Siora skidded over the ground, sliding like a dancer back and forth, ducking and weaving under each of Potilia's monstrous swings. One hit from the berserker and she would be done. The kanabo whistled through the air in wide, wild arcs.

The air thrummed with energy as their shards hovered above their shoulders. Zezog let a single shard hum above his shoulder as he watched from the side of the reinforced practice arena. Even Cixilo, Katalin, and Ernie watched from the side with shards active.

Siora nearly tripped, even with enhanced dexterity, as she tried to back away from Potilia's rage-enhanced attacks. A heat poured from the blonde woman. Anger, aggression, and power emanated from her body, and it all felt so real.

It felt like fighting Owin in the Ocean.

A quick adjustment of her position allowed Siora to bring her sword up just enough to take the brunt of the attack. The intense strength behind the attack sent shockwaves through Siora's bones. The arena spun around her before she forced the soles of her boots against the ground. Before she finished her skidding, Potilia was already advancing.

Siora stepped to the side and let her passive abilities position her sword to deflect enough of the attack to regain some footing.

"This is not a battle of defense!" Zezog's voice boomed in the arena with enough force to feel like a gust of wind.

Siora pushed Potilia's attack aside and ducked under a careless horizontal swing. Telling a soldier not to defend against a berserker was nonsense. In a battle of aggression, a berserker had every advantage over a soldier.

"Stop thinking so hard!" Katalin shouted.

Siora gritted her teeth, stepped close, and smashed an elbow against Potilia's face. She had expected a grunt or a stagger, or anything to show she had finally scored a hit. Instead, Potilia grinned a bloody, threatening smile and headbutted Siora.

The imposing form of Zezog stood between them before Siora could even register that the old elf had moved. His arms were extended, palms out, ready to stop either of them from moving.

Potilia visibly controlled herself, calming the rage. She wobbled, dropped the kanabo, and spat a wet gob of blood onto the arena floor.

"Are you okay?" Siora asked.

Zezog relaxed and stepped back, also keeping an eye on Potilia.

The berserker nodded weakly. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead and sighed. "That new rage is exhausting."

Siora's eyes were wide. A new rage? When? Potilia spent a vast majority of her time in the library, and the rest of it in the arena. Once she thought about it, Siora realized Potilia was bound to level up from all of that. And what had she been doing while Potilia was getting stronger?

Siora couldn't let herself fall behind. She couldn't stall.

Everyone she knew, her only friends, were all getting stronger.

Katalin looked the same as always, but she carried a new confidence that could only be linked to some breakthrough. Ernie was moderately armored and had a whole array of weapons he had crafted, primarily based on the claverstan technology from the Subterranean Dungeon.

As far as she knew, Zezog couldn't get stronger, and Althowin likely couldn't either. And still, the old elf was in the arena anytime anyone was interested. Althowin was frequently in the workshops, trailing behind Miya, Ernie, or Kat, and as far as Siora knew, she hadn't taken a single job in days or weeks. Or maybe longer.

In the past, Siora would've said the intense discomfort she felt at almost all times was just her way of existing. Some mixture of paranoia and anxiety and whatever else lingered in her mind.

Seeing everyone else prepare for war somehow calmed some of those anxieties. At least she knew it wasn't just her. It wasn't some phantom worry or some unnecessary discomfort lingering in the back of her mind. It was justified, and she was far from the only one feeling that way.

"If you allow your opponent to push, you will only defend," Zezog said with his full attention on Siora.

She looked up. His face was serious without warmth or humor. It was the sign he was saying something he didn't want her to forget. Everything about him seemed to come out in his expressions. Or sometimes, lack of expressions.

"A raging—"

"No," he said. "Instinct Fighting will not truly protect you. Relying on it will eventually fail. Utilize Swift Strike to create an opening. Its cooldown is short enough to keep a berserker back when the pressure gets difficult to handle."

Zezog gestured, and Potilia picked up her weapon and walked away. She was still sweating, despite having only battled for a brief time. Siora mentally noted to find out what the new rage was that Potilia got from leveling up. What were the benefits if that was her condition after using it for a brief time?

