Morning’s light spilled through the great trees bordering the square, revealing three figures standing at the threshold: a swordsman, tall and stiff-backed, his shoulders taut with inner resolve; a martial artist, every line of her toned body poised in readiness; and the muscular wizard, arms folded across a broad chest, sparks crackling at his fingertips. Their hushed voices carried through the still air, thick with anticipation.

  From a discreet distance, Myke Keys observed them, perched atop his modest cart laden with the jingling of countless keys. His attire, once spotless, was smudged with dust and pine needles, but his eyes gleamed with the keen hunger of opportunity. He licked his lips, surveying the walls of the square where faint arcs of magic played across the surface.

  He let out a quiet breath, pressing a hand to the battered chest in his cart. “All That Glitters,” he murmured, letting the familiar magic wash over him. The vision sprang up inside his thoughts: a glimmer of gold, the faint glint of treasure within the square. Still 1030, he thought, the number bright as daylight in his mental ledger. It’s gone down from 1070, but 1030 is still a fortune. His heart fluttered at the prospect—what were a few vanished coins, after all?

  Let them chase after that monstrous Master, he thought. I’ll gather my share of the gold while they’re busy playing heroes.

  He fished out his own small brass key, pressing it into the wall. The blue light wavered, then he slipped through.

  ******

  Ryan stood at the forest’s edge with Vynessa and Shem at his sides. His heart thrummed with a mix of fear and pride.

  He drew in a breath and shouted, his voice echoing through the glade, “Master of the Square! Kael! I am here for a duel! Just you and me!”

  Silence answered at first, a hush that made Ryan’s pulse quicken. Then, as though summoned by his call, two slimes slid from the undergrowth. They were small, unassuming lumps that quivered in the half-light. Ryan’s grip on his dull sword tightened. Vynessa tensed, adopting a low clawed fighting stance, while Shem let fire dance along his fingertips. The three edged forward.

  A ripple in the brush behind them made Vynessa spin, her eyes sharp. There, larger than the first pair, a blob of greenish membrane oozed forward. The familiar slime that Vynessa killed before. Her stomach clenched at the sight of its return, completely unaffected.

  And then Kael appeared.

  He materialized from the shadow of a twisted pine, his gray robes brushing against the ground, the faint gleam of an icy sickle at his side. A mocking smile curved his lips as he regarded the intruders with languid disdain. Blue, the will-o’-wisp, hung overhead like a silent sentinel, its azure glow shedding ghostly light onto the scene.

  “Back again so soon?” Kael said, voice quiet but carrying a derisive edge. His gaze flicked over Ryan, Vynessa, and Shem, noting their weapons, their guarded stances. “You do love to tempt fate, don’t you?”

  In one fluid motion, Kael lifted his orb. Ryan and his companions tensed, remembering the cunning traps and the unrelenting minions they’d faced. But the display that followed was new: a rush of cold radiated from the orb, coalescing into three squat forms of glistening ice. Slimes—but their bodies frozen and covered razor-edged icicles, half-translucent, gleaming with lethal promise.

  Vynessa let out a low curse. “What in the—?”

  Shem’s sparks died on his fingertips as he stared, eyes wide. “He didn’t have those before.”

  “It won’t matter,” Ryan hissed, though a bead of sweat traced down his temple. He tried to steel himself, remembering the surge of skill from the scroll Elias had given. But deep in his gut, worry gnawed.

  The circle was closing around them—two common slimes to the fore, Jello at their rear, and now these three ominous ice slimes forming a cold wall between them and Kael. Above them, Blue drifted lazily, casting pale circling patterns of light onto the ground.

  “This is my fight,” Ryan said, his voice shaking with emotions long bottled up—fury, shame, and something akin to desperation. “My honor is at stake. My retribution. My friends are only here because they won’t let me walk alone.”

  His hand clenched his battered sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. He did not look at his companions, Shem and Vynessa, who hovered near him with worry etched upon their faces.

  A faint smile curved on Kael’s lips. It was neither warm nor kind, merely an acknowledgment of the drama unfolding. Behind him, three newly summoned ice slimes shimmered like living icicles, and the loyal slimes under his robes stirred with faint, wet sounds.

  “A duel has stakes, no?” Kael said with measured calm. “When a Master wagers his life, that is the ultimate stake. But you?” He gestured at Ryan with a clawed hand. “You do not truly die. You simply return. That puts us on uneven ground.”

  “If I lose. I’ll never set foot in your wretched square again. That will spare you the trouble of my intrusions forever.”

