Mazoga stood over the smoking crater, chest heaving with exertion. The aftermath of battle always brought a peculiar clarity—sounds sharper, colors more vivid, every muscle and tendon singing with remembered violence. But this time, something else flooded her awareness. Power. Raw and electric, it coursed through her veins like liquid fire, settling into her bones with a weight that felt both foreign and familiar.

  She knew this feeling. Level growth. But not the incremental steps she'd grown accustomed to over years of Adventuring. This was different, a leap that left her momentarily dizzy.

  Her gaze drifted to the first construct, Strike, still frozen in its death pose. Understanding bloomed in her mind, not as conscious thought but as instinctive knowledge. The synchronized assault, the perfect tandem attacks, the way the constructs had balanced and reinforced each other... she'd broken that pattern. And in breaking it, she'd somehow absorbed its essence.

  The knowledge settled into her muscles, her reflexes, her tactical awareness. A new skill, crystallized from the heart of battle itself.

  Echo Breaker.

  The name whispered through her consciousness, already as much a part of her as her Seismic Step or Boarback Resilience. Level 45. A number that belonged to legends and guild masters, not regular wardens.

  "Maz?"

  Doc approached cautiously, his plasma gun still humming with residual energy from the fight. Fish padded silently at his side, her midnight fur rippling with violet afterimages. Both watched her with matching expressions of concern.

  "How are you holding up?" Doc asked, eyes scanning her for injuries.

  Mazoga couldn't help it. A laugh burst from her chest—raw, genuine, and tinged with the wild. "Couldn't be better," she said, the irony thick in her voice. Blood trickled from a cut above her eye, her armor bore fresh scorch marks, and tomorrow she'd discover at least a dozen new bruises. But she wasn't wrong.

  Doc's expression shifted from concern to confusion. "Did you just...?"

  "Level up?" Mazoga rolled her shoulders, feeling the new power settling into her frame. "Oh yes. All the way to forty-five."

  Doc's eyebrows shot up. "Is that... significant?"

  "Most adventurers never see forty," she explained, testing her warhammer's weight. It felt lighter now, more responsive. "Forty-five is elite territory. Guild masters. Heroes from the old stories. That void caster you fought when you rescued us was around level 45" She shook her head in disbelief.

  "And that laugh?" Doc pressed, still studying her with scientific curiosity.

  "New skill," Mazoga said, tapping her temple. "Echo Breaker. When I absorb a heavy blow while braced, I can channel that force into a counter-strike that disrupts the enemy's stance or focus." She gestured toward the remains of Anchor. "Perfect against enemies who overcommit to power moves or spellcasting. Breaks their rhythm, their concentration."

  She looked down at her hands, flexing fingers that still tingled with newfound strength. "I don't just take the hit anymore, Doc. I answer it."

  Doc watched Mazoga with undisguised fascination. The physiological transformation wasn't visible to the naked eye, but something had fundamentally changed in her stance, her confidence, the way energy seemed to radiate from her very being.

  "So you just... feel different? Instantaneously?" He couldn't help the scientific curiosity in his voice. "No gradual transition or adjustment period?"

  Mazoga rolled her shoulders again, testing the new power flowing through her muscles. "It's like waking up from a dream where you were struggling to run, and suddenly your legs work properly. Knowledge and strength that wasn't there a moment ago, now perfectly integrated."

  Doc shook his head, still marveling at the implications.

  Quantized advancement based on achievement thresholds, he thought. No gradual growth, mixed in with sudden leaps. The entire society’s built around those jumps. No wonder they're all obsessed with levels.

  The class and level system appears to function as both social structure and biological reality, Lux observed through their neural link. Fascinating how it shapes their entire worldview.

  "Here," Doc said, pulling one of Ironha's healing potions from his pack. "You should take this."

  Mazoga accepted the vial, downing its contents in one practiced motion. The cut above her eye sealed instantly, and some of the tension left her shoulders.

  "I'm going to look around, see if I can find a way out of here," Doc said, glancing at the sealed doorway. "There's got to be a door mechanism somewhere."

  "Good idea." Mazoga nodded, leaning against a dormant construct pedestal. "I'll rest a bit, then do the same. That fight took more out of me than I expected. New power or not, I'm still feeling those hits."

  Doc walked away, moving methodically around the perimeter of the room. Fish padded alongside him, her violet-streaked fur still bristling slightly from the recent combat.

