The mind piloting the body of the Gauntlet’s Champion made three major miscalculations when it opened the fight by blasting Chops with what was clearly meant to be a finishing move. A direct hit. First strike. No warning.

  It was a blatant breach of dungeon combat protocol, something it planned to clumsily justify as a “showcase” of its capabilities. A little dramatic flair, it claimed. At the cost of a mere summon. One that could be replaced.

  The first miscalculation came from centuries of becoming numb to “murder”. In the dungeon realms, death was permanent, but only sometimes. More often, “death” meant vanquishing. When a being connected to the Weave, either summoned or bound to the dungeon, was destroyed, their body and soul disconnected. Painful, exhausting, and soul stressing, but survivable.

  Delvers got used to it. Watching your allies vanish in fire and reappear later, like injured teammates coming off the bench. It wasn’t casual, exactly, but it was closer to a sports injury that took you out of commission for a couple of weeks than ending a life.

  But Oz? Oz was not used to dungeons. Oz was not used to watching people die in front of him.

  Especially not his dog.

  The second miscalculation was in assuming it was slaying a common summon. Summons were meant to be glorified golems, reflections of creatures from other realms. They didn’t think. They didn’t cuddle. They didn’t try to eat everything that sparkled.

  They weren’t the goodest of boys.

  Miscalculation number three, the worst of them all, was not realising just how truly, irreparably awful Oz’s day had already been.

  He was held together by a threadbare combination of [Dwarven Stubbornness], high Will, and the occasional supportive head nudge from the only thing in this entire dungeon that he actually cared about.

  And now that dog had just been obliterated in front of him.

  “See now, if you’ll indulge me,” the Champion said, turning toward Oz with a smug, perfectly punchable smile. “I’ll even give you time to summon another. Isn’t that—”

  It froze as it saw its opponent’s face.

  It did not expect the rictus of rage. Tendons showed on his neck, eyes locked on his face. From his throat came a sound that a bear would retreat from. A roar of pure emotion as his mind finally cracked, a mist of red coming down, his vision tunnelling on a single figure who embodied everything wrong with his day.

  “Hang on.”

  [Frightful Presence]

  Oz exploded forward, his bestial roar drowning out the music and vibrating the chandelier. The Champion flinched as the power hit him.

  The Champion rolled over the back of his couch while one hand snatched up his sword, and with the other launched a bolt of fire at Oz. Oz snapped up his shield, not even slowing as the rolling flames smashed into him. The door handled most of the flame, adding to the scorch marks of the trap. Small tongues of fire burst through the holes he’d punched for the belts. The fire licked at his arm, the student uniform doing little to stop the burning heat. Only the gloves resisted the flame.

  Oz didn’t even notice the pain. He had the bestest boy to avenge.

  Working on instinct he threw his vandalised hatchet, powering the attack with a further burst of [Vandal]. The skill wasn’t limited to melee like [Twice for Flinching] was, and so the hatchet carried magic with it as it whirred between them, heading straight for the Jackal Master’s chest.

  Snarling, he blocked it with his rapier, hissing in frustration as it took a chunk out of his blade. Oz reached into the satchel for his main weapon, whose haft was poking out, waiting for him to pull it free.

  The hatchet wasn’t the only weapon he’d modified. And this one had Hoodlum drooling. He leapt over the couch, the added height giving extra momentum to his secret weapon prepared especially for the boss.

  Some fought with magical blades, honed from enchanted steel and polished in moonlight. Oz was not that man. He had Hoodlum, and he had Vandal, and a mean streak a mile wide.

  [Hoodlum conductivity is at maximum with Vandalised Crystal Spiked Club]

  He’d spotted the heavy wooden club on the rack earlier. A nice simple weapon, and would never have been considered if Chops hadn’t been bothering him about the crystals again.

  He’d remembered the words of the fairies, saying that while eating the remaining Jackals would heal the Champion, there would be time as he had to process the corruption in the crystal. That plus some images from the Other and the work of a few minutes had presented him with this masterpiece of delinquent weaponry.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Are you a berserker? It’s just a summon?” the Champion shouted in confusion.

  “Fuck you, that was my dog.” The club came down as the sword reared up, but his far greater mass and momentum smashed the blade down, letting the club drive home, spiking the crystals into the boss. The Jackal who’d been looking smug before immediately began to scream, the crystals burning their skin, the vile magic within hissing as it touched their skin.

  The sword came for him, glowing with red flame, but his shield took the worst of it. The heavy, magic infused blow jarred his arm with its weight and cut deep into his shield.

  “Well aren’t you spirited, and such a crude use of a valuable resource. Come on, you need to do better than that.”

  Oz lashed out again, only for the Champion to dodge.

  “Too slow.” The bastard was laughing at him. It lashed out, catching him on the arm, but had to dodge back as Oz swung the club at its head.

  Oz didn’t quip. He didn’t smile knowingly. That wouldn’t help him murder the smug piece of slag. Oz’s only response was more violence.

