Sam stood for a long moment, processing the new development. Disembodied voices certainly felt on brand for a haunted crypt. He stored the ghoul, noting, with a pang of disgust, that the meat separated itself in his inventory. He hoped it was for some alchemical purpose and that people weren’t actually eating these things.

  With its death, he felt his heart settle back to its normal rhythm. Whatever [Divine Skill] the creature used had directly impacted his body, leaving him no real means to resist it. [Apostate] hadn’t done all that much, and it was scary to think that some outside force could so easily alter his psyche. He’d seen a few defensive skills that could passively increase his mental fortitude, and he made a note to purchase them the second he had the spira.

  Standing, he let out a long sigh and approached the now-open gate. The portcullis loomed overhead, the metal bars suspended like the fangs of some ancient beast. He stood before the maw, eyes fixed on the single werelight which flickered some hundred yards away. The corridor transitioned into a legitimate tunnel, and the fog clung to the ground like a physical growth, making it feel like wading through actual water.

  He knew it was probably stupid. If this were a game, and the Crypts were a level, this was almost certainly where they’d place the boss. Going in was a risk, but he had no way of knowing if he'd get another opportunity like this, or if he'd even be able to find his way back.

  Killing the ghoul seemed to have ingratiated him with whatever presence lurked at the end of the tunnel, and he had to admit it was pretty lucky that the beast had followed him all the way here. Lucky to the point that he wondered if the Arbiter was responsible.

  He glanced upwards, aware that an entire legion of gods could be hovering above him and he’d never know it. The thought should have disconcerted him, but it only made him angry, spinning the tiny ball of molten lead that had become a permanent fixture in his stomach. It was a constant reminder that he was only there for the entertainment of beings who considered themselves superior.

  He pushed the frustration aside and set off down the corridor, keenly aware of his rapidly diminishing torch. Its light was even more needed in the enclosed space, bereft of even the faint glow of the cavern. Trying to hunt for traps underfoot was now impossible, but his eyes continuously scanned the walls and ceilings, on alert for any suspicious openings. The lack of traps in this portion of the Crypts set his teeth on edge. It felt like there was a sword hanging over his head, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  He reached the first torch and saw a second one light up further down the tunnel. Like the ones by the gate, this one cast a garish green light that chilled him to the bone. He summoned his cloak to try and stave off the cold, but it passed through the oiled fabric like it wasn’t even there. Only his cuirass gave him any form of protection, and he found himself shivering as he continued down the corridor.

  Ten minutes passed in a similar fashion, and it wasn’t until the third torch that he realized that he was actually moving in a gentle spiral, travelling down into the earth. The slope was so gentle he hadn’t perceived it at first, but when he turned back, he noticed that he could no longer see the torches behind him.

  He supposed it tracked that the Big Bad would be at the lowest point of the dungeon. He took a deep breath and continued, breaking into a slow jog in an attempt to lessen the chill. His shoulder was healing well, and it barely twinged when he lifted his arm, giving his shield a few cursory swings.

  He’d be in pretty solid shape if it came to a fight, but he didn't love the idea of taking on the boss quite so soon. The loose plan that he’d strung together involved farming groups of lesser monsters and finding a place to hole up and purchase some more skills. Mental defence was now a priority, but there were a whole slew of resistances, as well as specializations in various forms of armour.

  The more he fought, the more he valued durability. At Iron Rank, every fight was a brawl, and he was acutely aware of his own lack of finesse. He’d made it through so far by hitting things harder than he was getting hit back, but that kind of senseless fighting wouldn't last him forever. He needed the survivability to be able to withstand not only stronger opponents, but also a wide range of magic.

  Eventually, the tunnel levelled out, and in the distance, he glimpsed a twin to the gate at the entrance. He slowed to a walk, storing his cloak and habitually checking the straps on his cuirass. He was going in alone and potentially underpowered, but he didn't see a viable alternative. The tribute might be a one-time thing, and there was no guarantee he’d be able to replicate the feat. His heart ratcheted up a notch as he approached, eyes peeled for signs of enemies.

  Beyond the gate was a vast chamber lit on all sides by the same sickly green torches. The far wall was dominated by an imposing stone door rendered with flowing floral patterns and abrupt geometric designs. The base of the door writhed with a veritable river of fog, as though the ancient stone were a dam keeping the flood at bay.

  Statues, like those at the entrance, stood in beautifully carved alcoves along the walls. These ones were perfect, untouched by time or vandals. The blocky var looked stoic as they posed with various weapons and tools of war.

  At their feet, resting on chest-high plinths, were carved chests in varying states of decay. Some appeared to have been made from wood and contained little more than scraps of pitted metal. Others had been carved from stone. He approached the nearest one and gave it a cautious once-over.

  There were no obvious traps from what he could see; no hanging stone overhead, or suspicious openings for spears or arrows. He took a deep breath and pushed the lid, wincing as a low grinding filled the space. His body was tense, and he was prepared to leap back at any moment, but no jet of fire or bath of acid descended upon him. Instead, he was presented with a simple box, empty, except for two small glass vials. Each contained a brightly-coloured liquid and gave off a subtle purple glow.

  He reached in, touched the bottles, stored them, and quickly backed away. The room remained inert, the only sound coming from the steady crackling of a dozen torches.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He pulled up his tafla, expanding the screen from its default minimized state. The vials—potions, he now confirmed—had automatically assigned themselves to their own folder.

  [Restoration Potion - Iron - Consumable]

  An ancient concoction crafted by Var’s greatest alchemists. This drought restores a moderate amount of health and stamina.

