If a man lost his way between their jagged brown-beige walls, he would starve to death well before he found an exit.
Or sweat to death, if that was possible. Grant pulled his collar up to wipe the thick sheet of moisture gathering on his forehead. No matter where he went, the merciless heat blistered his skin, as though he were spending a hot summer day wrapped in a blanket. His clothes were soaked through, and he left a dripping path behind himself with every step. He wondered if the oven-like warmth had anything to do with the overwhelming sulfuric smell, which burned his nostrils going in and throat going down. He was miserable in his tunic, even after rolling up his sleeves, but the cultists wore thick, black robes that draped to their wrists and ankles. Perhaps they were used to it.
The stinking, the smoldering, and the powerlessness made him feel like a helpless fool, and he had lost the Cursed prisoners one by one. The cultists kept splitting them up, a few at a time, dragging them down different forks in the paths. He walked alone, now, after a wrong turn led him to a dead end.
“Dsk p’thur!” barked a harsh voice from ahead.
“Shan vrain!” hissed another.
Grant turned Invisible as he rounded the corner.
[Time remaining: 49 seconds.]
Three cultists marched toward him, cudgels swinging from belts. The tunnel was wider than average and twice as high, but the three men walked side by side with too little space between them to slip past.
It had to be over, then.
He sprinted forward, boots slapping on the coarse stone. When he could see the white in their eyes, he leaped sideways and lodged his boot toe into a crevice on the brown stone wall, pushing off and flying over their heads.
When he landed, he kept moving to the end of the corridor. After confirming no surprises lurked behind the next corner, he canceled Perfect Invisibility.
[Time remaining: 38 seconds.]
He rested his hands on his knees, hunched over, rasping hot breaths. His heart hammered and his eyes watered from the acrid stench. Between the excruciating bombardment on his senses, the disorienting tunnels, and the cultists who would crush his skull on sight, Grant could hardly gather his bearings, let alone think of a way to stop the impending invasion.
Every second counted. If he didn’t find a place to hide and wait out the recharge on Perfect Invisibility, it would only be a matter of time before he came face to face with a cultist.
He’d seen some nearly as tall as him, with hair just as black. Some he’d assume were Human at a glance. The problem was his clothing.
But anything could be bought on the Store. There had to be robes close enough to theirs.
Grant opened it and mentally searched for Bay’kol.
[No Items found.]
He cursed and searched for Robes.
[Robes of the Archmage (145,000 Points)]
[Robes of Shadows (16,000 Points)]
[Cultist’s Robes (4,000 Points)]
[Priestess Robes (9,000 Points)]
[Monk “Robes” (10,000 Points)]
[Stormweaver’s Robes (70,000 Points)]
[Robes of the Veil (35,000 Points)]
While searching through the menu, Grant’s eyes stopped on Cultist’s Robes, but when he opened their sub-menu, an image of crimson red robes that dripped blood hovered in front of his face. Perhaps in a dark room, they would pass a casual glance, but most of the tunnels were well-lit with ceiling-mounted lanterns.
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To anyone paying attention, they would conceal his identity no better than his current pants and tunic.
Robes of the Veil were close to what the cultists wore, but still wrong. They were not black; they distorted and sucked light in, almost like the Portal in Athemore. And even if they were the closest thing he could find on the Store, he was still thousands of Points away from being able to afford them.
“Dsk anzur!” Another voice came from ahead of Grant. A woman this time. He squatted, clenched fists on his thighs, sweat-slicked back stooped to the ground. There was too much traffic in this tunnel. On his left, a hole about the height of a deer stood. He ducked in, crouching in its dark shadow, waiting for them to pass. A figure in black robes stopped at its entrance.
“Dsk anzur!” she barked again, this time more harshly. He had no idea what “Dsk anzur” meant, but he could tell from her tone that whoever she was addressing had better hurry up and do it. More feet shuffled, and Grant scrambled deeper inside.
The entrance grew dark as two bodies squeezed in the hole in single file. Grant bit down on his lip, frustration boiling over. He’d cornered himself. He could have sneaked past them by turning Invisible, but he wanted to save time on the Skill.
Now there was no way out.
Their boots scraped across the rock as they trudged forward in his direction.
“Dsk anzur!” she yelled a third time. Did she know he was in there? Were they looking for him? He didn’t think he had been seen, but he remembered the one prisoner’s Seek Spell, and couldn’t write off the possibility.
Without giving it another moment of thought, Grant ran as fast as his bent legs could take him. The low tunnel grew darker the deeper he delved until the inky black swallowed him completely. He had to fumble at his front with outstretched arms to guide himself through its sharp turns, relying more on his hands than his eyes. He bit back a cry as he scraped his head against its ceiling, leaving a shallow gash.
Boots scuffed on the floor behind him.
