My tendrils lashed forward with surgical precision, each dragon-headed appendage seizing a Locust Crab in mechanical jaws. The creatures' shells, tough enough to withstand most weapons, crumpled like parchment between my auric steel teeth, spraying black ichor across the glassy terrain. I didn't pause to watch them fall, already targeting the next wave with cold efficiency.

Casper became a whirlwind of destruction at the swarm's edge. His greatsword carved through the mass of chitinous bodies, each swing cleaving through dozens of the smaller specimens. The blade blurred as he accelerated into his Berserk state, his movements becoming increasingly fluid and devastating. Black shells and severed pincers rained around him, creating a grotesque circle of carnage.

"DIE!" His enraged scream rose above the cacophony of clicking mandibles and shattering exoskeletons.

Arctur and Barkatus vanished from my immediate visual field, swallowed by the undulating black tide. Their presence registered only through battle cries and the occasional glimpse of Arctur's red spear flashing above the swarm. The lizardman's attacks left crimson trails in the air as it found its marks with unerring accuracy. Although lower in level and strength than the rest of us, the Prophet's gifted weapon allowed him to keep up.

The Locust Crabs might have been individually weak compared to our levels, but their strength lay in overwhelming numbers. They swarmed over each other, forming living ramps and bridges to reach vulnerable points in our defenses. Their pincers, though small, could sever tendons or pierce armor when striking en masse.

One momentary lapse in concentration would mean death by a thousand cuts.

I thrust my sword-lance through a cluster of level 60 specimens, the enchanted blade piercing through multiple bodies before emerging from the other side. The weapon pulsed when I channeled a Mana Shell through it, extending its reach as I swept it in a horizontal arc that bisected another dozen creatures. My nine tendrils worked independently, each targeting separate threats, crushing, tearing, and dismembering with mechanical precision.

Yet for every crab we destroyed, ten more scuttled forward to take its place. The black wave before me seemed endless, constantly reforming and surging forward with mindless determination.

"Ha ha! There's no end to them!" Barkatus shouted from somewhere to my right, his voice strained but exhilarated.

The intensity of our combat began to affect the environment itself. The black glass beneath our feet cracked under the pressure of our movements and the weight of the swarm. Fissures spread outward like lightning, and shards of obsidian glass exploded upward with each impact, creating a deadly hail that filled the air around us.

The glass fragments posed no threat to my invulnerable pale flesh, but my companions lacked such protection. I calculated the potential damage to their unprotected faces and exposed skin, factoring in their levels and armor quality. The conclusion was concerning but not dire, if they maintained awareness of their surroundings.

Watch the glass! I called out, my mental voice carrying over the battlefield.

I redoubled my assault, hoping to create enough space to regroup with my companions. My systems operated at peak efficiency, hydraulics pumping and mana conduits glowing as I pushed my war frame to its limits.

This was what I needed. Pure, unrestrained combat against overwhelming odds. The path to level 100 lay through this sea of chitinous bodies, and I would carve it with mechanical precision, one shattered shell at a time.

Time lost meaning in the rhythm of destruction. My systems tracked each kill with cold precision while my consciousness remained focused on the battle's flow. The massive black tide of Locust Crabs gradually thinned, their once-overwhelming numbers diminishing beneath our relentless assault.

An interesting phenomenon emerged as their numbers decreased. The swarm's collective behavior pattern shifted, as if some hive intelligence depended on their density. When thousands strong, they had attacked with coordinated waves and tactical formations. Now, with their numbers reduced to mere hundreds, they became increasingly erratic.

I observed a level 64 specimen circle aimlessly before attacking one of its wounded brethren. Another group scattered in different directions without purpose or coordination. The collective intelligence that had made them so dangerous was fracturing before my eyes.

They're breaking formation! I called out, directing three tendrils to block a flanking group while my sword-lance impaled five more through their central carapaces.

Soon the remaining crabs abandoned their assault entirely. The few survivors scuttled away across the broken glass terrain, no longer registering us as threats or targets. Some began feeding on their fallen comrades, mandibles tearing into the flesh of their own kind with mindless hunger.

I conducted a swift assessment of my companions. All three remained standing, their armor and clothing torn and splattered with black ichor. Despite numerous lacerations and contusions from the glass shrapnel, none appeared to have sustained critical injuries. My internal damage assessment systems registered minimal compromise to my war frame's functionality.

