The door slid open silently. Oz and Chops peered in. Idly, Oz noted only one of the heads was looking in—the other seemed satisfied without seeing. Did that mean they could use each other’s senses?

  The room beyond was different, not least because he could hear a steady rhythm of breathing. This room had character. A recessed music pit lay between the stone benches and the raised stage, like a moat between audience and actors.

  He stood at the top of several tiers of uncomfortable stone seats. They looked like they’d once had cushions, but those had been torn off, leaving only scabby wisps of fabric. The seats faced a stage set up for a grand play.

  The art spoke to Oz again. His school had put on plays, and he’d generally enjoyed being left alone to make the sets. His rough bits of painted scrap plywood and old curtains were nothing like this.

  The back wall was dominated by the trinity of Rift, Dungeon, and Tower—the very core of dungeon realms, and the dimensional peculiarities that ruled the lives of all within the Republic. The swirling Rift, the waiting Dungeon mouth, and the looming Tower were picked out in glowing gold lines.

  Before this magnificent backdrop hung a pair of shining golden birdcages. A small, glittering humanoid form lay resting in the bases of each. Oz’s breath caught. These were different to the Jackals. They looked innocent. Doll-like.

  Dungeon fairies, possibly.

  Reaching them would be difficult. Around them was total devastation. The stage was a chaotic mess of broken glass and wood draped over fake silks and shimmering cloth. It was as if a drag show had gotten into a brawl with a prop warehouse. Neither survived.

  The destruction was probably the work of the real source of that low, rumbling snore. Between the stage and the seats—down in what the Other helpfully labelled as a “music pit”—lay two of the giant Jackals from the mural.

  Their snores were heavy and wet, like a pair of giant pugs passed out on a hot day.

  Black fur rose and fell with each breath. Each Jackal was easily eight feet tall, more beast than student now. Where the smaller Jackals had been lanky, these were thickly muscled and stooped, their bodies clearly not built for standing upright anymore. Their uniforms had been reduced to ragged loincloths, and their fur was—somehow—even greasier than their fallen kin.

  And they stank. Like wet dog mixed with bin juice left out in the sun.

  Oz quietly let the door swing shut again.

  The Other said he needed a plan, and he hated to admit it was right.

  Oz did things. He was a doer. But the hulking forms of the giant Jackals promised that the only thing he’d achieve by running in there was painting the floor with his blood. In the past he might’ve ignored the voice, but now, with the Other wittering away and his soul on the line, his impatience was silenced.

  From his bag he pulled out some scraps of paper and a fountain pen, sitting cross-legged as Chops flopped beside him. He took a moment to appreciate the pen—centuries old, but still flowing smoothly. He’d always liked sketching. The act calmed him, gave shape to thoughts he couldn’t always articulate with words.

  He sketched the layout of the room, marking the stage, the pit, the seating tiers, the cages. As he worked, he let his thoughts flow—something he wasn’t used to, but was trying.

  “Alright, Chops. How do we do this?” he whispered, glancing at the dog. “Feels like we’ve got to free those things in the cages. But those big guys…” He shook his head. “They look meaner than the rest.”

  Both of Chops’ heads tilted in perfect sync, trying to isolate a word that mattered. The gesture made Oz chuckle despite himself.

  “I think we have to kill them,” he continued. “Probably need their crystals. Right?”

  At the word crystals, Chops perked up and started pawing at his bag.

  “Oh, now you’re interested,” Oz muttered, pushing him back. “Still have no idea what that’s about. But it feels like a clue.”

  He stared down at his notes, chewing the end of the pen. “I don’t think we can sneak to the cages. Not with you in tow—no offence, Chops. And I’m not exactly subtle either.”

  Chops just panted.

  He could feel the Other stirring, nudging at his thoughts with faint memories and impressions—some useful, most deeply confused. He didn’t want a full-on argument with himself again, but there was no denying it helped.

  “Alright,” Oz muttered, still staring at the sketch. “Let’s see if we can be smart about this... for once.”

  “I’m not that sneaky, Chops—and no offence, neither are you. Sneaking close and slitting their throats sounds good, but in practice?”

  Chops, happy for the attention, jumped about, and Oz petted him.

  He listened to the whispers of the Other. It was still strange—his own voice, but thinking in ways that weren’t his. Worse, he trusted it more than his own gut. Probably because his gut was currently yelling just charge in and kill them.

  Classic Oz had never claimed to be the smartest. He was quick to fight, quicker to anger, but he’d throw hands with anyone who called him a coward.