  [Twice for Flinching]

  Empowered by the skill, the club hissed out in two quick swings. The first was caught on the blade, but the second snuck through, slamming into their side. The Jackal wheezed and stepped back. A gout of flame came out of his hand to buy him space.

  The fire spread and consumed the couch and the books behind him. Despite this, Oz couldn’t ignore that the music kept playing. If anything, the tempo had increased. It matched the pounding of the blood in his ears and the roar of the flames.

  “Is that it, all you’ve got then. A couple of skills. No spells. Tell me you at least had a powerful general skill from before you got your class.” The bastard asked, keeping the burning furniture between them. He was waiting for Oz to think, to decide from which angle to attack. The left took him nearer the Jackal butler who’d remained non-hostile but was still a possible threat. The other side didn’t give him much room to play with, backing him up against the bookcases.

  Oz was not a thinker. He was a doer. And he chose the shortest path.

  [Vandal]

  Oz charged through the couch, his shield breaking it apart like it was made of matchsticks. The Champion tried to stop him, screeching at him with waves of sound that made him want to plug his ears.

  [Dwarven Stubbornness has helped resist mental attack]

  “Rooargh!” Oz yelled back, slamming the door into him. The Champion recoiled and Oz felt an opening, a flicker on the edge of his awareness. It was trying to summon up a fire spell again. Oz wasn’t having that. And he’d just felt his skills twitch. Seems [Twice for Flinching] considered his “shield” a weapon.

  Slam. Slam.

  Oz rocked the Champion with two huge shield bashes, hammering flaming bits of sofa into him with each strike. The man’s perfect face was bloodied and his hair—

  The spell was interrupted and a cascade of undirected flame poured out of the Jackal Master, separating the two combatants.

  Around them, fire swirled. The shelves of books were alight. The music was reaching a crescendo.

  “Well you’ve done it now. I’m going to clobber you,” the genteel, mocking voice was gone. Now the words sounded like they were spat round an extra set of teeth by a lifelong smoker.

  Out of the wall of flame the boss emerged. It was different now, a distorted face, furry and with a half formed snout. The body was hunched and unbalanced, more bestial with broader shoulders, lacking the finesse it once held. It had dropped the blade and was snacking on the butler Jackal.

  Oz charged, not willing to give it time to finish his meal.

  The initial speed the boss had shown was gone, but in the loss of the blade it had gained more weapons. A clawed foot raked out, forcing Oz to block with the shield, only to see a clawed hand full of fire coming over the top.

  Even half mutated it could still cast.

  The sparks in the palm left Oz no time to react. With limited options he pressed forward, tackling into the boss. Getting within his reach and slamming into him.

  Oz’s enhanced strength and heavy build were enough to topple the beast, but not enough to deflect the magical flames completely. The fire rolled down his back and right leg. Even with the coat helping, Oz felt the flames leave his skin a screaming beacon of pain. The Other raised some warning flags, but Oz wasn’t listening. He’d been hurt before, but never like this.

  Oz jumped on top of the downed boss, straddling him and pinning him down. His mind howled with fury, and all tactical sense was gone, not that he needed it.

  Oz had a bat with spikes in it.

  [Frightful Presence]

  His racial skill fired off on pure instinct. This time it did more. The boss was weaker now and the flinch lined up perfectly.

  “[Twice for Flinching]” Oz bellowed as he used the skill. It drained him, the power scraping at his soul, but it still triggered. He hammered the bat into the monster. He got both hits off before an arm clubbed him in the side of the head. A wave of dizziness sent him stumbling and the bat dropped from his grip.

  He tasted blood and he lost sight in one of his eyes as blood filled it. But he didn’t stop. This fucker had killed Chops.

  With a growl he tore the remains of the shield off his arm. Gripping the battered bits of door in both hands he slammed the bottom edge down over and over again, aiming for the monster’s throat.

  The beast fought, but each attack was weaker than the last.

  The claws slammed into the door, but its angle of attack was poor and the shield too big for it to reach Oz. Desperately it tried to buck the oversized dwarf off. It tried to claw at him with its feet.

  It struggled in vain.

  Oz slammed the door into it again and again, a single unbroken howl escaping his lips. Eventually he felt something crunch and the weak finally stopped.

  [You have slain Jackal Master, boss of the ‘Noxarcer Gauntlet’. You’ve gained a significant amount of exp.]

  [You’ve reached the next threshold]

  [You’ve gained the Legend ‘Gauntlet Runner’]

  Even with the notification to confirm, it was some time before Oz stopped attacking. Once his fury subsided he looked down at the bloody mess and dropped the shield over it to cover it up.

  On the far wall between some desks a door of light appeared. Soothing white light punched through the smoke and haze. Oz looked around, spotting the still playing form of the last Jackal in the smoke. He stood to attack, but his body shuddered in complaint.

  Wincing, and with the Other whining in his mind, Oz limped out to the sounds of a dirge playing in his ears.

  He was so done with this dungeon.