As Philip clutched Light of the Fearless in his hand, sweaty palms hot against the grip, he realized he was probably having what most might call a panic attack.

  It was unthinkable. Him, of all people? A veteran soldier? Panicking?

  It was worse than unthinkable. It was unforgivable. Philip drew a deep breath in an attempt to stabilize himself.

  The idea had sounded fine—participate more, so that he might earn at least a Boon from the great god of Dominion. That is, it sounded fine all the way until they entered the great Troll’s lair and witnessed the thing napping.

  Even on its belly, the thing was taller than Philip. How large must it be at full height? A better question—how in Dominion’s name did Greg and Aerion best this monster without a single Boon or Blessing? Philip had seen how Greg had fought back then—he’d trained him himself, after all.

  To say Greg was inexperienced would be the understatement of the century. The man was pathetic.

  Philip shook his head. No, Greg might have been wet behind the ears, but his capacity for the unconventional knew no bounds.

  With legs that felt like tree trunks, Philip plodded to the sleeping giant.

  The plan was simple, as most good plans tended to be. Philip would deal the first blow. A simple task, considering how the Obsidian Troll was asleep. Assuming, of course, that Philip didn’t somehow wake it. A rather generous assumption, if he was honest.

  After that, Philip would flee, yielding the weapon to Rogar, while Greg and Aerion took turns distracting the beast.

  They’d discussed safer—and saner—strategies, such as having Greg and Aerion chop the beast’s legs off—that they could so casually talk of such feats still astounded Philip, even after their displays of astounding power on the previous floors—but had ultimately decided against the plan. They simply couldn’t be sure how much involvement Philip and Rogar required to be granted a Boon.

  Greg felt that too much aid on their part, and they risked losing their chance at a Boon. Philip had to agree. From all he’d heard, efforts to outright cheat earned no rewards.

  Nor did Philip wish to. While he couldn’t say the same for Rogar, Philip lusted after the Boon to aid the world. Should he be granted some powerful offensive magic, what use would it be if all Philip knew was to cower and hide?

  He was a warrior, dammit. A warrior thoroughly outclassed by his foes, but what Warrior wasn’t, every now and then? If anything, this experience only proved how soft he’d become. The City Guard loved poking fun at Hunters, calling them Hunters in Name Only, or Hunters of Fame, but Philip had always known the truth. Even in peacetime, those who survived the Trials had been cut from a different cloth.

  One that Philip was now experiencing for himself.

  Philip drew closer to the snoring, jet-black beast, confident the creature would hear his footsteps. He’d even taken off his boots to ensure he made as little sound as possible, though Greg laughed at him for worrying.

  “You could play a whole damn concert and that thing wouldn’t budge an inch. We’re so small, we might as well be mosquitoes to something that big.”

  Even so, Philip insisted upon taking every precaution. Greg’s abilities gave him confidence, which was certainly a good thing. Confidence and overconfidence, however, were but a single step apart in the waltz of war—something Philip knew all too well. Broken legs would be the least of Philip’s concerns, should the Troll awaken and smash him.

  With bated breath, Philip finally closed within striking range. He looked down at Greg’s sword, its gleaming metal looking deadly even without its twin abilities manifested.

  Philip had seen this weapon slice through obsidian like butter. No doubt Greg’s strength aided, yet even without it, Philip felt powerful. He could only guess at the value of such a treasure.

  And yet, no matter how powerful the blade, it mattered naught if he couldn’t land the blow.

  Holding the sword above his head with both hands in an overhand grip, Philip took a deep breath, willed the blade’s twin abilities to activate… And swung.

  As Greg had predicted, the Troll didn’t wake up. It didn’t matter. The thing turned in its sleep, just so happening to move its leg at that very moment. The leg that Philip had been about to lop off... or at least damage. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to cut through Obsidian armor, regardless of the quality of blade.

  The question was moot, because the Troll’s leg slammed Philip on the chest, caving in his breastplate and sending him tumbling.

  Philip was no amateur. Long-honed instinct took over, even when his mind froze. He threw himself into a roll the instant he hit the ground, despite gasping for air. His instinct saved him from further injury, though it did nothing against his temporary asphyxiation. No matter how many times he endured the experience, it never became truly comfortable.

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  “You alright?” Greg asked, rushing to Philip’s side in a blur.

  “Fine,” Philip wheezed, even as his chest convulsed, gasping for air. “Be alright soon.”

  “If you want me to cripple it…”

  “No,” Philip whispered. “I’m well. I will handle this.”

  Greg shrugged. “Alright, buddy. But I’m stepping in if you take another hit like that. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Just some broken ribs,” Philip said, wincing through the pain as he unstoppered his waterskin and downed a large gulp of miracle water. “Not my first time, I assure you. Besides, I have this water to fix me right up.”

  Greg winced. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

  Philip frowned quizzically, but he shook it off. He must have misheard. Hallucinations were commonplace with injuries such as this. He might very well have hit his head without realizing.

