Chương 28: Clash of Beasts

Alcyr looked up at the mounted rider and saluted with his sword.

"You took your time getting here." The armoured warrior glared down at him. Though the winged helm blocked her facial expression, from her posture alone, Alcyr could tell she was not pleased.

"You set my infirmary on fire," Lenore stated flatly.

"Only half of it, if that is any consolation." He turned away from her and faced the assassin.

"We can discuss compensation later. Help me kill this thing." Lenore let her mount speak for her. Pulling on the reins, her drake took flight before unleashing a gout of superheated acid from its maw. The assassin moved with preternatural speed, dodging nimbly and advancing fearlessly on her foe. Her torso was already healed, letting her clash against the flying drake's mighty talons evenly. Lenore swung down with her halberd, the steel moving with such force that it whistled as air trails followed behind it.

The assassin's silverite axe parried the blows, the stone beneath her feet cracking each time she bore the weight of the hit. Seeing her pinned and distracted, Alcyr struck, his longsword scoring a line of blood against her upper arm. [Sneak Attack has improved to 20] He heard shouting in the distance. More soldiers were coming. The assassin's expression grew increasingly frustrated.

"Enough of this," she muttered under her breath. Alcyr suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. Combat Sense urged him to flee, and he obeyed. He barely had a second to leap back before a flood of black mist exploded from the assassin's body, covering a large portion of the compound. Lenore's drake was forced back, the lizard gagging at the disorientating illusory properties of the smoke. There was a horrific sound within the obscuring cloud — the squelching of flesh, the crunch of bones.

His Illusion Discernment skill allowed him a glimpse of what now lurked within the haze — a mountain of muscle, talons, and wings, growing ever larger. Shapeshifting!

"Lenore!" he shouted urgently.

"Knock her out of the smoke, now!" The winged warrior swung her halberd once more, but this time, an enormous clawed hand — easily the size of a man's torso — broke free from the mist and grabbed it. The powerful blade barely even managed to sink an inch into its palm. An earth-shattering bellow sent Alcyr prone. It was as if three different beasts had screamed out at once — a lion's roar, a goat's bray, and a wolf's howl, all braided into a single discordant shriek that drove Alcyr to his knees.

His ears rang as the haze dissipated, revealing the ungodly creature the assassin had transformed into. Larger than even Lenore's massive drake, the abomination looked as if a madman had stitched it together from the parts of a dozen animals. A lean, leonine body formed the base of the horror, sprouting the leathery wings of some great bat and, where a tail should have been, a length of emerald scale that ended in a hissing serpent's head.

Its forelegs bore the hooked claws of a land predator, while its hindlegs ended in an avian's raptor talons. A pelt of black iron armoured its frame, and along its spine grew a ridge of thorns that wept ceaselessly with a sweet-smelling venom. It had three enormous heads, discounting the snake lashed on its rear: a vicious lion with a majestic golden mane, a dull and drooling palsy-striken goat, and a rabid-eyed wolf with matted silver fur. Alcyr cursed." Manticore."

Known as the winged terrors of the north, manticores were berserk killers. Their primal bloodlust was so potent that they were often regarded by barbarian tribes to be lesser incarnations of their warrior deity — echoes of the Saint of Violence, made into flesh. Even the youngest manticores would be ranked as a Low Master threat, but given this one's prodigious size and monstrous number of mutations, Alcyr wagered the transformed assassin was now a match for even a Grandmaster.

Lenore evidently realised the danger and tried to retreat immediately. She twisted her weapon and pulled her halberd back to free it from the monster's grip, the blade only managing to weakly slice into the monster's iron skin despite her Master-level strength. The manticore roared once more from its three heads and charged forth. The ground shook from its movements. It did not lumber as a beast of its enormous size and weight should. It was too swift — unnaturally agile, even.