  "Lux, can you scan for any structural anomalies? Hidden passages, control mechanisms, anything that might function as an exit?"

  Initiating comprehensive scan. The density of ambient magical energy is making precise readings difficult, but I'm detecting unusual energy patterns near the main doorway.

  Doc approached the massive stone door that had sealed behind them. Up close, he could see intricate runic patterns carved into its surface, similar to those they'd observed in the resonance chamber.

  "Any chance you can interpret these patterns? Maybe they're instructions."

  Pattern analysis suggests these are harmonic resonance glyphs, similar to what the maintenance golem used for access. They appear to function as both lock and key.

  Before Doc could respond, the runes on the door began to glow with amber light. A low, vibrating hum filled the chamber as the massive stone slab slowly slid upward.

  Doc stepped back, readying his weapon—but instead of a threat, the familiar squat form of the Emberwake golem appeared in the doorway. It moved with unhurried purpose, completely ignoring Doc and Fish as it trundled directly toward the battlefield.

  The maintenance construct paused at the smoking crater where Anchor had been destroyed. Its multi-jointed limbs extended, tools emerging from compartments in its rounded body. A soft, melodic humming emanated from the golem as it began methodically collecting the scattered fragments.

  "It's... cleaning up," Doc murmured, watching as the golem moved to the remains of Strike next, carefully extracting the damaged core components.

  It appears to be following standard maintenance protocols. The golem likely detected the energy discharge from the battle and was dispatched to assess and repair the damage.

  "Which means someone or something, is still in control of this facility's systems," Doc concluded quietly, watching the repair golem work with methodical precision.

  Dulric appeared in the doorway next, his broad frame silhouetted against the light from the corridor. His shield bore a fresh dent, but he appeared unharmed.

  "You two still breathing?" he asked gruffly.

  "More or less," Mazoga replied. "You took a direct hit. How are you standing?"

  Dulric tapped his shield, the metal ringing dully. "Angled it just right. Most of the force dispersed across the face. Good dwarven craftsmanship."

  Kesh entered behind him, moving with deliberate care. Though his face remained stoic, Doc noted the slight hitch in his stride and the careful way he held his torso.

  "And you?" Doc asked.

  "Took it straight on," Kesh admitted, voice tight. "Had to use one of the stronger healing potions. Internal damage." He glanced at the repair golem methodically working among the construct remains. "Need to rest soon. That bolt did something major.

  Doc exchanged a glance with Mazoga. Both nodded, their need to head back to Ironha and have her check over Kesh before continue onwards.

  Doc walked over to the repair golem, careful not to disturb its methodical work. The construct continued its task, arranging fragments of the destroyed guardians with precise movements. Its runes pulsed in rhythmic patterns as it worked.

  "Lux, full scan on our maintenance friend here. Focus on the resonance patterns it's using to interact with the doors. If we can replicate that..."

  "Scanning. The golem generates a complex harmonic frequency through its core matrix. The sound is beyond human hearing range but creates vibrations that activate the door mechanisms. I'm recording the pattern now."

  Doc watched as the golem finished collecting the larger fragments and began repairing the floor where the battle had damaged the stone. Its movements were unhurried yet efficient, like a well-programmed cleaning bot.

  "Scan complete. The resonance pattern is complex but reproducible. Your prosthetic arm can generate the necessary vibrations if calibrated correctly. I've stored the frequency pattern."

  "Perfect," Doc said, turning back to the others. "We can replicate the door-opening mechanism. The golem uses specific vibration patterns to activate the stone—basically a sonic key."

  Mazoga raised an eyebrow. "You're saying you can sing to rocks now?"

  "Not exactly singing," Doc replied. "More like... creating the right frequency through my arm. Worth a try before we get trapped again."

  Dulric stroked his beard skeptically. "Stone-singing is ancient craft, not something you just... copy."

  "Maybe," Doc conceded. "But we don't need to understand it completely to reproduce the effect. Let's head back and check on the others."

  They began retracing their steps toward the gateway room. When they reached the massive door they'd originally followed the repair golem through, Doc paused.

  "Good a place as any to test our theory."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  He approached the sealed doorway, positioning his prosthetic arm near the rune plate. Following Lux's internal guidance, he adjusted the arm's position until it made contact with the stone.

  "Initiating resonance pattern... now."

  A subtle vibration ran through Doc's prosthetic, barely perceptible except for a slight tingling sensation where metal met flesh. For several seconds, nothing happened.

  Then, with a low rumble, the stone door began to slide open.

