The chamber remained a natural beauty, tainted only by the old man with the glaive and the bird people rushing at him. The bird people glowed their subtle colors, powered by whatever buffs Spakkow was casting on them.

  A side glance was given to Melmarc. Spakkow was watching him, waiting. Melmarc understood why. He was a Portal Helper. He was supposed to help. The thing was that he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to help.

  Flenki swung her arm even before they reached the Oath. The action let out a spray of feathers that glinted under the slight light from the top of the chamber. Melmarc knew they were sharp. He knew they were powerful.

  The question was how powerful.

  The Oath swung his glaive. It was a casual thing, as if he was simply adjusting how he held it. the air quaked and a gust of force, strong enough to send ripples through the air, blasted the attack aside.

  It kept pressing forward, however, heading for Flenki. The woman dodged. She dived, hitting the ground in a roll, and came up a good distance away. The rest of the attack crossed the distance and slammed into the cave walls with a loud boom.

  Famon leapt backwards even though he had been charging forth, and flapped his wings forward. He sent a gust of air of his own, grunting from the exertion of the single flap.

  The gust he sent forward was a mini tornado. It spun, twisting and roaring, growing with every inch it took forward.

  The Oath looked at it and decided to step towards it. Perhaps he meant to meet it before it reached its peak, or maybe he didn’t care, he just wanted to be done with it.

  A single step was all he was allowed before he was forced to lean back. He pulled his head further back, avoiding a blade that would have struck him in the temple. His black eyes moved to the side, settling on the person who had attacked.

  “Shit,” Sentib cursed under her breath.

  The Oath moved his grip on his glaive, paused. His eyes narrowed on Sentib, completely ignoring Famon’s still growing tornado. As if seeing something he had missed, he turned.

  Melmarc read the man’s actions before he even performed it.

  He stepped to the side and activated [Knowledge is Power]. The aura of mana burst out of him. At the same time, the Oath held up his free hand and pointed. A dark ball coalesced in front of it, dripping with black ichor. In the blink of an eye, a wave of blackness washed everything in front of him.

  Melmarc gritted his teeth. If there was one thing anybody who watched and was slightly obsessed with Delvers knew, it was that you always protected your support member. They were in charge of buffs and, most important of all, healing.

  Gathering him in his arms, Melmarc turned his back on the black wave and bent down. When the wave hit him, he realized that maybe it was alright to let some people die.

  The pain scorched him. It bled through his shirt and reached into his pores. It burnt his hair, then his skin. It tore through flesh to reach muscle. Then muscles unraveled, shriveling up first. It came with dehydration, then loss. Then it came apart until there was nothing left but the bones of his own ribcage and the spine left. Then it reached his organs.

  Melmarc roared. It was not the wail of pain that came from a child. It was the sound of torture, of a soul damned to hell. It was the sound of loss. Knowing that there was nothing left of you in the end. The pain was all he knew. It embraced him, coercing him, assuring him that it was all he would know. And for a moment he believed it.

  He took solace in it.

  Then, like everything else, the skin on his bones, the muscles, the flesh, it abandoned him too. It fell silent. The roar was gone.

  But even the silence was loud, a roar of its own. It was the sound of acceptance. It was the sound of despair… the sound of desolation.

  [Optimum Existence 40%]

  [Optimum Existence 42%]

  [Optimum Existence 45%]

  [Optimum Existence 46.3%]

  “Get it together, Unkati!”

  Melmarc shook from the weight of the voice and the warm touch on his skin. Something soft, featherlike, touched his face. Then it was hard.

  Something struck him.

  “I can’t believe I’m touching the Unkati,” a voice muttered.

  Melmarc couldn’t make heads or tails of what was happening.

  Where was he?

  Eyes closed, he couldn’t see.

  But he could hear sounds in the distance, things beyond the warmth on his back. What he wanted to know hovered at the edge of knowledge. He knew what it was but could not reach it. That made too little sense, yet it made a lot of sense.

  It was on the tip of his tongue. It was—

  Something hard struck him again, and his eyes shot open. He gasped for air suddenly. His lungs lapped at it, his gasping continued.

  Spakkow frowned at him. “How are you feeling, Unkati?”

  “Like shit,” Melmarc groaned. He was lying on his stomach. It took all that he was not to push himself so that he laid on his back. “Are we winning?”

  His interface was already in front of him, informing him of the conclusion of [Knowledge is Power], telling him how he had not been damaged.

  So much for that, he thought, pushing himself to his feet.

  “We almost lost the Unkati in one strike.”

  Melmarc thought he heard something in Spakkow’s voice. Disappointment? Disgust? He took a moment to realize what it was. Disappointment and fear, in himself.

  Why?

  Because he had almost been taken out by the blast?

  Melmarc shook his head, dispelling the phantom pain. There was work to be done. In the distance that work was being done.