Zezog reached over his shoulder, unlatched his folded sword, and flicked the massive slab of metal. All the pieces swung out and locked in place.

Siora just stared at it. It looked more like an oversized door than a sword, but she had no doubt a weapon made for the Barbarian by Althowin would be the strongest sword in existence.

"I'm supposed to get close when you're using that?"

Zezog turned his back to her, walked a few dozen paces, then turned. His shard lowered into his shoulder, then a red mist erupted from his skin.

Siora's eyes widened.

He might've powered down to shardless, but he was still max level with a hundred years of experience fighting. A rage against her would—

Siora took a step back, braced herself, and smashed her free hand against the flat side of her burning blade, reinforcing it as she caught the overhead swing of Zezog's monstrous sword. If she was anywhere outside Althowin's compound, the ground would've shattered from such an attack.

Siora pushed against the blade and slipped to the side, allowing Zezog's swing to continue until it chopped into the arena floor. She stepped close, used Swift Strike, and barely caught Zezog's vest with the tip of her sword, burning loose threads.

He jabbed forward with a fist that felt like it would shatter Siora's skull. She activated Dodge and followed it with Instant Strike, successfully stabbing her sword through Zezog's abdomen.

Her eyes widened and she let the sword go immediately. "I'm sorry!"

A fist caught her in the head and sent her tumbling across the arena.

Siora stayed on the ground and let Endure lessen the pain. Basolia appeared with a health potion, which she immediately drank.

Zezog stayed in the same place, rage abated, and drank his own potion. He had pulled the sword from the abdomen and nodded in her direction. A shard lifted from his right shoulder. "See if you can do it again."

The new scar was visible on his exposed abdomen. Twisted skin from the burns looked painful, even when healed. She knew, especially from the ringing in her head, that the pain of an attack didn't fade quickly even when someone was healed.

"Basolia," Katalin said. The specter appeared beside her. "Can you let Indulf know we need a mender. I think he knows someone."

"Indeed." Basolia melted into the ground and darted away as a little line of shadow.

"Why?" Siora asked. She hesitantly approached Zezog and grabbed her sword. The old elf was already walking away, back to where he had started the last bout.

"Uh, no reason," Katalin said.

Potilia, who had been standing, slumped on the ground beside Katalin. She groaned and laid the kanabo across her lap. "Don't let him win," she said.

"Him?" Siora looked at Zezog, who was slightly crouched like he was ready to pounce. "You think I can beat the Barbarian?"

Zezog lifted a foot.

"Fuck," Siora said.

As the elf's foot hit the ground, the entire compound rumbled. For those outside the arena like Indulf, Althowin, Sanem, and Raif, it was little more than the equivalent of an earthquake. Everyone inside endured a true aura attack as the ground shattered.

Siora stumbled as the stone beneath her feet turned to dust. Her Instinct Fighting screamed in her mind, warning of the obvious attack. All she could manage to do was raise an armored forearm, which would normally do nothing to stop a berserker's swing.

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Almighty Block, Resonance, Reflect, Reinforce.

Siora was sent straight into the foundations of the arena. She landed hard on her knees with her forearm still raised. Zezog stood high above her on some broken, but not crumbled pieces of the floor. His sword arm was criss-crossed with thousands of small cuts that made his arm shake.

Siora stood, vomited, and activated Pressing Attack. She used the speed to leave the lower area and push directly against Zezog. He tried to refuse to move, which only allowed her to use Greater Pierce and nearly land another critical strike. His Steel Skin ability was too great for her to actually break through. The edge of her burning sword still left a bleeding line even through the reinforcement ability.

While Zezog's abilities weren't all as flashy as Battlefield Quake, he was an expert in every level and every ability. He knew what to use and when. The only reason she won the last bout was because he was shardless, or more likely, because he let her win.

Siora activated Swift Strike to create room like he said. Her sword came back around twice as fast as usual. He pushed it aside with an open palm and swung his sword horizontally.

Siora dropped to her knees, ducking under the attack, then felt the blast hit her. He had never intended to land the swing. Instead, he had activated Windblast and sent her tumbling backward into the shattered ground.

