CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“Uuugh…” Richard groaned.
Flopping over onto his back—a uniquely uncomfortable position inside the sloped bottom of the sphere—he took some time to simply sit with all his myriad aches and pains. Really let them soak in, you know?
Well.
Mistakes had definitely been made. Although, on the other hand, lessons had most certainly been learned. Didn’t that effectively mean he’d broken even? Well, he’d definitely broken something,that was for sure. Apparently “impenetrable bubble that resists all forms of damage” didn’t just extend to the exterior of the protective shell. It was just as true for the inside as it was the outside.Not exactly what he’d call a soft landing, in other words. Unyielding and bone-rattling? Sure. Soft as goose down bedding? Not even close.
At least I’m still alive. That has to count for something, right?
In fact, the fall wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been, all things considered. The jarring tumble—feeling like he were a ball in a pinball machine—coupled with the muscle strands tearing at him from all sides, had done much to slow his descent. Meaning that, by the time his fall had suddenly been arrested with all the care of a brick to the face, he was in a far better position to survive the crash than otherwise. If he was lucky, he’d probably get off with a minor concussion and an egg sized bruise for his troubles. If he was lucky.
He wasn’t paralyzed from the neck down, at least. It was the first thing he checked.
As for what was going on around him? Well, just then he couldn’t really see enough to verify. Snuggly nestled between layers of flesh as he was—Abominaball totally enveloping his little bubble of safety. The semitransparent bubble itself glowing with a soft, golden hue. Not that it illuminated much. In fact it was actually beginning to get a bit claustrophobic, when there came a muffled roar, followed by a rumble that jarred his bones and bonked his sore head against the inside of the bubble.
And that would be the talismans at work.
The flesh around him shuddered and trembled intermittently. Parting messily as muscles strained and tore. Ragged tears quickly formed, before sealing, and then pulling apart once more. Through which one could briefly glimpse terrifying hellscapes beyond.
His little bubble of calm lit by blazing infernos, caverns of ice that twinkled like diamonds, and blue-lit chambers reeking of ozone, filled with snapping arcs of electricity. And every once in a while there came the muffled boom of a distant explosion—the shock of it rippling through the meat prison, the slabs of flesh pressing in on him from all sides.
It was as if a scene plucked directly from a clearly deranged mind. Violent. Intense. Though blessedly brief. Eventually, the constant trembling ceased. The combined effect of all those talismans great, if short lived.
That was when Richard activated another series of talismans, these in the form of several crates worth of layered munitions. The quaking promptly started up anew. He continued in this fashion. Waiting for the effects from his “paper injections” to slow, before releasing yet another round of elemental surprise packages. His ultimate goal to maintain a steady rate of damage. Not so much that the creature didn’t have time to recover, yet not so little that the creature was able to focus on anything more.
It was a careful balance which he executed masterfully.
Ever since he’d recognized the true nature of its regeneration—what was effectively a basic reallocation of resources—he’d known this was the way he’d go about countering it. In so far as he understood it, the main mechanism behind this form of regeneration was the ability to turn stored resources into regenerative tissue. In this case, it was the creatures collective biomass. A lot like burning stored fat to produce energy. The more injuries it received, the more of itself it would be forced to burn away to repair the damage.
It was a fairly common trait among Sanguine type creatures—mostly beast type variants that both fed off of, and were partly made up of, blood. Honestly, he was kind of disappointed in himself. Ashamed he hadn’t picked up on the similarities sooner. Maybe if there had actually been something alluding to a connection between the two, but of course, that was just him making excuses.
The fact of the matter was, just because the specifics, down to the minutest word, line, and detail, were stored away in his soul palace—kept under tight lock and key—that didn’t mean his generalized knowledge wasn’t still all there and accounted for. He needed to be better. For the sake of himself, for the sake of humanity, he needed to be without flaw.
Stewing in his own self recriminations, Richard once more activated a series of paper constructs.
The Abominaball squealed.
+++
Upon a barren stretch of upturned soil, positively drenched in the stinking residue of battle, a severed hand lay half submerged in a muddy puddle. This wasn’t just any old hand, however. It was a mutated thing with nine triple jointed fingers, though that was far from the end of its many abnormalities. A wobbling eye stalk sprouted from the sixth such knuckle, like a proud dandelion stem with all its fluff. An eyeball sat upon this stalk, constantly swiveling, this way and that. As if desperate to keep every bit of its surroundings in view at all times.
It’s movements jerky. Frantic, almost.