  "It worked," Kesh said, surprise evident in his normally stoic voice.

  Doc flexed the fingers of his prosthetic, feeling the last of the vibration fade.

  “Lux, catalogue that sequence,” he subvocalized. “Same markings, same response?”

  “Affirmative,” Lux replied in the quiet of his mind. “Harmonic ratios in the macrocrystal lattice. Your prosthetic reproduced them within three percent.”

  Doc let out a slow breath. To the others, he kept it simple. “If we see this rune set again, I can open it.”

  Dulric brushed a thumb across the glyphs, eyes thoughtful. “Huh. With a smith’s crafted hand, you sang to stone,” he said—more respect than wonder. “The old masters would’ve liked that.”

  Mazoga was already scanning the corridor. “Good. We keep moving. Same order.”

  Doc nodded and filed the pattern away.

  As they continued walking, Doc flexed his prosthetic fingers again. "Turns out all those years of piano lessons finally paid off. I'm basically a rock whisperer now."

  Dulric squinted at him. "What in the Forge is a piano lesson?"

  Doc shrugged. "Long story. Involves a bench, a lot of frustration, and ten fingers that used to cramp constantly."

  Dulric grunted, shaking his head with a half-smile. "Don't let it go to your head. Proper stone-singers train for decades."

  "Good thing I'm just opening doors, then," Doc replied.

  As they approached their base camp near the gateway, Fish suddenly lifted her head and stared intently at a seemingly empty spot near the ceiling. Her ears perked forward, tracking something invisible to the rest.

  Calen's resigned sigh came from above, followed by a soft thud as he dropped from a shadowy alcove in the wall.

  "How does she always know?" he complained, brushing dust from his clothes. "I was using a skill and everything."

  Doc shook his head. "Fish has her own skills. Hiding from her isn't one of yours, apparently.

  Calen brushed the last of the dust from his jacket and gestured toward the gateway chamber. "You should follow me back. Carl's still taking apart that Watcher thing—he's been at it for hours. Won't even stop to eat."

  He glanced around the group, his gaze lingering on Kesh's careful posture. "Ironha might want to check the rest of you over too." His eyes met Kesh's directly. "Especially you, Kesh."

  Kesh's mouth quirked upward in a rare smile, acknowledging what they both knew—that the energy bolt had done more damage than he was letting on. "Appreciated," he said simply, nodding.

  "Right then," Mazoga said, already moving toward the corridor. "Let's not keep them waiting."

  Ironha sat cross-legged on the smooth stone floor, the leather-bound journal open in her lap. The cramped script made her eyes water, and something about the anatomical diagrams twisted unpleasantly in her stomach. She'd found it tucked behind a loose stone in one of the stonework quarters—probably dropped and forgotten when the colony was evacuated.

  The handwriting was odd, stretched thin in places where dwarven script should be bold. Whoever had written this either wasn't dwarven or had learned their letters elsewhere. The margins were filled with notes she couldn't decipher, symbols that looked almost like healing runes but wrong somehow.

  What were they trying to do? she wondered, tracing a finger near one of the sketches. The drawing showed a ribcage with what looked like crystal cores embedded between the bones, connected by thin lines that resembled veins but branched in impossible directions.

  The pages felt wrong under her fingertips. Like looking at a wound that wouldn't heal properly.

  Voices echoed from the corridor—familiar cadences returning from their expedition. Ironha closed the journal quickly, not wanting to explain why an old medical text made her feel like she'd swallowed something rotten.

  The moment the group stepped into the gateway chamber, her Vital Sense activated without conscious thought. The skill had evolved since her class change, becoming more precise, more insistent when injuries were present.

  Kesh moved wrong. Not obviously, his hunter's training kept him upright and moving, but his breathing was shallow, and the way he held his left side suggested internal damage.

  Doc's injuries were healing with that peculiar efficiency she'd come to recognize. The healing potion was working in harmony with whatever mechanisms lived beneath his skin, knitting muscle and bone at a rate that should have been impossible. His body processed damage like a forge cooling metal, controlled, purposeful, faster than nature intended.

  But it was Mazoga who made Ironha's healer instincts pause. The orc-kin radiated vitality in a way that felt... new. Her posture had changed, not just from confidence but from fundamental alteration. The way her muscles moved, the steadiness of her breathing, even the intensity in her amber eyes—all spoke of recent transformation.

  She leveled up, Ironha realized. Significantly.

