Eleven girls and a man stood before the portal, which shimmered with all shades of blue—from pale, almost transparent cornflower at the edges to deep indigo at the centre. The magical construct hummed faintly, like a taut string, and the air around it vibrated, distorting the outlines of what lay beyond.

  Behind them spread sparse pine woodland on a gentle slope—tall, slender trunks stood at decent intervals from each other, slanting rays of pre-noon sun breaking through the crowns. Ahead, beyond the shimmering veil of the portal, a mountain gorge could be seen beginning—grim, fractured, nothing like the peaceful forest behind.

  "Ready?" Kael's voice sounded level, as though he were issuing a command on a parade ground. "There'll be no turning back..."

  He slowly surveyed all the girls who comprised his force, letting his gaze linger on each face. In their answering looks could be read resolve and confidence—that very steel forged by pain and blood, impossible to counterfeit.

  How different they were from those yesterday's schoolgirls he and Elira had taken under their wing on the very first day of existence in Seratis. Then they'd been afraid even of rabbits, shied from the sounds of battle, wept at first injuries.

  And how many tantrums they'd all had to endure in those early days. Military discipline and iron order, which Kael had imposed from the very first day, didn't please everyone—many girls openly rebelled, wept, threatened to leave the group. Elira supported his methods unequivocally, which only aggravated the situation.

  Only they'd never managed to find another tank capable of replacing their classmate's father, however hard they tried. There were no volunteers to do it for nothing, and none of them measured up to his skill and selflessness in battle. They'd had to endure his constant antics, harsh dawn training sessions and endless lectures on discipline. The alternative was to expose themselves to mobs' strikes, endure pain and suffer—and naturally, no one burned with particular desire to do that.

  Numerous quest completions, countless training sessions and dozens of runs through this very dungeon had forged them into a cohesive, honed group—a mechanism working without failures.

  Everyone knew what to expect from whom, who was capable of what, who fulfilled what role in battle. They believed in their strength, yet soberly knew its limits—didn't overestimate themselves, but nor did they quail before the challenge. Pain and death they now looked in the eye easily, knowing it would only strengthen them, temper them, make them tougher—pain had become their ally, not their enemy.

  Having found all necessary answers to his question in those gazes, the man, as group leader, entered the dungeon difficulty settings and without hesitation selected maximum level. Waving aside the system's intrusive warnings, which tried to stop his madness, he watched attentively as the portal's colour began gradually to change—the blue slowly faded, yielding to something new.

  Now before them swirled a white vortex, almost blinding in its purity, inviting them to step into it, alluring and deadly dangerous simultaneously. The colour was deceptive—white seemed harmless, almost innocent. But they knew perfectly well that there, beyond that light veil, awaited a trial of incredible, inhuman difficulty. And yet on the fighters' faces appeared only impatience and anticipation of battle.

  Kael stepped towards the portal first. Spear in his right hand, shield on his left forearm—the classic pairing. Leather armour creaked with movement, plates on chest and shoulders gleaming dully in the sun's rays. The short sword at his waist swung in time with his step.

  The white vortex swallowed his silhouette without sound.

  Elira followed him. Her light-brown hair, tightly bound at the nape, fluttered for a moment in the magical flow, then vanished into the radiance. She held the spear confidently, as an extension of her own arm. Movements precise, without hesitation.

  The girls moved after—not as a crowd, but an organised column. Three rows of three, plus the rearguard. The interval between rows perfect, maintained to the centimetre after hundreds of repetitions on the parade ground. Shields covered the left flank, spears pointed upwards at an angle—battle formation on the march.

  Leather armour rustled in unison. Identical plates on forearms, pauldrons with simple rivets, tassets protecting thighs—no decorations, no superfluities. Functional. Effective.

  The portal devoured them one after another.

  The first row dissolved in the whiteness—three figures vanished as though by command, without breaking formation. The second followed three seconds later. Spears flashed in the vortex, shields reflected light, and the girls stepped into the unknown without looking back.

  Third row. Three more silhouettes the magical veil consumed. Measured step, calm breathing. Fear remained somewhere behind, in that time when they'd feared rabbits and wept from scratches.

  The last rearguard froze before the portal for a fraction of a second. Glanced back at the sparse woodland—pines stood as silent sentinels, sunbeams sliding across bark. A peaceful forest, where there was no place for what awaited them ahead.

  The girl turned and stepped into the vortex.

  The portal snapped shut behind her with a quiet pop, like a bursting soap bubble. The air ceased vibrating. The hum died.

  On the clearing remained only footprints in soft pine needles and a faint smell of ozone—all that recalled the twelve warriors who'd departed into the white inferno of maximum difficulty.

  The world changed in one step.

  The gorge met them with stifling heat rising from cracked earth. The air here didn't simply smell of ash—it breathed it, saturated with the finest particles settling on skin in a sticky film. Moisture mixed with soot into a revolting cocktail that burnt lungs with every breath.