  “Hardly worth the risk,” Kael replied.

  “Then... I’ll serve you,” he blurted, his voice hitching. “If you defeat me, I’ll dig your pits and build your traps. I’ll do the menial labor. Whatever you want.”

  Kael snorted. “Manual labor from a fool who’s already blundered into my square multiple times? That’s worth even less.”

  Ryan shook silently with rage, but he pressed on. “Then… my books,” he said, forcing the words out. “My Weapons Training Books, Volume I and II. The first gave me enough skill to even stand here, to stand among swordsmen. I haven’t advanced enough to read the second yet. They’re all I have that’s valuable.”

  Kael’s eyes glinted at the mention of knowledge, of skill bound in written pages. “Books, you say. Weapons training. That might be worth something, indeed.”

  Kael’s interest was piqued. If those volumes could grant him or his minions the prowess that Ryan displayed, perhaps he need not squander precious skill points.

  From the shadows, Skrindle fluttered into view, his translucent wings giving off a restless hum. The imp’s expression was rife with alarm. “Master,” he hissed, his voice low but urgent. “Don’t accept. Alone, you’ll be at a disadvantage. This swordsman, battered though he seems, has the skill to beat you. You must refuse, let me help you pick a personal skill, let you prepare properly.”

  For a heartbeat, Kael neither moved nor spoke. The light from his orb tinted his features, revealing neither fear nor hesitation. At last, he lifted his head, sweeping a cold, assessing gaze over Ryan’s tense stance, the dull edge of the sword, the grim determination in the young man’s eyes.

  “I accept your challenge,” Kael said quietly. His words spilled into the hush like a stone dropped in still water.

  “Master—!” Skrindle croaked in protest, wings flapping in frantic dismay. “This is madness. At least wait, delay, choose a skill—your physical path or a body transformation—any of it! You can’t go into a duel unprepared.”

  “If I win, those books become mine.” He let his gaze flick to the battered sword in Ryan’s hand. “And if you win… I die.”

  Skrindle drew back, glancing at Ryan’s resolute stance with dread. “You… you’re going to get yourself killed,” he breathed, the words sharper than any accusation. “Then I’ll have no Master to serve.” His voice trembled into quiet despair, and for the first time, the imp's usual sardonic edge seemed to crumble.

  Ryan gave a curt nod, clearly relieved that Kael accepted, yet every fiber of his being was tense with anticipation. “I accept.”

  Kael turned, retrieved something from his robes, and let the gleam of polished steel fill the air. Ryan’s silver sword. Its edge caught the sun, reflecting a bright streak of gold across the clearing.

  “To even the match,” Kael said, offering the sword hilt-first to Ryan, in what seemed almost a gesture of courtesy. “Use this.”

  Surprise flickered across Ryan’s face. He hesitated, then grasped the hilt with wary reverence. The gleaming steel was far sharper than the blade he’d carried. For a moment, Ryan’s gaze met Kael’s in silent confusion. It was a mixture of gratitude, suspicion, and fierce determination.

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  Ryan took the first step, the shining blade held low. His stance, once uncertain, now bristled with newfound confidence. Kael stood opposite him, the new ice-laden sickle gleaming in his hand. The weapon was almost grotesquely beautiful, the frost shimmering like shards of broken glass along its curved blade.

  Shem shook his head, muttering under his breath, “That sickle’s new too.”

  They began to circle, boots pressing shallow prints into soft earth. Each took the other’s measure, the circle growing narrower with every step. Ryan adjusted his grip on the polished sword Kael had so generously returned, muscles tensed and coiled. The presence of Kael’s cold eyes raked over him like a predator’s.

  It was Ryan who broke the hush first.

  His opening move came with a suddenness that made Vynessa flinch: Impact Thrust, he called it. He dashed forward, turning the thrust into a lunge that aimed straight for Kael’s heart. A flash of steel, a sharp intake of breath. Ryan felt the thrill of his newfound speed, courtesy of that Experience Scroll’s knowledge surging within.

  Kael’s mind flashed with memory, Ryan had used this very thrust before. With a sleek pivot, the Master brought up his ice-forged sickle. The collision of sword and frosted metal rang out in the clearing like a struck bell. Ice chips scattered with the force, and Ryan grunted, surprised by how easily Kael had read him. Still, the swordsman felt the raw power behind his own thrust, more than he had possessed before.

  Ryan pressed his advantage, following up with two rapid slashes. Kael recoiled, leaping away from each swing. He was quicker, sharper. He could do this.