They must have been fifty yards deep in the tunnel, now. His back ached and his legs cramped. Panic rose. The close walls narrowed, pressing on him like an oven.
Or a coffin.
But the voices and footsteps from behind pushed him forward.
Grant smothered a scream when a sharp pain sank into his shoulder and he jumped, cracking his head against the rocky ceiling. It felt like a white-hot sewing needle had been shoved through his skin, piercing to the bone, and a moment later, he received a Notification.
[You have been afflicted with Toxin of Bay’kol! (Stage I)]
When he touched it, nothing was there. Sticky blood stained his fingers, and the muscle throbbed, disfigured with a misshapen lump that seemed to want to burst from his skin. Nausea rose every time he felt it, so he kept his hands to his front and pressed forward.
Another needlelike sting lanced, this time in his left calf. He pulled his tunic to his mouth and sank his teeth into it, muffling another scream. The sound of feet plodding behind him continued, slower and heavier than before. Two distinct voices periodically yelped, screeched, and shouted foreign words.
Progress was slow in the dark. As far as he could tell, the tunnel never branched, but its path remained narrow. In some stretches, he had to crawl. In others, he had to suck in his stomach to squeeze through. His footing and route were entirely at the mercy of who or whatever had dug it into the rock.
Every twenty or thirty steps, another jabbing pain would jolt him, and another welt would grow from his skin. Dozens had opened up and down his legs, forearms, and face. He was becoming lightheaded, and had to stop and brace himself against the walls at times. Whether it was from blood loss, the toxin, or adrenaline, he could not tell.
[You have been afflicted with Toxin of Bay’kol! (Stage II)]
Grant set the pain and panic aside. They could wait. Those following him had fallen so far behind that he could no longer hear their voices. He could only hope he hadn’t missed a turn and was heading fruitlessly toward a dead end.
Agonizing minutes passed. Maybe hours. He hadn’t checked his clock since arriving at the fortress. He ducked, crawled, and shuffled through, step by step. Dried beads of blood prickled and itched. Scratching them renewed the agony.
He turned what must have been the hundredth corner and gasped. The tunnel expanded and light peeked through a hole at the end.
Freedom was close. The Toxin of Bay'kol had risen to its seventh stage. He could hardly stand, and each step was a trial in its own. But there was an exit.
Every instinct screamed at him to run toward it. Time crawled as he limped forward, and just yards before emerging, Grant came to a stop. The light from the upcoming room leaked into the tunnel and with it, he could see an outline of what had stabbed him again and again earlier.
Not stabbed. Bitten. Red snakes about the size of a man’s foot stuck out of the walls and lay across the floor, and he had reached their thick nest. They squirmed on the ground, like a pile of tangled ropes being pulled in every direction, agitated and excited with their upcoming meal. Their beady eyes went big, and when they opened their mouths to hiss, he found teeth so long that they shouldn’t even fit in their maws. A yell rose from Grant’s belly, but he forced it to die in his throat.
He stopped and prepared himself. There was no way back. Before he could change his mind, he activated Perfect Invisibility and charged the nest. His feet trampled the snakes, who writhed and squealed under them. They lashed out and turned against their nest mates, lunging and biting. Just as the time on his Skill ran out, Grant emerged from the opening and dropped, curling into a ball onto the hard rocky floor of a new room.
The blood loss, heat, and poison had muddled his senses and nearly killed him. But he was out. He gave a shocked splutter and rolled over on his back, scratching at his bites. Everything burned, and his mouth was full of the metal taste of blood. He must have bitten his cheek somewhere.
“Dsk shuek!” a voice yelled.
Grant froze and opened his eyes a crack.
Three dark, blurry figures glared down.
A Transmigration Progression Fantasy
LitRPG Transmigration Progression Anti-Hero Lead Grimdark High Fantasy Local Protagonist Non-Human Lead
Death is a minor setback for the Night Lich.
Quill, commander of the Rotten Scourge and the most feared necromancer of the Westlands, is cornered by the Circle mages. In a final act of defiance, he casts a soul-transfer, only to awaken in the frail body of an elf orphan with his Black magic stripped away.
Yet fate grants him an ironic gift: a rare White Core fractured by Black. Creation is stained with death and decay, but when light meets darkness, it instead births something strange. Something unique. Something unstoppable.
Quill will claw his way back to power, forging a new army with centuries of forbidden knowledge. He’ll master reanimation along with creation–and this time, revenge will be absolute.
But dancing with death always comes at a price, and the Forgotten World doesn't take kindly to a missing soul.
- Steady Progression: Studying magic is hard.
- Crunchy Magic System: Raw and intimate spell theory.
- Army Building: Necromancer-turned-Golemancer.
- Morally Gray MC: Balancing morality with convenience.
- Competent MC: Wise and avid book reader protagonist.
- Lite-LitRPG: No +9999 notifications except for stat sheets.
- No Harem: Only one character at a time.