The morning broke with a light drizzle. Sam pulled the ragged remains of his cloak around his shoulders to ward off the chill. He’d walked for most of the night, angling down the slope as best as he could. He’d caught a few hours of sleep underneath an overturned pine, not bothering to set traps, instead relying on his improved senses to warn him of danger.

  His route took him past the eastern mesa, and he thought he could make out the towers of Homst in the distance, but it was hard to make out through the thick canopy. He’d caught sight of a few beasts in the early hours of the morning, their auras shining through the underbrush like multi-coloured lanterns. None attempted to get close.

  The fact that they hadn't been hunted to extinction so near to the city showed just how much Zetos had increased their populations. Any attempt to pursue them had sent them scampering, and Sam wondered if it had anything to do with his increased aura. Whatever it was—these monsters no longer viewed him as prey.

  He supposed he should take it as a compliment.

  He heard the river before he saw it. The rumble started low, barely tickling at the edges of his perception. It grew louder with each step, the air growing heavy with moisture. Sam took a deep breath, savouring the morning’s sounds and smells. Rich, loamy soil compacted beneath his boots, and he could taste the bitter tang of lichen on his tongue.

  The sound of water resolved into a wide, fast-flowing river about forty feet across. Large rocks broke the surface at regular intervals, creating a series of treacherous rapids.

  With a high enough dexterity—and a little luck—a skilled Warrior could use the rocks to traverse the river. Sam didn't see any indications of a natural crossing, and the river was equally perilous in either direction. One slip and it would be all over. Even with his increased constitution, he didn’t love his chances.

  Luckily, he didn't need to cross. Arther’s homestead was on his side of the river, and it would be a simple matter to follow it all the way down to the lake.

  He stopped at the bank to refill his canteen. His enhanced body needed less food and sleep, but days underground eating nothing but salted jerky had him feeling distinctly wrung out.

  He drank his fill, leaning back to rest against the roots of a towering pine. The sound of rushing water was oddly calming, drowning out the constant chirping and twittering of the forest. He’d spotted the small birds responsible for the sounds, tiny black-winged sparrows that nested high up among the dense branches. They were in constant communication with their neighbours, whole conversations expressed with tweets and warbles.

  Savouring the moment of calm, he opened his tafla. He navigated the screens at the speed of thought, reviewing the state of his armour. It was a sorry affair. Everything except his pauldron would need to be replaced. Even his well-worn boots were beginning to fall apart. Despite the tafla’s magical cleaning service, he was looking beyond dishevelled. His entire wardrobe looked as though he’d gone five rounds with a wood chipper.

  Moving on from the gear tab, he shifted his focus to his skill trees. The constellations swirled around him, and he couldn’t help feeling like a kid in a candy store. His next purchases were obvious: he needed to upgrade [Rodent’s Resilience] and [Apostate]. Arther had warned him that Titles evolved differently from skills, and the presented options confirmed it. Rather than an outright evolution, the Title was positioned as an upgrade.

  [Title Upgrade: Rodent’s Resilience - Permanent - Iron - Tier 5]

  One Man Army

  Increases the effectiveness of [Rodent’s Resilience] based on the number of enemies.

  [Cost: 2,500 Spira]

  [Title Upgrade: Rodent’s Resilience - Permanent - Iron - Tier 5]

  Focused Brawler

  [Rodent’s Resilience] is activated by fewer enemies. From (3) to (2).

  [Cost: 2,500 Spira]

  While the second option would almost guarantee that the Title was always active, Sam knew that One Man Army was the obvious choice. He’d been in multiple situations where he’d been forced to take on ten or more opponents. The Title had already saved him from certain death in its current form; the upgrade could potentially make him near invincible.

  He smiled as he read through the text again. Despite Arther and Eeno’s initial misgivings–he didn’t feel like he was behind. He’d soloed a Dungeon meant for a party and walked away without permanent injury. He’d accrued tens of thousands of spira in his first week and fought off three other Warriors, all without the aid of a patron. More than ever, he knew it was possible to win.

  His grin widened even more as he reviewed the upgrades for [Apostate].

  [Title Upgrade: Apostate - Permanent - Iron - Tier 5]

  Elemental Antagonist

  Increases the effectiveness of [Apostate] against [Elemental] [Divine Skills].

  [Cost: 2,500 Spira]

  [Title Upgrade: Apostate - Permanent - Iron - Tier 5]

  Arcane Anarchist

  Increases the effectiveness of [Apostate] against [Arcane] [Divine Skills].

  [Cost: 2,500 Spira]

  Again, the upgrades were just that–an upgrade. There was no significant impact to how the Title functioned. Though, to his dismay, he’d need to make a choice that could have serious long-term repercussions. He reviewed the deity list and noted which ones were marked as [Elemental] or [Arcane]. Elemental skills were fairly self-explanatory. Fire, earth, wind, water, in all their various combinations. Arcane skills were more esoteric. Time, space, void, faerie–whatever that was.