  Now, choking down the part of himself still chanting fight, fight, fight, he saw it clearly: there was a fine line between bravery and stubbornness, and he was definitely on the wrong side of it.

  He needed an edge.

  Flipping the paper over, he started jotting down notes—things he’d observed, little details. He ignored the angry inner voice telling him it was a waste of time, that he should just get it over with and fail faster.

  He wasn’t going to be outwitted by a pair of greasy muscle-heads who’d thought eating evil crystals was a good idea.

  One word on the page stuck out to him.

  He frowned. That might be worth testing.

  Several minutes later, Oz crouched by the door with a very unhappy Chops and four bundles of Jackal clothing wrapped around arrowheads he’d grabbed from the weapons rack.

  Frustratingly, anything ranged that he didn’t throw with his own two hands didn’t work with [Hoodlum]. Because of course it didn’t.

  Still, the tests had borne fruit—though judging by Chops’ accusing look, forgiveness was going to take a while. The smell alone would haunt them both.

  Oz took a deep breath and steadied himself. He had a plan. That was new. He just had to hope it wasn’t awful.

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  Using the torches, he lit the four bundles. The stench hit instantly—what had once been unwashed teenager meets wet dog now smelled like burning cat hair cooking in week-old fryer oil.

  Oz gagged. Chops whined.

  He cracked the door, using the arrow shafts to lob the flaming stink-bombs into the Jackals’ nests. At the same moment, Chops sprinted through and leapt up onto the stage, teeth tugging the curtain shut.

  The Other had insisted the curtains wouldn’t catch fire. Oz had decided to believe him. No point killing the monsters just to roast the fairies in their cages.

  The burning bundles hit the mark. Tests outside had confirmed the grease that coated the Jackals’ fur was flammable—and their uniforms soaked it up like a sponge. He’d hoped for an edge, a moment of chaos.

  What he hadn’t accounted for was the shredded pile of old pillows they’d apparently been napping in and rolling around on.

  The pit went up like a bonfire.

  Both Jackals surged to their feet, screeching in panic. Both were ablaze, blinded by smoke, and disorientated by pain. Their only thought was escape. The stage was too high to climb directly, so they turned and began scrabbling up the tiered stone seats.

  The smell of scorched fur filled Oz’s lungs. Their howls split the air.

  Chops was getting so many treats after this.

  The uneven tiered seating made it impossible to stop, drop, and roll, so they were stuck flailing about.

  Oz saw the fire starting to spread across the scraps of cushion material still stuck to the seats—curtains or not, this whole room could go up if he didn’t act fast. He sprinted down the centre stairs, chain loose in his grip.

  He had options—[Frightful Presence], the chain wrapped round his arm, his natural brutality—but none guaranteed a kill. And if he didn’t take one out fast, he’d have both on him. The fire wouldn’t last. He needed to buy time.

  So he tackled the one in front of him. Flaming or not.

  As the fire scalded his skin, he was grateful that his mother was a desert troll. His vulnerability was ice, not fire, and he was—if anything—more resistant to heat than most. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt or trigger that ancient animal instinct of fire hot!

  His improved Willpower clamped down on that urge, helping him push past the pain and distraction.

  That allowed him to focus his considerable brawn on his target. His mother’s heritage also gave him a boost in height. Most dwarves topped out at five foot, which was considered lofty. Trolls averaged seven, and between the pair his genetics had stuck him at just below six foot—without losing the classic burly dwarven build.

  Oz had mass.

  He slammed into the Jackal’s midsection, momentum driving the wind out of its lungs. Its shriek cut off with a wheeze. Oz barely paused, working despite the heat and stench, and hurled the burning creature back into the pit.

  Then he turned on the second.

  He stamped forward, unleashing [Frightful Presence], his aura of menace flaring like a blowtorch. The Jackal reeled back. Mistake.

  The chain unwrapped from his forearm and struck, his skill flaring: [Twice for Flinching].

  The links lashed across the Jackal’s arm—and again before it could recover. He heard the crack of bone. The creature shrieked, its stance wobbling, confusion and panic in its blazing eyes.

  It was scared. [Twice for Flinching] inflicting fear on top of crippling it.

  The links smashed into its other arm that it feebly raised to protect itself, the chain hitting with extra weight.

  [Damage enhanced by Aura of Menace]

  In desperation, the Jackal lashed out with a clawed foot. Oz dove right, just ahead of talons as long as his fingers. The thing was already dying—each panicked motion feeding air to the flames curling through its greasy coat, burning it faster.