Indeed, were one to comment on its behavior in that moment, one might’ve rightly assumed it was fearful of an unknown predator. And yet, were one to look even closer, they might’ve also noticed that it was actually far more than that. More than wary prey ensuring its own survival. No, instead, it was almost as if the little creature were… looking for something. Not necessarily someone.
A rather astute observation, which would’ve promptly borne fruit when the many jointed creature finally caught sight of what it sought all along. Resembling a spider, the creature swiftly scuttled forward. Dashing from the muddy puddle with a quiet splash, it raced across hilly terrain—ascending small rises and leaping across small valleys. In this way, it didn’t take long before it reached its destination. Before the glistening lump of flesh that was its prize was mirrored in its lone eye.
The creature rose up on its long, slender fingernails, revealing the mouth that split its palm wide. A long purple tongue parted bluish lips, running along pointed teeth with almost serpentine motions. A dollop of drool dripped from its maw to soak into the rich soil. The whole of its focus trained on the fine treat, to the exclusion of all else, as it readied itself to pounce.
Which was ultimately why it didn’t notice the shadow that loomed over it before it was too late. Or the foot that came down with a sickening crunch.
+++
*DING!*
?-|—(You have slain an enemy: PLAGUE-TOUCHED ABOMINABALL [Lvl 100 ELITE])—|-?
Experience Gained. Bonus Experience Gained for Slaying a Monster Elite.
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Richard made a face.
Ugh! Why me?! It even dies gross.
He would’ve spit to rid his mouth of the taste on the air, if he hadn’t known it’d just end up dribbling down his chin.
Hastily scrubbing his foot against what clean- well, cleaner, patches of dirt remained—to rid it of the putrid innards stubbornly sticking to his sole—Richard had to try very hard not to retch. The stench the squished hand was putting off was truly vile. Soon, what was left of the elite began to smoke and bubble, literally shrinking before his very eyes.
Perhaps touching it with my bare skin wasn’t the brightest idea? Ahh. But it was so satisfying though!
Not keen to be assaulted by the noxious fumes, he quickly made his way from the rapidly decomposing corpse. Though, not before plucking a small item from the growing pool—a shiny blue cube.
?—|-Bio-Regeneration-|—?
?[Rare]?
By expending excess bio-mass, regenerate a certain amount of damage received. This is a passive effect.
Quickly pocketing the ability cube, though in no world would he ever actually consider using it, Richard hightailed it out of there as fast as his stubby legs would allow—while the strength temporarily granted to him by his title was still active.
+-|—[Mighty Monster Slayer (I)]—|-+
(Active Effect: When in the presence of an Elite, the users strength and regeneration parameters are increased by 25% (Lasts for 3 Seconds. Cooldown: 3 hours.))
Initially, he hadn’t equipped the lackluster title to kill the Abominaball- well, actually no, he technically had, but only in a roundabout manner. Put simply, after he’d whittled the Abominaball down to size—with continuous damage followed by costly regeneration—he’d been left with something of a dilemma.
That conundrum being, now that he was no longer in imminent danger, how in the world was he meant to deactivate Liora’s protections? It was supposed to last three hours, he knew that much, though that also didn’t tell him a great deal. The description had been fairly vague in terms of specifics, and he very quickly realized why. There was no versatility involved, not like he would’ve expected from a legendary title. No, it said three hours because it meant three hours.
Effectively leaving him trapped. As unable to affect the world around him, as it was him.
He had a feeling this was put in place as a child safety lock of sorts. Preventing some idiot kid from wasting their sole protective measure because they didn’t entirely comprehend the danger they were in. Reasonable, when you looked at it like that. And while he could 100% understand it in theory, it hadn’t made it any less inconvenient In practice.
In the end, he’d been forced to rely on his future knowledge to finally put an end to that mouthy meatballs reign of outright tyranny. Well, it wasn’t really all that exclusive, in terms of untapped knowledge. In fact, it was a fairly common practice in his original timeline.
Title Swapping.
The people of this timeline were likely yet to discover it for a least another few months, because you needed to have earned at least two titles in the first place to swap them.
In his first timeline, everyone and their grandparents knew that, while the passives of all a person’s titles were active 24/7–whether the title was equipped or not—in order to use the active form of the title, one needed to first equip it. A simple process that took a thought and not much else, but also incurred a several days’ cooldown before one could change their main title again.
Hence, Title Swap.
He’d swapped out Liora’s Embrace for Mighty Monster Slayer (I) and used the active to cancel out the protective bubble. It also ended up giving him one more point to strength, which proved just enough for him to stand on his own two feet, if just barely. Finally putting an end to the Shaper’s trial for good.
