Chapter Eighty-nine. The rules.

Chapter Eighty-nine. The rules.

Bob walked down the hallway cautiously, with Monroe padding beside him.

He hadn't gone down to a Dungeon floor without knowing what was waiting for him since his first week on Thayland.

He was absolutely certain that any monsters on the first level wouldn't pose a challenge, but he wanted to make sure he was aware of the dangers that the kids he'd left on the landing would be facing.

A hint of movement caught his eye, and he saw two-foot-long centipede scurry from one pool of shadows to another.

Before he could act, Monroe pounced on it, crushing its head with a single blow from his saucer-sized paw before leaping back and bouncing from side to side as he pawed it.

"Good job, buddy," Bob muttered as he inspected the other pools.

Clearly, the Church had a darkness and light theme going on here.

Bob pulled mana through his matrix and cast Mana Sight.

Ethereal silver light flooded his vision, and Bob could see the yard-thick flows of mana that twisted and flowed down into the Dungeon. He could see where some of the flows splintered, and thinner flows looped out to create pools of mana before flowing back into the larger conduits.

Those pools were located in the shadows, and Bob could see the centipedes that lay in wait in each pool.

He looked more closely at the flow of mana.

The huge conduits were fairly smooth and even, but the smaller tendrils...

'Thidwell's father was quite skilled,' Trebor said quietly, 'however, when the only tool you have is a heavy maul, delicate work is difficult.'

Bob realized that the smaller, foot thick flows had jagged, lumpy, uneven edges as if someone had taken a larger flow and simply hammered at it until they managed to gouge pieces of it off.

"So with Mana Manipulation..." Bob said.

'Such designs would be trivial and far more efficient,' Trebor agreed, 'you'll note how the mana conduits leak?'

He realized that the tiny motes of mana that painted the hallway in silvery-blue ethereal light were constantly settling to the floor and draining down through the joints between the flagstones while being renewed by a gentle mist emanating from the conduits, a mist that was both thicker and more energetically expelled by the mishappen smaller conduits.

Bob dropped the spell and shook his head to clear his vision.

The problem with Mana Sight was that it was so fascinating that it tended to distract him.

And being distracted in the Dungeon was dangerous.

Bob grunted and staggered forward as Monroe started scaling Bob's difficult northern face.

He hunched over, making it easier for Monroe to reach his shoulders and settle into the Makres.

Bob reached up and scratched under Monroe's chin.

"That was more fun for both of us when you didn't weigh seventy pounds," Bob murmured.

He continued down the hallway for another fifty feet, passing several pools on either side before he stopped, and recast Mana Sight.

Focusing on the centipedes, he started killing them with his Eldritch Blast and timing how long it took for them to respawn.

It became apparent they reappeared after ten seconds.

Bob worked his way back towards the landing, blasting centipedes and timing their reappearance, just in case the times varied.

They didn't

Nora grimaced and twisted her hands around the grip of the club Bob had given her, watching as he walked down the hallway.

In retrospect, she could clearly see the path and intent of Marie's questions.

She swung her club away from her body, trying to get a feel for the weapon.

A glance to her left showed that the other three were doing the same, and she had a feeling that she didn't appear any more graceful than they did.

Orson let out a yelp, and Nora turned to find Wayna blushing and stammering an apology, "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, "it sort of got away from me."

Orson rubbed his arm and grinned at Wayna, "Maybe we ought to spread out a little and practice our swings with a bit more space between us," he said.

With an unspoken consensus, their ranks spread, and they resumed bashing at their imaginary foes.

"So," Nora said as she swiped her club from side to side, "what paths are you aiming for?"

"My mum wants me to be a laborer," Wayna replied with a shake of her head, "but there aren't many good paths that lead from that, so I think that I might try for Druid."

"Armsmen for me," Orson said, "my father has a close friend in the employ of a lesser noble house, and they have room for a few more Armsmen, and he'll recommend me."

As he watched Charn barely dodge an attack, Bob winced.

He couldn't cast anything to help them, as his mana intermingling with theirs would prevent crystals from forming when they killed a monster.

All he could do was keep watch and be ready to drop a heal on anyone who took a hit.

Nora struggled to raise her club as yet another centipede leaped from the shadows to attack her.

The armor which had seemed so blessedly warm before had become stifling, and sweat poured down her face and slicked her sides as she swung her club over and over again.

She had no idea how long she'd been fighting, and she'd lost track of how many centipedes she'd killed. Thousands, she suspected.