  They circled again, dust swirling around their feet, each watching for an opening. “Perhaps I’ll put you to work if you survive,” he said smoothly. “You’d be useless at it, of course. Can’t follow orders, can’t dig a simple pit. Even Terrance is finished with you.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Face it, worthless as a student, worthless as a laborer. If I defeat you, you won’t manage a day under my direction. You can’t listen, can’t obey. You can’t even do as you’re told by the knight you idolized. An embarrassment.”

  Ryan snarled and dashed forward, sword raised high. His swings came broad, furious, telegraphed. Kael sidestepped easily, the air crackling around him as the sickle’s frost shimmered in the shifting sunlight. Another swing, another sidestep. Ryan’s anger lent him strength, but also robbed him of precision.

  It was working.

  Stir his fury, Kael thought, let him make mistakes.

  “Damn you!” Ryan’s roar tore from his throat, raw and desperate. He hammered a downward slash that Kael easily dodged, the sword crashing into the soil with a dull thump. Pain and frustration knotted Ryan’s shoulders.

  The Master, gray robes rippling, circled slowly. “Your god…” Kael teased, a faint sneer on his lips. “You worship the Warrior, yes? What must he think, seeing you fail so miserably against an introductory square’s Master?”

  Kael’s taunts rang in his mind like war drums.

  Enraged, Ryan rushed forward, swinging his polished sword in vast arcs. Each strike whipped through empty air, missing by a wide margin as Kael effortlessly sidestepped. Kael’s own weapon, the Ice Sickle, left silvered traces of cold mist with every counter-swing, an eerie pall that lingered like a chill omen.

  Despite his wild slashes, Ryan’s guard was solid when Kael struck back. Sparks flashed where the frosted blade met the cleaned and sharpened sword. Shem and Vynessa, rooted near the treeline, cried out for Ryan to focus. Their words were an anchor in Ryan’s storm of fury.

  “Stop listening to him!” Vynessa shouted, her voice cutting through the sound of clashing steel and ice. She stood at the clearing’s edge, her gaze fixed on Ryan’s every misstep. “Ryan, calm down. Use your head!"

  Meanwhile, Kael felt himself flush with confidence. The new ice-laden sickle seemed to catch Ryan off-guard, and beneath Kael’s robes, the slimes wiggled, providing a unique brand of armor. A grin tugged at the corners of the Master’s mouth as he stepped in for another swipe. He’ll never land a blow at this rate, he thought, the lingering sting of superiority rushing through his veins.

  Then Ryan drew a deep breath.

  Something about the set of his shoulders changed, his wild anger coalesced into a deadly resolve. He whispered a phrase under his breath, one Kael couldn’t quite catch, and then he moved.

  It was as though the world slowed. Ryan unleashed Flurry of Strikes, his blade becoming a blur. Kael grimaced, blocking the first flurry of blows with his ice-coated sickle, the clang of metal on magical ice shrieking through the clearing. Sparks and shards of frost cascaded in the early sun.

  Kael’s heart pounded; he hadn’t expected such speed. The Flurry of Strikes battered against his sickle with relentless force. Each slash, each thrust, was a deadly threat Kael barely managed to parry or dodge. But in the storm of blows, one found its mark. Kael lifted his sickle too high, exposing a gap. Ryan’s sword lanced toward Kael’s side.

  Panicked, Kael hissed, “Goober, harden! Now!”

  Beneath Kael’s robes, a slime rippled, straining to form a protective barrier. It squeezed tight, stiffening in an attempt to deflect the blade. But Ryan’s momentum was unstoppable, the strike brimming with fervor and skill. The steel slid into Kael’s left shoulder in a burning slice, wet warmth spreading under the robe.

  Vynessa and Shem gasped, their hearts plummeting at the sight of Kael’s blood drenching his cloak in a slow bloom of red. Ryan, panting, stood a few paces away, sword in hand, the taste of victory on his tongue.

  “So even you bleed red,” Ryan said, voice hoarse but laced with triumph.

  Kael exhaled, though the motion brought a wince to his wounded shoulder. “A decent cut,” he admitted, carrying a hint of mocking calm. “But I expected more.”

  It was a simple goad, but one that Ryan seized upon in a surge of anger. Ryan lunged again, his feet digging into the forest floor as he thrust his sword with unwavering determination. “Impact Thrust!” he roared, the move a stabbing surge aimed straight for Kael’s heart.

