Alarion grunted as he heaved the upper half of a Soulless onto a veritable mountain of its kin. The pile, one of three he'd steadily built over time, answered an age-old question no one had ever known to ask. How many dead Soulless did it take to make a tunnel all but impassible?

That many.

He'd given up trying to count them, but by his best estimation, they numbered somewhere in the low thousands. It was at least two thousand, judging by his updated perk.

Soulless Bane (Rank II)

Description: Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a pattern. One hundred is a vendetta. Two thousand is a massacre.

Requirements: Kill more than 2,000 Soulless.

Effects: Increase all damage dealt to Soulless targets by 10%. Reduce all damage dealt to you from Soulless sources by 10%. Gain 20% increased XP for killing Soulless opponents.

Of course, the perk was the least of the benefits he'd earned.

Level Up! Congratulations, your Stubborn Swordsman Class has advanced to Level 29! STR +24. AGI +18. VIT +24. INT +12. PER +24. WIL +18. Level Up! Congratulations, your Orphan Class has advanced to Level 18! STR +5. AGI + 15. VIT +15. INT +15. PER +15. WIL +10. LCK +192.

Skill level increased. Oversized Weapon Mastery is now Level 7. STR +30. Skill level increased. Pig-headed Resilience is now Level 6. VIT +16. Skill level increased. Survivor's Endurance is now Level 9. VIT +4. Skill level increased. Lucky Strike is now Level 6. LUK +90. Skill level increased. The Best Offense is a Good Offense is now Level 7. STR +24. Skill level increased. Unbound Spellcraft is now Level 7. INT +2. PER +2. WIL +2. Skill level increased. Kel-Taran Meditation is now Level 6. LUK +24. Skill level increased. Fight Through the Pain is now Level 9. VIT +42.

The first level had been a hard-won surprise. The second was a delight, given how slow his levelling had become since he started studying magic. By the fifth, he was honestly too exhausted to muster much excitement.

Alarion's hands trembled as he pulled another silver gear from a fallen Soulless commander. The metal clinked against the stones as he dropped it, and the young man groaned as he bent back down to retrieve it. His muscles burned with each movement, joints creaking like the machines he'd been destroying.

He was getting clumsy. At first, the warmth of [Valentina's Energetic Embrace] had been a welcome blessing, breathing new life into a body strained almost to its limits. By his second casting, the spell was a grim necessity. The divine magic pushed back the fog of exhaustion but left a hollow emptiness in its wake. His body knew it needed rest, real rest, even as the magic fought off the need for sleep. It kept him moving.

And move he did. Even when idle, he was positively vibrating. His heart felt wrong in his chest, sometimes skipping a beat, while his eyes burned with each dry blink. It took him three attempts to set the 41st gear into place.

He slumped against the now glowing wall, counting his breaths until the arrival of the next wave as he counter-productively tried to force himself into a meditative trance. The cycle had become almost as mechanical as his foes: fight, search, meditate, repeat. The maze's twisting passages no longer held any mystery, and he'd given up exploring them after a quick jaunt to the next chamber proved they were identical. If one room was as good as any other, then there was no point in wasting energy by walking through the tunnels.

He'd need it to stay in the fight.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought had long since fled. The mace felt heavier with each swing. At his lowest points, he'd abandoned it entirely for his fists. They'd very nearly gotten him that time.

They'd have gotten him days ago, if not for [Kel-Taran Meditation].

Having chosen to stand his ground, Alarion had been quick to use every tool at his disposal to his advantage. He blocked three entrances with as many bodies as he could manage. Not to stop the inexorable advance of the machines, for that was impossible, but to stagger their arrivals. He'd exhausted his [Simple Mana Reserve] and potion supply before he became desperate enough to try his new skill.

In his defense, learning to meditate between rounds of desperate fighting felt like a last-ditch solution to his steadily dwindling resources. He'd had no opportunity to test the skill since he'd obtained it, and no real desire to do so until he needed an edge. That had been his stubbornness at work. The very idea of meditation ran counter to his nature. Alarion didn't like to sit still, he didn't like to be inactive, and he had trouble clearing his mind at the best of times.

But he'd avoided it as long as he could. And all for nothing.

To his surprise, and near instant regret, the Kel-Taran style of meditation came easily to him. Some of it was the skill, of course, but the technique had more in common with his nature than he'd expected. While traditional meditation was about a passive, idle stillness, Kel-Taran meditation was an active process requiring a similarly active participant.

Between each bout, Alarion knelt to meditate, and in each session, he focused on driving out the weakness within his body. He visualized the fatigue built up within his muscles and expelled it to make room for new stamina. He sought dead mana within the twisted web of his core and expelled it to allow the maze's ambient energy to rapidly fill the vacancy.

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As strange as it seemed, Alarion found that he actually enjoyed it. And without the technique, he'd have fallen victim to the waves of Soulless before the end of the first day.

The distant sound of marching metal had become so enshrined in Alarion's consciousness that he'd begun to imagine it in his few weary moments of peace. In his mind, the machines were always just a few seconds away, even when the reality was often measured in minutes.

Sadly, after tilting his head to be sure, Alarion realized that the steps were all too real this time. The Soulless were coming, and sooner than expected.

Alarion pushed himself upright, ignoring the protest of overworked muscles. His vision swam for a moment before settling.

"At least they always announce themselves," he muttered, readying his weapon.