  Stones underfoot crunched—a network of cracks covered the basalt like a spider's web. Once, molten rock had flowed here, burning away everything living. Now acrid smoke seeped from the fissures, rising in thin streams upward and dissolving in the greyish mist that spread over the ground in a thick blanket. Visibility—twenty metres, no more. Beyond began a milky haze concealing what lurked in the gorge's depths.

  Canyon walls reared on both sides—black basalt, corroded by time and fire. Sharp protrusions jutted from the stone at strange angles, as though giant claws had torn the cliff from within. Height was lost somewhere above, in mist and smoke.

  "Form up!"

  Kael's command sounded clipped. The girls wheeled with honed precision—no fuss, no unnecessary movements. Shields formed a line, spears lowered to combat angle.

  The man took the centre, feet spread shoulder-width. Shield rose to chin level, spear protruded from behind the rim—the classic stance of a phalangist ready to receive a strike. Leather armour hugged his torso tightly, plates on shoulders gleaming dully in grey light.

  Elira stood to his left, slightly behind. Her shield covered Kael's undefended flank. The spear in her right hand pointed forward and right, ready to deflect a flanking attack. Hair stuck to temples from the humid heat.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Four more girls stepped forward and took positions in their row, forming into a single line. Shields rose simultaneously, forming a solid wall where each edge overlapped the next, leaving no gaps. Spears protruded between rims—points directed strictly forward, at identical angles. Feet spread steadily, knees slightly bent, ready to absorb impact. Six warriors, six shields, six spears—the first line of defence, unbreakable and silent.

  "Second row—half-metre interval!"

  The remaining girls formed up behind, creating the second line of defence. Shields raised slightly higher so as not to catch the backs of those in front, spears protruding in gaps between the first row's warriors—a palisade of steel and wood. The formation came out tight, compact. Flanks slightly curved forward, forming a shallow arc—thus easier to hold the enemy, not letting them get round the sides.

  Two rows. Twelve shields. Twelve spears. A wall.

  Breathing evened in unison—slow inhale, hold, exhale. Hearts beat in a single rhythm, practised through hundreds of training sessions. Fear had no place here—only concentration, pure and cold as ice.

  From a crack at Kael's feet burst a jet of smoke, coiled round his shin and dissolved in the mist. Heat from the fissure burnt skin even through leather greaves. The man didn't stir.

  The greyish haze rippled ahead. Something moved there, in the gorge's depths—numerous, squealing.

  The poisonous smoke inflicted a debuff on everyone, reducing any regeneration by ten per cent—and movement speed too. Each breath left bitterness on the tongue, lungs resisted the poisoned air, and legs seemed filled with lead. Movements became slightly slower, reactions slightly more delayed. Even such a small thing could kill.

  That was precisely why they'd practised the tactic where, having formed up in a shield wall, they took pack after pack of mobs upon it—one after another, methodically, patiently. No dashes, no heroics. Simply held the line and killed everything that reached it. Everyone knew their place, everyone answered for their section of the wall.

  At other difficulty levels, Elira would move forward, lure enemies to herself and run back, gathering a crowd behind. This saved time, accelerated clearing. But at legendary difficulty level, such tricks weren't required. Here the mobs would come to them themselves—slowly but inexorably, wave after wave, until they filled the entire gorge. Here they'd need to manage clearing them, not letting them accumulate to critical mass. Otherwise, having gathered, they'd tear the squad apart in mere seconds, crush the formation by numbers and fury.

  The haze trembled. From the grey shroud stepped silhouettes—low, squat, moving with ragged, jerky lunges.

  Ashen rodents.

  The first burst from the mist and froze, staring at the shield wall with cloudy red eyes. The size of a large dog, but built differently—the front part of the torso disproportionately massive, the rear lean. Short legs with claws scraping basalt, a muscular neck holding a broad skull. Fur hung in patches, scorched and mangy, the colour of old ash with bald spots where red, inflamed skin showed, covered with sores and scabs. Muzzle elongated, bristly, from the maw protruded incisors—long, yellow, worn unevenly from constant grinding.

  The creature jerked its head, sniffing. From nostrils burst two streams of smoke.

  The second crawled out behind, slightly to the left. Smaller than the first, but on its back swelled some sort of tumour, pulsing in time with breathing. Skin on the growth had burst in several places, from them oozed thick pus.

  Third, fourth, fifth—rodents crawled from the mist singly, from different directions. Not in a pack, not en masse. As though checking, probing. Tails dragged across stone—naked, scaly, resembling rats' only thicker and longer.

  One of the rodents rose on hind legs, leaning front paws on air, like a human. Red eyes fixed on Kael. The muzzle twitched in the semblance of a snarl—incisors clicked, spraying saliva.

  Then dropped back on all fours.

  Silence. Only crackling of cracks underfoot and the creatures' hoarse breathing—each inhalation echoed with a whistle in corroded lungs.

  Five rodents. Five pairs of red eyes directed at the shield wall.