Moving more akin to a cat than a bull, it nimbly dodged a tail whip from Lenore's drake before leaping up and latching on to the flying lizard's underbelly. Claws and talons tore through its draconic scales as if it were paper, showering the ground below in steaming blood. The drake roared in pain, breathing forth another gout of acid and showering its assailant in the lethal spew.

The slimy, tar-like liquid ate away at the stone below them as if it were nothing, but upon the manticore's body, it simply hissed harmlessly, utterly ineffective. Lenore leapt off her mount's back, halberd swinging for a decapitating blow on the lion's head. The blade turned into a blur, enhanced by some form of martial Artes. Though the steel broke through the weaker iron scales on its neck, it failed to dig deep into its toughened flesh and bones.

Hanging off the beast, she kicked the goathead that tried to bite her, snapping off one of its horns before jumping onto its back and slashing at the weaker tissues where its wings connected to its body. Alcyr hadn't been idle. His sword would be ineffective here, but there were other tools he could use. Its resistance and physical defences are too tough in this state, Alcyr thought as he ran for the burning infirmary. However, assuming it still has the same weakness as the assassin before she transformed…

He leapt through the hole in the infirmary, finding his former bed engulfed in fire. This will do. Snapping a rectangular piece of the burning wooden bedpost, he hefted his impromptu firestarter and charged at the manticore. Lenore was holding her own surprisingly well. Her drake attacked from the air while she struck from the ground.

Her halberd deflected off countless strikes in each heartbeat as the manticore bore down on her with the entirety of its bestial arsenal: horns, fangs, claws, tails, and even spike projectiles fired from its quill-like back. So distracted it was in trying to kill Lenore, the manticore didn't notice Alcyr in time before leapt off a nearby rock and swung his fiery wooden club onto its oil-soaked back. Upon contact, the generous volume of drake oil combusted, and the mutated manticore was instantly engulfed in flames.

Not even the deafening of his eardrums could wipe the feral smile off Alcyr's face as the numerous heads on its abominable form all screamed at once. [New Skill: Improvised Weapons 1 (Uncommon)] [New Skill: Pyrotechnics 1 (Rare)] Alcyr rolled aside as the burning monster tried to crush him with its paws. None of its mutated maws ever stopped screaming.

The noise and smell were beyond his means to describe: a menagerie's worth of animals panicking, either braying in high-pitched whines or loosing agonised howls, as their skin crackled and flesh melted. Within this cacophonous chaos, he heard the assassin's human voice cursing him.

"Godless ROACH! I'll kill you!" The manticore turned upon him. Though blinded by flames, it still had enough perception to know where he was. It charged towards him, all grace lost in its mindless pursuit to crush him beneath its weight. He couldn't outrun or dodge it. Though the end appeared inevitable and he already resigned himself to a possible reset, he still raised his arms and prepared to use Cleave to slash at its eyes.

Then, right before the manticore reached him, an azure bolt of lightning came from above and blasted into its side. The explosion of heat and light caused the manticore to swerve at the last second, narrowly missing Alcyr. The beast crashed into the burning infirmary behind him, flatting the building with its bulk. Alcyr looked up and saw that another drake had arrived. It was smaller than Lenore's mount — a younger and swifter breed. But the powerful rider on its back easily made up for its smaller stature.

Grandmaster Faldren was finally here. Alcyr saw the commander charge another lightning bolt in his hands before he flung it — the act reminiscent of some ancient sky god. The powerful projectile struck the manticore right in its wolf head, causing its mutated cranium to pop like a balloon, showering the area with steaming chunks of flesh. Beneath him, squads of armoured foot soldiers rushed into the clearing, carrying halberds, axes, and swords.

"4th Regulars!" Grandmaster Faldren ordered in a thunderous voice, amplified by some spell.

"Surround and kill the beast!" The soldiers roared and charged, their Artes activating as they struck the manticore with coordinated slashes and thrusts. Alcyr tried to stand, eager to join them, but a hand clamped down on his shoulder and forced him back down.