  Still, the bastard fought on.

  Oz shifted left, keeping to the high ground of the stone steps, staying on its wounded side. He brought the chain down with another crunch—its broken arm too slow to block the blow.

  Down by the pit, the second Jackal had clawed its way toward the stage in a frenzy. Mistake. Chops met it head-on, both mouths snarling. His bites tore into its arm and face, sending the creature screaming back into the fire.

  That bought Oz just enough time to finish the job.

  The Jackal in front of him was wavering, too dazed to defend itself properly. Two more heavy strikes—then another pulse of [Twice for Flinching]—and he got the notification.

  [You’ve defeated Mutated Jackal Drop Out]

  Kill confirmed.

  By then, the other Jackal had managed to crawl out of the pit—barely. Its charred body was a ruin, no match for him without backup. Oz didn’t hesitate. He took out its legs first, then ended it.

  [You’ve defeated Mutated Jackal Drop Out]

  Silence returned.

  Breathing hard, he stood over the second corpse. And for the first time, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—the dungeon wasn’t screwing with him by giving him this class.

  [Hoodlum] fit. [Aura of Menace] worked. Even [Twice for Flinching] felt right.

  The brutal, up-close style made sense to him. More than that, the way fear worked—how it cracked people open just long enough to land the real blow—that made sense. Fear used to be a shield, a way to stop a fight before it started. Not perfect. Sometimes it made things worse. Some people had something to prove.

  But now, fear was a weapon.

  It all worked.

  What didn’t sit right was how natural it all felt. They were just dungeon monsters—barely real, barely alive. Still, it was too easy to slip back into the instincts he’d honed in tunnel fights with his dad… and brawls with his peers… and just crank up the force until skulls cracked.

  He shook the thought off.

  The Other was helpful—too helpful, sometimes. It stirred at the wrong moments, and now wasn’t the time for moral reflection. Oz focused on what he felt was the most pressing issue right now.

  He needed a bath. With soap. This smell was going to get into his beard.

  The fire in the pit was already dying down. Short-lived, but intense—like a bonfire made of hair and hate. The stench was unbelievable. He tore a strip of fabric from the remains of his jacket and tied it over his face, tucking it into his shirt.

  [Hoodlum has Exceptional conductivity with improvised blood-soaked mask]

  Hoodlum struck. Oz didn’t care, the smell was terrible. If anyone got scared of a little blood and fabric, that sounded like a them problem.

  He felt his [Trollish Regeneration] kicking in as he wandered around stamping out the guttering flames that had escaped the pit.

  Finally satisfied he wasn’t going to burn them to death by accident, he dragged himself under the closed curtains to meet a pair of heads that were very pleased to see him—even if he could swear Chops was giving his face covering the side-eye.

  “I don’t think you’d have liked this round. Thanks for your help, Chops.” Oz wasn’t entirely sure just how intelligent Chops was. He seemed like a dog most of the time, but he took orders supernaturally well. He’d pulled the curtains across perfectly, protecting this side from the worst of the smoke and filth.

  “You don’t smell anything strange from the piles, do you?” Chops looked at him again—this time definitely side-eye. Definitely smart for a dog. “Good point. Bet you can’t smell much of anything. Well, let me know if you hear anything.”

  He flopped down onto the stone floor, catching his breath, brushing at something stuck to his uniform.

  A cascade of glittery sequins came away on his hand.

  [Hoodlum has Low conductivity with Bedazzled Noxarcer uniform]

  “Oh, you whiny little—” Oz muttered, furiously brushing off the offending sparkles. Of course Hoodlum didn’t like glitter.

  It was a valuable lesson: he was vulnerable to sequins. If someone threw a top hat on him in battle, would it be an issue? A question for another time.

  Oz let himself breathe for a while, slumped amidst the wreckage of costumes and scorched fur, trying not to think about the smell or the fading sounds of the fire burning itself out.

  He was putting something off—and he knew exactly what it was.

  Eventually, Oz pushed himself upright and looked to the cages.

  They were golden domed wire things, delicate but ornate, hanging from thin chains strung high into the ceiling. Inside each rested a small fairy, no larger than his palm. Their iridescent wings were like dragonflies, and their tiny pale bodies were painfully fragile-looking.

  Their heads were slightly oversized, eyes even more so—perfect marbles of gold without iris or pupil, staring straight at him.

  Oz sighed.

  He knew what came next.

  He had to go… make friends.

  Thanks for the support so far!