  Fewer gods offered [Arcane] skills, though the ones that did seemed incredibly powerful. At least, based on the requirements to worship them. Sam chewed his lip and exited the screen. That was one decision he’d hold off making until he got some input from Arther. He was considering purchasing the upgrade to [Rodent’s Resilience] when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  He turned, scanning the brush behind him. The forest was still, and it was only then that he realized the birds had gone quiet. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed it over the sound of the river. He did a quick turn, cranking [Arcane Eyes] as far as he could reasonably sustain.

  There! Across the river, he could discern the outline of two, maybe three humanoid figures. They were crouched in the bushes, making small hand gestures. He summoned his spear and backed away from the river’s edge. He hoped that his aura was enough to dissuade them from attacking, as it had been with the Dalith.

  In either case, they’d need to cross the raging river, and that would leave them exposed and vulnerable. He could try throwing one of his junk weapons at them if he had to. Nodding to himself, he slowly backed away into the treeline, keeping his eyes fixed on the glowing outlines.

  He saw one of them flinch the same moment he heard the twig snap behind him.

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  He spun, brain barely registering the hulking figure charging at him through the underbrush. Despite its size, it was nearly silent in its approach. The monster was a head taller than Sam and broader in the shoulders. It wore a well-crafted set of leather armour over its green-grey skin. Tusks curled from its lower lip in a feral growl. Its beady eyes were fixed on him, brow glistening with sweat as it flung a bola directly at his chest.

  Sam had no chance to react, no chance to dodge. The bola slammed into him with enough force to take him off his feet. The stones clacked together as the coarse rope bound his torso. He managed to keep his spear arm free, but he was forced to store the weapon as he rolled aside, desperately trying to extricate himself from the rope.

  His chest hurt. He’d taken hits from a [Ghūl Apex Hunter] and a [Draug Captain], and they hadn’t struck with nearly the same force. He was confident that he’d cracked at least one rib, and that was without taking the full brunt of the attack. He summoned his knife and cut himself free, barely dodging the massive stone cleaver that slammed into the dirt where he’d been lying.

  The monster’s coal black eyes followed him with ease, and it brought the gargantuan weapon up in an almost lazy arc. Sam barely managed to get his spear in the way before he was thrown backwards again. The creature’s strength was overwhelming. Sam’s only point of reference was his sparring match with Arther: the moment the Warden had taken it seriously.

  Risking the half-second distraction, Sam inspected the brute.

  [Hill Ogre Tracker - Bronze - Acolyte of Orcus]

  The Hill Ogre tribes are some of the fiercest fighters on the Elysian Ring. Their culture revolves around ritual combat, meaning only the strongest survive…

  Bronze! Sam’s heart pounded in his chest as he desperately scrambled to his feet, head still ringing from the impact. Even the Bosses of the Twilight Crypts had only been Iron. Despite their power and feats of magic, they’d technically been on his level.

  This monster was something else entirely.

  It moved with the power and precision of a hydraulic hammer. Each strike was stronger than the last, and Sam knew that only his weapon’s [Relic] property kept it from being bent into an oversized pretzel. His hands were numb from the repeated impacts, the black iron clanging like a church bell under the beast’s unrelenting assault.

  At no point did it over-extend itself. At no point did it hesitate. It was the picture of economy of motion. It wielded the stone cleaver as a chef would a knife.

  Sam frantically searched for any opening he could find as it systematically pushed him towards the roaring river.

  He had no chance.

  With each barely redirected strike, his surety was further cemented. This creature was beyond him. The realization washed over him like ice water as his limbs shook from the adrenaline.

  If the fight continued as it was, Sam would lose.

  A desperate cry tore from his throat as he threw everything he had into his attacks. He’d been experimenting with actively utilizing [Basic Strength] in the same way he did his other skills, focusing its efficacy into his arms and back.

  It worked, and he could feel it feeding off the power of the [Dawnheart Pendant]. His muscles swelled, and he managed to knock the ogre’s blade aside. It grunted in surprise as the cleaver stuck nearly halfway through one of the towering pines.

  Sam let out a roar of triumph as he launched himself at the creature’s throat, the wicked point of his spear mere inches from the ashy green flesh.

  The spear was stopped cold.

  The ogre held the tip in his free hand, barely straining as it locked the blade in place. It cocked its head and gave a lecherous smile.

  Sam pushed with all his might, but the spear didn’t budge. It felt like trying to shift the Spire itself. His muscles strained, veins bulging from his forehead. His entire world condensed to a single point.

  He activated [Longinus Strike].

  The familiar negation of mana burst from the head of the spear. Sam expected the ogre to flinch, to recoil, to drop the spear as its hand was destroyed. Instead, it merely frowned, wincing slightly as it tightened its grip.

  It wasn’t using mana.

  Sam had figured that its overwhelming strength came from some sort of skill; a sustained physical enhancement or a burst of supernatural vigour. It appeared that wasn’t the case. It was just that strong.