Barkatus surveyed the battlefield: a sea of broken shells and twitching limbs stretching across the fractured glass plain. His face split into a wide grin as he thrust his gore-covered sword skyward.

"Now THAT was a fight!" His laughter boomed across the wasteland. "Nothing like crushing a few hundred monsters before breakfast!"

Arctur, typically reserved, caught the mercenary's infectious enthusiasm. He raised his red spear in similar fashion, the mysterious weapon still gleaming despite the carnage it had inflicted.

"The Prophet chose well in sending me to you," he said, nodding toward me with newfound respect.

Casper merely shook his head at their celebration, his expression that of a seasoned warrior who had seen too many battlefields to find joy in the aftermath. The residual energy of his Berserk state still caused his hands to tremble slightly as he cleaned his blade.

A system notification materialized in my field of vision:

Congratulations! You have defeated 894 and have received experience. You are now Level 78!

A sense of satisfaction registered within me, though it was tempered by mathematical reality. I must have displayed some physical indication of this, as Casper approached and placed a hand on my shoulder.

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"Congratulations on reaching level seventy-eight," he said quietly. "One step closer."

I sighed, a sound my throat rendered as a soft, musical note. Twenty-two more levels to go. At this rate, we'll need to find larger swarms.

I opened my status screen and examined the incremental improvements to my attributes. The numbers were encouraging but insufficient. If this massive battle had yielded just a single level, the path ahead would require exponentially greater challenges.

Name: Vardiel

Level: 78

Species: Dirtborn [MONSTER]

Gender: N/A

Age: 1

Titles: Original, Vanquisher of Qordos, Defender of Weath, Dragon Slayer 2, Fugitive, Magistricide, Godslayer, Demigod, Apostate

Strength: 243

Endurance: 251

Dexterity: 250

Intelligence: 238

Wisdom: 230

Attributes: Ancestor Might (Descendants: 144), Invulnerable Flesh, Integration, Court Style Swordsmanship, Weath Defense, Enchantment, Titan Slaying Style, Godseed of Enmity

Abilities: Mind Speech D, Mind Sight C, Language Comprehension S, Assembly A, Analyze B, Depository C, Mana Manipulation A, Blade Skill D, Brace D, Momentum Redirection C, Mana Shell C

We need to delve deeper into the Hellzone, I announced, retracting my tendrils and scanning the horizon. This was merely the periphery of what awaits us.

My companions nodded. After a brief rest, we recovered their packs, then headed deeper into the Central Hellzone.

The glass plains gave way to a landscape of jagged obsidian formations that rose like broken teeth from the black sand. My scout spiders fanned out ahead, sensors probing for threats while my companions and I advanced cautiously through the terrain.

Movement detected. Two o'clock, approximately eighty feet, I transmitted through Mind Speech. Large thermal signature.

"Another swarm?" Barkatus asked, his sword already drawn.

Singular entity. Mass approximately twelve hundred pounds.

The ground trembled beneath us. Casper motioned for everyone to freeze as a massive obsidian shard to our right shattered, revealing a Tunneling Razorback, level 75 according to my Analyze ability. The creature resembled a monstrous prawn with rotating drill-like front claws and armored plates of red chitin covering its spine.

Flank it, I commanded, deploying three tendrils in a diversionary pattern while advancing with my sword-lance.

The Razorback charged, its drill-claws spinning with a high-pitched whine. I calculated its trajectory and pivoted at the last moment, scoring a deep gash along its flank with my sword-lance. Casper leapt over the beast as it passed, bringing his greatsword down on its armored back with enough force to crack several plates.

Arctur's red spear pierced the exposed flesh beneath the cracked armor, drawing a howl of rage from the creature. It spun with surprising agility, catching Barkatus with a glancing blow that sent him tumbling across the black sand.

"Bastard's fast!" Barkatus spat blood as he regained his footing.

I redirected four tendrils to immobilize the creature's legs while Casper delivered a series of precision strikes to its exposed neck. The Razorback collapsed with a final, shuddering groan.

Congratulations! You have defeated and have received experience.

We barely had time to catch our breath before my scout spiders detected three Mist Stalkers (spectral, quadrupedal predators with translucent shells over their bodies) approaching from the east. Level 80.

"Formation beta," Casper called, positioning himself at the center of our defensive line.

The battle against the Mist Stalkers proved more challenging than the Razorback. Their semi-corporeal forms made conventional attacks partially ineffective. Arctur's Prophet-gifted spear proved invaluable, its strange properties seeming to solidify the creatures' forms wherever it struck.