  She'd seen it before in adventurers who survived major battles, but never this clearly. Mazoga carried herself like someone who had crossed a threshold and found new strength waiting on the other side.

  Ironha set the journal aside and rose, already reaching for her healing supplies. "Kesh first," she said, not bothering with pleasantries. "You're hurt worse than you're letting on. The way you're breathing, the way you're holding yourself—something's wrong inside."

  "How do you—" Kesh began, but his protest died as she fixed him with that calm, knowing look that had become her trademark since working alongside Doc. She'd learned to trust what her evolved senses told her, even when others couldn't see the damage themselves.

  "Because I can see it," Ironha replied, gesturing for him to sit. "Internal bruising, possibly a cracked rib. You're favoring your left side and your breathing is too controlled."

  She glanced at Doc, noting the way he moved with careful precision. "You'll need another potion as well. Whatever's helping you heal is working overtime."

  Her gaze settled on Mazoga last. "And you... congratulations. What level?"

  Mazoga settled against the chamber wall, her breathing steady despite the recent battle. "Forty-five," she said, and the simple number carried weight that made even Kesh's eyebrows rise. "Along with something called Echo Breaker."

  Ironha nodded, impressed but unsurprised. She'd felt the change in Mazoga's presence the moment they'd returned. Forty-five was legendary territory—the kind of level that opened doors to guild leadership and earned respect from nobility.

  "Impressive," Ironha murmured, then turned her attention to Kesh. "Sit down. Now."

  The hunter's protest died as she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him to a flat stone. Her Vital Sense painted a clear picture of the damage—bruised ribs, strained muscle tissue, and inflammation around his left lung. Painful, but not life-threatening.

  She knelt beside him, placing both hands on his side. "Hold still."

  Pulseweave flowed through her fingers. Unlike traditional healing magic that flooded the body with restorative energy, Pulseweave let her work with surgical precision. She felt the fractured rib edge, guiding cellular repair to knit the bone properly. The bruised tissue around his lung responded to gentle encouragement, inflammation reducing as damaged vessels sealed themselves.

  The work took several minutes, green bioluminescence tracing along her hands as she guided the healing process. When she finished, Kesh's breathing had deepened, the tight control replaced by natural rhythm.

  "Better?" she asked.

  Kesh flexed experimentally, surprised at the absence of pain. "Much. Thank you."

  Ironha rose, retrieving a water skin and a small bundle of dried meat from her pack. "Eat. Drink. Rest until tomorrow—your body needs time to finish what I started."

  "I don't need—"

  "You do." Her tone brooked no argument. "Healing takes energy, even guided healing. Don't be stubborn."

  Kesh accepted the food with a grudging nod.

  Ironha moved systematically through the group, checking each member despite their protests. Mazoga showed no injuries beyond minor scrapes. Dulric had a bruised shoulder but nothing requiring treatment.

  Doc waited patiently as she approached, already reaching for his healing supplies. He pulled out a minor healing potion, uncorking it.

  "Why not use a regular strength potion?" he asked, pausing before drinking. "Isn't stronger better for more severe injuries?"

  The entire group stared at him with expressions ranging from confusion to disbelief.

  Ironha blinked, momentarily speechless. Here was a man who could analyze magical energy patterns, build impossible devices, and defeat ancient constructs with nothing but his bare hands, yet he didn't understand basic potion mechanics.

  "Doc," she said carefully, "healing potions don't work like magical healing. They don't restore you directly—they accelerate your body's natural healing rate at the cost of your own energy reserves."

  She gestured to the small vial in his hand. "A minor potion encourages gentle acceleration. A major healing elixir forces your body to heal at ten times the normal rate, burning through energy stores that can take days to replenish. Overuse can literally exhaust someone to death."

  Doc's expression shifted to understanding, then mild embarrassment. "Ah. That... explains several things."

  He drank the minor potion with considerably more respect.

  Ironha shook her head, still processing Doc's gap in basic potion knowledge. For someone who understood complex magical theory, his practical blind spots never ceased to surprise her.

  "Mazoga," she said, turning to the orc-kin, "what exactly happened down there?"

  Mazoga settled more comfortably against the wall. "We got to investigate the golem vault. The door was suspiciously open—should have been our first warning."

  She gestured toward Doc and Fish. "The moment we stepped inside, two constructs activated. They were connected by some kind of energy link—a visible tether of runelight that pulsed between them like a shared heartbeat. They fought in perfect coordination, covering each other's weaknesses, moving like two parts of the same weapon."

