The remaining Liberators, now numbering seven, were a shadow of their former heroic selves.
Jaren, the spearman, was dead, his loss a heavy blow. They were battered, bruised, and their arguments had escalated from bickering to outright shouting matches, mostly instigated by a furious and increasingly erratic Miyamoto Masakado.
Isabelle Thorne, her face pale and drawn, fought with a grim determination, but even her legendary stamina was waning.
They had finally, after what felt like an eternity of bloodshed, fought their way across the "Endless Grind" chamber of the second floor.
"Stairs..." Torvin the Tank gasped, leaning heavily on his dented shield.
"Up. Must be the Demon King's throne room."
"About time!" Masakado snarled, wiping Orc blood from his cheek. "I'm going to take that fiend's head and use his skull as a dice cup!"
His bravado was wearing thin, replaced by a raw, desperate anger.
Isabelle eyed the staircase warily. "This feels too easy. After that last room... be on your guard."
They ascended to the third floor, finding themselves in a surprisingly serene antechamber. Unlike the grim stone of the previous levels, this room was furnished with plush velvet couches. In the center, a small, crystal-clear fountain bubbled merrily, its water glowing with a soft, inviting light.
"A rest area!" Elara the Healer exclaimed, her voice filled with relief. "Thank the Light! I thought I was done for."
Even Isabelle allowed herself a small sigh of relief. "We'll rest here for a short while. Drink from the fountain, tend to our wounds."
Masakado scoffed. "Rest is for the weak! I'm going to find that cowardly Demon King!"
But even he looked tempted by the couches.
As Elara reached for the fountain, a barely perceptible shimmer in the air caught Isabelle's eye. "Wait!"
Too late.
The serene illusion shattered. The plush couches dissolved into menacing, jagged rocks. The bubbling fountain morphed into a pit of black, viscous ooze.
From hidden alcoves in the walls, the shadows seemed to peel away and solidify.
"AMBUSH!" Isabelle screamed, drawing her katana.
BOOM!
The ground exploded around them as Ragnar's elite forces materialized.
Grunt, the Kobold Warlord, was at the forefront, his massive iron-shod maul held high. With a deafening roar, he charged Torvin.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Grunt's every step was a miniature earthquake. The wind shrieked as he swung his maul.
CRACK!
The maul connected with Torvin's shield. The impact was an apocalyptic detonation of force.
A massive, white shockwave blasted outwards, cracking the very stone of the floor and sending fissures spiderwebbing up the walls.
Torvin, for all his strength, was launched backwards like a child's toy, crashing into the far wall with enough force to shatter stone.
His shield was bent in half, his arm broken. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Smashy the Orc, flanked by two other equally massive Orc Berserkers, charged the remaining heroes, their axes whistling.
Goblin Snipers appeared on ledges above, their dark-wood bows already drawn, arrows nocked.
The antechamber became a whirlwind of violence.
"Mages first!" a cold voice commanded from the shadows.
Suddenly, the room plunged into an even deeper darkness as Ragnar Vhagar himself made his entrance.
He didn't teleport; he simply flowed from the darkest corner, a pale, vampiric figure with eyes like burning coals. He moved with impossible speed.
BOOM!
The ground seemed to warp under his feet. He was a blur, the wind screaming in his wake.
Elara, the healer, barely had time to register his presence before he was upon her.
BOOM!
Ragnar's hand, wreathed in shadows, shot out.
It wasn't a punch; it was a precise, lethal strike.
A sharp sonic boom cracked the air as his palm connected with her chest. A visible shockwave of force ripped through her, and she crumpled to the floor, her light extinguished.
The stern-faced archer loosed an arrow at Ragnar.
"Too slow," Ragnar purred. He vanished into the shadows again, the arrow passing harmlessly through where he'd been.
The heroes were in disarray. Their tank was down, their healer eliminated.
Masakado fought with the fury of a cornered animal, his glittering sword a whirlwind of light.
BOOM! CRACK! BOOM!
Each swing was a desperate explosion of power, felling goblins and orcs, but he was overwhelmed.
Isabelle fought back-to-back with the archer and another swordsman, her katana a desperate dance of death.
But for every monster they struck down, two more pressed the attack.
Then, Ragnar focused his will. He looked at the archer, a stern, disciplined man named Kael. 'Isabelle is using you,'
Ragnar whispered into the recesses of Kael's mind using [Dark Induction].
'She craves all the glory. She'll sacrifice you without a thought to protect her own reputation.'
Kael flinched, his eyes darting towards Isabelle.
A seed of doubt, poisonous and potent, bloomed in his mind.
He saw Isabelle cut down an Orc that was about to strike him, but in his paranoia, he saw it as her stealing his kill, her drawing attention to herself.
"Isabelle!" Kael suddenly snarled, his face contorted. "You glory hound! You're leading us to our deaths!"
Before Isabelle could react, Kael spun, his bow aimed not at a monster, but at her. He loosed an arrow point-blank.
CRACK!
The arrow, fired with unexpected force, slammed into Isabelle's leg.
The wind shrieked as it pierced her armor. A shockwave rippled from the impact. She cried out, stumbling, a look of shocked betrayal on her face.
"Kael! What are you doing?!" she gasped.
The archer himself looked horrified at what he'd done, the suggestion fading, leaving him with the terrible reality of his action.
"I... I don't know..."
It was the final straw. Masakado, seeing Isabelle fall, seeing Kael turn traitor, and seeing the tide of monsters about to engulf them, made his choice.
"Every man for himself!" he shrieked, his heroic facade shattering completely. He turned and bolted, shoving past the other remaining swordsman and Kael, scrambling towards the stairs they'd come up.
The other swordsman, seeing his leader flee, hesitated for a moment, then followed suit, abandoning Isabelle. Kael stood frozen, bow dropping from his numb fingers, staring at Isabelle's wounded form.
Grunt, the Kobold Warlord, raised his maul to finish Kael.
"Leave him," Ragnar commanded, stepping out of the shadows.
His gaze was fixed on Isabelle, who was struggling to rise, her katana still clutched in her hand, her face a mask of pain and defiance.
The remaining Liberators had fled. Isabelle Thorne, the Sword Saint of Aethelburg, was alone, injured, and surrounded.
Ragnar Vhagar allowed himself a slow, satisfied, and utterly chilling smile. The trap had been sprung.
The heroes were broken. And the real game was about to begin.