CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Richard was halfway to the city ramparts when he realized something was up. Glancing back from where he’d come, he immediately recognized the seeming tranquility for what it was. He checked the wave countdown just to be sure.

  Fiftieth Wave Will Begin In: 4… 3… 2…

  Two seconds left until the beginning of the fiftieth wave, and no horde of thousands had deigned to grace him with their presence. It didn’t necessarily mean what he suspected, but he had a hard time discrediting the glaring similarities. Richard ground his skipping facsimile of flight to a halt, suddenly overcome by indecision. Did he race towards the ramparts in hopes of preparing for what he suspected was coming, or did he barrel towards the oncoming threat, and place himself at risk of whatever tricks it had up its sleeve?

  Either way, the question of its arrival had swiftly become a certainty in his mind. And, sure enough, before he’d come to any meaningful decision as to his course of action, out from the far off dust cloud rocketed a disturbingly familiar ball shaped amalgam.

  +—|-PLAGUE-TOUCHED ABOMINABALL-|—+

  ?[Lvl 50 ELITE]?

  Richard gaped at its ludicrously high level. The highest he’d seen thus far a measly Lvl 42 Plague-Touched Centipede.

  Could be this isn’t the same creature at all. Although, given the way this trial has been structured so far, I highly doubt it.

  What were the odds that an Elite of the same name, the only Elite he’d come across thus far, was suddenly replaced by a completely identical monster, if of a decidedly higher level. Not particularly high, in his humble estimations.

  Even still, were that in fact the case! Are you seriously trying to tell me it’s somehow gained this much in so short a time? If so, my next question should be fairly self explanatory. How?!

  While it had clearly shot through the ranks, he’d barely gained anything at all these past dozen waves. This despite his routinely defeating lvl 30 to lvl 40 ranked monsters.

  *DING!*

  ?-|—You Have Gained A Level. You Are Now [Lvl 11]—|-?

  [+2 free points]

  ?-|—You Have Gained A Level. You Are Now [Lvl 12]—|-?

  [+2 free points]

  His free points having all gone into control immediately. It being his only shot at reaching twenty points in a single stat by lvl 15.

  Regardless of the reasons, the results of this level spike clearly spoke for themselves.

  Where the ball of gray body parts had been the size of a large van previously, now it could’ve crushed a three story building with ease. Grasping forearms the size of minibuses digging deep furrows into the grassy plain as it clutched at the earth to hurl itself forward. It didn’t roll, it flew across the windswept flatlands, one lurching bound at a time.

  And just like that, his mind was made up for him. There was no way he’d be able to get to the wall in time. There was also no guarantee it wouldn’t merely barrel straight on through the ramparts like a fleshy wrecking ball. He also wasn’t a fan of his odds in close quarters. Which ultimately left him with one very risky proposition.

  Richard’s flying paper contraption exploded into motion.

  Instead of shooting towards the city however, he decided to take the scenic route. Shifting his trajectory so that he ran parallel to the far off ramparts, he decided to kite the massive ball of flesh. If it was going to be so adamant on following him, he may as well lead it a merry chase through treacherous terrain.

  Because, although there wasn’t much he could do without prep time he didn’t have, that didn’t mean he was entirely out of options. He could slow the thing for one—flicking his Ring of Plenty, a series of items appeared beneath him, shielded from the rushing winds by his body.

  ?—|-Leaping Shock Talisman-|—?

  ?[Common]?

  ?—|-Leaping Frost Talisman-|—?

  ?[Common]?

  ?—|-Consumable Ability Scroll: Aquatic Lance-|—?

  ?[Uncommon]?

  And for another, he could lead it into the field of pit traps he’d made, if not for just such an occasion, than one very like it. All he needed was to lead the stupid ball on for just a little bit longer, and he may very well kill two birds with one stone. Fingers clenched around the ability scroll, so tight, his knuckles turned white, Richard shot a quick glance back at the pursuing Abominaball, praying it hadn’t come too close…!

  Only to realize it had never been chasing him in the first place. Far too occupied with scooping up the last bits of contaminated bio-matter carpeting the landscape. Dumbfounded, Richards conveyance slowed down to a bobbing halt. He… he didn’t know why he’d thought the Elite would be chasing him. He’d just sort of… assumed. Wasn’t that the way these things usually went? Apparently, having failed to get the memo, the Abominaball, now several times it’s already prodigious size, finished slurping up the last bits of diced up Plague-Touched.

  Having had its fill, it paused ever so briefly, and, in that moment, Richard could have sworn it’s distant figure gave him a derisive smirk. This despite the creature owning no visible lips or eyes.

