Maze, Second Floor (4)
Rumble…
A faint vibration emanated from the plush seatback. Dalen chewed on a piece of jerky, gripping the spear shaft as if it were a control stick.
As he gently tilted it forward, crackling with blue electricity, the sandworm accelerated, giving him the sensation of being pushed back.
Inside the spacious cavity beneath the scales, Dalen patted the sandworm’s hide.
“Good. You’re getting the hang of it.”
“Unbelievable…”
Bjorn, watching from the side, shook his head in disbelief.
To think he could control a sandworm over fifty meters long by embedding an electrified spear deep into its flesh and using it as a control stick.
Even the ancient dwarven ancestors, who built golems taller than fortress walls, never conceived of such an idea.
Rumor had it that shadow elves used hallucinogens for their shamanic studies. Perhaps this warrior was no different…
“What do you think?”
“Uh, well… It’s fast and surprisingly comfortable.”
Bjorn stammered, caught off guard by the question.
He wasn’t lying. The ride on the sandworm was smoother than expected.
Beneath the sturdy, wide scales, there was ample space between the inner skin and the scales, enough for a couple of grown men to sit comfortably.
The separated scales absorbed most of the external shocks, so even when burrowing deep underground, the ride wasn’t too bumpy.
If you found the right spot, the soft inner skin and muscles provided gentle support for your back and shoulders.
Bjorn decided to be honest. He couldn’t help but ask.
“Where on earth did you learn to do this?”
“I heard that some high-level monsters submit to those who overpower them.”
Crackle!
With a spark at his fingertips, Dalen gently pulled the control stick upward.
“A dark sorcerer once told me that demons don’t always control high-level monsters with spells alone. Many monsters prioritize proving superiority over communication. That sorcerer got the idea for a new taming method from the demons under the evil god Zum, who control monsters through sheer violence.”
“He must have been well-versed in demonology. If he knew demons that well, he was likely an extremely wicked sorcerer. Is he dead?”
”…Yes.”
Dead indeed. He was torn apart alive while trying to raise a monster army in front of a sandworm.
Reflecting on the fate of one of his long-lost characters, Dalen wondered where the sorcerer’s remains might be.
Even if he set out to find them, it wouldn’t be easy. The vast desert was home to more than just a few sandworms.
Dalen pulled the control stick a bit higher and said, “I’ll go up for a moment to check if we’re heading in the right direction. It might get a bit shaky.”
Rumble…
The sandworm surged to the surface as Dalen peeked through the scales to gaze at the stars.
The sky of the maze, where the sun never rose, was filled with thousands of twinkling stars, mirroring the constellations of the first floor.
The skies of the lower levels of the maze all shared the same constellations, making navigation easier.
“We’re slightly off course. A slight adjustment westward should do it. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”
If the second floor of the maze had entrances in all four cardinal directions, the third floor had only one.
“A massive sinkhole in the heart of the desert.”
As Dalen recalled the sole entrance to the third floor, he sensed something approaching and turned his head.
Rumble.
The presence was distant yet rapidly closing in.
Beyond the sand dunes, the familiar tremor of a burrowing creature shook the sand.
”…I thought I was lucky with just one, but now there’s a second sandworm.”
Dalen stroked his chin. After a moment’s thought, he realized it wasn’t just luck.
Sandworms, outside of their breeding season, hardly recognized the concept of kin.
In a desert where food was scarce, maintaining such a massive body required a lot of energy.
In that sense, an injured sandworm was an excellent meal. The sandworm serving as their transport seemed to realize this too, as its massive body trembled.
[Hiss…?]
Dalen emerged from the scales, gripping his holy sword with both hands.
He couldn’t let his hard-earned ride get wrecked by a hit-and-run.
He leaped lightly into the air, the holy sword rumbling with thunder.
And then—
Boom!
[You have discovered the remains of a dark sorcerer dissolved inside the sandworm’s stomach.]
As the sandworm burst through the side of a sand dune, Dalen saw the notification and couldn’t help but grin.
