Chương 33: Conduit

Wirbald's walls crashed towards one another with a concussive crack, but the walls of light didn't reach each other. The armored creature had spread its bronzed arms, straining and holding the walls from sandwiching it flat. If this surprised the older mage, he hid it well, as the concentration on his face never left. Wirbald clapped his hands together again. Another set of walls formed behind the original walls, slamming into them to try to crush the armored man. Still, the creature held on.

"Ah, are you their leader, mage? I'll admit you're stronger than the rest," it shouted, still pressing its palms against the walls. Clap. Further walls of light smashed into each other. The armored man's arms finally bent slightly.

"You'll find I am no pathetic guildmate of yours," the creature roared, though there was a hint of desperation in its voice.

"I won't be crushed like those you pretended to protect." There was a quiet pause, easily missed if one wasn't paying attention.

"A sagani who can peek into the veil that is the mind? Is that magic a side effect of the Sanctum? How curious." Wirbald arched an eyebrow and clapped once more. As the walls smashed together again, a hailstorm of bronze fired at Wirbald from the floor. Without a moment's hesitation, Joel and Al were already there, dagger and greatsword parrying the barrage of metal.

The arrival of the mage had rallied their spirits, each piece of bronze deflected away — though Al was notably beginning to slow, the poison of the airy miasma starting to affect him through his puncture wounds.

"I think I've had my fill of this nonsense," Wirbald said, after noticing Al's injuries.

"We shall keep this simple. I'll scrap all of this unpleasant bronze and miasma off of every surface. Then I'll crush you alongside it. Goodbye." Clenching his jaw, the bespectacled mage began to ball his hands around his orb as if he was trying to compress the air around it. The invisible boundary of the Sanctum became a dazzling barrier that closed in, dragging metal and smog along with it. Ground shaking, the bronze walls rumbled and bent under the barrier's strength.

Miasma coalesced together, becoming denser as the space compressed. The barrier warped around them, revealing the cavernous space and only carrying the armored creature's elements with it. Though he was still using Wirbald's barrier helm, Joel finally felt like he could breathe clean air easily. He glanced at his [Status] screen, which still showed that he had the Imposed status.

It confirmed both what he felt, the lagging physical movement, and what he assumed, that it was an on-going effect from occupying the Sanctum's space. For the first time, he sensed what looked like panic from the creature. Walls of light had collapsed into a sphere, filled with dark air and oozing bronze, with the armored man caught at its center. The sagani had morphed into some gross amalgamation of the elements, its body turning into unformed sludge.

"Don't kill me! Guildmaster, please, spare me! I don't want to die," the creature screamed in a shrill, feminine voice. Wirbald remained stoic, his focus solely on his orb. The sphere compacted further, shrinking slowly as the mess of bronze and smog resisted. It was baffling, seeing that much of anything being condensed so tightly. Any solid bronze shattered loudly into brittle shards. The barrier sphere strained to contain it all, but did not crack.

"You cannot!" The horned helm of the bronze man emerged from its globby form.

"You cannot defeat me, you worm! You are nothing more than a speck of dust." Its ooze-like body began to expand, shoving against the barrier.

"I shall show you the true power of the abyss!" It banged against the barrier once, then again, and again. Five slams echoed out as it threw its massive body against the barrier, finally able to make the tiniest crack in the bright sphere. The resistance seemed so futile, yet the sphere stopped shrinking. Joel felt something tickle his brain. Incoherent whispers in the back of his mind, an itch on the inside of his skull. He craned his neck and looked at the former guildmaster. The mage was shaking.

Past his protective helm, he was bleeding from his eyes and ears. Wirbald was clearly trying to hold onto his magic through the pain, nearly dropping to a knee. Panic crawled up Joel's throat.

"Wirbald?" he asked softly. Bloody tears streaming down his face, the older man stuttered one word.

"D-d-daemon…" Demon? What was that? As far as Joel recalled, there weren't demons. Some new creature type? He glanced at the sealed sagani. Was it a demon, daemon, whatever? He turned quickly to Al for help. Al shook in the same manner, though he had his sword held high, as if he was charging with it. His trembling steps were minute, and blood poured from his face as well. Every fiber of his body seemed to be fighting against itself.