  Shaking it off, Philip picked up Light of the Fearless—which he’d somehow managed to hold on to—and once again stalked off toward the giant, already feeling the pain subside.

  This time, he did wear his boots. Greg was right. He doubted even yelling into the thing’s ear would wake it up.

  Philip knew what would, though.

  Raising the blade, he once again activated its two abilities, and swung. This time, there was nothing to stop him.

  Despite knowing its power, Philip couldn’t help but be surprised when the blade pierced into the massive troll’s leg, just above the ankle where it was thinnest.

  The blade didn’t quite cleave through—Greg and Aerion’s strength were indeed what allowed them to make such feats effortless—but it was enough.

  The troll roared awake, but Philip was already long gone, his legs pumping across the monster’s cavern lair.

  The moment the silver and brown haired figures blurred past, Philip knew he was safe. No monster on this floor could get past one of them, let alone both.

  Philip came to a stop by Rogar, turned around, and fell to his knees.

  Just as the troll did the same. His strike might not have penetrated all the way through the creature’s ankle, but Obsidian was a brittle glass. A bit of pressure in the wrong area, and the whole thing shattered.

  The troll, not being the most intelligent being in the land, rushed toward Aerion and Greg, and in so doing, shattered its right foot, where Philip attacked. Losing its balance, it crashed heavily to the ground, sending further bits of its black armor flying.

  “Great work!” Greg cried out from a distance. “You took out almost a quarter of its health!”

  Philip frowned. Was ‘health’ supposed to represent its life force? And if so, how in the world did Greg have access to that information? Was it simply his intuition, honed after having previously fought this monster? Or was it something else? Was it yet another ability Philip didn’t know about?

  The warrior shook off the thought. Thinking of Greg’s abilities served but one purpose: to give the thinker a headache. Instead, Philip turned and passed Light of the Fearless off to his employer.

  “Your turn.”

  Rogar felt the icy touch of fear as he took the weapon he’d forged with his own hands. In the forge, he was the master. The god of all that transpired… Well, until that Grug—Greg, such an awkward name—took over. What black arts that man wrought upon the metal, Rogar could not know. Nor did he wish to. All he wished was to leave this blasted dungeon alive. Not an hour went by when he didn’t curse himself, not a moment when he regretted his decision to enter this infernal place.

  He never asked for this! This was liable to get him killed. As skilled as Greg and Aerion were, would they be fast enough to save him?

  The answer, as he soon found out, was yes. Absolutely yes.

  Rogar moved into position. Now that the Obsidian Troll was rampaging around the vast cavern, Rogar had to pick his position carefully, moving whenever he thought the Troll would switch directions—a task that was harder than it sounded, owing to how quickly the beast pivoted, even with only one intact leg.

  The blacksmith would have thought that lacking a foot would prevent the creature from walking, let alone running, and while it did hobble the troll somewhat, it adapted incredibly fast. Shockingly so. Would Rogar be able to run like that? What of the pain? Did that thing even feel pain?

  “Rogar! Now!” Greg shouted, bringing him out of his reverie. His legs were moving even before Greg had finished speaking. In this, at least, Rogar had his confidence. Nobody would accuse him of being a coward. Nobody.

  He ran to the troll even as it turned to face him, confident that Greg or Aerion would attract the beast’s attention. Gripping the longsword with both hands, he concentrated on activating its twin abilities. The marvels of black and white erupted before his eyes, and for a fraction of a moment, Rogar’s attention was taken by their sheer beauty. They were brighter than before. Stronger. Seeing it up close was mesmerizing.

  The distraction lasted only an instant, however. Then Rogar’s mind focused on bringing the deadly blade down upon the troll in front of him.

  As promised, Aerion had attacked the creature, lopping off an arm. It whirled to attack them, however, Rogar miscalculated. He’d come in too close. In mere moments, a wall of Obsidian would slam into him. Yelling in desperation, he swung Light of the Fearless. The blade cleaved through the troll’s thigh… But did nothing to stop its momentum.

  This is it, then, Rogar thought. With the troll alert and mobile, the force of the impact couldn’t be compared to the strike Philip had endured. Rogar would die. Just like that. His first real encounter of any kind, and it wasn’t his bravery or his technique that killed him, but luck. Pure rotten luck.

  Curse—!?

  Rogar’s world blurred, and before he knew it, he was under Greg’s arm, being carried like a barrel.

  Impossible. Greg was on the other side of the troll! How did he save him? How could he have moved so fast?

  Greg looked down at Rogar, grinning. “So? How’d it feel to cripple a troll? Pretty great huh?”

  Rogar looked up at the madman with wide eyes. Yes, this man was mad. And in the distance, so was Aerion. So was Richard.

  Rogar realized at that moment that he had just signed on to delve an Emergence Class dungeon with a group of lunatics.