This was indeed a stroke of luck.
There were several more battles.
Twice they fought off sandworms targeting their injured kin as prey.
And once they clashed with a pack of clawed beasts, the hyenas of the desert.
The corpses of the monsters shredded by Dalen’s sword were efficiently disposed of by the sandworm serving as their transport.
In the process, the sandworm’s injuries also healed somewhat.
Though their schedule was slightly delayed, it was worth it to firmly establish who was in charge of their ride.
“Discipline when needed, reward when deserved. That’s how the demons under the evil god Zum handle monsters.”
Zum, the god of violence, fire, and destruction.
The evil god who constantly eyed the lands beyond the distant frozen plains was the one Dalen most frequently contracted with when he played as a dark sorcerer.
Chatting with the dwarf or lost in thought, Dalen steadily guided the sandworm toward the center of the desert.
Periodically surfacing to check the stars for direction, then diving back underground to speed up, they traveled for several hours.
Thanks to the sandworm’s speed, faster than a horse’s gallop underground, a journey that would normally take over two weeks was reduced to nearly a day.
As the day drew to a close, they reached a sand dune about half a day’s distance from the entrance to the third floor of the maze.
Around that time, the special unit agents awoke from their slumber curse. However, they weren’t in any condition for an immediate forced march.
Checking with the explorer’s left eye fragment, they confirmed they were now ahead of the advance party.
A night’s rest before setting off seemed sufficient. The group quickly set up camp.
The desert night was cold.
The sand, which radiated scorching heat and light during the day, exuded a biting chill at night.
Fortunately, there were trees native to this barren desert, allowing the group to keep somewhat warm through the night.
Crackle. Crackle.
The campfire blazed. The firewood consisted of dried trees and thorny bushes.
These were actually the corpses of plant-like monsters.
The ‘Yuyuka Man-Eating Tree’ would ensnare and drain the juices of any creature foolish enough to climb it to escape the searing ground.
The ‘Karamdur Venomous Thornbush’ lured victims with its tempting, juicy fruits, then injected them with thorns to dissolve and suck out their fluids.
For seasoned adventurers like Dalen, such monsters were merely a night’s worth of firewood.
They burned well and lasted long.
“Not bad.”
Dalen commented, chewing on freshly roasted meat over the monster-fueled fire.
In his hand was sandworm meat.
They had taken just enough from the one they hunted earlier to feed themselves before feeding the rest to their transport sandworm.
Sandworm roast was a bit tough but edible. It was somewhat like eating tripe.
Though it had a bit of an earthy taste, it was tolerable.
If Lucia had cooked it, it would have undoubtedly been a more delicious dish.
“How can you eat that?”
Bjorn, who had taken a bite of the roast beside him, clearly didn’t share the sentiment.
“You’re just full.”
“No, it’s burnt on the outside and raw on the inside! How can anyone cook meat like this?”
“You turned yours into charcoal, didn’t you?”
“That… that was… an experiment! I’m searching for materials to enhance the explosive power of gunpowder! Hahaha!”
”…”
Dalen shook his head. He suddenly pulled a crossbow from his subspace.
It was a repeating crossbow he had acquired long ago after defeating a scruffy-bearded dwarf in the domain of the Azure Scales.
The dwarf, who had been laughing awkwardly, stiffened upon seeing the crossbow and the fox.
Dalen asked, “Is this related to you?”
The dwarf didn’t answer immediately.
He fiddled with the crossbow for a while, lost in thought.
After cautiously pulling the empty string, he asked in return, ”…Where did you get this?”
“From its owner.”
“Was it a dwarf?”
Dalen nodded and briefly recounted the events in the rift.
The ruins of the fallen Estra Fortress, the paladins, and the minions of the Azure Scales that attacked him there.
Bjorn’s expression remained dark throughout the story. When Dalen finished, he spoke in a somber voice.
”…The Dragon of the Fracture. So it’s come to this, has it?”
With a heavy sigh, he set down the crossbow.
“This belonged to my brother, Beyorn Kaladrakum. Well, half-brother, to be precise.”