Scanning the cavern, Joel saw the two siblings — barrier helms renewed — shaking in the same violent manner as the others. He was about to move to check on them until a quaking voice caught him.

"F-find c-c-conduit-it," Al sputtered out like his mouth had its own mind. Blood dripped down his neck as he trembled, plate armor rattling.

"D-destroy."

"How? How do I find it?" Joel drew close to Al, trying to pick up the Freewalker's words. Al's head jerked unnaturally before shaking again.

"D-doesn't m-m-ake s-sense. L-l-like u-unburning f-fl-flame." Unburning flame? That doesn't help at all! Joel's brows furrowed.

"Scarcely anything to drain, to tap into," the demon cackled out, its voice now a discordant chorus. Its massive sludge body tossed within the sphere. More splintering cracks appeared on its surface.

"You are a twisted, malformed thing." Speak for yourself, asshole. Joel tried his best to ignore its ravings, turning his back to the sphere to think.

"Hurry, hurry, worm." Another loud thud and crack followed.

"Your friends are bleeding out and I am breaking out. Hurry, hurry."

"Shut up," Joel spat out, putting his hands on his head. He paced around frantically until his eyes caught a glint of light a few paces away. A flutter of hope filled his chest as he jogged over. His heart sank slightly when he saw it. The Seahorn cutlass. Useful, but not what he needed to find. Taking the ivory hilt in his hand, he tapped the flat of the blade against his protective helm as he looked about. Though the Sanctum was a wide cavernous space, its boundary was still an opaque barrier.

The conduit had to be somewhere around here, but he didn't have time to search the entire space. Unburning fucking flame? What the hell was he supposed to do with that? No. That wasn't it. He was missing something. He slammed the dull edge of the cutlass against the barrier sphere around his head — hard enough that he surprised himself and worried the blow would crack the protective helmet. No, that wasn't what Al meant. He had said that it doesn't make sense. Like an unburning flame.

"The abyss awaits!" the demon shouted, its voice rasping.

"You'll drown in your blood there."

"Drowning?" Joel said out loud to himself. Something that didn't make sense. Like an unburning flame. Like an unnaturally warm stone under icy water? Under cool pool water? He spun around, his eyes scanning to figure out where in the faraway pool that the armored man had tried to drown him. The Sanctum's terrain looked entirely different without the blanket of miasma to hide under. Deciding he was wasting his time, he rushed toward the pool's side. Stolen story; please report.

As if confirming that he was getting close, he heard Wirbald's containment sphere crack again, this time splinteringly loud. Three spiky tendrils had penetrated through, fully chasing after him. He pivoted, deflecting one with the cutlass and another with the dagger, which sent the short blade from his hand. The last prong struck his barrier, cracking it, and launched him into the water. This time, he didn't flounder. Instead, he swam underwater, hands reaching out to touch every smooth stone nearby.

Dribbles of water leaked into his barrier helm but he didn't care, solely focused on searching the pool floor. He heard the bronze spikes punch through the water and stab after him. The feeling of displaced water told him the attacks were only getting closer and closer. One caught him in the back of the helm, sending him reeling further into the water. Tumbling, his arm shot out to steady himself. Warmth spread up his hand. His head shot towards that direction.

A dull, silvery shine glittered through his fingers and the pond muck — a smooth tin ingot. Another spike struck his helm, snapping his head back, forming another crack for water to leak into. He pulled himself together by grabbing the ingot and tugging it free. Three circles engraved upon it, the soft tin felt scorching hot, despite not warming any nearby water. He rotated underwater, kicking his legs out against the bottom of the pool.

Once he broke through the surface of the water, two more piercing tendrils fired straight at him. A swing of his sword shattered through the first, but exhaustion denied him pulling back his sword arm for the second tendril. Then, in desperation, Joel swung his other arm, ingot in hand, smashing the tin against the incoming bronze spike. The ingot shattered into a thousand brittle pieces, and each shard shattered into a continuous wave of deafening explosions.