He charged forward and had the sword to her throat before she even realized she had stopped moving.

Siora only groaned. The sour taste of vomit still hung in her mouth and burned in her throat. Just stopping that single swing had nearly killed her, and that was when they were at the same shard level. How did someone like Chorsay or Vondaire kill heroes at shard levels above their own?

Fucking Vondaire had managed to fight someone with three more shards than himself.

Zezog pulled the sword away and collapsed it back to its smallest form. He offered her a hand, but Siora just waved him away.

"Give me a minute." She opened her index and looked at the list of Shard Heroes. Vondaire still had two, Myrsvai had two. Owin and Chorsay were still there. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Nikoletta before snapping back to the one shard list.

Basolia appeared nearby. "A mender will be arriving shortly."

"I don't need one," she said, sitting up.

"You have broken ribs and stress fractures through your entire arm."

"Just give me a potion."

"A mender will be here shortly." The specter melted back into the ground and slithered away.

She supposed the mender would also help Potilia with whatever was exhausting her about that rage. Maybe they would even have some information about how to handle that exhaustion in the future.

Siora stood with some effort, sheathed her sword, and took a deep breath.

Katalin's expression shifted. She saw something.

Even if Siora wanted to keep it a secret, these people now knew her too well for her to hide anything. She had never been one to share, but she also had never learned to mask anything. Her anger, her fear, her everything was on display whether she wanted to or not. She looked at Zezog and met his warm, concerned gaze. She was like him. Expressionless or showing every little detail. There was no in between.

"What is it?" Katalin asked.

"Sylmare Virtress is dead."

Potilia's eyes widened.

***

Owin had spent enough time around Chorsay to know what to expect. Such a large man needed a lot of food, and he found his fill throughout the lehboa market. He stopped at nearly every stall and chatted for at least a brief moment. If they had food, then he stopped for even longer to eat and learn more about the mobs. Their stories and lives were more detailed than most Owin had encountered in the dungeons, but he wasn't sure how true they were. When a merchant from out of town spoke of his family, Owin could only assume his wife and children didn't actually exist out beyond the boundary wall.

What seemed more important to the conversations was the information they acquired about the floor and the city around them. Chorsay seemed to be legitimately curious about the mobs, but was also working to learn more about the whole city. Even though he had visited in the past, it had been many years since the old man had visited the Desert.

Owin followed along, happy for the company and opportunity to learn. Shade loved the conversations and dove head first into the chance to introduce himself to every mob they came across.

Owin stayed back, unless prompted by Chorsay, and listened. From what he gathered, the market was a normal occurrence within Kisisu. Some merchants and farmers relied on it, which was why they had continued it despite the recent complications.

When pressed on what "complications" meant, none of the lehboa seemed to want to share. They hinted at enemies, disease, and external threats. Nobody was scared of the city, the guards, or really any lehboa from what Owin could tell.

What he had trouble understanding was the purpose of the floor. City floors had their own rules, apparently. He didn't know much about that either, and that bothered him. But if heroes weren't meant to storm the city and kill all the kind lehboa with their own histories and lives, then what was the purpose of Kisisu? He was certain some heroes did slaughter the people, just like they would kill any other mob they came across. The same heroes probably killed other heroes too.

But for the heroes like him and Chorsay, what did they do in cities?

Chorsay thanked the lehboa behind the market stall, brushed crumbs from his fingertips, and stood tall. He looked through the marketplace, seeing things Owin couldn't imagine with a perspective so high above.

"That's the end of it," he said proudly. He put one hand on his stomach. "Sorry to make you wait."

Owin shrugged. "What do we do next?"

Chorsay scratched his cheek, gave Shade a confused look, then turned his attention deeper into the city. "We can just move on to the next floor."

Owin quickly shook his head. "I think we should explore. There's a secret and all the lehboa made it sound like there was something they're scared of happening in the city."

Chorsay just nodded slowly while looking about.

There really was no reason to wait. They could rush and be done with the Desert in no time. They could get to the seventh floor, fuse, and clear the boss and be on their way. But . . . Why? He finally had an opportunity to spend time with Chorsay in a dungeon and in a situation where they weren't going to be constantly fighting.