  The Oath fought off all four bird people. Famon did his best, dashing in to strike, evading, stepping away to use his wings to raise a bout of tornado. Each time he did so, Flenki, Taluk and Sentib rushed in to draw the Oath’s aggression.

  It was like watching a pack of wolves try to take down a larger predator. The Oath, Balusad, would defend and twirl his glaive. He would swing, frowning every time he missed and someone took advantage of it to strike him.

  Spakkow raised his hand as Famon leapt back, anticipating the his attack.

  “Sea and land, brown and ash, guide my aim and cheat my way,” he chanted, staff and hand raised in Famon’s direction. “[Enraged Kin].”

  Famon glowed a bright red. It coursed through him like a custom made membrane. The brightness rose until he flapped his wings.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  All Melmarc had done since the start of the fight was take a dangerous blow. After that, he had been out for so long that he didn’t even know how much time had passed.

  Get up! He chided himself.

  He took a step forward. Spakkow spared him a glance but said nothing. Why would he? Melmarc was their Helper for this fight. He was supposed to help.

  With a deep breath, he took a step forward, only to pause when something vibrated in his pocket. The only thing in his pocket was his phone.

  It couldn’t be, right? There was no cell service in a portal. Communication devices did not work until you returned. So, it was impossible… right?

  It was a stupid thing to do, but while the others struggled to fight, Famon, slammed into the ground by a swinging glaive from Balusad, Melmarc pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  The impossibility hit him hard as he stared at a message from Uncle Dorthna. It was a simple message, two words.

  Don’t die.

  For reasons he did not have the presence of mind to deal with right now, the simple message made him smile. Pelumi must have gotten to Ark, and Ark must’ve told their uncle what happened. Knowing Uncle Dorthna, he most likely knew what Melmarc had gotten himself into.

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  Don’t die.

  It meant that he could die here. A whole new appreciation to his position washed over him. He felt the tingles go through his skin. The possibility of death washed over him. If he died, there would be no survival, there would be no coming back.

  Melmarc didn’t want to die.

  Not to an Oath.

  The thought had not come from him, but it was his nonetheless.

  “Yes,” he muttered. “Not to an Oath.”

  An [August Intruder] did not die to an Oath.

  An Oath bows to an [August Intruder].

  Goosebumps washed all over him. It felt like watching a cool moment in an epic movie. It felt like power. It felt… it felt like… it was right there on the tip of his tongue. He just had to give it a voice.

  Like madness.

  A grin split his lips. Thoughts failed him as his legs stepped forward. An Oath against an [August Intruder]. The audacity to stand before him, slaying those who had called upon him to help them.

  Unkati, they called him.

  He was their helper.

  And he would not turn away from helping them.

  So what if you don’t run?

  He took a step forward.

  So what if he wasn’t a coward?

  He took another step forward. What he intended on doing was suicide.

  So what? the thought returned. What if you want him to kill you?

  He bared his teeth, like a rabid animal with an answer waiting: What if I want him to try?

  “Unkati?” Spakkow’s voice carried a weight of uncertainty. Worry.

  Melmarc walked down the path. The chaos continued in front of him, Famon fought, standing as the tank, he took the blows, deflecting and evading. They used a switch mentality. Famon held the Oath down while the others peppered him with smaller attacks…

  The way the weak fight.

  It was not his thought, but Melmarc did nothing to chide it, nothing to control it. Their strategy was sound. The sound of metals clanging as sparks flew filled the space. It was loud, reverberating. Famon held the glaive back with a broad sword and glowing feathers. Then he leapt back without a word, and everyone converged on the Balusad. The Oath rounded on them, holding them off, pinning them down, with all his violence and swinging glaive.

  The aggression drawn from him, Famon flapped his wings once more, the red membrane appearing around him to spur the tornado into something chaotic.

  As Melmarc walked forward, his smile growing at the anticipation of battle, he realized that perhaps none of the thoughts that had echoed back at him were not of madness but of war.

  Maybe that was the chaos of standing at the front lines. Maybe, just maybe, to move yourself to stand at the frontlines of a battle you could win just as easily as you could lose, with nothing but your pride behind you and a disgusting sense of superiority, was madness.

  Maybe, he realized, that to stand at the forefront of war, you had to be a little mad.

  To be War, you had to have a little bit of Madness in you.

  He was halfway to them when the tornado from Famon’s skill struck. The others dispersed at the last second, leaving Balusad to take the blow with an exposed back. Much like before, they had escaped a little too early. The Oath turned on time, pointed his finger at the tornado, and blasted it away with a facsimile of the skill that had taken Melmarc out for a while.

  Something primal rose within Melmarc. He growled. That was what gave the Oath the confidence to stand in front of him. That was what gave the Oath the pride… the audacity.

  Don’t just kill it, a voice said.

  Melmarc knew the response to that even if it came from some other part of him.

  Break it.

  He lunged forward.

  [Skill Extended Kindness is in effect]

  [New buff detected.]

  [You have gained random buff.]

