Transgressions (I)

  The sound of a dull pop rippled from somewhere behind the survivors. It sounded like a large glass object had been smashed to pieces but a closer inspection—and the bright blue glow brimming at their backs—revealed the source of that sound to be a small portal much like the one they had used to enter the dungeon.

  It wasn’t as large as its counterpart but that mattered little since it could still get the job done. That was instantly proven by Yelena Riot, who was already carrying Angelica’s body in her arms as she made her way towards their only means of escape.

  That was the greatest thing about Virstones. They were no bigger than a pearl but once mana was channeled into them, all one needed to do was stand back and await the spawn of an artificial gate that they could use to escape from any floor inside an area-type gate. Although said gate could only sustain itself for a few seconds it was still a literal lifesaver. If it wasn’t for the associated risks that came with using one and their rarity, dungeon diving might have been a lot less hazardous.

  The A-rank gave Cyril a cold glance over her shoulder, unbothered by the fact that her actions only served to hasten their doom. The girl in her arms had lost consciousness some time ago, which ironically ended up casting Yelena's actions in a light that was both selfish and selfless.

  Had she herself even considered such a thing?

  Regardless of the outcome, she was going to carry out her duty without fail. Step by step and inch by inch, the Regis clan members moved closer toward freedom, disappearing into the bright portal of hope and removing themselves from the chaos entirely.

  “Y-Yelena!!” Ralph howled, his roar transmitting the malevolent thoughts of everyone being left behind.

  All at once, a stampede erupted amongst the stragglers. They broke into a mad dash with a singular objective in mind. The goal was simple: get to the gate before it vanished completely. However, that was easier said than done, now that they were all supposedly being weakened by something, the absolute divisions between ranks were becoming more obscure by the second.

  Still, they had to try.

  Ralph’s heavy equipment was doing him no favors at the moment, and the magicians left behind were no expert in mobility either. As a result, only two people had a clear advantage over the others in terms of reaching the gate in time. Cyril —being the only striker that had suffered no serious effects from whatever was weakening the others—naturally raced ahead. His body cut through the air like a rocket, desperate to cover the ten-meter gap between him and the glowing goal.

  He had a chance, but halfway to his target, however, something unexpected happened.

  “Sorry Severin, I can’t afford to die here.”

  The words barely registered within his earshot before something whizzed past him in a blur. He hardly had time to make out the elusive figure before it disappeared into the shimmering swirl, leaving only a gust of wind and a faint ripple in its wake.

  His breath hitched as the realization of what had just happened struck him.

  “...Percy?”

  Cyril’s lips struggled to form that name, even his own ears refused to believe it.

  Shit, he’s been hiding his true strength. He was stronger than me all along... Cyril’s fists burled reflexively, only now had he realized that Percy’s relative obscurity during the entire battle had some kind of meaning to it. Upon the young deviant’s exit, the Virstone gate abruptly collapsed in on itself entirely, dimming the both the room and their last prospect of hope.

  “Damn it!!!”

  A heavy metal object dented the floor, muting the roar of its owner.

  The space around them subtly jerked from the blow and yet its impact had gone mostly unnoticed. Aside from their frenzied captain—who was getting more desperate by the minute—nobody else had the strength to spare for such a desperate tactic.

  The reason was simple: Their foes were on the move.

  Calling the odds dire at this point was an understatement. At best, you could round the numbers up to around eight against a few hundred. The hardened killers that were dead set on maintaining their stationary stance unless absolutely necessary were now being prompted to take action on the orders of the ‘Operator.’ The stone soldiers initiated their march, cold and relentless. The sound of hundreds of feet, weapons and armor colliding ruthlessly with the stone floor echoed a cruel symphony of death all around them.

  Thud after thud, and thump after thump, the brigade of doom slowly crept closer. The oval prison formed by countless hardened warriors was shrinking bit by bit. It wouldn’t be long before the cornered deviants were completely out of room.

  The situation seemed untenable, a literal countdown to death.

  As much as he wanted to retain his composure, Cyril was afraid. No matter what kind of prior experience he might have had, in such a situation, feeling fear was a given.

  The boys head swiveled about the rumbling room as if he were searching, praying and hoping all at the same time. His weapon had long been drawn, but the tip of his longsword trembled, swaying more erratically than a fishing pole caught in a turbulent current. He knew he couldn’t even last a full minute against an onslaught like this. There was virtually no point to resisting but at the same time, not resisting wouldn’t get him very far either.

