Bronwyn faced what he was certain would be his death stoically, with friends at his back. Swiftly as he could, he clambered down the side of the mountain spire, his eyes locked on the monstrosity that waited for them on an open field of battle.

  A challenge in truth. There would be an audience of beasts arrayed in the many thousands, all watching with glassy eyes that were as vacant as they were rabid.

  The ghost of the System notification still seared like a brand in his mind.

  A fucking tyrant.

  Because of course it was. What else would it have been?

  He’d had suspicions. They’d been distant things, not true worries. Sure, the System had announced their arrival with the phase change, but as far as he was aware, no one in the guild had seen hide nor hair of one. There were so many other, easier explanations. Nicer explanations.

  Now that he stared down a battle to the death, he felt foolish for placing the likelihood so low.

  His own oversight had just consigned him to death. Julis and Yanera as well.

  Though they faced it with the countenance of warriors, it was an unnecessary thing, and his greatest crime. Such was the burden of a leader. Their deaths would be his to suffer for in the afterlife.

  Yet the Tyrant was not what he expected. “Purpose in Duty” was a name, if a stranger one — and more than that, it seemed honest, earnest in its desire to meet them in single combat.

  With the teeming hordes of beasts that surrounded it, there would have been nothing they could do to escape, even if most of them were half their level.

  That alone gave them hope.

  They could slay the creature. Whatever compulsion held the beasts so would break. Would have to. That alone would lead to pandemonium. Deadly and dangerous, yes, with so many beasts crammed into such a small spot, scattered evenly of every variety.

  They wouldn’t be the target, or even a footnote in the carnage that followed. Slipping free would be tough, but they could do it. They still had tonics, and they knew Julis had a few dust spells that could add to the confusion.

  Hopping down to yet another ridge, Bronwyn heard a hiss behind him.

  The crushing pressure that wafted from the creature alone worried him, though. It would slow them. He could feel it. His resources felt sluggish within him, as if they were struggling to respond to his desires. Whatever it was, it felt like being trapped in a quagmire.

  The fighting would be hard.

  Dropping down to yet another ridge, Bronwyn heard a hiss behind him. He looked back.

  Julis was staring at the Tyrant, a look of shock on his face.

  “It dropped its mask,” the mage whispered hurriedly. “I can see it. Level 222.”

  “What?” Yanera said, snapping to the mage. “That’s impossible.”

  Bronwyn couldn’t believe it either. That was twenty levels lower than them, yet the strength it exuded was palpable. Some specialised capability, perhaps?

  He dared not hope, but a glimmer burned in his chest anyway, warming the frigid chill that had settled into his bones since he’d first laid his eyes on the Tyrant.

  “Assume it’s stronger than a Guardian. Stronger even than the Crucible variant Kaius and his team faced. Don’t get complacent.” He whispered.

  Still, he couldn’t deny, with an advantage in levels and numbers, they might have a chance.

  Gravel crunched underfoot as Bronwyn took his final leap to the stony clearing at the base of the clustered spire mountains.

  Yanera’s armour clanked as she followed. A moment later she stepped past him, her gargantuan shield raised, while he moved a little behind her and to her left.

  Julis followed, two dozen strides back, looking twitchy without the companionship of Dros to keep them covered.

  Bronwyn bored his eyes into the Tyrant that watched them calmly as they approached.

  “Assume it’s a skirmisher,” he said. “Mobility first. Six arms will be tough with those claws, but you can keep them occupied. I can go for the legs. Julis, keep it off balance. Secure its vision when you can. Dust bursts when you cannot.”

  Drawing his blade, Bronwyn reached for Flames of Purgation.

  His sword ignited, black tongues of consuming flames erupting on its edge as he felt the heat seep from his arm and gauntlet.

  There were no more words. Only action.

  The second they were within half a dozen dozen strides of the Tyrant, Yanera roared. The air shattering, her primal rebuke battered the monstrosity. It chittered, digging in its digitigrade legs as the heavy slammed her shield down and charged.

  Steam rose from the gaps in her armour as three different body enhancement skills took hold. Her axe was high and her shield shone, every step shaking the very ground.

  Bronwyn streamed in beside her, his blade poised for a stab as he held up his kite shield so that only his eyes were visible over its edge.

  Lurching to the right, he pulled on Concussive Bash, stamina flooding the zone around his shield.

  The Tyrant watched them come, cocky and calm.

  Dust exploded around it, earth and glass streaming in to attack the creature’s eyes and scour away the edge of its natural armour.

  Bronwyn had seen creatures liquefied from the abrasive spell, yet the Tyrant didn’t even flinch.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He roared, pushing off with his lead foot to bash into the creature’s side in an attempt to pincer it between his and Yanera’s assault.

  The creature moved, darting back, energy flashing around its legs.

  Years of experience surged without even conscious thought.

  Bronwyn thrust, the razor-sharp edge of his sword cleaving through the edge of its waist.

  Flames burned, driving deep into its flesh.

  There was no howl of pain.

  Then it was in his face. Three arms for his head, while two went left; one went low and one went wide.

  Bronwyn blanched. A multi-pronged assault, impossible to fully defend from.

  Lurching down, he brought his shield high, blocking the three overheads. Every blow smacked, making his shoulder creak as a hot ache split through the joint.

  His sword flashed, catching the low blows on the edge of his blade. Burning steel bit amidst scale and bone, as dribbling purple ichor sizzled.

  The thrill of the bloodsong roared. They could do this. The opening moves were theirs. First blood was theirs.

  The Tyrant’s final blow to his left side was aborted as it hauled itself back, narrowly missing being cleaved in twain by a shining overhead of Yanera’s axe.

  Her style was simple. She had a martial and primal-affinity class, enhancing her physicality without flashiness, but by gods was it effective.