  +—|-PLAGUE-TOUCHED ABOMINABALL-|—+

  ?[Lvl 59 ELITE]?

  Huh?!

  The creature lingered a couple seconds more, as if to let the demoralizing sight fully sink in. Then, it slowly turned on its myriad heels, and quick marched towards the distant gathering of monsters.

  It levels by consuming the remains of its ally’s… that’s… not good. In fact, that is really rather detrimental.

  *DING!*

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ?-|—YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY DEFEATED THE FIFTIETH WAVE!—|-?

  Fifty-first Wave Will Begin In: 59… 58… 57…

  And in that way, much like the twentieth, the fiftieth wave was defeated without his side suffering a single casualty. So why then…? Why did it feel as if he’d lost?

  +++

  Despite his shock at the Abominaball’s apparent disinterest, not to mention its clean getaway—having escaped his grasp not once but twice now—Richard wasted no time in setting up as many pitfall traps as the dwindling countdown allowed. Just because the stupid ball hadn’t fallen for them, didn’t mean they were without value after all. What did it know anyway!? Matter of fact, he’d have been offended if it had taken an interest. Clearly it’s priorities were completely out of wack.

  I mean, why not chase after me?! I’m good for it, aren’t I? I’m plenty chase-able!

  He was fragile was he not? He was an impressionable child for Pete’s sake! Uniquely desirable by monster-kind, or so he’d been led to believe. Probably even made a satisfying popping sound when crushed underfoot. Something this bumbling buffoon of an abomination ball was evidently missing out on, more fool it. What did those piles of rotting offal and stinking carrion have that hedidn’t have, anyway? Boatloads of experience? Bah! Levels weren’t everything! What about personality? Charm? A good sense of humor?

  I swear, everything’s so superficial these days…

  He ended up completing six pit traps in total before he was forced to retreat back to the wall.

  He made it there just in the nick of time.

  Fifty-first Wave Will Begin In: 3… 2… 1…

  Already, the front runners leading the charge had broken away from the pack. Scuttler’s and Centipedes leaving a colorful cast of highly contagious characters in the proverbial dust—the varied horde of pestilential parasites forced to race, roll, and ribbit relentlessly in a desperate attempt to keep pace. Which meant it was they, the heads of the procession, who had the dubious honor of testing out his designs. A blue-shelled Scuttler the first such subject to brave the sturdy paper construct of his land trap. Followed swiftly by a second. And then a third.

  More and more of the things piling onto the contraption by the second, until the number of potential pit-fallers was approaching triple digits.

  The paper netting bowing under their combined weight, ever so slightly—causing the monsters to pause momentarily. And yet, when nothing followed the ominous lurching, the moment eventually passed. The tank-like crustaceans seeming to shrug at the oddity, before blithely scuttling onward.

  It was just as he was beginning to worry whether he’d placed one anchor point too many, that a Centipede the size of a semi-truck barreled on past the comparatively sluggish Scuttler’s, and so added that extra bit of weight he’d needed. Soil shifted. Crumbled. Various anchor points stressed to the point of failure. Total collapse. That was when the “ground” beneath their feet seemingly fell out from under them. Taking with it at least a hundred or so Plague-Touched at the outset, with more to come as the horde blindly barreled forward.

  Richard waited a few seconds, just long enough for the twisting bodies to presumably reach the bottom. At which point he ignited all five-hundred scorch rune talismans that made up the dense net-like weave. The oil slick pit went up like a sudden bonfire—a massive pillar of flame leaping into the sky with an impressive whoomph! The wild roar of the conflagration failing to mask the screeching howls of the immolating creatures, though it was rather close. The alien howls and screams quickly turning hoarse and pitiful, before ceasing altogether.

  Eventually, the leaping fireworks display swiftly simmered down to a low crackle.

  At which point a second such trap was expertly tripped. This time, Richard was not nearly so impatient. Waiting until at least a few hundred of the creepy critters had blithely tripped over the yawning precipice, before activating the weave of talismans, now buried. In fact, it was just as the first few Scuttler’s were beginning to pick their way up over the lip of the hole, that he pulled the metaphorical trigger.

  This time, instead of the roar of flame, came the sharp scent of ozone.

  The water drenched confines—the product of a couple well placed Aquatic Lances—subjected to a healthy dose of electricity. Well. Healthy. Unhealthy. It all depended entirely on who was asking, now didn’t it? Electricity arced up from the hole in the ground like a grasping hand—paralyzing those few crabs that’d sought to better themselves, to work towards freedom, and promptly dragging them back down toward the twitching pile below.

