Agony!

  Tars had never experienced a full-body massage so explosive and searing. Intense heat was punctuated by shattering impacts; the massive force sent him reeling backward, leaving him breathless. For a moment, it felt as though the kinetic energy wasn't just pinning him to the wall, but trying to shove him into another world. Twenty-odd fireballs slammed into him in rapid succession, a sensation akin to being repeatedly crushed by a steamroller. The air churned amidst the spray of sparks; every breath he drew was a jagged, burning pain.

  And yet, he wanted to laugh. He didn't know what kind of hide the half-man had given him, but it was incredibly flame-resistant and resilient. "Resistant" wasn't even the right word—the leather seemed to possess a faint, strange affinity for fire.

  As he barely sensed the current state of the man who had been recklessly throwing combustibles, Tars wanted to roar with laughter. So this is all a fifth-level apprentice amounts to? In truth, his vision was a blur, and he wasn't sure if his throat could even produce a sound. Tears, snot, and blood coated his entire face. His head throbbed with a persistent hum, and his ears rang so loudly he couldn't tell if he'd lost a piece of one. This was the result even after he had instinctively shielded his head with his arms. Thank goodness for this dark red hide. Thank goodness I learned Mage Armor before running around out here.

  Countless "thank goodnesses" had conspired to keep him from becoming a charred, broken corpse. He breathed deeply, ignoring the discomfort caused by the scalding, smoky air. Aside from gasping for air as he slumped against the wall, there was nothing else he could do.

  After an indeterminate amount of time, the dizziness subsided enough for him to test his limbs. He wiped his nose and mouth to clear his airway and fumbled for his storage pouch. Only then did his battered brain realize the well-fitting robe he had just acquired was completely ruined. He pulled out a bottle of the Big-Dumb-Humper's blood and downed it in one go. Without the dramatic gesture to force it down, he wasn't sure he could have swallowed the thick liquid.

  Overbalancing, he tumbled from his leaning position to lie flat on the ground. His body began to slowly knit itself back together under the nourishment of the blood. This blood is getting a bit old; its potency seems to be fading, he thought.

  As the blur in his vision cleared, he used the back of his head to pivot his gaze along the ground, looking toward the man who had collapsed a short distance away. Seeing the figure lying there, twitching occasionally, Tars finally felt a sense of relief. He suppressed his anxiety, wondering if the man was also recovering or possessed some unknown trick.

  Every few moments, he checked the man's status. It was a race of recuperation against an imaginary foe. He sincerely hoped his worries were for naught—if the man stayed down, it would be much safer.

  Time slowed under the weight of fear and urgency. Those fireballs had hit in the blink of an eye, yet in memory, the moment felt eternal. He felt as though he could have named each one: the one that hit his armpit could be "Pit-Fire," and the one that burned the fur off his head could be "Sudden-Baldy."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Tars stretched his legs, felt he was ready, and used the cave wall to pull himself up. He tapped into his mental energy to cast the Zero-Ring spell Spirit Boil on himself.

  Don't say I didn't give you a chance, unknown brother. It's been long enough, he thought. He had been carefully maintaining Fetid Skin this entire time; fearing the man might crawl out of range, Tars had even used his head to nudge himself forward along the ground earlier.

  Thanks to the Big-Dumb-Humper's blood. I'll share more roasted meat with him when I get back.

  He slid along the wall, observing the target. Based on the man's rhythmic twitching, Tars was certain he was under the full effect of Fetid Skin. It seemed a target with a physical body was much easier to handle than the nearly spectral entity from before. Or perhaps this man simply wasn't as strong as the last one.

  The man on the floor wore a hood, revealing only the stubble on his lower jaw. Tars, whose body still ached everywhere, had no desire to study the man's identity. He stopped at a safe distance.

  Given the previous barrage, this man likely had Fireball as a solidified Zero-Ring spell—and not a basic version, either. It was clearly modified or bolstered by other techniques to achieve such devastating power. Even though the man looked defeated, Tars didn't dare approach carelessly. Modern apprentices used the Third-Generation Meditation Method; a fifth-level apprentice would have at least five temporary spell slots. If the man had one "big surprise" left, Tars wouldn't survive it.

  He empowered himself with Bull's Strength again and weighed a short-spear in his hand. He didn't throw it immediately. Instead, he fired three consecutive Frost Rays, all hitting the man's ankles, effectively freezing them to the floor. The man didn't surge up in resistance, suggesting he wasn't faking his state.

  After one more Frost Ray aimed at the face—which missed slightly due to the man's posture—Tars wound up his arm and hurled two short-spears in rapid succession. His aim was mediocre; only one found the torso while the other grazed the scalp, but it was enough to end the man's twitching forever.

  Tars wobbled and slid down the wall to sit on the ground.

  Tap. Tap.

  The sound of approaching footsteps made him tense up again. Despite Bull's Strength, he couldn't run fast right now, but he was prepared to try.

  "It's me, little fellow. Well done."

  Baont walked into view, carrying the grey-white snake. He didn't look the least bit disheveled.

  He definitely thought I was dead, Tars thought.

  "This apprentice was likely named Lant. He was relatively weak and I had already hit him twice, so I figured you could handle him," Baont said, looking at the unspeakably battered kobold. "Facing such tjust... don't know many spells," Tars replied.

  Having seen Fetid Skin pass a field test against a fifth-level apprentice, his confidence had hardened. He had only been playing along with their questions; he had never intended to actually complete some high wizard's mission. He would take his rewards, find a gap to bolt, and go back to his hole to hide and meditate until his second Mana Scar was complete.

  "Perhaps you really should leave with that fire-using cook in a few days," Baont said, tossing over a bottle of deep-green potion. "On the house," he added.

  Tars caught it but didn't drink it, solemnly placing it in his storage pouch instead. Baont watched but didn't interfere, walking instead toward the corpse pinned by the spear.

  A storage pouch was tossed over. Tars caught it, wincing as the movement pulled at his strained shoulder. He thought for a moment, then stood up. Under Baont's surprised gahings is the bare minimum you should expect if you choose to stay. It seems Lant might have improved recently, or I miscalculated... are you really not even a third-level apprentice yet?"

  "I ze, he walked to the corpse and stripped the man of his robe and boots.

  "I didn't bring a spare," Tars explained.

  The hooded robe, though torn, was quickly pulled over his head. Baont watched him, his eyes lingering on the body that looked exactly like a normal kobold's, and nodded with an expression of sudden understanding.