  Peering closer, the man saw system text above them.

  [Ashen Rodent (905/905)

  Level 14

  Rank: B]

  "Step!"

  The command began to scatter in echoes, but smoke and mist swallowed the sound almost instantly.

  The first line moved forward—six shields shifted simultaneously, without jerk, smoothly. Left foot forward, weight transferred, right pulled up. Spears remained in place, fixed between shield rims, points directed strictly horizontally.

  Basalt crunched underfoot.

  The rodents broke from their positions.

  Not all at once—first the one closest, with the tumour on its back. Lunged forward in a leap, claws struck sparks from stone. Maw gaped, incisors flashed yellow. Red eyes filled with blood.

  Behind it charged the rest—four squat bodies, moving with ragged, jerky lunges. Not running, but jumping, like giant fleas. Push off with hind legs, fly a metre or metre-and-a-half, push off again.

  Distance melted.

  The first rodent aimed for Kael. The spear strike missed the mark, he had to bring up the shield.

  The impact struck the centre—a carcass weighing forty kilograms or so crashed into the metal boss with its entire body. The man threw himself backwards, absorbing the weight, braced with his right leg, held.

  The creature slid down, claws scraped the rim, leaving deep furrows. Didn't fall, clung to the shield with front paws, hung on it. The muzzle darted forward, incisors clicked centimetres from Kael's face—he jerked his head, avoiding the bite.

  Someone's spear darted from behind his shoulder. The point entered the rodent's neck from the side, pierced hide, tore muscles. Blood spurted in black drops, sprayed the shield's edge.

  The creature shrieked—piercingly, disgustingly. Paws unclenched, the carcass slid onto stones. Not dead, writhing, bleeding out.

  The man seized the moment and kicked the creature, restoring optimal combat distance.

  The second and third rodents crashed down on neighbouring shields—the girls right and left took the impact. One leant backwards, Elira held her ground, managing to knock down the fourth creature's flight with her spear. Though considering her Agility stat was highest in their group, no surprise there.

  Spears from the second row darted forward simultaneously. Two points plunged into the rodents' backs—between shoulder blades, deep. The creatures thrashed in convulsions but didn't release the shields, clinging with claws.

  The fifth went round the flank—circled the formation's edge, charged the leftmost girl. Her counterpart from the second row intercepted it—step forward, precise strike. The rodent fell. Rose instantly, wheeled round.

  Her neighbour's spear from the second row passed through its ribs clean through. Entered with a crunch, exited on the other side, carrying a piece of lung on the point. The first girl, having dropped her spear, drew her short sword and together the three of them quickly dispatched the rodent.

  The creature twitched twice finally and fell still.

  The first rodent darted before the formation, not daring to attack. Jumped from side to side, whined, scratched stone. Sought a breach, a weak spot.

  Kael stepped forward—one short step. The shield lowered, exposing chest for a fraction of a second.

  The rodent took the bait, charged.

  The spear darted forward—straight lunge, no backswing. The point caught the creature mid-leap, entered the open maw, pierced the palate, exited through the back of the skull. The carcass hung on the shaft, twitching. Blood flowed down the wood, flooded his hands.

  Kael shook the spear—the rodent flew off, crashed onto stones in a heap of bloodied fur. Still alive, though. He had to pierce the creature four more times to remove its remaining health points.

  Finishing off the remaining opponents proved no trouble. Yes, B-rank mobs were stronger, faster and hardier than their lower-ranked brethren—endurance half again as high, claw damage more serious, reactions sharper. But it didn't help them. Their habits and temperament repeated exactly, as though they'd all been cut from one template. And their group had gained more than enough practice grinding through such packs in recent weeks. The formation held tight, spears struck true, the girls didn't break ranks even when the creatures tried to get round the flanks.

  Kael cast a final glance at the corpses scattered across the stone floor. Blood flowed into irregularities in stone, filling cracks with dark pools. As usual, he regretted that game mechanics allowed mobs to fight even with pierced hearts, even when lungs were reduced to tatters, even when brains were destroyed.

  But try planting a spear in a player—the effect would be entirely different. It wouldn't kill them, naturally. Health would slowly drain, but no more, and regeneration would cope with the wound in time. But pain... Pain would be such that continuing the fight would be out of the question. A person would curl into a ball, howl, lose the ability to hold a weapon. Reflexes would shut down, consciousness cloud from shock.

  There was, of course, the option to set pain sensation to zero per cent—the system allowed it, no restrictions. But penalties would be so brutal that hitting anything would be impossible. Movement coordination would plummet so much that even the simplest strike would miss. Shooting accuracy would become laughable. Distance perception would distort. Playing on zero pain turned into the drunken flailing of a blind kitten.

  And experience gain was cut practically to the root.

  The appearance of new ashen rodents returned him to reality and Kael re-gripped the spear more comfortably. The miss on the first opponent still gnawed at his pride and he firmly intended to correct it.