Predicament

The ninth floor. The southeastern side of the Blood Nest Cloister.

A human dressed in standard swordsman attire crushed the twitching remains of a halved goblin underfoot, splashing slime halfway up his boot.

He shook the blood off his sword and looked around. The stone walls on both sides of the passage were covered in a dense network of claw marks. Over a dozen goblin corpses lay strewn across the floor, and the air was thick with a metallic stench of blood and rust.

They had fought their way here from the main passage, cutting down no fewer than thirty of them, but the ones surrounding them only seemed to increase in number.

“Captain,” the mage said, leaning against the heavy shield held up by the dwarf, his voice hoarse. “I have less than thirty percent of my mana left. I can cast Wind Blade three more times at most.”

“Three rounds is enough,” the swordsman said.

“Enough, my ass!”

The dwarf peeked out from behind the edge of his shield, his bushy beard covered in goblin blood, though it was impossible to tell which one it had splattered from. “Take a look ahead.”

At the end of the passage, another wave of goblins was surging forward.

They were no longer a chaotic rabble. Instead, they had formed into two columns. The front row held iron shields stripped from the corpses of adventurers, while the back row carried sharpened wooden spears, marching with a discipline completely uncharacteristic of goblins.

On their flanks, several hobgoblins—noticeably larger in size—held the line, wielding rusted flails.

“They're organized,” the mage whispered, his voice incredibly low. “Someone is commanding them from behind the scenes.”

Just as he spoke, the goblins in the back row raised their spears in unison. The swordsman's pupils shrank. He grabbed the mage by his collar and yanked him back, and all three of them ducked behind the dwarf's heavy shield.

A rain of spears fell, clattering deafeningly against the iron shield. A few slipped past the edges, embedding themselves in the cracks of the stone floor less than two inches from the dwarf's feet, their shafts still vibrating with a low hum.

“Roar!”

The hobgoblin opposite them bellowed a hoarse command.

The front row of goblins charged with their shields raised, slamming into them like a wall of green flesh. The dwarf gritted his teeth and held the line, his boots scraping two white streaks against the stone floor.

The swordsman darted out from his side, his longsword slicing diagonally through a gap in the leading goblin's shield. The blade wedged into the creature's collarbone. Before he could pull it out, another goblin lunged from the side, thrusting a rusted dagger straight at his abdomen.

A compressed blade of wind grazed his ear, slicing the ambushing goblin's arm and dagger clean in half.

The goblin rolled on the ground, clutching its severed wrist, but its scream was trampled into silence by its own comrades before it could escape its throat.

The mage lowered his staff, panting heavily. The dark red magic stone embedded in his fingertips had already cracked with a hairline fracture.

“Left flank!” the dwarf roared.

Two hobgoblins bypassed the front shield wall, flanking them from the left. One after the other, their flails dragged along the ground with a harsh scraping sound, sending bright sparks flying through the dim passage.

The swordsman stepped forward to meet them. He swung his sword at the chain of the first hobgoblin's flail, sending sparks flying. The chain didn't break, and the impact numbed his hand. Capitalizing on his opening before he could recover his sword, the second hobgoblin swung its flail in a wide arc toward his knees.

The dwarf threw aside his shield and charged, taking the blow directly with his shoulder guard.

With a dull thud, the dwarf stumbled back three steps before stabilizing himself. Two rivets on his shoulder guard snapped off, and the chainmail underneath was severely dented.

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and grinned. “Is that all you've got? It feels like a tickle!”

But his shield hand was trembling.

Ahead, a third wave of spears rained down. This time, the angle was higher, aiming to plunge straight over the top edge of the shield.

The mage desperately conjured a wind barrier, but it shattered in less than two seconds under the barrage. A spear grazed his shoulder and embedded itself three inches deep into the stone wall behind him, showering his face with stone debris.

“Prepare for the second wave!” the swordsman roared as he cut down two more goblins, his arms already aching. He glanced back at the mage, whose face was pale, the wind element at the tip of his staff faded to near invisibility.

The dwarf's shield was bristling with spears and broken daggers, making him look like an iron turtle turned hedgehog.

At least thirty goblins were still lining up to press forward. Three more hobgoblins had joined the flanks. On the ceiling of the passage, several smaller but faster goblins had climbed along the stone walls directly above them, clutching serrated daggers made of beast bone, ready to drop at any moment.

The swordsman tightened his grip on his hilt and took half a step back, regrouping with the dwarf and the mage.

Their backs pressed against one another, their heavy breathing clearly audible to each of them.

“When was Misha supposed to meet us?” the swordsman asked in a low voice.

“She should have been here five minutes ago,” the mage whispered. “She hasn't arrived.”

The dwarf fell silent for two seconds, then suddenly chuckled. “Then she'll be here soon. That girl has never been late.”

What he didn't say was that when someone who is never late actually runs late, there are only two possibilities: either she died on the way, or she is on her way to die with them. Neither was a laughing matter.

If possible, he hoped she wouldn't come to throw her life away.

“Damn it, we've been set up.”

The dwarf spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm onto the ground and looked down at the faint blue mark flickering on the back of his hand.

“That bastard must have known about this and didn't tell us. He clearly wanted us dead!”

The swordsman remained silent. He took a deep breath and raised his longsword horizontally before him. Ahead, the fourth wave of spears was already raised.

Suddenly, a light flared behind them in the passage.

A burst of pure golden light erupted from deep within the passage, stabbing into the gloomy space like a red-hot blade.

The goblins in the front row were blinded by the golden light. Screaming, they covered their faces and stumbled backward, knocking over their comrades behind them.

The fourth wave of spears collapsed just as they were thrown. The spears flew wildly into the air, and a few even reversed direction, plunging into the goblins' own ranks.

All three of them turned around.

At the corner of the passage, Misha was slowly shuffling forward, leaning on her staff with one hand while dragging Gerak's unconscious body with the other.

Her white robe was in tatters, the sleeves torn from shoulder to elbow, and her arms were covered in dried blood and claw marks.

The crystal at the tip of her staff was dimming at a visible rate, but the residual glow of the Holy Light Burst still crackled as faint golden arcs of electricity around her fingertips.

Her lips were completely pale, and her eyes were red and swollen. She had to stop and catch her breath with every step she took. Gerak's head rested limply against her shoulder, still unconscious but breathing steadily.

The swordsman opened his mouth and shouted, “Misha! Hang in there, we're coming—”

Misha raised her head and looked at him.

“Captain,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I'm sorry I'm late.”