"Don't even think about it," Lenore warned.

"Fall back and let us handle this." Alcyr was about to ignore her orders when the manticore suddenly took flight. The quills on the monster's back shivered for a moment before they started firing in every direction. Before Alcyr could make sense of what she was doing, Lenore had already pulled him behind her, using her own body as a shield. Alcyr heard men cry out in pain or alarm as the giant, venom-soaked quills found their marks. two quills struck Lenore—one punched through her torso, the other through her arm.

Both penetrated her armour from the front and nearly burst clean through her back. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Alcyr cursed and caught her as she fell backwards. The first projectile had struck her vitals.

"Why did you do that? I would have been fine!"

"Relax. I'm not… the self-sacrificing kind." She coughed blood, the poisoned liquid hissing on the stone.

"Neither the wound nor venom is enough to kill me. You, on the other hand, would have died if that hit you." He would, but it wasn't as if dying mattered to him. His retort was cut short as the thunderous sounds of battle resumed once more. Grandmaster Faldren was chasing the fleeing manticore, who looked severely wounded with one more of its heads missing and a limb reduced to a blackened stump. Alcyr briefly entertained the idea of chasing it, but Lenore's armoured gauntlet held his arm in a death grip.

"No," she firmly said.

"That thing is a Grandmaster-level threat; you can't do anything here."

"That's not for you to decide." He tried to pull away, but Lenore's grip was deceptively strong.

"Alcyr, please. You have already done more than enough. I don't want you to die." It wasn't a plea, exactly, but the unashamed bluntness of her words took him aback. When was the last time anyone had even remotely said anything like that to him? Alcyr hesitated. He did not want to let the manticore go. Or rather, he didn't want to let Grandmaster Faldren kill it. The assassin had been Alcyr's to kill. His challenge to overcome.

Certainly, he had vastly underestimated her, seeing the ridiculous power of her transformed state, but she still had been his 'Well' to climb and defeat. What purpose was there in letting someone else do the deed for him? Would this even count as a proper completion of the loop, or would the day simply reset back to the beginning once more? In the end, however, the choice was taken from him.

The manticore fled further from the base, its wings taking it away and above the mountain pass, making the assassin well beyond his means to chase. Only those with flying mounts could give pursuit. Grandmaster Faldren led the way, blasting thunderous lightning at his prey while a full squad of drake riders trailed behind him as support. First came denial, then frustration. Until finally, seeing no other options at all, Alcyr relented. His sigh was one of abject disappointment.

"Damn it all."

The next few hours passed in a blur. The fire in the infirmary was put out. Most of the equipment was destroyed, though in truth, nothing of irreplaceable value was lost.

"It isn't our only infirmary, and the fire didn't spread much," Lenore told him later.

"I managed to recover most of my raw alchemical ingredients, though the loss of my glass apparatus from your psychic scream will be a bit more troublesome to replace."

"I apologise for that."

"There's no need. It was that Arte you used that alerted the entire base to the threat. I'd felt it all the way from my quarters. Without you, Commander Faldren might not even have arrived in time." That had surprised him. He hadn't thought his voice would echo that far. It seemed to have penetrated through the stone walls of the inner base, which should not be possible if the Arte operated purely off sound. At least I have confirmation now that Deathbound Dirge is not a purely acoustic effect.

There's an element to it that touches the soul as well. Lenore stitched his wounds with quick, practised hands and dug up a plain shirt and trousers to replace what remained of his ruined surgical gown. It was only afterwards, picking through the wreckage of the clearing, that he found the silverite axe half-buried in churned earth.

"The assassin was unable to take it with her in her transformed state, it seems," Lenore commented, watching him turn the blade over in his hands.

"You can return it to the quartermaster later, if you wish. Since it was stolen from the 4th Regulars' armoury, it no longer counts as the company's possession. It is yours once more to sell or keep." He raised an eyebrow.