*DING!*
+—|-CONGRATULATIONS-|—+
?-|—YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY DEFEATED THE HUNDREDTH WAVE!—|-?
By defeating the hundredth wave, you have met all the criteria necessary to complete the Shaper’s Trial. If you find yourself so inclined, you may exit this trial now to receive your rewards, as dictated by your performance score thus far. Conversely, you may choose to remain inside the trial, brave even stronger waves, and possibly increase your performance score for a chance at greater rewards.
Do you wish to continue with this trial?
YES/NO
You have five seconds in which to decide: 5… 4… 3…
Without an ounce of hesitation, Richard selected yes.
You have chosen to continue with Shaper’s Trial [Impossible Difficulty]. A choice not many in your position would have likewise emulated.
Whether it be through confidence, arrogance, or a glut of preparation, your propensity to tread the road least traveled brings you more in line with Shaper’s Archetype.
+60 seconds to prepare between waves.
Predictive Monster Roster Is Now Available Between Waves.
Hundred & First Wave Will Begin In: 170… 169… 168…
Richard wasted no time in hopping astride the flying conveyance he’d summoned from storage, and speeding towards the distant ramparts. As he did so, he decided to pull up this “predictive monster roster,” what he assumed would let him see which monsters he could expect to fight in the next wave.
The very first two entries he saw nearly had him spitting blood.
?-|—MONSTER ROSTER: WAVE 101—|-?
?Plague-Touched Abominaball [Lvl 101 Elite]?
?Plague-Touched Abominaball [Lvl 101 Elite]?
+++
Septimus Preach was well past disbelief at this point.
Having spectated the… child’s progress since the very beginning, he’d blown through all five stages of grief several times over, and now found himself somewhere between apathy and disillusionment. Sitting cross legged on the transparent floor of his observation suite, well above the simulated extinction event happening far below, Septimus reached forward with shaky hands and placed a red king atop a black queen, finishing the fourth and final foundation pile.
He was playing by the standard ruleset, as seen on the back of the box. Of course, it proved little challenge for him at this point, though that was precisely why he’d picked it. He didn’t need added complexity in his life right now. He had enough of that already. And while he might’ve relished in the way “spider” or “patience” stimulated his mind at any other time, these were… extraordinary circumstances. No, standard was good. Standard was… stable. Reliable. Easily understood.
Not like that brat… that boy. The ungrateful little welp.
Septimus doubted he even knew the first thing about the masters grandeur, the ingrate. Heck!He probably didn’t even know the master’s birthday, or where he was the most ticklish, or what kind of jam he liked on his toast! And yet he dared succeed where Septimus, prime devotee of Shaper—keeper of his word and chronicler of his great deeds—had failed?
And not only did he have the gall to actually finish the trial without dying, but even now he struggled on in hopes of earning extra brownie points. Did he know, all along, that the master had an incurable sweet tooth?! He must have, the scoundrel! All according to his master plan, no doubt. To usurp his role as prime devotee. For why else would he insist on being a constant thorn in his side?
Septimus wasn’t unreasonable, however. He might have even been proud to pass on the torch, had he, in any way, been assured of the child’s intentions. Whether he was truly devoted, or merely faking it to take advantage of the master’s unsuspecting nature.
He’d made the mistake before, in giving too freely of his trust to those who were undeserving. Ones who feigned devotion, yet held nothing but malevolence in their hearts. There was that conniving harlot for one. What a fool he’d been! To think her just like him. Only to realize she didn’t care for Shaper the god, Shaper the concept, Shaper the divine archetype, merely Shaper the… person.
As if he hadn’t abandoned such mundane notions as self a long time ago, in his ever evolving pursuit of perfection.
Despite all his reservations, however, the fact of the matter was, he couldn’t deny the non-believer his rewards. A truth that irked him to no end. Indeed, the way things were going down below—defeating the two hundredth wave just as he had the hundredth—at this rate, he may very well attract the eye of Shaper himself!
Something that, for Septimus, was completely unheard of.
To garner even an iota of the master’s notice was not something any being should expect to receive in their entire lifetime! He should know. He’d been chasing after the masters recognition for eons now, and not once had the great master even remembered his name!
The idea that a child, entirely ignorant of the proper way of things, might be seen by the master before him? Well… they would have to see about that. He may not have been able to strip the ingrate of his just rewards entirely, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t adjust things to fit his liking. And it would work too.
After all, no matter how talented of an artificer the infant may be, in the end, he was still dealing with nothing more than a simpleminded child.
