Chương 30: The Knight

Ethan moved through the hall, listening carefully. His entire body ached. For the last half hour he had been trying to navigate this shithole of a maze, forced to fight anyone who spotted him. He still didn't understand what was going on. This wasn't some small hideout. He could tell it was a large structured organisation, though they had nothing to identify themselves with. Searching his memories, he couldn't recall anything like this on the first level. Nothing of this scale.

Sure there had always been shadowy organisations that sought to profit off other people's downfall, but these people seemed to have kept an entire settlement hidden, which was rather unsettling. It meant one of two things, either someone else had stopped them before he became powerful enough to matter. Or they had gone unchecked, hidden in the shadows, at minimum for this level. He rounded another bend and his thoughts came to an abrupt halt. The hallway opened into a wider section of the gorge.

Cells lined the edge of a sheer cliff face. Iron bars bolted into stone. Wind tore through the opening, howling as it rushed upward from the depths below and slammed into him. But none of that mattered. Instead, his eyes locked onto the people inside the cells. They looked up at him. He could see the fear written across their faces. He supposed he didn't cut a very heroic figure. So far he had fought four guards.

Not all at once, but still, without proper armor, without preparation, he had been forced to trade blows. Blood ran down his chest from a shallow cut. His ribs throbbed with every breath. His hair probably smelled like smoke. And in his hand, he clutched a sword stained dark with fresh blood. He approached slowly and deliberately sheathed the blade.

"It's alright," he said, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

"I'm here to help." If they were excited about the prospect, they didn't show it. Instead, they watched, crouched away in their cells. After a quick sweep of the area, he counted roughly ten prisoners. All of them looked malnourished and filthy. Cheeks hollow. Lips cracked. Eyes sunken. Some bore obvious bruises. Others had stitches from what looked like precise cuts. Ethan moved to the closest cell door. The woman inside recoiled, pressing herself against the back wall. She didn't have the strength to move far.

Her hands trembled as she scrambled backwards. He examined the door. It had thick metal bars. He grabbed them and shook once. It was worth checking, even if he knew it would be locked. The woman muttered something under her breath, refusing to meet his eyes. Ethan glanced around, searching for a solution. That was when he noticed one of the cells further down the row stood slightly open. The door hung ajar. And there was a smell when he focused his senses. Iron, thick and metallic. He moved cautiously toward it.

The wind pushed against him as he stepped inside the open cell. His eyes adjusted to the dimmer corner. A dead guard lay sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Ethan paused for a moment. This was fresh. He crouched with a wince, his rib protesting. The guard had been stabbed. He looked her over. She had actually been stabbed a lot. He searched the body quickly—trying to keep the blood from his hands—and found a set of keys tucked into a pocket at the hip. He pulled them free and stood.

Whatever had happened here was recent. It also solved his issue of freeing the other prisoners. As he stepped back into the hall, he noticed everyone was watching him. Their expressions had changed; now they looked at him with curiosity and a mix of hope. Seeing him search the guard must have made something click.

"Please…" a voice rasped. Ethan turned. The voice came from an older man—mid-fifties, maybe older. It was hard to tell. His beard was patchy and grey, skin a pale white. Ethan stepped up to the cell and slid a key into the lock and twisted, feeling a satisfying click. He pulled the door open. The man stood slowly, his body bruised. He kept his distance, eyes flicking between Ethan's face and the sword at his hip.

"It's alright," Ethan repeated, moving out of the doorway.

"You're free." The man swallowed.

"Thank you." His voice sounded dry and came out in a rasp. He stepped out carefully, as though expecting something to go wrong. Ethan moved to the next cell, which had two women inside. One helped the other stand while he unlocked it. Again they whispered their thanks and he moved on. One by one, he opened them all. Each door gave way with the same metallic click. Ten prisoners eventually stood outside their cages, clustered together instinctively. Ethan finally got a clearer look at them.

All of them had obviously been starved. They were skinny, making it obvious they had been in here for at minimum a week. Their clothes were bloodstained and some, like the older man, bore freshly stitched cuts. It made Ethan feel sick. These people had obviously been through a lot, evident enough by how placid and defeated they seemed. It solidified something for him. His resolve hardened. Humanity didn't need people who would purposely capture and torture others.

And if he had to be the one to bring a stop to it, then he would. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! He shrugged his pack off his shoulder and crouched, ignoring the flinches as he moved and pushing his dark thoughts aside. He rummaged through it and pulled out two canteens. The—now free—prisoners watched him like hawks, eyeing the bottles.

"Small sips," he instructed.

"If you drink too fast, you'll get sick." Ethan handed the canteens to the two closest people. Each person took a careful mouthful before handing it to the next. He watched as hope began to shine through. When they finished, he took both bottles back and sealed them, sliding them into his pack. He slung it over his shoulder again and straightened slowly. Ten pairs of eyes stared at him. They were weak, barely able to stand. There was no way they could fight. No way they could navigate this maze alone.

"Have you seen anyone else?" he asked.

"A woman. About this tall." He lifted a hand to just below his brows.

"Black hair. Brown eyes." For a moment, no one answered, like they were scared to speak. Then the first man he had released—the older one with hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes—gave a slow nod. He raised a hand and pointed toward the open cell with the dead guard.