  Then another trap went off.

  Ice crystals forming on damp soil—spreading to race across wet skin and shiny carapace. The air in the pit turning frigid, bodies rigid, the water swiftly transforming into ice.

  And another.

  Flames leaping high into the sky.

  And one more.

  Electricity rendering jumping plague carriers into jittery puppets on arcing blue strings.

  And meanwhile, not once did Richard abate in his fragmentary bombardment. Clouds of shrapnel mowing down entire swaths of the enemy like rows of wheat beneath the farmer’s scythe. Like clockwork, the battle continued in this manner, until, barely five minutes after the fifty first wave had begun, all five-thousand five-hundred of the oncoming horde had been killed to a man-eater.

  Obliterated completely.

  ?-|—YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY DEFEATED THE FIFTY FIRST WAVE!—|-?

  Fifty-second Wave Will Begin In: 60… 59… 58…

  No rest for the wicked, Richard was up and moving the second he received wave clear confirmation. With all of his previous traps now full, he had his work cut out for him. Those pits weren’t going to dig themselves after all. Well… actually no, now that he really thought about it, weren’t they? On a technicality perhaps…? It wasn’t as if he’d gotten his own hands dirty. Gods forbid!

  Note to self: what came first, the dirt hill, or the artificer?

  +++

  The next twenty waves continued in much the same manner as the fifty first had, with two notable differences. The first, instead of a lone paper cannon, five now sprouted from atop the rampart walls. The other four manned by a cohesive team of soldiers. Men and women who specialized in long-ranged archery acting as gunners, while three or so grunts focused on reloading and logistics.

  Much to his chagrin, operating under the false assumption he’d be taking this trial all by his lonesome, he’d failed to account for proportions other than his own.

  It made for something of an awkward fit for these handpicked soldiers—the, ahem, handles especially difficult to wrap there hands- that is to say, heads around.

  And yet, to his surprise, they were managing relatively well.

  In fact, they’d been so elated by the chance to pilot their own cannons, and somehow contribute to the fight for their families’ survival, that he sincerely doubted he could’ve separated them from their new toys at anything other than gun point—improper fit or no. And even then, it was only a fifty fifty split as to what they’d do. After the shock of their first successful volley had worn off, he even thought he saw tears glinting in a few eyes.

  As for how he’d known to account for extra pairs of hands, despite his assuming it’d be a solo mission going in?

  Well, obviously he hadn’t, but he had made spares. Why on earth wouldn’t he? What kind of dandy did you take him for? You could never be too precautious. And besides, it wasn’t as if these four measly cannons made up the entirety of his stockpile. He’d merely deemed the risk negligible enough, the soldiers practically worshiped him by this point, and the hated enemy numerous enough, the waves of monsters quickly encroaching upon the ten-thousand range, to make the sacrifice of about ten percent of his arsenal an acceptable trade off.

  And as for the second key difference…?

  From atop his conveyance, Richard flew across the war torn battlefield, letting it rain scorch talismans like he had an infinite supply. Having drenched the ground in highly combustible oil on his initial pass, this go around the barren stretch of dips and valleys went up like a roaring bonfire. Flames leaping high into the sky. Carrying with them the rancid smells of sizzling meat—carrion cuts of a less than savory variety. Trying not to inhale any of the noxious fumes, he double timed his way back to the ramparts, leaving the growing conflagration far behind.

  I’d like to see you snack on that! Cocky bastard. Oh? What’s that, you can’t?! How tragic…! Really, what a terrible travesty…! Nyehehehe! That’ll teach you to ignore me! I’ll bet a certain someone is looking mighty appetizing right about now. Well too bad! You had your chance! Now your only options are to starve like the mangy cur you are, or to face me on my own terms! I will have satisfaction!

  Needless to say, the Abominaball had him… a little out of sorts.

  Things might’ve been different had it deigned to show up already. Give him irrefutable proof that he wasn’t merely being paranoid. As it was, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the Elite since the fiftieth wave. Something for which he found deeply suspicious.

  It’s planning something! I know it is! There can be no other explanation. It’s exterior but a ruse! A cleverly constructed fa?ade meant to conceal the untapped depths of the devious mind that lurks within! Well, I’m not fooled! I will not fall prey to your deceptions! I see right through your house of mirrors—oh he who would dub himself the master of illusions—and I must say, I find myself less than impressed!

  You could say it’s extended absence had him a bit on edge.