  Kael’s eyes narrowed, dark pupils flaring with both pain and anticipation. He caught the thrust with a deft twist of his frost-encrusted sickle, hooking the blade. Metal screeched on metal, the forest echoing with the high-pitched wail. They locked together, the two weapons grinding against each other. Ryan, stronger physically, bore down, forcing Kael backward step by step.

  But Kael’s eyes narrowed with cunning. He twisted his sickle, wrenching Ryan’s sword to an awkward angle. The shining surface of the silver blade caught a shaft of dawn light, sending a sharp glare straight into Ryan’s eyes. Ryan flinched, startled by the sudden brilliance.

  That brief moment was all Kael needed. He broke the lock with a quick jerk, spinning sideways as Ryan staggered. The blade of the sickle swung in a swift, shallow arc. Ryan gasped, a muted cry stifled by shock as the weapon cut into his stomach.

  Ice bloomed at the wound, crackling like winter’s curse. The chill seemed to leap from Kael’s sickle into Ryan’s flesh, freezing the edges of the cut. Ryan stumbled back, his free hand clutched to the rim of frosty agony spreading at his abdomen.

  Kael retracted his sickle, a thin trail of scarlet droplets and icy mist trailing behind. Blood flecked the corners of Ryan’s mouth, sword trembling in his grasp. He tried once more—two, three, desperate swings at Kael’s gray-robed figure. But his strength had fled him, and each strike fell short with a hollow swish.

  At last, Ryan dropped to his knees, the sword slipping from his fingers to clatter on the damp earth. There, in the hush of the forest clearing, he pitched forward, blood trickling down his chin. A ragged breath rattled in his chest, and then it stilled. Kael lowered his frosted sickle, watching the swordsman’s life fade with a chilling calm.

  “This duel is over,” Kael announced.

  A strangled cry rang out behind them as Vynessa and Shem broke from their stunned vigil. They sprinted across the clearing but they had scarcely taken three steps before Kael’s slimes closed in.

  “Back,” Kael commanded. His tone carried an edge that brooked no argument. “I didn’t say you could take his body.”

  “He lost,” the Master said, drawing up his orb with a casual flick of his wrist. “And you will remind him of what else he lost in the wager.”

  ******

  Ryan’s eyes fluttered open, the world around him a blur of shifting blues and faint, ghostly light. He blinked, and the haze lifted enough to see Vynessa’s face hovering above him, her features taut with worry. Her eyes narrowed slightly, though there was relief beneath their concern. To her right stood Shem, broad-shouldered and silent, muscular arms folded across his chest.

  Ryan tried to sit up, but a chill sense of grief hollowed his stomach. He remembered dying. Again.

  “I... lost,” he rasped, his voice cracking on the single word.

  “I can’t… I can’t win,” he said, his voice brittle as broken glass. “Not against him, not against anyone. In fights, in... life… I keep losing.” His throat convulsed, tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

  A single sob escaped him, raw and desperate. His sword was gone, his pride in tatters, and even the beloved training books, his only real treasure, were forfeited to that Master. The flood of realization crashed into him, and with it, the tears he’d held back.

  Vynessa’s stern face softened. She knelt by the edge of the Well, resting a warm hand on Ryan’s damp hair. “It’s all right,” she whispered, or tried to, her own voice quivering at the sight of him so broken. “You’re alive. That counts for something.”

  Ryan shook his head, letting the tears slip down his cheeks. “But how many times can I come back here?” he choked out. “Every time feels worse. Every time I lose… I lose more than my life.”

  “Let it out,” Vynessa murmured, her voice steady but laced with sorrow of her own. She and Shem exchanged a look, a mixture of helplessness and pity.

  And so Ryan wept in the faint light of the Well, his sobs echoing in the ancient stone chambers, the water rippling with each ragged breath. Vynessa and Shem stayed close, silently keeping watch, uncertain what comfort to offer beyond their presence.

  “I’m… sorry,” he finally whispered, wiping at his eyes. “I never thought… I’d be so useless.”

  Vynessa’s hand lingered on his shoulder. “You’re not useless,” she said quietly, forcing a small, firm smile. “But you’ve been through enough. Rest, for now. We’ll figure out the rest when we’re stronger.”

  ******

  Square: Unknown

  Master: Kael

  Difficulty: Introductory

  Conclave: Clockwork Assembly

  Treasure: 1030 Gold

  Residents: 4 Ice Slimes Lvl 1

  8 Green Slimes Lvl 1

  1 Green Slime Lvl 2

  1 Will-o-wisp Lvl 1

  Kills: 10 (Ready For Ascension)