CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Richard allowed himself ten seconds to come up with a suitably non-suicidal plan. Considering his opponent was a monster sat on the cusp of E grade, he likely could’ve done with a little more timein which to decide his course of action. It was just that he knew that he had no such time.

  Already he was on the clock, and every second counted.

  Lvl 100 and an Elite to boot? For gods sakes! I’m only level fifteen! This difficulty curve isn’t just severe it’s… well, yes, now that you mention it, it’s downright impossible! How is anyone apart from me meant to clear this thing?! In what world would a newly integrated person, completely new to the system and its rules, even stand the iota of a chance?!

  He took his time studying the elite, the terrain, his mental catalogue of consumables and constructs. He didn’t exactly love the conclusions he came to.

  There’s a chance, but, it’ll be risky. I’ll have to get a lot closer than I’d like.

  It’d been able to evade his attacks from afar well before its level had dipped its toes into the triple digits. Now, he had no doubts whatsoever that he’d need to get real up close and personal if he wanted any of his shots to land. There was also the peculiar matter of it appearing so soon after the previous wave. He assumed this was merely another way for the cretin to gloat at him, but it may very well work to his advantage, if his hunch was correct.

  Won’t know until I check. I’ll just have to trust in Shaper to hold true to the unspoken conventions of the trial type.

  Mind made up, he quickly turned to his second in command and gesticulated wildly. Ultimately gratified in his appointment of her as his adjunct, his trusty right hand, when, after a second’s hesitation, she gave a sharp, decisive nod. Where then she proceeded to direct the others to load their cannons with elemental munitions. More specifically, the shocking variety.

  He didn’t wait to see his orders carried out. Already up and away, speeding towards the grotesquely shaped meatball in the far far distance.

  As he rapidly approached—tears and snot streaming freely from his face, cheeks flapping like plastic bags in the wind—it became immediately apparent just how large the thing had gotten. Where, in the past, it might’ve knocked over a three story building as easily as a stack of blocks, rising to the Plague-Touched Gargantuan’s shins at the most, now it could’ve stood at chest height with the Gargantuan titan. Effectively making this thing a veritable titan in its own right.

  An unsightly amalgam of jutting knees, bony elbows, and oblong protuberances. Poking ribcages and low hanging bellies a common occurrence. It’s entire frame a nightmarish landscape of fused parts, stretched skin, and all manner of body horror you couldn’t seem to unsee, even when you very much wanted to. Although, most notably, there were no faces to be found whatsoever. Merely a wide variety of torsos, pelvises, and, of course, myriad misshapen extremities.

  The closer he got, the more the overrated meatball seemed to tower over him. Realizing this, he immediately sought higher elevation, so that he might remedy the issue, but it only really succeeded in putting the full scope and enormity of the task at hand into perspective.

  How in the world was he meant to take this thing down?

  Well, you know what they say. Every journey begins with a single step. Or, I suppose in this instance, a single scroll.

  Richard retrieved an Oil Slick ability scroll from his Ring of Plenty. Because, before anything else, the very first thing he needed to do was completely deprive this thing of resources. No way was this glorified meatball going to be finding time to snack on his watch! He’d sooner slit his own throat than let that happen!

  One-Hundredth Wave Will Begin In: 92… 91… 90…

  +++

  The field of burning bodies didn’t just reek of rancid meat and fungal bacteria, it reeked of revenge, that sweet sweet comeuppance. A righting of the scales. A reinstatement of the natural order. Did a finer fragrance even exist in all the world?

  He thought not!

  Nay, I say. Nay!

  Of course, that was when a change in the wind’s direction wafted several billowing clouds of black smoke into his face.

  Gak!

  Ultimately forcing him to make a hasty retreat before he well and truly hacked up both lungs.

  …the scent… *cough* *cough* …of satisfaction, *cough*

  He stared triumphantly into the distant horizon, hand over his heart—squinting resolutely through stinging red eyes.

  Having made exactingly sure there would be no sumptuous halftime repast, of any sort, during their upcoming engagement, Richard moved onto the next in a series of pre-fight preparations. To be more exact, pit traps, pit traps, and more pit traps. A whole metric ton of them. He figure that, while he still had the time for it, he may as well double down on his tried and true defensive tactic. After all, he didn’t know if the Abominaball was the extent of what he’d be forced to contend with.