Swing the club, step forward, swing the club, pivot, ten steps, then repeat.

She'd found that Bob's advice to take slow, deep breaths was good for more than just calming herself down. It helped to keep her rhythm as her muscles screamed for rest.

She'd known that Adventurers killed monsters, that everyone killed monsters, at least if they wanted to progress beyond level five.

There was a difference between knowing and knowing.

The reality of killing monsters was different from the idea of killing them. She'd never heard anyone talk about the dull terror of being constantly attacked, or the dirt and the sweat, or the self-inflicted pain that came from abused muscles and lungs.

Except for Bob.

He'd been talking for hours, telling them the same things, over and over. He was starting his speech again even now.

"This is what it means to be an Adventurer," Bob said loudly.

"Fighting monsters, being afraid, not just knowing, but understanding that you could be killed for the slightest mistake," he half-shouted.

"This is what it takes for humanity to survive on Thayland. Your friends, your family, your loved ones, they can only sleep safely in their beds because Adventurers stand ready to hold the wall," Bob bellowed.

"Everyone has a choice," Bob went on, "to either cower under their blankets and hope that someone comes to save them or to stand up and take responsibility for their own safety."

"You'll sweat, and ache, and bleed because that is what it takes to become strong," Bob yelled, "You'll spend so many hours in the Dungeon that your fellow Adventurers will be your only friends because you don't have time for anything else!"

"When you walk into a room, your first instinct will be to scout the ways in and out of it, just in case you need to retreat, and to keep watch on possible ambush points," Bob said.

"You'll nearly destroy your ability to relax because letting your guard down in the Dungeon is an invitation for death!" Bob shouted.

"Understand that by becoming an Adventurer, you are consigning yourself to a life of constant struggle, pain, exhaustion, and hardship," Bob continued, "But also understand that it mustbe done! Someone has to make the sacrifice, and if you have anyone you truly love, you'll do it for them."

Nora noticed that every time Bob reached this point in his speech, he unconsciously reached up and petted his cat.

Monroe was wearing armor now, and if she wasn't mistaken, it was much nicer than hers.

She was fairly certain it was enchanted.

Having received a rude and sudden introduction to economics outside of a noble house, Nora was almost appalled at the number of mana crystals Bob had spent on armor for his cat.

She steadied her breathing and kept swinging as Bob launched into the second half of his speech.

"Strike, move, strike!" he chanted, "keep your breathing steady!"

"That pain in your arms, the ache in your lungs, the tremble in your hands?" Bob yelled, "That doesn't matter!"

"The only pain that matters is the pain you inflict!" Bob bellowed, "Those aches and trembles are your body showing you where you need to become stronger!"

"There is one hard truth in this cold world," Bob screamed, "and here it is - If you want to accomplish anything, you have to PUT IN THE WORK!"

"Nothing is free, and anything worth having is going to require you to work hard for it," Bob shouted.

"The first rule of delving is caution! Everything in the Dungeon is here with one single, mindless purpose - to kill you. Horribly!" Bob said.

"The second rule of delving is humility! You can't win every fight, and a dead Adventurer is of no use to anyone! Don't fight unless you are absolutely one hundred percent certain that you will win!" Bob went on.

"The third rule of delving is skill! If your skills aren't at their maximum levels, you don't go deeper into the Dungeon! You ensure all your skills are fully leveled! You wouldn't try to use a spear that was only half as long as it should be and only sharp in a few spots!" Bob kept bellowing.

"The fourth rule of delving is knowledge! Never delve blindly! Someone has been on that floor before, and they can tell you what you'll be up against! You can't follow rule two if you don't know what you're going to be fighting, so educate yourself!" Bob continued.

"The fifth rule of delving is equipment! If you aren't fully armed and armored with a complete set of enhancements, you're leaving damage, survivability, and sustain on the table! Those few points of armor or damage, or stamina or mana, and especially health, can be the difference between life and death! It's worth spending the extra time on a floor you are tired of to gain the crystals you need for your equipment!" Bob shouted.

"And that leads me to the sixth rule of delving! Hell, it could be the golden rule of being an Adventurer! You can never have enough crystals! You'll always need them for something, and you'll always be short. So PUT IN THE WORK, spend those hours in the Dungeon every day!" Bob said.

Nora kept swinging. She could have given the speech herself at this point.

She stole a glance at Bob and saw him take a drink from his canteen and give Monroe a good neck rubbing.

She focused on the centipede skittering towards her and resolved to keep putting in the work.