"You're just letting me have it again? Surely it's more deserving in your hands."

"I have no need of it. Think of it as my reward to you for surviving, if you wish." The weight of the valuable weapon in his hand — as well as the promise of more gold — helped alleviate some of his frustration. The longsword was still with him as well, and it reminded him of the woman who gave her life to assist him. Or rather, the woman he had killed through his plan for her to assist him. Ishmael's corpse was still split in two when the soldiers recovered her. There had never been a chance for her to survive.

He had thought he would at least feel a sliver of guilt when he saw her. But there was nothing but a tired void within. The only emotion he could briefly conjure when he saw her body was regret — a faint remorse that he had wasted her sacrifice for failing to kill the assassin himself. There were other casualties as well. Four soldiers had been wounded earlier when they surrounded the manticore.

Struck down by its toxic quills, one of them even died from the virulent venom before Lenore could save him — a painful death as the poison boiled his blood and dissolved his organs. That hadn't been the end of the assassin's body count. Before the battle had even begun, sixteen other Regulars had already killed, along with dozens of auxiliary staff that had been working the midnight shift.

Some had been part of isolated sentries or patrols, slain in the dead of night because they had the misfortune of being in the way of the assassin's infiltration path. Others were killed in the armoury, where the silverite axe had been kept under guard. The assassin had silently butchered her way in to retrieve the weapon, leaving no survivors or witnesses to sound the alarm.

"We are in the midst of identifying and preserving the corpses," one of the scribes reported to Lenore, his expression grim.

"Thankfully, none of the deceased Regulars we found thus far are bluebloods of any true prominence. Their Houses will not mourn their loss or hold us responsible, so long as the 4th Regulars provide the proper compensation."

"The Commander is going to be pissed when he hears about this," another scribe grunted.

"Our standing with the capital is fragile enough as is. Nearly twenty Regular deaths in one night is a catastrophe."

"Though that's assuming he does come back," someone else worriedly said.

"Never seen a manticore that big or vicious before. A Grandmaster monster against a Grandmaster mage… Surely he won't—""He will be back," Lenore told them, her voice dipping dangerously low enough that the scribes immediately shut their mouths.

"Inform our quartermaster to check our inventory for any other theft or damages. I also want the corpses in the workshop cleared and operations resumed by morning. Have an updated inventory manifest and a list of all the deceased ready as well." With Faldren gone, Lenore was the highest authority left in the base. Alcyr thought she led the Regulars well, never wasting time or mincing words. She moved from one end of the camp to the other, checking on wounds and managing the situation with admirable efficiency.

In her haste and work, however, she lost sight of Alcyr, who had chosen to slip away from her at some point in the night while she was distracted. Though she would immediately send scribes to find him, it would be the last time either of them saw each other that day.

Alone once again, Alcyr sat upon a quiet perch at the edge of a cliff, watching over the tundras to the north. He was far enough from the base that no one should be able to find him for some time. Looking at the night sky and the snowy lands before him, he weighed his options. The silverite axe sat across his lap, its glimmering blade eager and ready for his blood, should he choose to spill it. Dawn was approaching. Alcyr had minutes left to decide.

He could either wait for the sun to rise and see whether the day would progress as was natural… Or he could use the silverite axe to end his life before that, resetting the loop and trying the 'Well' again once more. He was… not unhappy, exactly. His gains this time were massive — easily surpassing the windfalls from the previous Wells.

Aside from the vast wealth he had amassed thanks to his newly forged charisma skills, he had also obtained all three pure resistance skills, as well as multiple other useful defensive and auxiliary skills as well. Restorative Slumber alone was a boon on par with a minor Mystery, and while his offensive capabilities had not grown as much as previous Wells, his overall fortitude and adaptability had skyrocketed with the levels he had earned. Thus, it was not his growth from this 'Well' that was the issue.