"Do you know what's happening?"

Chorsay smiled softly. "No. Why don't we investigate?"

He knew. He had obviously gone through it all during his first time in the Desert. It didn't really matter.

Owin pointed at the large cathedral off the side of the marketplace. "Can we start there?"

Chorsay raised an eyebrow, but quickly flattened his expression. "Go ahead."

Shade looked between both of them, then took a step closer to Owin. "We're suspicious."

"Are you?"

"No," Owin said quickly. He turned on his heel and started toward the cathedral. He waved them after him and kept a strong pace without looking to see if they were following. Upon reaching the cathedral, he opened the door and gestured for them to go inside.

"After me?" Shade asked, hand on his chest. "Impressive manners. You're learning."

"Am I?"

"Learning isn't always positive, you know." Shade strode through the door while Chorsay lingered outside, still on the stone stairs.

"What's wrong?"

The old man looked through the door. "Nothing."

"You don't want to go in?"

Chorsay adjusted one of the bags hanging from his armor, then shifted the sword belt around his waist.

"Chorsay," Owin said in the most commanding voice he could manage.

Chorsay finally cracked a smile.

"You know the floor already."

A subtle nod.

"So you know what's inside."

Another nod.

It didn't seem like he was going to reveal anything about what to expect inside or elsewhere in the city, so Owin needed to approach it from a different angle.

"Should we be letting Shade wander around on his own inside?"

"We should not." Chorsay stopped fidgeting with things and led the way inside. "It's not all easy to see." The entrance to the cathedral was grand in itself. Massive, detailed stained glass windows depicted lehboa and a slightly taller, less hunched creature with long, curled hair. Underneath it all was a string of fire.

"Here," Chorsay said. He opened a door and gestured.

Owin stepped through and frowned. Instead of rows of pews or lehboa worshipers, he saw cot after cot, all occupied by curled up, feeble lehboa. Instead of being his usual self, Shade was crouched beside a cot that held a small lehboa child. They were sitting upright with a blanket wrapped tight about their shoulders.

Shade pulled his skull off, held it upside down like a bucket, dropped a small towel inside, and somehow made it disappear. The child laughed, coughed, then laughed a bit again, though it sounded more like a groan.

"What's going on here?" Owin asked quietly.

"A magical disease." Chorsay stayed near the door and just nodded to Shade when the skeleton looked over. "There is a conspiracy within the city."

"Can we stop it?"

"We can." Chorsay kept watching Shade, who had turned back to entertaining the sick child.

"I want to."

Chorsay crossed his arms and smiled at Owin. "Then we should."

Owin waited, watching the old man, who just watched him in return. It was a long, odd pause before Owin finally stuck his arms out. "Where are we going?"

"It's up to you."

"Chorsay," Owin said, making sure to keep his voice down. He didn't need his annoyance to echo through a cathedral full of sick lehboa. "You know where to go."

A single eyebrow rose. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't make me figure it out. We can get them better faster if you tell me where to go."

"Probably underground."

Owin froze. Chorsay's hand immediately snapped to the Winged Sword's grip. The voice was nasally and unfamiliar.

It was so close.

"Who said that?" Owin whispered.

"I said that."

Chorsay shook his head slowly. "Nothing can sneak up on me."

That's what Owin thought, so what could it be? He looked down and met white eyes staring up at him from the top of his specter bag.

"Uh."

"Hello," the voice said again. The mouth of the bag moved with the words.

"Is . . . Are you . . . Uh."

"Is talking difficult?" the bag asked.

Shade walked over. "Why do you two look so scared? I don't even think you can get the illness in here. Can you? I can't. I assume. I can't get sick, right? I'm already dead, so what would plague do to me? Oh no, my bones are sick."

"Too much talking."

Shade's eye sockets widened. "Who?"

Owin pointed down at his bag.

Shade leaned to the side, narrowed his eye sockets, then took a step closer. "Really? How smart are you?"

"I have a brain," the bag said.

"Well." Shade stood tall and put his hands on his hips. "I've been insulted enough. Let's toss it in the first ditch we find."

'Things never get more normal for you," Chorsay said.

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