  Retrieving an Earthen Excavation scroll, he set to work on the area surrounding the unwieldy creature, wary of approaching too close, lest he trigger some form of reprisal due to his proximity. As it was, barely two hundred paces out, all told, and clearly visible, the Elite hadn’t even moved a muscle in response to his antics. Impressive, considering just how many it possessed. Failing to budge a single inch, even as he scorched a glut, nay, a veritable feasts worth of finger-licking morsels to charcoal and ash right in front of it. Although, perhaps there was something. A twitch of mute distress? The smallest hint of mental anguish?

  He certainly hoped so, the cretin.

  As he’d suspected, the thing appeared incapable of acting upon its baser instincts until the timer reached zero. He’d just have to see how far that rule extended. That could come later though, for now…

  Next stop, Pit Trap USA. Home of the brave, land of the free fall.

  +++

  There really was no more inexplicable a phenomena than man’s dogged propensity for digging holes.

  Having momentarily satisfied the deep-seeded itch felt by all men, or, as he lovingly referred to it, “the intrinsic prerogative,” Richard shifted his proud gaze from a landscape irreparably altered—transformed from stretch of war torn fallow to minefield of myriad false bottoms—and instead fixed it sternly on the main prize. The Abominaball had still yet to make its move, though he had this sneaking suspicion that wouldn’t be the case for much longer.

  Hundredth Wave Will Begin In: 34… 33… 32…

  Should be more than enough time.

  Unsure whether targeted hostilities would be enough to spoil this lovely stalemate they had going, Richard did something rather… unorthodox after summoning up an armful of Aquatic Lance scrolls. Instead of lobbing the ineffectual projectiles at the tubby nightmare meatball directly, he arced them high into the sky instead. One after another, spinning liquid projectiles shot into the air. Moving so fast and so forcefully that they punched perfectly circular holes through languidly crawling cloud banks.

  Reaching out to pierce the heavens…!

  To boldly go where none have gone before…!

  In so far as momentum allowed, of course.

  Eventually, though, even these exuberant lances faltered in their ascension. And like Icarus flying too close to the sun, their water wings melted away. Becoming less Aquatic Lance, and more just… Aquatic. Without that perfect spiral and mana fueled impetus, the light rain of droplets left much to be desired. Which, at its heart, was exactly what he was going for.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  It wasn’t against the rules to give his opponent a free shower before things well and truly kicked off, now was it? If anything, he was doing the poor thing a favor. If he could smell its stench from here he could only imagine how the Abominaball felt. Being in such close proximity to itself and all. An undeniably tragic state of affairs, without a doubt.

  Much better for everyone this way.

  Hundredth Wave Will Begin In: 27… 26… 25…

  Now, all that was left was to give ‘em a good long rinsing, and wait.

  +++

  The ability scroll combusted in his hands. Burning away to ash which promptly slipped between his fingers. An Aquatic Lance coalescing above his shoulder with a splash of oceanic spray, before soaring high into the sky, swiftly reaching its apex, then plummeting back down to the ground. Not that it was ever destined to actually reach the soil. Like a bucket of cold water, the flaccid ability drenched the immobile Elite with a rather undignified slap.

  Was that just his imagination, or did one of its shoulders twitch in agitation?

  Nyehehehe…!

  Hundredth Wave Will Begin In: 16… 15… 14…

  Right then! As they say, there’s no time like the present!

  And so, sparing the Abominaball one last condescending glance, Richard sniffed, activated all the acceleration runes on his flying contraption simultaneously, then rocketed skyward, so fast, that he promptly slammed face first into the floor—the sudden g-force knocking all the air from his lungs, and making his fragile bones groan in protest.

  Only once he’d ascended some eighty odd stories, did he finally relent in his meteoric rise. Richard raised his head from his rock hard conveyance, slowly, as if wary of a concussion—willfully ignoring the trickle of warmth that ran from his nose.

  Nobody saw that, right? Ugh! I swear, if that murder-happy meatball saw, it’ll never let me live it down!