Like being within a demolition site, the cloudy walls of the Sanctum erupted, collapsing around him. The blasts exploded so violently that the shakes knocked Joel out of the pool, onto the ground, where he covered his head to protect himself. The world seemed like it would cascade apart for forever. Until it finally went still. The cavern was even more vast without the Sanctum walls to entrap them. Able to taste the damp air, Joel touched his face, no longer protected by the barrier helm.

He looked for the others — still shaking in that terrible, violent fashion — except without their protective helms. In fact, none of Wirbald's magic remained. The radiant sphere, containing the demon, had vanished. Instead, a floating woman, composed of smooth tin and nearly nine feet tall, lay writhing, her body contorting frantically. Her detailed face oozed molten bronze from the eyes and ears. Silvery eyes, bleeding bronze, caught his gaze.

"S-s-save me," she cried out, reaching to him with a quivering hand. Head shaking back and forth, the woman screamed and thrashed, the shrill scrape of metal joining her howl. Joel got to his feet more quickly than he thought, no longer afflicted by the Sanctum's oppressive effects. He walked towards the strange woman slowly, each approaching step careful and hesitant. Keeping a tight grip on the Seahorn sword's ivory hilt, he scanned around, prepared for any surprise attack.

His heart was pounding in his ears and, this time, he couldn't even blame it on a helm. The woman's cries became soft and indiscernible mutterings, still shaking in pain, torment, or both. Bronze blood dripped onto the cave floor, hitting the floor in rhythmic splashes. Joel grimaced, lips going tight. It wasn't a pretty sight, more pitiful than anything else. His sword arm dropped slightly, examining the figure. Her massive hand shot out, enveloping his sword grip — hand and hilt trapped in her fist.

The same warmth of the ingot surrounded his arm and his entire body shook as wildly as the metallic woman's.

"C-c-cannot q-quell," she sputtered out through the liquid bronze.

"F-f-forgive me." With a sudden yank, she pulled Joel's arm toward herself, driving the cutlass through her chest. A familiar horned face stretched her form, extending from the neck like a moth trying to escape its cocoon. A dissonant chorus of death wails erupted from the emerging face, too many voices for one mouth. Forcibly twisting his sword, the woman thrust the blade deeper, silencing the symphony of screams. The other face, attempting to rip out of her, was nowhere to be seen.

She kept her misty eyes locked on him, her grip on his sword hand softening and haggard breathing calming.

"T-thank you, stranger." Joel nodded, numb with fatigue and shock. He couldn't think of what else to do. The massive, metallic woman went still, her smooth form melting into the cavern floor. [Rheny of Clouded Earth defeated. 800 shared EXP gained.] [Baalar the Endless Onslaught exiled. 2, 250 EXP gained.] [NOTIFICATION: Level Up Available!] He blinked at the screen until a cough interrupted his stare. Wirbald was shaking his head. Using his floating orb, he used it to pull himself to his feet with a weary heave.

"Well done withstanding that mental assault," the mage said, cleaning his own blood off of his glasses.

"I was barely holding my spells with all the noise." A curious look crossed his face before a smile covered it. Their heads turned to the sound of cracking glass. An empty vial of antitoxin had slipped from Al's hands. The former knight had already injected himself, wincing to stand properly. Al hobbled over, clinking, as he patted Joel on the back.

"Aye. We're alive because of your strength." The Freewalker looked over his shoulder, over at half-elf siblings.

"Do you think you can carry Alis back? I'll take Siv. We need to get them out of here as quickly as we can." Joel nodded, sheathing his sword. Completely soaked, he wrung pool water from his tunic while shuffling over to Alis.

"I'll help with the lad," Wirbald said, motioning to Al's state.

"Doubtful that you'll be able to carry much in your condition, no less move." The wiry mage was right; the hike back to their things was horrendously slow. Every step was a painful reminder of the battle. At least the miasma was no longer hampering them. Alis was thankfully breathing, though her fever hadn't seemed to drop down. Relief swept over Joel when he saw their gear, hoping for a small breather.