"She was in there," he rasped.

"Escaped about thirty minutes ago." Ethan felt his breath hitch and let out a quiet curse under his breath. His sister was here. Bella hadn't been lying. And now, he had missed her. He looked down the corridor the man had indicated, then back at the prisoners. His thoughts burned hot and fast. If Leah had escaped, she was probably in trouble right now. Fighting. Running. Maybe already wounded. But these people standing in front of him were barely upright. If he left them, he doubted they would make it out.

He decided to be direct.

"Can you fight?" The older man stared at him for a long moment before spitting on the stone floor.

"What do you think?" he said, voice low and venomous.

"They kept me caged like some kind of animal. Cut me open. Experimented. Beaten. Questioned. Of course I can fight. I'm going to fight until they're all dead." Ethan paused. He really thought the man was going in the other direction with that one. He hadn't expected the intensity of that response, but it made sense. Revenge was a powerful motivator. If he had been carved open and kept alive for someone else's amusement, he doubted he would walk away either. He scanned the others. Several nodded in agreement.

"Alright," Ethan said.

"Are there any mages among you?" A bitter laugh came from the back of the group.

"They take the mages," someone answered.

"They don't come back." That confirmed something Ethan had already suspected by looking at them.

"So you're all physical classes?" he questioned.

"I'm a warrior." A young man spoke up. Others agreed with him, calling out their classes. Ethan did a mental tally. Six warriors, a scout, a brawler and two archers. They were all people who couldn't cast anything. It made sense. Mages and their like were hard to keep chained and in prison. At least for the first level anyway. Ethan turned to the one who had identified as the scout.

"Are you able to move?" The younger man gave a small, stiff nod.

"There are weapons on the bodies in the corridors behind me," Ethan said.

"Grab what you can and bring them back. You'll need to move as fast as possible." The scout nodded and hobbled off. If he was sore, he didn't complain about it. While they waited, Ethan continued questioning them. The entire group were under level twenty. And to make matters worse, they needed to advance to the next trial level. The system had given them their three-week notices. They had no choice but to push forward and try to reach the next level. Ethan felt dread pool in his stomach.

He knew exactly what happened to those who ignored the notice. It started with vomiting. Violent and relentless. Then the bleeding from eyes and ears. The screaming came next, incoherent and constant as muscles spasmed and organs began shutting down one by one. Vision would fade. Hearing would disappear. Weeks of agony followed before the body finally shut down, only to rise again as undead. They had studied the phenomenon endlessly in his previous timeline.

Theories ranged from divine intervention to system safeguards, but no one had ever found the truth. The only thing they were certain of was that if you didn't advance before the timer ran out, you'd be in for a world of pain. He had seen many ways to die. That one ranked in the top five at least. The scout returned carrying the scavenged weapons. He only had four swords, but that was nearly enough to weaponize half the group. As for the others, they would have to make do. Ethan helped distribute them.

They went to the four warriors who looked the most healthy.

"I don't know where the exit is," Ethan said plainly.

"This place is a maze. But I know where we are—deep in a gorge base with multiple corridors and guard rotations. They attack on sight." He gestured toward the direction the older man had indicated.

"My priority is the woman who escaped. She ran that way. You can come with me, or you can try to find an exit on your own." He didn't soften it.

"You're weak right now. Moving as a group gives you better odds. But I'm not turning away from that corridor." The older man met his gaze steadily.

"We're not running," he said.

"Most of us have a week left on this level. We know our odds." The others nodded in agreement. Ethan adjusted his grip on the older guard's sword he had taken earlier. It was the exact same as his old blade, the basic sword the system would hand out at the start.

"Stay close," he instructed.

"If we meet resistance, let me do the fighting. Just back me up when you can." He turned and began moving down the corridor the man had pointed toward, lengthening his stride despite the throbbing in his side. He was already thirty minutes behind, and he had no intention of being any later. They moved through the tunnels in a tight formation, Ethan at the front with the rescued fighters following close behind him. It was oddly quiet for a place that had been alive with guards earlier.

But it didn't take long for that to change. Ethan heard a faint sound from behind a heavy wooden door he had just passed. He came to a stop, the others pausing with him. He stepped toward the door and pressed himself close to the frame, listening carefully. The sound came again, like scraping across the floor. He glanced back at the group, conveying with his eyes that he was going to open the door. After turning back, he did just that and the door pushed open.

It swung inward to reveal a wide chamber carved into the gorge wall. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, his entire body went still. The room was full. At least forty figures stood scattered throughout the chamber. Broken Dawns insignia hung from shredded armor. Cream-colored Valkyrie robes, torn and stained dark, clung to others. There were symbols from smaller guilds stitched into sleeves and breastplates. Warriors. Archers. Scouts. Even what looked like the remnants of mage robes.

Their eyes were clouded. Skin pale, devoid of life. None of them reacted to the door opening. Behind him, one of the rescued prisoners inhaled sharply.

"What the hell is this?" the older man muttered. One of the girls—an archer—fell to her knees.

"D—Derek," she muttered, looking intently at one of the reanimations.