  He shivered, the temperature at this altitude far colder than he’d been expecting.

  All the more reason to prepare, prepare, prepare.

  With a flick of his ring, Richard donned a pristine set of talisman armor—very reminiscent of medieval plate-mail.

  And, much like the fabled champions of old, the oversized helmet did wonders to hide his shame. Somewhat bulky, it came with its own built in heating system—in the form of incredibly brief flashes of the Lesser Scorch rune—as well as the usual binding and hardening runes for structural stability. With an added layer of regular old crumpled up mana treated paper acting as padding, it promised to, at the very least, make sure the next “sure to be fatal” blow he received proved less than “sure to be fatal.”

  A superfluous precaution, perhaps. Especially considering he didn’t intend to venture anywhere near the actual fighting. Then again, it was the final battle, was it not? Why not go all out? If not for this, what on earth had he been saving up for? Sure, he couldn’t really see much, or at all, through the narrow slit of the visor, but what was mild inconvenience when compared to a life?

  I mean, how idiotic would I feel if I died to something that could’ve easily been prevented by my simply pulling out all the stops from the very beginning?

  Not very, he wagered. Actually it was his assumption that he’d be feeling very little at all. He would be dead after all. At least he sure hoped his self recriminations didn’t follow him into the afterlife. He shivered. What an unsettling thought to leave things on.

  Knowing that the timing was critical, he kept a close eye on the countdown, thumb carefully poised above the simple band adorning his finger.

  Hundredth Wave Will Begin In: 12… 11… 10…

  Now!

  Twenty sharp reports went off simultaneously, sounding like the distant crack of thunder. A second passed. Richard reached out to the other twenty cannons through the mental link that bound them—mind pounding from the strain, yet with a control stat of twenty, he was more than able to cope—and twenty more sharp reports tore across the intervening space. A flared volley of sixty whizzing projectiles streaked across the cloudy blue sky like shooting stars across the endless firmament. Each blitzing forward in hot pursuit of the sixty or so projectiles that proceeded them.

  Seconds ticked by. The layered bombardment blurred ever closer. Richard forced his breathing to calm. The worst thing he could do now was act prematurely. Three seconds until impact. Two seconds. One.

  The Hundredth Wave Has Begun.

  The Abominaball lurched to the side the very second it was able. It wasn’t nearly fast enough.

  CRACK! BOOM!!

  One-hundred and twenty identical munitions collided with the Elite’s bulbous body, releasing their statically charged payloads in truly spectacular fashion. Electricity arced across its strategically drenched frame. Snapping and hissing as it jumped from one extremity to another. Skin charred. Fat bubbled. The sharp scent of ozone heavy in the air. Somehow competing with the malodorous stench of grilled monster meat that permeated the land.

  Had Richard owned any hair in that moment, it would surely have been standing up on end. As it was, he could still feel the prickle of electrically charged air, though what he felt was likely nothing compared to the agony the Elite was being subjected to.

  It thrashed. Writhed. Seized so violently, he could actually hear the sounds of muscle tearing.

  Wracked by involuntary muscle spasms, it wasn’t merely paralyzed. It was as if the thing had lost all concept of control. Clawing savagely at the earth, the sky, and, at times, digging yellowed talons into the flesh of it’s very own body, it was quick to kick up a nigh impenetrable cloud of blood, dirt, and debris. And were it a smaller creature, that simple screen, in addition to is unpredictable thrashing, would’ve likely made for a difficult shot.

  I guess that’s one definite downside to gorging ones self till you’re as big as a stadium. It makes you rather hard to miss.

  Richard thumbed his Ring of Plenty, and from the hidden depths of his spacial storage, emerged an honest to gods, fully functional, runic powered railgun. Or the closest, paper talisman based facsimile he could come up with, at any rate.

  Huh. Who knew downloading a couple dozen industrial warehouses worth of academic research papers, not a small number of which were on the subject of mechanical engineering, would come in so handy?

  …

  Ha! That was a trick question! I did. I knew. I knew it all along! Nyehehehe!

  Richard frowned.

  Although… sifting through the literal metric tons worth of data in search an obscure article on impractical military tech…

  Richard huffed.