  Damn it...things can’t end like this. There must be something, somehow, some way to get out of here. If I could just get to that operator.....

  His thoughts trailed off the moment that name drifted back to mind.

  Huh? Operator? It’s standing now, but it’s not doing anything. Then why is it here? his frantic thoughts had momentarily overshadowed the terrible sense of fear.

  That was up until something else reckoned his attention.

  “Bleegckkhhh!!”

  It was the sound of a spew—no a splatter would be a better term for it.

  “Marcel...It seems we have no choice...”

  Cyril unintentionally shifted his focus to the breathless magician. Both he and his retainer had beads of blood leaking from their lips, though the latter was holding up much better than his servant.

  Evan was on the verge of coughing up yet another dreaded batch of blood.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “That’s it! I refuse...to die in such a dreadful place. Not like this, not with you of all people!” Marcel growled, voicing his vengeful thoughts aloud. Those words sounded like they hadn’t been meant for anyone in particular, but that couldn’t be any further from the truth.

  “Why...why is a D-rank like you not suffering from this like the rest of us?” His fearsome cry echoed through the room, sending a shiver down every spine. Had the encroaching monsters not been made of stone, they might have paused in shock for a fleeting moment.

  “Is that really what you’re considering at a time like this?!” Cyril shot back begrudgingly. The words of his fellow deviant—who should have been acting as his comrade at the moment—sparked a new kind of reaction within him, one that was beginning to coagulate with his mounting fear and anxiety.

  It was rage.

  “Enough. I refuse to die with you and I’m not dying before you either. Evan! It’s time!”

  Despite his fickle condition, a surprising amount of vigor was imbued in that order.

  Marcel dipped a hand into his inner pocket and hastily plucked a small container from its depths. It resembled a small glass tube containing something even smaller within—capsules. Unscrewing the lid, his fingers trembled with urgency.

  “M-Marcel, what...is that?” Ralph inquired dubiously, given the condition he was in his usually audacious voice wasn’t carrying much weight at the moment.

  “Like I’d die with you fools here. Unlike you worms....I have a legacy to inherit...”

  Only seconds remained before they would face the inevitable cold fury of their executioners. Yet, at the height of this desperate moment, Marcel smiled. Ignoring the smears of blood on his face, the countless bruises and cuts on his body, and even his wounded pride, the young phoenix allowed himself a fleeting, defiant smile.

  Has he lost it? Cyril thought to himself. He found the gesture unnerving for some reason and unconsciously stepped back.

  “Evan...” Marcel rasped, his voice coarse. “Time to prove your worth old man. Do it for the clan.”

  Evan stared at the object in disbelief for a moment. After swallowing his stupefaction, the magician slowly shook his head.

  “Very well, as a member of the noble Phoenix clan, there is no greater honor.” Evan replied fervently, staggering to his feet. Marcel tossed the thin, capsule-filled container toward him, and he caught it with a trembling hand.

  No matter how much resolve he imbued into that declaration, it would never be enough to offset the cruel reality of what he was about to do. Bravery couldn’t hide that, and bravado couldn’t change it.

  Risking one's life was never that easy.

  “Evan your first priority is to clear a path for me to escape, then dispose of the ‘evidence’ with the time you have left.”

  “Understood. I will comply to the best of my ability.”

  That reply brought a smirk to Marcel’s face. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the ramifications of the order or the consequences it might have on those still standing. His stance remained unyielding, and he wouldn’t have changed it even if an alternative existed. After all, as the saying went, ‘necessity knows no laws’. Marcel Phoenix took a few deep breaths to steady himself. He calmed his condition and once ready, he focused entirely on a singular objective—the massive stone doors looming at the rear.

  “I’m going to regret letting you get off this easy Severin. It's a pity, but whatever gets the job done I suppose. Even though it's nearly impossible to collect evidence inside dungeons things could change if there are any survivors and I’m not willing to take that risk.” Marcel remarked wickedly, malice coating every word.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, we don’t have time for this!” Cyril response was meant to be fierce, but it could hardly be called that. Having to divide his attention between two evils put a burden on his resolve.

