but always he made them pay for it with interest.
The first one fell when Warren caught it mid-leap and redirected its momentum straight into Nova's spiked head. The second lasted a moment or two longer, managing to rake its claws across Warren's ribs before he could finish it. The wounds were sharp with pain, but Accelerated Healing was already knitting them closed.
Warren brought Nova down one final time. The Raptor-Hound's Health bar dropped to zero under the blow. It went limp. Motes of aetheric energy began drifting up from both corpses, like fireflies made of multi-colored light. They spiraled through the air and zipped into Warren's body—that familiar sensation of warmth and electricity and something indefinable that meant power gained.
Warren let the ring of fire die, the flames guttering out until only bubbling asphalt remained. He stood there panting, one hand pressed to his healing side, Nova still gripped in the other. His shirt was torn and bloody. His jeans were splattered with monster ick. He probably looked like hell.
Behind him, near the dumpster, he heard movement. Warren spun, expecting to see another escaped dungeon monster, or a nosy neighbor drawn by the battle. Figures began emerging from behind the dumpster.
“Zoh!” he cried with relief at the sight of his sister. Barreling forward Warren swept her into a spine-cracking hug.
“Where the hell have you been?” Zoe snarled, but she hugged him back just as fiercely.
“Got here as quick as I could. I swear.” Over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of more people, Eden, Rowan, another dude he didn’t know, Sasha and behind all of them the dungeon’s entrance itself. Warren felt an unaccustomed chill run up his spine at the sight.