  Ironha watched Doc's expression as Mazoga continued, noting the careful way he held himself despite the minor healing potion's work. Whatever had happened in that vault had pushed them hard.

  "The moment we entered, one construct blasted Kesh and Dulric from deeper in the chamber," Doc added quietly, his voice carrying that tone of someone recounting a missed trap. "Then the door sealed, trapping us inside with both constructs."

  Ironha felt her stomach tighten. The image of Doc and Mazoga trapped alone with two synchronized killing machines while their allies were forcibly separated made her healing instincts flare with protective concern.

  Mazoga nodded. "One construct was fast, blade-limbed. The other was defensive, shield-bearing. But they shared damage somehow—hurt one, the other compensated. We had to break their synchronization first."

  She exhaled slowly, knuckles flexing on the haft of her hammer. "And when we did… the shield-bearer went mad. It dropped all defense, came at us with both arms swinging. Stronger. Faster. Smarter. Every hit could’ve shattered bone if I hadn’t braced."

  Her eyes flicked briefly to Doc. "We only managed it because the three of us—me, Doc, and Fish—pinned it down from every angle. Took everything we had to put it in the ground."

  Ironha listened with growing concern.

  "How did you get out?" she asked.

  "Doc figured out how to open the sealed doors," Mazoga continued. "Something about replicating the maintenance golem's resonance patterns with that arm of his."

  Ironha looked at Doc, who simply nodded confirmation. No elaboration, just quiet acknowledgment of another impossible thing he'd accomplished.

  "The fight took more out of us than we care to admit," Ironha said after a moment. "If we're going to continue this expedition, I'd like everyone properly rested. Another battle like that, and we might not be so fortunate."

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. Even Mazoga, despite her newfound strength, looked ready for rest.

  "Set watches," Mazoga said, rising. "We'll camp here tonight, continue exploring tomorrow."

  Ironha watched them scatter, then approached Doc as he organized his equipment. Fish curled up nearby, the phase wolf's presence a comforting constant.

  "Doc," she said quietly, "could you help me with something?"

  He looked up from his pack. "Of course. What do you need?"

  Ironha glanced around, ensuring the others were occupied with their own preparations. She reached into her pack and withdrew the leather-bound journal, its pages still radiating that unsettling wrongness she'd felt earlier.

  "I found this in the stonework quarters," she said, offering it to him. "The handwriting is strange, and the diagrams..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "They look medical, but wrong somehow. I thought, given how you've helped translate the texts in the temple library, you might be able to make sense of it."

  Doc accepted the journal, weighing it in his prosthetic hand. The leather cracked softly under his grip, brittle from centuries of neglect. He flipped the first page open, eyes narrowing at the precise but alien script.

  The diagrams drew his attention next. He lingered on one that showed a ribcage threaded with crystal cores, veins branching in geometric patterns no biology should follow.

  "This isn’t just medical," he murmured, voice low. Doc's fingers tightened on the journal's spine. "Someone was engineering flesh. Treating bodies like constructs to be rebuilt."

  Ironha’s jaw tightened. "That’s what unsettled me. They understood the body, but not life. It’s all incisions and grafts, not healing."

  Doc didn’t say anything immediately. His gaze lingered on the margins, where repeated symbols circled one another like a personal mark. He traced it lightly with a gloved finger, committing it to memory. Then, with deliberate care, he handed the journal back.

  "You were right to bring this to me," he said. "But it should stay with you for now. You’ll see more in it than I can."

  Ironha accepted the book, the weight of it heavier than its brittle leather should allow. She didn’t like the feel of it, but she slipped it back into her pack all the same. "Then I’ll keep it safe. If there’s knowledge hidden here, we need to know whether it’s a warning or a weapon."

  The firelight in the chamber guttered as a draft stirred the air, rustling the old journal’s pages before she closed the pack.

  For a moment, no one spoke. The battle’s echoes were still fresh in their muscles, the memory of violet light and crashing steel lingering behind their eyes. But beneath it all, Ironha felt a deeper unease—the sense that something in these ruins had not only survived the ages, but had waited to be found.

  She pressed her palms together, centering her breath. Rest first. Answers tomorrow.

  And yet, as the camp settled into uneasy quiet, Ironha could not shake the image of ribs laced with crystal and eyes replaced with cores, staring forever from a page that should never have been written.

  Thanks for reading!

  Chapter 40 drops Friday!