  Potions right before the boss chamber, are you shitting me? Sam let out a long sigh and held back a shiver from the cold creeping into his muscles. He would have laughed if it hadn't been for the very real prospect of imminent death.

  He repeated the process with the two remaining stone chests. The first was empty; the bottom thick with a layer of dust and traces of rotten wood. The second one, however, contained an item. Sam had to suppress a whoop at the sight of the thick metal bracelets.

  Unlike the potions, the richly-etched bands exuded a dense orange aura. Sam felt his heart rate increase just looking at them. He also thought he could detect a faint whiff of copper, but the sensation quickly passed. He stored the bands and retreated to the edge of the room, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the torches.

  Excitement turned to concern as he read the description.

  [Enchanted Pugilist Bands - Iron - Uncommon]

  Forged for the honour of one who takes destiny into their own hands. These bands were gifted as a tribute to one of Var’s first warrior kings.

  Grants the wearer improved damage when making unarmed strikes. Provides increased resistance to blunt attacks.

  Active Ability: Bloodhaze

  Upon receiving critical damage, descend into a Bloodhaze. Strike with increased potency at the cost of sanity. The wearer may struggle to differentiate between friend and foe.

  24 Hr Cooldown.

  [Durability 80/80]

  Sam sat back on his haunches and re-read the description. At the cost of sanity…that didn't sound like something he was too keen to experience, but he couldn't deny the potential upsides. The description didn't specify that the strikes in [Bloodhaze] also had to be unarmed, which meant his spear would likely benefit as well. As much as he disliked the idea of losing control, he could appreciate the prospect of having a hidden ace; a final burst of damage could be make or break in a fight.

  He glanced up at the statue, which stood behind the chest. The var was lightly armoured, instead relying on thick ridges of bone that protruded from its arms and knuckles. Sam could see a rough approximation of the bands wrapped around its wrists. Unlike the other statues, whose poses were straight and unrelenting, the Pugilist had his knees bent, and Sam thought he could detect a hint of a smile on the man’s blocky face.

  He took a band from his inventory and slid it onto his wrist…and then kept sliding it because there was absolutely no chance of it fitting like an actual bracer. He managed to find a somewhat comfortable position around his bicep and felt the band lock into place. He repeated the action on the other side and gasped as a sudden rush of heat coursed through him, banishing the dungeon’s chill.

  The molten ball in his gut thrummed in response to the warmth. His own anger rose up to greet the unfamiliar presence, embracing it like an old friend. He had to take a moment to steady himself. While he knew that anger could be a valuable tool, it was one best used in moderation. He needed a scalpel, not a hammer.

  Not always. Sometimes you need a hammer, a voice in the back of his mind admonished.

  He stood and took one final glance around the chamber. Satisfied that he’d picked the place clean, he made his way over to the colossal door. A large fresco dominated its surface, revealing a scene unlike any he’d seen in the Crypts. At a distance, the lines had looked abstract; right angles intersecting with flowing motifs. Up close, the patterns resolved into a recognizable design.

  In the center of the door was the image of a large metropolis. Sam blinked a few times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him, but the outline of towering skyscrapers was unmistakable. Surrounding the city were carvings of var engaged in battle, planting crops, or constructing towering monuments to the gods.

  Upon closer inspection, he could make out smaller beings that seemed to be acting as attendants or servants. They cowered beneath the larger var, their wiry limbs bent in subservience. Something about their long, lean frames looked vaguely familiar, but Sam’s attention was drawn to the bulky, septagonal dial that rested just above eye level.

  He took a deep breath and set his jaw. Reaching out with both hands, he grabbed the polished stone and heaved.

  Nothing happened.

  He gave the dial a few more tugs, his enhanced muscles straining. Stymied, he stepped back and cocked his head, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. There didn't appear to be any visible keyhole, and the disembodied voice clearly wanted him to enter.

  He did a quick lap around the room looking for clues, pleased that the torches had lost their bite. At a loss, he returned to the door, trying to glean any hints that he could from the carvings. The whole thing celebrated the marriage of technology and nature. For every brutalist tower and jagged monument, there was an equal depiction of a person resting under the boughs of a great tree, or tilling a field.

  The whole thing flowed like water down a drain, and Sam felt his eyes following the whim of the pattern. Once he saw it, he couldn't unsee it. There was an unmistakable order to the images, cataloging the early days of the species, through war, famine, and desolation. Battle upon battle was fought, with mounds of bodies sacrificed to reach their vision of a utopia and the indomitable city that touched the clouds.

  On a whim, he reached out and grabbed the dial, turning it in accordance with the pattern. Clockwise.

  The old stone slid with a low rumble. So much for lefty loosie. The small idiosyncrasy solidified the tomb's alien nature more than any oversized door or foreign architecture.

  After a few turns, the door split at the center and both halves opened, sliding inwards with a rumbling that made his teeth shake. A torrent of fog rushed through the gap, bathing him in the chilling essence of death. He gasped, trying to keep his feet as the wave buffeted him. The chill in his bones returned, teeth chattering as he tried to push through the deluge.

  The only sound was that of his own breathing, straining under the weight. His gasps echoed in his ears as he managed to take a step over the threshold. The mist collapsed around him, sending him tumbling into the chamber. The silence from the darkness beyond was pervasive; a clinging, desperate thing. When the light came, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, so dim was the glow that began to illuminate the hall.

  Suddenly, a wellspring of werelight burned into his retinas, followed by a concussive du-dum. The double thud was unmistakable, even as it overwhelmed his senses. Inside the chamber was a heartbeat.

  Something had awoken.