However, he bit away at the relief once he saw Al immediately move out, one of Siv's arms over the Freewalker's shoulder. Doing his best to avoid jostling Alis, he followed after Wirbald's trailblazing orb, exhaustion gnawing at him. Had they traveled down so far underground? The landmarks of the terrain that Joel could remember felt too distant from one another. Though he'd hoped to dry off, by the time they reached the bottom of the mines, he was drenched in sweat.

He did his best to ignore every discomfort, but he'd never felt so much hope at seeing a mine cart and a pickaxe. Once they reached the entrance to the mines, he could taste the sweet outside air, no longer stale or stagnant. It felt like a lifetime stuck down there, the evening sky had become a wondrous sight. Starlight glimmered down to celebrate their return. A host of torchlights, held by armed soldiers and knights, stood waiting for them.

It was hardly a welcome, as the soldiers shared uneasy looks between each other. Among the knights, a banner with the sigil of a purple iris flapped in the wind. A familiar face broke out from amongst them and approached the group. Joel recognized the curly blonde beard instantly. It was the knight who had badgered Boreth — alongside him and Perri — during the gang's time on the road. Wannwald or something? Al gripped his greatsword's hilt, and Joel didn't blame him.

With the number of armed guards present and their fatigued condition, they'd be overwhelmed swiftly if soldiers wanted to. And it looked like some of them wanted to — half of them already had spears lowered or swords drawn. The familiar knight appeared calm, but was still resting his palm on his sword's pommel. He stopped a healthy distance from them, approximately the space one would need to dodge a drawn sword, if Joel's guess was any good.

"You've succeeded then?" the well-armored knight shouted, much louder than felt necessary.

"We have," Al said curtly.

"The miasma will no longer poison the prison's mine." He nodded past the knight.

"Is there a reason why so many greet us here?"

"We're here to take the prisoner Wirbald Rothwin in." Even Wirbald, Siv's other arm around his shoulder, looked taken aback.

"You don't fly Valgruv banners," Al said.

"Who are you?" The knight stood taller.

"Syr Lannwald Vhostus. Sworn sword to Count Durandt." Brief recognition flashed over Al's face.

"Still doesn't explain why you would be taking this prisoner in. You folks are leagues too south."

"If you're looking for the baron's approval," replied Lannwald confidently, thumbing behind himself.

"You can speak to the baron's man." The diminutive form of the baron's steward appeared from the crowd of soldiers. Lester, if Joel wasn't mistaken. Walking up slowly, the elderly man cleared his throat.

"Good Syr Lannwald speaks true," the steward said, hands clasped together deferentially.

"These men are to assist in returning the prisoner to his cell. By Lord Valgruv's own orders." The wrinkled old man bowed towards Al.

"Furthermore, his lordship offers his hearth and roof to you and your companions, along with his best physicians." Lannwald's annoyingly proud face gleamed. Something felt wrong. Something was wrong. Joel simply didn't know what. However, as if confirming his instinct, he noticed Al hadn't taken his hand off of his sword either. His knees dropped, preparing to put down Alis, while his eyes already scanned [Ability Score Upgrades]. How quickly almost dying together bonded people. The pause hung in the air.

Before anyone else could move, the ex-guildmaster shrugged the rest of Siv's weight onto Al, nearly jostling the former knight over.

"All this trouble for me?" Wirbald brought his orb into hand, dimming its light completely.

"Very well. Allow me my goodbyes and I'll come along peaceably." No one objected. Joel wondered whether anyone truly could protest — if they'd brought anywhere near enough men to stop him, if the prison walls were more than cardboard to his arcane power. The thought made him reconsider their odds. Wirbald shook Al's hand firmly, gave a pat to Siv's back, then walked over to Joel. The gaunt mage placed a hand on Alis' shoulder before clasping Joel's outstretched hand in a long handshake.

"I've nothing to offer, only my deepest thanks," he said with a smile. Something was pressed into Joel's palm — a crumpled piece of folded paper — still warm from Wirbald's hand.

"I'm ready to be taken away," Wirbald said, turning to Lannwald and dramatically holding his arms out. Heavy manacles, which appeared to completely encase one's hand in steel, were clasped upon the mage. The soldiers grouped around him, weapons ready, as they marched. As they took Wirbald away, Joel snuck a look in his hand — it was the mage's vellum page.