  …

  [You have gained skill Wings of Steel]

  [Wings of Steel (Mastery 21.00%)

  He channeled his mana into the skill, activated it. From the remnants born of the conclusion of [Knowledge is Power], he selected his choice.

  [You have selected Enraged Kin.]

  [Enraged Kin](Mastery 19.02%)

  He tapped into it, knowledge flooding his mind, and activated it.

  Power surged through him. He felt the rage, but it was not from him or within him. The power that came with hate and the threat of violence settled around him. It settled about his shoulders like the mantle of a king. It fueled him with a single purpose.

  He continued his charge. The ground felt like an enemy, slowing him down. Melmarc ignored it. There was only one enemy, only one being deserving of all his rage.

  Balusad turned, swung his glaive into Famon. Famon raised his sword just in time. Metals met, but the Oath was stronger. Famon had not had the time to redirect the blow as he had been doing. He blocked instead of parrying. The force sent him flying, shooting through the air to slam into the ground.

  Flenki and the others moved to assist.

  Balusad rounded on them as if anticipating it. His hand came out and he fired another bolt of the skill. Melmarc didn’t know what it was, and he hadn’t gotten any skill that suggested it was anything like it.

  It didn’t matter.

  Sentib dived away from where she was standing. The blast of blackness washed over the ground like a wave, leaving nothing but ruined earth, black and destroyed. Melmarc saw the particles of mana as they avoided the entire space—left it desolate.

  Balusad’s audacity irked him as the old man turned his head skywards and laughed. He laughed at their weakness.

  He laughs at my subjects.

  Something in his head clicked, and not the right way. It was in the way a person could be doing something and they would realize with a certainty that they had to stop or that they had to do something else. It wasn’t urgency, just certainty.

  Melmarc’s footsteps were suddenly very loud in his ears. His weight heavy.

  He activated [Weight of Jupiter] and barreled straight into the Oath.

  Balusad turned to him at the last moment, still grinning like the fool that he was, and swung his glaive.

  [Weight of Jupiter] surged through Melmarc, giving him strength beyond his very own. He crossed his arms in front of him and [Wings of Steel] grew, a wing of mana with enough strength to rip through metal appearing around his hands. [Enraged Kin] fueled it all, maximize the reach of his abilities, pushing them beyond their limit.

  Melmarc met the swinging wave with the pride of an [August Intruder].

  And the audacity of the mad.

  Both met.

  Their impact caused an explosive boom.

  Shockwaves went through the chamber with enough force to send the rest of his team flying. Everything happened at once.

  Balusad shot away from where he had been standing, unable to withstand the full force of Melmarc’s impact—the punishment of an [August Intruder].

  He slammed into the wall of the cave a good distance away, creating a crater as wide as four of him in diameter.

  In his place, Melmarc stood. He staggered once but caught himself. The disrespect he had been levied as an [August Intruder] by a mere Oath burned him. The need to punish fueled him.

  But he could feel it. The sense of punishment now was different from the ones he knew.

  As the disrespectful Oath pulled himself from the crater he had made and landed on the ground, Melmarc’s blood dripped from his forearms and his head. Each drop was a herald to the punishment he would mete out upon the defier.

  So what if he was A rank?

  He was an Oath. His place before Melmarc was on his knees.

  Balusad looked at him now. His robe was stained and his glaive had a chip in the blade, but there was no other sign of harm on him. Meanwhile Melmarc was stuck with bleeding hands, a cut across his shoulder blades where the glaive had struck him, and a tattered shirt.

  He hated it. But he was going to rectify it.

  “Unkati,” Flenki muttered in a very small voice.

  The shockwave of their impact had sent her flying, but her new location was not what made Melmarc look at her. It was her voice. There had been something in it. A touch of awe, worry… veneration.

  She was standing in the presence of a being she had just fully realized was not just sacred but better.

  “Why?”

  Balusad’s voice came out empty, yet it was full of emotions, the slightest things. A whisper of confusion, worry, anger, annoyance. They were all shadows, as if he had forgotten how it truly felt to feel these things.

  “Why?” he asked again.

  Melmarc did not know what the heart of the question was. Why the creature felt he had the right to speak was interesting.

  You will answer, nonetheless.

  Why? Another thought—pieces of Melmarc speaking to themselves.

  Melmarc remembered something that Uncle Dorthna had told him once, something about what it meant to be an [August Intruder]. It helped him to answer himself. Why would he answer nonetheless to someone who did not even deserve to ask?

  Because it is the benevolence of a god.

  “It is simple,” he said, voice carrying in that way it did when you had everyone’s attention. “Because they called to me and I answered, I will rescue them. I will protect them. For they acknowledge my being.”

  Oath or not, Melmarc realized that the time had finally come.

  He reached across to his shoulder with a bleeding hand, allowing the pain of the action to fuel him. Taking a fistful of his shirt, he ripped it free to bare his torso.

  Then he lowered his stance, prepared himself.

  Oath or not…

  … It was time to kill another human being.