  It chuckled, a deep, guttural rumbling in its chest. Twisting the spear, it drove Sam to his knees. He was forced to store the weapon out of fear of breaking his wrists. The moment the pressure was released, the ogre stuck. It lashed out with a straight front kick that took Sam square in the chest. He flew a half-dozen yards, crumpled on the bank, limbs twitching.

  The remains of his conscious mind activated [Battle Healing], and he let out a pained wheeze as his ribs began knitting themselves back together. His sternum had shattered from the impact, shards of bone digging into his heart and lungs. Without the skill, the wound would have been fatal.

  The ogre took a few seconds to extricate its cleaver from the tree, and a few more kicking it over out of spite. The moments were enough for Sam to regain some hold over his body, as he desperately searched for a way out. Most of his skills were defensive in nature. He’d been confident in his ability to out-brawl and outlast almost any opponent at his level. Even his ace, his only piece of burst damage, hadn’t been enough to break through the ogre’s defences.

  His mind went blank as the monster sauntered towards him.

  This was it. This was the end. He hadn’t even made it a week before the Spire claimed him. His early victories meant nothing. The gods wanted him dead–so he’d die. Had he really believed it could be otherwise?

  He was acutely aware of each pained beat of his heart as the ogre loomed over him. It bared its teeth in what might have been a smile, as it raised its massive cleaver over its head. Its savage war cry merged with the roar of the river, but neither drowned out the sharp twang of a bowstring nor the thwack of the arrow as it embedded itself in the monster’s right eye.

  Its war cry transformed into a howl of anger and pain. It dropped the cleaver, holding its face in one hand and lashing out wildly with the other. Trees splintered and cracked, and the earth shook from its pounding feet. Sam could only stare in wonder as it spun recklessly, his prone form momentarily forgotten.

  “What are you doing?!” The words carried over the rush of water, and Sam turned to see a broad, brown-haired man standing between the trees on the opposite shore. His face was a mask of anger as he gestured furiously at a woman farther down the bank.

  Her long, auburn hair flowed in the breeze, and Sam could make out the hint of sharply pointed ears. The sylvan’s face was unreadable as she drew back another arrow and loosed it at the flailing ogre. It bounced harmlessly off the creature’s skin, only succeeding in further enraging the monster.

  Sam’s attention was brought back to his current predicament as the ogre stumbled forward, clearly intent on finishing its prey. Sam dragged himself backwards, but he soon found himself slipping down the steep bank. He managed to catch himself, but all of his will was focused on not sliding into the choppy white water.

  He had just begun to pull himself back up when a hand seized his ankle. He let out a yelp as the ogre yanked him back, nearly tearing off his leg. The half-blind monster was a shaking ball of fury as it put its other hand around his throat.

  Acting on pure instinct, Sam activated [Iron Skin]. The skill didn’t stop his windpipe from being crushed, but it at least prevented his neck from snapping like a twig. The remaining mana of [Battle Healing] fought against the crushing pressure at his throat as the ogre climbed on top of him. The creature’s weight was oppressive, his chest seizing as he struggled to draw breath.

  Its remaining eye was focused on him as black blood poured from the ruined socket. Clearly, whatever natural protection it enjoyed did not extend to its sensitive eyeballs.

  Sam’s vision began receding at the edges as the lack of oxygen did its work. He lashed out weakly with his knife, but the blade didn’t even begin to pierce the beast’s hide. Again and again he struck, until it fell from his limp fingers.

  “Fight back, Sam. Fight back!” The words rang in his mind like a gong. The woman’s voice, both alien and familiar, brought him momentarily from the edge of unconsciousness. His bleary eyes fixed on the sharp piece of wood, suspended directly in front of his face.

  He reached up and grabbed the arrow, and to his surprise, his consciousness extended the length of the shaft. He could feel it digging into squishy grey matter. His shock brought him a brilliant moment of clarity.

  What was an arrow, if not a very tiny spear?

  Pushing mana through the tenuous connection, he activated [Longinus Strike]. To his surprise, it actually worked.

  The arrow pulsed and ripped through the core of the ogre’s mana network, allowing Sam to thrust the shaft all the way up to the fletching.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The ogre’s muscles went slack, and it collapsed in a heap. Its full weight landed on his chest, driving out whatever scant breath remained. He tried to shove the creature aside, but he could feel the bank of the river crumbling beneath him.

  He strained with all of his might–but it was too late.

  The dirt gave way, sending him tumbling back. A wave of icy water flowed over him, shocking his already traumatized system. He clawed for the surface and attempted to draw breath, but was swept through the rapids with an unrelenting ferocity.

  He could barely process what was happening as his wet clothes steadily dragged him down. He was in a war with the river, and he was losing. The frigid water sapped what little strength remained in his limbs as he reached out desperately for something, anything to hold onto.

  He soon got his wish.

  The object in question was a hunk of rock jutting from the river directly in his path. The stone monolith, polished smooth by time, offered no handholds or respite. It was an immovable object, and he was a very stoppable force.

  The last thing he heard was the crunch of his own bones breaking, as the torrent of water pulled him under, into the dark.

  Was he cooking?