  It was just a shame the Tyrant was such a wily thing. Though their mage was wilier.

  Glass shards erupted from the ground behind the creature’s back, a hail of fragments punching into its armour and spilling blood.

  It cackled.

  What in all the hells was this damn thing made of?

  It was no controlled and mindless depthsborn. This was a thinking being that reacted to pain with revelry.

  The Tyrant backed off.

  Bronwyn pressed the assault, flooding in with Yanera at his side as the beast led him on a merry chase. They could do this.

  Empowered claws ripped in a storm as the Tyrant gave more ground. He and Yanera weathered them as they always had, catching the blows on their shields and punishing them with tight, sharp chops and quick thrusts that left the thing bleeding and battered.

  Still, it was swift and strong, with so many limbs that more than a few blows got through.

  Bronwyn could feel the rents in his ribs slowly closing as his health burnt. The wounds would still weaken him. Even with his vitality, he wasn’t as heavily invested as Yanera.

  He had the skills to push on, but he knew he shouldn’t.

  Stepping back for a half-moment, Yanera reacted to his movement, covering his momentary retreat by planting her shield in the path of the Tyrant’s frenzied assault.

  Bronwyn had a potion in hand a moment later, a recovery tonic pouring down his throat with a distinctive sour burn.

  It only took moments, but the Tyrant’s tenacity showed as it fell upon Yanera like a storm.

  Gods, it was monstrous.

  He had to push it back, get it off his friend before she could be overwhelmed.

  Bronwyn reached for another skill. Banishing Wing.

  He cut, and the arcing black flames on his blade hung in the air like a half-moon before they tore forwards straight for the Tyrant.

  It spun away, contorting its body to avoid the blow.

  The pressure was off. Yanera rallied.

  But Bronwyn wasn’t done. Again and again he reached for the skill, layering everything he had to hurl flames at a distance. Spikes of fire launched from thrusts, his mana draining precipitously as the Tyrant drew close.

  He boxed it in with Yanera.

  Then the moment came.

  Dust erupted around the Tyrant, cutting off his view of the creature.

  His next Banishing Wing plunged into the cloud and a conflagration erupted, consuming the Tyrant.

  Yanera charged in, hitting it with a concussive roar, smiting with her shield. Her axe came down a second later, cleaving straight through one of the creature’s legs.

  It howled, the very sound of it setting Bronwyn’s bones alight.

  No matter what it was, no matter its strange abilities or the crushing pressure that made his skills feel sickly and anemic, they had the advantage.

  Stone shattered as the Tyrant launched back, escaping the burning flames.

  Its multi-segmented jaws crackled, snarling in rage as oozing wounds and blackened carapace made it look all the more grotesque.

  “You may have fire, but I have ignition; I have essence — and I am enriched by its blessing!”

  The pressure vanished, and a scintillating inferno erupted around the Tyrant’s body.

  Bronwyn’s eyes widened. He had no name for the colour of those flames. They were richer than red, more strong and striking than violet, and shone with a brilliance that cut him to his very core.

  “Be ready—” he started to scream.

  The Tyrant was gone.

  And Yanera was slumping over.

  The creature was curled around her head like some decrepit pouncing cat. The claws of one of its hands were punched in the gap of his friend’s visor.

  Red blood flowed.

  Yanera hit the ground like so much scrap metal.

  Crushing grief sparked Bronwyn’s fury to new heights.

  “Yanera!” he screamed, surging forwards, a wild slash aimed at the back of the Tyrant’s head.

  Red eyes snapped to him. He could have sworn that the thing smirked.

  It kicked off, sailing over his head.

  Bronwyn growled, ripping his blade upwards as an arc of black flame slammed into the creature’s midsection.

  Fucking killed her.

  His flames punched deep, a blackened wound opening in its belly. Bloody ichor spilled over him in a burning wave.

  No matter the skill it had used, they could kill it. It was faster now, stronger, but no more durable.

  He knew its target. Julis.

  Dread gripped his belly.

  Dust exploded around the mage as he dematerialised, his capstone skill unbelievably costly, but it saved his life.

  Bronwyn breathed a sigh of relief, chasing after the Tyrant.

  Yet to his horror, its scintillating burning claws snapped into the centre of the flowing dust, and Julis rematerialised with a gurgling cry.

  The Tyrant’s clawed hand was planted where his heart should have been.

  Bronwyn locked eyes with his friend; staring into the mage’s blue eyes; seeing his pallid face.

  Julis didn’t say anything.

  There was only the gut-wrenching fear, before his head lolled back and the Tyrant tossed Julis’s corpse to the side with contempt.

  “No!” Bronwyn roared, charging in. “Not like this. Not after so many years. Why? Why?!”

  His vision blurred as he threw everything he had. Recklessly, with no care for the torrent of stamina and mana that flowed free, burning wave after sundering slash after crushing shield charge slammed into the Tyrant.

  Scales and carapace cracked; blood spilled; bones broke.

  Yet it wasn’t enough.

  He knew it deep in his marrow that it wasn’t enough. Anger roared — how dare it. How dare that monstrosity kill his friends; dare to be his end?

  Eyes hard, Bronwyn charged in, venting every turbulent emotion he had into a roar. His shield bash crushed its arms to its side — staggering the creature. It was a risky opening — three more limbs were poised and ready.

  He didn’t care — only enjoying his final moment of vindication as he plunged his blade deep into its chest.

  The Tyrant let the blow land home uncontested.

  Three hands clamped down around his head.

  “Go with Honour,” it whispered, on the verge of crooning.

  He barely heard the words.

  Sorry, Dros. We tried.

  A single sudden crack consumed his everything. It barely even hurt.

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