By midday, we had dispatched a Burrowing Behemoth (level 80), two Void Shrimps (levels 75 and 79), and a pack of Shadow Clawers (levels 64-72). My war frame's hydraulics were beginning to show strain, and my companions' stamina was clearly waning.

We should rest for the night, I announced, calculating our energy expenditure against monster density. The probability of encountering level 90+ entities increases by thirty-seven percent if we continue.

The obsidian sky had darkened to near pitch, with strange constellations puncturing the void above. None matched astronomical patterns in my inherited memory fragments from Vardin. These stars were different, alien. Another bout of strangeness from the Hellzone.

There, I indicated a massive obsidian spire jutting from the sand like a twisted finger. That formation offers ninety-six percent concealment from three cardinal directions and will block the sulfuric winds.

My companions nodded wearily. Even Casper, the indomitable berserker, showed signs of fatigue after sixteen continuous hours of combat. While they established camp in the spire's shadow, I deployed scout spiders in a perimeter pattern, programming them to alert me to any movement larger than a juvenile Sand Dog.

Arctur kindled a small fire using dried driftwood we'd collected near a glass plain. The strange blue-green flames cast eerie shadows across my companions' faces as they huddled around the warmth. I positioned myself several yards away, monitoring thermal signatures across the darkened wasteland.

"Must be nice," Barkatus said, glancing in my direction as he stretched his battle-worn limbs. "No sleep, no food, no need to rest while the rest of us mere mortals recover."

I envy you for the same reasons, I replied, my psychic voice carrying across the darkness. The experience of taste. The rejuvenation of sleep. The satisfaction of a full stomach.

Barkatus rolled his eyes, tearing into a strip of dried meat with his teeth. "I'd trade it all away in a heartbeat. Imagine the advantage: fighting anytime, anywhere, never needing to stop."

"Surely there's more to your existence than combat," Arctur interjected, his scaled head tilting with curiosity. "What of family? Perhaps a mate waiting somewhere?"

Casper cleared his throat. "That's rather personal questioning for companions-in-arms, lizardman."

"It's fine," Barkatus waved dismissively. "Nothing to tell anyway. No family. Grew up on the streets of Kolchark in the Kingdom of Solitude." He stared into the strange flames. "Fighting's all I've ever known. All I've ever needed. When you're an orphan in Solitude, you learn quick: the strong survive, the weak die. Usually painfully."

Is that why you entered the Academy? I asked, my sensors detecting a subtle shift in his vocal patterns.

Barkatus nodded, his perpetual scowl softening into something I hadn't observed before. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a register I'd never heard him use: contemplative, almost gentle.

"I wasn't always alone. Years back, I had a wife. A son." He traced patterns in the black sand with his fingertip. "I was a soldier in Solitude's army. Gone more than home. Last deployment ran long; ten months. When I returned..." His finger stopped moving. "Plague had taken them both."

The fire crackled in the silence.

"Drove me mad," he continued. "All that training, all that strength; all useless against invisible enemies. Couldn't even fight what killed them." He exhaled slowly. "Deserted that night. Spent years taking any contract that paid, fighting anyone who'd face me."

"Then the Academy?" Arctur prompted.

"Pure chance. I was passing through Kaldos City during the entrance ceremonies. Thought, why not? It was something different."

Casper chuckled. "One of the most gifted swordsmen we'd seen in decades, and you joined on a whim?"

"Don't regret it," Barkatus laughed sadly, a sound I'd rarely heard from him. "Strange thing, though. I'd been stuck at level twenty-five for nearly three years before the Academy. Then suddenly, levels came rushing. Twenty-six, thirty, forty..." He looked down at his hands. "Like something had been holding me back all that time."

"The System does seem to work differently for Academy students," Casper noted. "Even after leaving the school, former students are still said to level up faster."

"Whatever it was, I loved it." Barkatus stretched. "Still do. Fighting, leveling, growing stronger; it's all that makes sense anymore."

I processed this information, correlating it with my observations of human behavior. Though I lacked the capacity for true empathy on what he had gone through, Vardin's memories provided context for Barkatus's loss. Perhaps this explained his reckless fighting style; not merely confidence, but indifference toward his own survival.

My scout spider designated Chonsey returned, climbing my war frame to deliver data on our immediate surroundings. All clear, for now.

Get some rest, I told the three of them softly. Tomorrow we hunt again.

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