  “Evan, do it.” Marcel gave the order casually, dismissing his reply.

  Cyril’s joints were primed to move, only for his entire body to freeze after a single step. He knew he had to do something to overturn the coming predicament and yet every solution he assembled in his mind crumbled from the slightest bit of thought.

  He didn’t know who or what to attack when it counted most and that gave Evan all the time he could possibly need. Steeling himself, the magician downed the contents of the small glass tube with one massive gulp. The only thing Cyril was able to make of the situation was that those capsules were dangerous, which was soon proven to be true.

  “Gckaaaaghhhhhhhhh!!!!”

  Immediately after ingesting the strange red capsules, Evan’s body began convulsing rapidly—in a way that no human form ever should. At first, he responded to the crunching sounds by clawing at his chest but when that failed, he fell to the floor and roiled from the agony. Then all of a sudden, the convulsions stopped and so did his screams. Instead, the sensation of pain was replaced by something euphoric, and the man rose to his feet, snickering like a fool.

  “Ku-ku-ku...ka-ka-ka...hahaha! A quest, was it? Now I understand, the boy was right after all!” Unlike before when he was struggling to keep himself upright, the magician took on an entirely new appearance.

  His body overflowed with the raw, undiluted essence of ‘power.’

  Quite literally, Evan’s entire being radiated a fierce, pulsating aura. The intensity was so overwhelming that the upper portion of his expensive robe was reduced to cinders, consumed by the scorching brilliance of his energy. The energy swirled and cackled around his body, snapping as if to force the very room itself into submission.

  “What...is that power? I thought magicians couldn’t use any magic in this place...” Cyril murmured aloud, his jaws gaping with shock.

  The minute Evan swallowed those capsules, the punishment for his own inaction earlier rushed back to haunt him. He felt as though a series of loud alarms started going off in his mind once the magician’s fit had settled. The desire to run away—to escape had peaked long ago, but every time Cyril stole a glance behind him, a cold dose of reality was always there to suppress those thoughts. They were still trapped by hundreds of stone monsters, none of which showed any interest in their well-being.

  “What now?!” Ralph cursed aloud, expending a bit of what little strength he had left.

  The once mighty B rank, although stoic aface clearly felt threatened by Evan’s sudden transformation. The rare sight of panic surfacing through his expression was unsettling—mostly for people like Cyril—but the magician brimming with power found nothing but delight in his despair. His lips parted and a snide grin took the place of his usual scowl.

  “...Marcel, ready yourself, I’m about to begin.” Evan said simply, refusing to dim his smile.

  “Go! Do it now! I need to get out of here!”

  Quick to obey, Evan did just that.

  His open, extended palm was directed at the rear and aligned perfectly with the figure of the struggling raid captain. Ralph was already slumped to one knee and if it wasn’t for the shield positioned at his side then even that might have been too much for him. The second he saw the small ember spheres gathering around Evan’s palm, he reached for his weapon, his only means of defense and his lifeline—a mithril shield. In his current condition, it was the only thing that could possibly save him since there was clearly no way out of this.

  He knew that best.

  “Oi Adler, w-wait, what are you doi-”

  The particles of light swirling about Evan’s palm suddenly combined to form a bright orange circle overlapping his hand. Before the suffering tank could even finish his statement Evan interrupted his plea with a mythical sounding word.

  “Incendius.”

  Reacting instinctively, Cyril desperately stumbled back the moment the word left Evan’s lips. His captain, however, was no longer capable of such brisk movements. The only thing he could do was equip his shield and brace himself for the delayed impact. Evan’s magic circle shimmered briefly before contracting to the size of a fist, then exploded into a violent surge of flames. The blast roared like a thunderbolt, ripping through man and monster alike with a combination of both concussive and combustive forces.

  The sound alone was enough to temporarily disrupt Cyril’s hearing—leaving it lagging and muffled after the blast—and the searing heat from the attack washed over him, making his skin prickle painfully as he instinctively shielded his face.

  All that force being unleashed at once scrambled his senses and knocked him to the floor in a daze. He felt something warm gliding down his cheeks, and he could see his vision slowly being dyed red. Even his senses were scrambled from the loud impact, but despite the incessant ringing in his ears, he could still make out one very distinct sound amidst the cacophony of rumbles and crashes.

  They were screams.