Chapter 1193 Indispensable
Oriole eyed the food with skepticism, exhaustion giving way once more to the wariness of a cornered animal. The Knight of Courage, ever vigilant, hadn't moved from her post by the door, her gaze flicking between it and the tray. Even kindness, it seemed, wasn't without its dangers in this strange world.
"We can tell you everything," Oriole finally said, the weight of their situation settling deeper on his shoulders. He met the Knight's eyes, seeing the same grim resignation mirrored back. "But you must promise to help us. We didn't come here to fight your wars, and we won't be pawns in whatever conflict your city is locked in."
The scholar nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I have lived long in this dungeon, seen generations fight a war born from forgotten mistakes. If you have truly come from this 'Earth', then perhaps...perhaps you offer a chance to break this cycle. Tell your tale, and I will offer what trust I can, even if others won't."
As the last rays of sunlight faded, Oriole spun their story. He painted a picture of Earth, its technological marvels and flawed humanity. He described their flight from their homeworld, the desperate gamble of a cross-dimensional escape, and the shadow of the Ancestor, the Empyrean who pursued them relentlessly. He saw shock mingled with doubt on the scholar's face, yet no outright dismissal. Finally, he turned to Caleb.
"This boy," Oriole placed a hand on the prince, still locked in slumber, "This young man…he is connected to the Empyrean, a hostage against his grandfather's wrath. We are pursued by a powerful tyrant that is trying to save him.
The scholar's eyes widened, and he slumped back with a gasp. "The Empyrean…then the tales are true! And he is…the Empyrean's kin?" He trailed off, muttering to himself, a whirlwind of speculation and despair.
Unable to contain herself any longer, the Knight of Courage stepped forward. "Old man, riddles will aid us little now. You spoke of Earth, of others? What can you tell us about this dungeon, truly?"
A spark of determination flared in the scholar's eyes, straightening his weary posture. "Long ago, before my time even, scrolls spoke of…rifts. Times when the boundaries of our world blurred, and people from this 'Earth' stumbled forth, confused and lost. It's said they fought alongside our ancestors during the First Breach…the first shattering of sanity this dungeon unleashed upon us."
Oriole felt a cold certainty settle upon him. If people from Earth had appeared here before, it wasn't mere chance that brought them. "Then there is a way out. The crystal Saint Ai used…it wasn't coincidence. If there have been breaches before, there may be one again."
The scholar nodded slowly. "It's the only explanation for your arrival. Your world, with its fantastical inventions…perhaps that is where the key to our salvation truly lies. Perhaps you are not just a spark to reignite a stalemated war, but the catalyst that can end it entirely."
"But what does this mean for now?" The Knight of Courage gestured towards the window, where the sounds of a mustering army grew louder with each passing minute. "They will force us to fight, or use the boy as leverage against us."
The scholar's shoulders slumped slightly. "There will be no avoiding the battles to come…for now, gaining the lord's favor is key. The boy…he is both your greatest danger, and an unforeseen opportunity." He rose, a flicker of the defiance from earlier returning to his gaze. "Rest now, my friends. Tomorrow, this city might see you as its enemies, or perhaps, its tenuous hope. For now, we must ensure the scale tips towards the latter."
Their stay in the scholar's tower, with its glimpses of the city and whispered strategizing, was brutally short. They weren't guests anymore, but prisoners once again, albeit moved to more 'secure' accommodations – dank, deep cells within the heart of the city. Yet, the scholar's final words lingered, offering a twisted kind of comfort. They were a weapon now, however unreliable, and that might give them a sliver of control they otherwise lacked.
They did not have time to acclimate before they were dragged out, not to the courtyard, but to the city's edge. Here, the grand structures gave way to scarred battlements facing a brutal no-man's land. Beyond it, a mirror image of the city rose, a grotesque reflection of their own desperate haven. This wasn't a test, but the brutal reality of the dungeon's existence.
"Behold, warriors of Earth," the lord's voice boomed over the clash of weapons echoing from the field below. "This is your promised battle, against our true foes. Show me your worth, or these stones will be your tomb."
There was no time for questions, no hesitation allowed. With weapons shoved into their hands, they were pushed towards the fray, descending into a nightmare.
The Knight moved like a storm contained. Her greatsword wasn't meant for contained duels, but she adapted, each parry shattering shields and sending the enemy staggering back. Oriole, however, was the anomaly. He moved between the fighters, not with sword strikes, but flicks of his fingers that sent sigils blazing across the ground. Vines ensnared charging warriors, patches of ice became treacherous traps, and thunderous explosions sent shockwaves into the enemy ranks.
With each desperate gambit, each unorthodox tactic, something changed on the battlefield. The defenders, used to a battle of attrition, gained a flicker of desperate hope. Their attacks became bolder, the enemy's relentless surge faltered.
Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, a horn blared. It wasn't a victory cry, but a signal of retreat. Exhausted, covered in the grime of battle, Oriole staggered back towards their own lines, the Knight mirroring his every painful step.
The lord met them, not with a victor's pride, but a grim satisfaction. "You've earned your place at my table," he said. It wasn't an invitation, but an order. He turned towards the depths of the city, and they were expected to follow, back into the heart of a power they barely understood, where their survival might hinge on being the monsters they were never meant to be.
They were led not to some grand dining hall, but a map room deep within the city's fortified heart. The air hung heavy with old parchment and a desperate sort of calculation. The lord's advisors, grim-faced and battle-worn, watched them with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
"You fought well, Earthlings," the lord acknowledged, his voice lacking any warmth. "Well enough to earn you an audience, but do not mistake this for kindness."
Oriole, throat raw from battle cries and the lingering tang of gunpowder, stood a bit taller. "We don't want kindness, my lord. We want the truth about this dungeon, and how we can escape it."
The tension in the room was a tangible thing. The lord's eyes narrowed. "Bold words for prisoners of war."
The Knight stepped forward, her greatsword resting easily against her shoulder, yet the unspoken threat was clear. "We did not come here to fight your wars. We are not your pawns. Help us get home, and we offer you something this city hasn't known in generations – a chance for victory."
A tense silence stretched, broken only by the flickering of torchlight. The lord leaned forward, resting his hands on a map weathered with age. Then he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "Centuries ago, this dungeon was not a battlefield. It was one city, a haven, so the legends say. It was split during the First Breach, the war that shattered our sanity and our world."
The Knight snorted, a bitter sound. "And no one questions this? Fight a war you have no memory of starting?"
"Hope and desperation are potent motivators," the lord countered. He pointed to markings on the map. "Each city is said to hold a fragment of a relic, the key to opening a gateway out of this accursed place. We fight not just for dominion, but survival. If one city claims both fragments...they might have the power to escape, and doom the rest of us."
A chilling realization struck Oriole. This war WAS the escape for those trapped here, a twisted, brutal hope that fueled the endless conflict. "And if someone from Earth can open that gateway?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The lord met his gaze, calculation flickering in his eyes. "The scholar's ravings speak of your kind being the key. Perhaps the only key." He spread his hands. "You are a weapon the likes of which this dungeon hasn't seen in generations. Wield it for us, and your freedom might be the reward."
The Knight swore viciously, disgust warring with pragmatic fury on her face. Yet, in that disgust, Oriole saw a flicker of something else. They wouldn't break free by refusing, only by becoming indispensable. "Tell us how we can help," he said, forcing the words from his reluctant throat.
Oriole knew that if he wanted to leave this place before the Yalen Ancestor finds them, he will have to play by its rules. Even though this place was a separate dimension, he could not rest, for some reason.
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