Dalen paused, his hand hovering over a piece of meat. Were they really that close?
This was a revelation he hadn’t anticipated. Much about the one-eyed craftsman was shrouded in mystery.
“It’s alright. We severed ties long ago. If he’s truly joined the dragon’s ranks, perhaps it’s for the best.”
Beyorn waved his hand dismissively, his tone light as if it truly didn’t bother him. Yet, the depths of his eyes told a different story.
After a moment of silence, he began to speak, recounting a tale that was anything but brief.
“When we were young, we made a wager. We took a single blueprint and challenged each other to create the superior piece. Mine excelled in power and accuracy. His was smaller, with faster reloading and better concealment.”
From one blueprint, two vastly different creations emerged.
Later, we discovered the blueprint had inconsistencies in its measurements. The wager ended in a draw, and we decided to keep our creations as symbols of brotherly bond.
The rift between us came decades later.
After we fled the Empire with stolen gunpowder technology, we debated how to use it.
“Back then, neither the Empire nor the Tsar’s realm fully grasped gunpowder’s potential. My brother, harboring a deep grudge against humans, wanted to use it to wipe them out. I… couldn’t agree, knowing we had human relatives on our mother’s side.”
“I see.”
Over a century had passed since they declared their estrangement. Beyorn’s crossbow ended up in the hands of a young witch in the back alleys of the Bronze District.
Meanwhile, his half-brother still carried his own.
Whether it remained a symbol of brotherhood was uncertain. The dead are silent, and the emotions of the living are theirs alone to bear.
”…Thank you.”
Beyorn returned the crossbow with a nod.
“A craftsman often likens his life to his tools. Tools themselves are neither good nor evil. It’s the wielder who makes the difference.”
If not used for the right purpose, it’s better they break. With those words, Beyorn fell silent.
Crackle. Pop!
The campfire flickered. Dalen chewed his meat in silence, staring into the flames.
Comforting others wasn’t his strong suit. Offering solace here would have felt out of place.
After a while, Dalen stood up. Beyorn looked at him.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s time to go meet them.”
Boom…
A distant explosion echoed.
Unlike the tremors of a sandworm, this was the unmistakable roar of gunpowder reverberating through the dunes.
Beyorn, a renowned expert in explosives, sprang to his feet. The special ops agents resting by the fire began to stir, sensing the disturbance.
“Do you know where it’s coming from?” Beyorn asked.
The explosion had come from afar, its source obscured by the countless sand dunes.
Dalen closed his eyes, expanding his senses.
His heightened perception, honed by retrieving the bodies of dark sorcerers, stretched beyond several dunes.
He sifted through the flood of stimuli, piecing together a hazy, black-and-white image of a sand pit several kilometers away.
Explosives buried in the ground detonated, and agents from the vanguard fell under a hail of lead.
And in the midst of it all…
‘Sienna.’
A woman stood out, wielding a five-shot crossbow, her presence unmistakable.
Though her magic shielded against the blasts, it was clear she couldn’t protect everyone.
With a swift motion, Dalen drew his axe.
Reaching a skill level of 30 had subtly altered his understanding of wielding weapons.
Where once he relied on sheer force to tear through obstacles, he now grasped the delicate art of achieving the impossible with finesse.
A faint shimmer danced along the axe blade. Dalen hefted the hand axe over his shoulder.
His target: the summit of a sand dune.
A robed figure, overseeing the pit and remotely detonating explosives, was his mark.
The axe hummed with a strange resonance, its power reaching a crescendo.
In a flash, the axe vanished from Dalen’s hand.
There was no thunderclap.
No blinding flash.
Yet the axe blade, bypassing space itself, traversed the distance in an instant.
With a sharp whistle, it pierced through his sensory field, embedding itself in the sorcerer’s forehead.
The sorcerer crumpled, unaware of his fate, the detonator slipping from his lifeless grasp.
Dalen drew his sword. All eyes turned to him.
The immediate threat was neutralized; it was time to meet them head-on.