Rather, he was unsatisfied with how things had ended. After all the torment he suffered, all that pain and planning, this was how the third set of loops had concluded? Saved by those stronger than him, his prey eluding his blade, and his overall performance within the ordeal subpar. Was he being greedy? Perhaps. He was certainly being irrational. It wasn't as if he would not have more — and likely better — opportunities for growth in the future. The campaign was clearly reaching a turning point for the worse.

There would be countless battles to come, with more means of skill progression, exotic skill gains, and powerful foes awaiting him. It was childish and illogical for him to lament the loss of this one opponent, which would likely become insignificant and forgettable in the long run. But, even so… I wanted to fight her. Not as they did earlier. Not with him pitifully crippled and half-armed. Not with deceitful tricks, ambushes, and the inference of 'allies'.

And certainly not against her human form, which was clearly holding her back. He wanted to fight that woman at her most abominable, her most monstrous. He wanted to battle that manticore head-on and alone, and he wanted to do so while he was at his peak — his body fully healed and his wargear fully utilised. To clash blades against claws, to face down that manticore at his best. To struggle against her with everything he had one-on-one, die repeatedly if he had to, and then emerge victorious…

A 'Well' like that would surely see him grow more than he ever had before. More than that, it would have satiated his ever-growing battle hunger — that fanatical drive to face challenges greater than him and surpass them. She was the perfect opponent for him to test himself against. But now, he did not know if he would ever get that chance. Even if he killed himself and reset the loop, what would that really achieve?

He would be back in his broken body, with no weapons or armour to his name, and then be forced to employ all manner of underhanded tactics and rely on outside interference to even the field once more. It would not give him the fair fight he desperately wanted. But if he let the day advance, Faldren would likely kill her, and he would lose the chance of ever fighting her again. Foolish as it was, the realisation of that saddened him. Minutes passed. He was lost in his thoughts.

As he felt the darkness of night recede and the first rays of dawnlight approach, however, he made his choice. Alcyr brought the axe to his throat. Taking a heartbeat to exhale, he pressed the blade against his jugular, and… Stopped. He frowned, glancing up as he heard something approaching. Wingbeats. He pulled the blade away from him and crouched low behind a rock. Seconds later, a trio of drakes flew into view, closing in on his position. He recognised the lead rider: Commander Faldren.

The group landed some distance from him. They hadn't seen him yet, though that feat was likely attributed more to their sorry state than his Sneaking skill. All of them were severely wounded. One of the Regulars was missing his arm. The other was bleeding heavily, his breathing uneven from a quill stuck in his chest. There had been five Regulars that followed Faldren when he gave chase. Now, only two remained, and both were on the brink of death. Even the Grandmaster was not unscathed.

His mount carried vicious slash wounds and appeared to be missing an eye, while Faldren himself seemed to be cradling a broken left arm. The most important detail that caught Alcyr's attention, however, was that none of the trio was carrying the corpse of the female assassin. There wasn't any proof of the kill.

"I'm sorry, Commander. We failed you," one of the Regular rasped. Faldren shook his head tiredly.

"It is fine, lieutenant. We shall get her next time. Let us rest here a minute before we make our way back to the camp. We will need to retrieve the bodies of our comrade later as well."

"Assuming that fiend does not eat them first," the other Regular mumbled miserably.

"Damn it all. Damn it all! We had her surrounded, and we still failed to kill her!"

"We had underestimated her, but there will be another chance," Faldren said.

"She will not evade our blades forever. The opportunity to avenge our comrades will come again." Alcyr remained silent. He did not reveal himself, nor did he move even after the trio of drakes took off and flew back to the 4th Regulars' roost. He simply sat there, waiting, as he watched the sun rise on a new day. Morning broke over the horizon, and Alcyr smiled. There was no need to stay in this 'Well' anymore.

"Tomorrow comes." He would take his time to recover and rearm. And once he was ready… Nothing would stop him from having his destined duel with that Corpse Spawn.