The first Soulless through the doorway caught a knife in the face, dropping it in an instant. A nearly forgotten tool in his arsenal, Alarion had taken to leading each fight with the thrown weapons once he'd decided to hunker in place for the duration. The attacks were quick, mostly precise, and helped save his vital stamina for the fight to come.

At least when they killed their targets.

His second knife was as successful as the first, but the third flew wide, clipping its target's head and clattering off the mass of machines behind it. Alarion cursed the mistake, but had no time for recriminations as more machines shambled into the chamber.

Alarion killed one with a sweep of his mace, then backpedaled as he took too long to recover from the swing, his footwork as sluggish as his attacks. A blade scored his shoulder, and he twisted away. He stumbled, falling into an awkward roll, but came up swinging.

A metal forearm hammered his ribs on the backswing of a missed stab, and Alarion gasped, pain shooting through his chest. He lashed out blindly, taking his opponent's head in exchange for the wound, but three more had filled its place before the body had even struck the ground.

Rusted iron bit into his thigh. Then his hand. He parried with the haft of his mace, driving the enemies back as best he could. He struck three times, but only killed twice, his leaden arms too weak to finish the job even with the benefit of momentum.

The Soulless pressed closer, weapons raised. Alarion gripped his mace with both hands, drawing on his last mana reserves. The weapon grew heavy with dark energy as he lifted it overhead.

"Void Crush!"

The mace came down. A wave of darkness exploded outward, warping the air. Metal bodies sheared and twisted as the void energy tore through them. The spell carved a line of ruined Soulless in front of Alarion and bought him precious seconds to fend off those that remained on his flanks.

He swung and swung and swung again, battering metal against metal until only one enemy was left standing.

The last Soulless - a commander by its markings and behavior - backed away from the carnage. Alarion tried to lift his mace to point at the machine, to single it out among the wreckage, but his arms refused to respond. He tried again, and the weapon slipped from numb fingers.

"You." The word dripped with vitriol as Alarion's half-dead legs carried him toward it.

The commander turned and fled.

Alarion followed.

The chase was long, but it did not take them very far. Alarion was slow, but the machine was slower, and the initial gap between them was its only saving grace. When it was clear that it would not reach help before Alarion caught it, the Soulless pivoted and struck.

Alarion knocked its attack aside. He'd had just about enough of this challenge.

The Soulless struck twice more, opening new wounds across Alarion's arms. He ignored the pain, wrapped his hands around its metal torso, and hauled it up. With a roar, he slammed the commander against the tunnel wall. The impact rang through the passage like a bell.

Again. The commander's frame buckled.

Again. Its head snapped back at an unnatural angle.

Again. Metal crumpled beneath his hands.

Again. The Soulless stopped moving.

Again. It stopped looking like anything at all.

Alarion's fingers trembled as he pried open the crushed remains of the commander's head. His vision blurred, doubling, then tripling as he searched through twisted metal. He blinked to clear it, but it didn't help. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, then opened them. They focused just long enough for a search. The gear had to be here. It was the last one.

There. A glint of silver. He reached for it, but his hand was vibrating. Blood dripped from fresh cuts, making the metal slick. After three attempts, he hooked a finger through the center hole and pulled.

Relief flooded his body. Then something else took over.

The world tilted. His legs gave out, and Alarion's head cracked against stone. The impact didn't hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. His body felt distant, disconnected. The gear rolled from limp fingers as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, his stamina pushed beyond zero.

Sometime later, the scraping clank of a nearby Soulless dragged him back to consciousness. How long had he been out? Seconds? Minutes? The steps were close. Too close.

But he couldn't stand. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. He lay there, watching as his stamina slowly ticked up, a point at a time. When it hit five, a level of sensation returned to his limbs, though he felt weak as a kitten. When it struck ten, a sense of control came with it. Alarion drew in a ragged breath and turned over onto his side.

With a supreme effort, he gathered his legs beneath him, snatched the bloodied gear from the floor, and stood. Using the wall for support, he stumbled back toward the chamber. His legs threatened to fold with each step. Blood roared in his ears, nearly drowning out the approaching Soulless only a short distance behind him.

The wall of gears came into view. Alarion scanned the occupied slots with bleary eyes until he found the last one. The empty one. His hands shook so badly that he almost dropped the gear twice before slamming it into place.

The metal clicked home just as the first Soulless of the newest wave rounded the corner.

Then collapsed.

"Oh, thank the…." Given who had put him here, Alarion couldn't find it in himself to finish the prayer. Instead, he fell back against the wall. He started to slide down toward the ground when one of the hallways ahead of him began to shimmer and warp.

The exit.

With Herculean effort, Alarion pushed himself upright and stumbled toward freedom. He made it halfway before he realized, with an exhausted groan, that he would need to collect his mace. Just the mace. The daggers he could live without.

Alarion stumbled through the shimmering portal, dragging the weight of his mace behind him. The familiar sense of disorientation washed over him as he crossed the threshold, but he pushed it aside. He had made it. Barely.

He blinked against the brightness of the new room, and his heart sank at the sight before him. Sierra stood in a corner, her eyes wide with horror, taking in his battered form.

"Alarion!" she gasped, rushing toward him.

But as she reached out to grab his arm, her touch flowed around him, as if her body were made of mist.

Given that Alarion had slumped toward what he thought was a supportive embrace, Valentina's magic, meant to protect him from any physical coercion, had the unintended side effect of sending him face-first into the stone floor.

"Oops," Valentina said with a wince.

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