  Well, whatever! I stand by my decisions! I don’t have a hoarding problem, I merely lack a halfway decent search functionality!

  ?—|-Talismanic Rune-Powered Railgun-|—?

  ?[Epic]?

  A masterwork of contrived artifice, it’s mere existence puts into question it’s creator’s very own sanity. While the undeniable fact of its effectiveness leads one to wonder whether it truly matters if a genius is sane. A highly volatile projectile weapon made entirely of top quality paper talismans, this facsimile of a railgun uses densely packed acceleration runes in place of magnetic field. Allowing for rapid acceleration comparable to military grade high velocity munitions.

  An unwieldy thing that dwarfed him in size, it sported an enormous twelve foot barrel, packed to the brim with layered Impetus and Acceleration runes. Forward facing paper talismans—slanted outward at forty-five degree angles and perfectly mirrored all down its length—lining the inner barrel like a narrow maw of serrated teeth.

  As was to be expected, the sudden appearance of the massive weapon didn’t go over particularly well with the laws of physics as he preferred them. Especially when you considered the precarious flight set up he’d cobbled together thus far.

  Just as the unwieldy barrel was once more arrested by gravity, his flying conveyance began to tilt precariously forward. His armored butt to slip and slide accordingly. Until, finally, he’d been pulled from the relative safety of his flying carpet entirely—his body officially in free fall, and the lengthy barrel of the railgun now entirely vertical.

  Perfect.

  Resting the stock of the thing against his shoulder, Richard pulled the figurative trigger. Detonating the small mana battery held within and powering the first in a long line of Lesser Impetus runes. Toppling the metaphorical line of dominos, as it were. The preloaded bolt shaped projectile receiving a light push for starters. A polite shove which, through a sequence of rapid activations designed with exacting precision, swiftly accelerated to a frankly absurd degree. It’s acceleration exponential.

  Next thing he knew, the sudden kick of recoil was slamming into his shoulder, as if a charging rhinoceros had rammed its horn into him full tilt. Immediately after, he felt the rush of wind tearing at his armor. The world, as seen through the slit of his visor, became a wild kaleidoscope of colors. And finally, as if on the heels of his disorientation, a massive explosion resounded across the war torn battlefield.

  Richard acted fast. Ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder, or the decided lack of railgun in his hands, he summoned a spare paper conveyance from storage, fumbled a couple of mana batteries into the appropriate slots, and finally managed to right himself after a few more seconds of tumbling. Heart hammering in his chest, he only recognized how much higher he now was belatedly, gaze totally transfixed by studying the extent of the damage he’d wrought.

  Like a dimple on the moon’s surface, the Abominaball now sported a noticeable blemish. The skin, muscle, and bone having retreated. As if wary of the smoking crater pockmarking its flesh. Looking, disturbingly, like it’d been peeled back—very reminiscent of a blooming onion. Only instead of delectable deep fried goodness, it was a dripping concavity of weeping tissue and bone. The injury wasn’t large, but it was deep.

  The explosive bolt having burrowed quite far before detonating.

  Drilling a tunnel straight down to the heart of the creature. Literally. Through the narrow tunnel he could just barely make out a rhythmically pumping meat sack at its center.

  It was only a glimpse, but that small peak was enough to recognize when the rhythmic pumping, first began to slow, then beat erratically, and finally stop beating entirely. The gigantic Abominaball went eerily still. Richard held his breath, not quite believing what he saw. He held it. And held it. Watching the massive meatball sag like a slowly deflating tire. The electricity that’d rendered it powerless before, arcing a few last times before fizzling off and fading away.

  That kill message was sure taking its sweet time, now wasn’t it?

  The creature twitched. Muscle spasms rippling across its entire body. There was a moment of stillness. A stillness that was broken when the mortal wound he’d dealt the creature winked shut as if it’d never even been there in the first place. In the next moment, thousands upon thousands of eyes opened wide all over the creatures frame. Slits, turned to lips, turned to wide, toothy smiles. A mouth for every eyeball.

  Then, in a breathy, gasping chorus, as if forced through punctured lungs, the unfathomable creature…

  Began to laugh in his face.