Chapter 117: 2nd Attempt XVI

The smoke and dust hung so thick it felt like breathing wet ash. Fractured shapes of wreckage twisted into nightmarish silhouettes before Beaumont’s fading vision, jagged edges catching the weak flicker of the surviving overhead lamps. Chest burning with every shallow inhale, desperation clawing through the haze of exhaustion. Is it over? The thought echoed in his skull, raw and frantic, a silent prayer to whatever indifferent gods watched dungeon crawlers. Has the Ironclad finally fallen? Has the nightmare ended?

His body answered before his mind could. Endurance, that stubborn reservoir he had drawn upon for years of delves, finally ran bone-dry. The flickering lamps above dimmed to distant pinpricks, swallowed by encroaching darkness. A heavy, cold numbness crawled up his spine like frostbite, severing the last threads connecting his mind to his battered limbs. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, sliding shut despite the iron will screaming at them to stay open. The silhouette of the ruined fourth floor dissolved into absolute blackness. With one final, hollow exhale that tasted of stone dust, Beaumont’s torso slumped backward. His body gave out completely. He collapsed on his unto the dirt, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Deep within the fifth floor…

Agatha reclined upon her chair, the sacred mirror bloom before her like a captured star. Light spilled across her porcelain features, painting hollow shadows beneath her eyes. She watched the fallen mage with the detached fascination of a collector studying a particularly resilient insect.

“You may rest,” she murmured. Her lips barely moved, the words a silken whisper that carried through the mirror’s enchantments. “That battle is one of many you will look back upon when death finally claims you. Your magic… was quite amusing, I say.”

The glow deepened, tinting her vacant, unblinking eyes with otherworldly luminescence. She tilted her head slightly, the motion slow and predatory.

“I watched you bury my golems. I watched you destroy yet another floor of this domain.” A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips, though it never reached those cold eyes. “If you had not put on such a performance, if you had not managed to enlighten the edge of my boredom even for a moment, I would have ended you the instant you struck the final blow. Sent you whaling to your ancestors without hesitation.”

Her gaze lifted a fraction, locking onto Beaumont’s unconscious form as though he could somehow see her through the mirror. Her posture remained perfectly rigid, utterly devoid of overt malice. She simply was a patient force of calculated indifference.

“I am not fully impressed by your victory,” she continued softly, “nor am I angered by it. I do not mourn the broken metal. You did irreversible damage, little Earth-born. This mess…” She gestured lazily with one finger, and the mirror rippled to show the devastated fourth floor. “This is merely another annoyance for tomorrow’s repairs.”

She listened for a moment to the ragged sound of his breathing, transmitted perfectly through the artifact. Her fingers remained completely motionless on the armrest of her chair.

“This will be your last floor,” she declared, voice still calm and conversational. “I shan’t let you descend any further. This is also where you will draw your final breath.”

Agatha leaned forward slightly, chin resting on the knuckles of her right hand. With her left, she opened a dimensional storage rift beside her, a swirling void of violet and black. She slipped the sacred mirror inside with deliberate care. The rift sealed soundlessly.

“Catch your breath,” she whispered toward the now-empty space where the mirror had been. “Refill yourself. Prepare to descend, little mage.” A long, thoughtful pause stretched through the silent chamber. “And when you do come…”

Her smile returned, thin and razor-sharp.

“…we shall sort the end of your journey.”

Fourth Floor; Several Hours Later

Beaumont woke to cold stone pressing against his back.

His mind surfaced slowly, sluggish and waterlogged, like a diver fighting through crushing depths. For several disoriented seconds he simply lay there, blinking grit from his lashes. Then memory crashed back in a violent rush, the tectonic fury, the Ironclad’s relentless silver blur, the ceiling slab plunging like the fist of an angry god. His eyes snapped wide open.

He sat up so fast the world spun. Pain lanced through his broken ribs, but he ignored it, hazel gaze darting wildly across the devastated floor. Dust still drifted lazily from the shattered ceiling like gray snow. Massive cracks spiderwebbed across every surface. The giant slab of fallen architecture dominated the center of the chamber like a conquered mountain.

“What… happened?” he muttered hoarsely. His throat felt coated in sandpaper. *Did I pass out?*

He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “For how long…?”

A colder thought struck him like a blade between the shoulders.

What happened to the golem?

Caution flooded his veins. Beaumont pushed himself into a low crouch, one hand instinctively hovering near the ground, amber sigils flickering weakly at his fingertips. He scanned every shadow, every mound of rubble, every possible hiding place with the sharp instincts of a veteran delver. The air tasted of dust, sulfur and scorched metal. Nothing moved except the occasional trickle of falling dust.

Is it really over this time?

He rose fully, boots crunching over debris as he approached the colossal ceiling slab. No violet glow, no telltale hum of enchantments. The oppressive weight of expended mana had faded from the air. The construct was nowhere to be seen, likely crushed and melted beneath tons of stone and magma.

“It really is over,” he breathed. A heavy sigh escaped him, carrying lots of tension.

Fully awake now, the true cost of the battle settled onto his frame. His limbs felt like they were forged from lead. A deep, bone-weary ache radiated down his spine. Hours of unconsciousness had barely dented the exhaustion. His body was a map of bruises, cuts, and the sharp protest of cracked ribs with every breath.

He reached for the pouch at his side, fingers closing around its familiar weight, then froze at the unnatural chink-crackle-crunch of broken glass.

No…

Beaumont ripped the bag from himself. The bottom was soaked dark with spilled liquid. Shards of glass glinted among the wreckage of his precious health potions. The violent impacts and his subsequent collapse had shattered every vial inside.

“Ohh COME ON!” he roared, voice cracking with frustration. He hurled the ruined pouch across the chamber. It skidded into a pile of rubble. “Curse you, you damn golem! Now I’m temporarily out of supplies…”

He stood up too quickly and staggered, the world tilting for a solid ten seconds before he caught his balance against a fractured boulder. His stomach growled angrily, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since entering this cursed dungeon level. He pressed a hand to his midsection, grimacing.

“I should’ve brought food,” he muttered. “Always the little things…”

Shaking his head, Beaumont turned toward the dark stairwell leading to the fifth floor. His clothes were still caked in dried mud and stone dust, turning the once sturdy adventurer’s garb into a second, filthy skin. He looked down at himself and let out a tired chuckle.

“So I’m just going in like this, huh?”

He rolled his shoulders, testing the limits of his battered body. Healing magic had never been his forte; earth mages like him were not built healing. But he had come prepared.

“Good thing I brought backup.”

A determined grin broke through the grime on his face. He reached into his dimensional storage, a swirling amber portal that opened at his command. His hand emerged holding a large, sturdy bottle filled with deep crimson health potion. The liquid shimmered with potent regenerative magic.

Without a thought, he uncorked it and drank deeply. The potion burned pleasantly down his throat, spreading warmth through his chest and limbs. He could feel the magic knitting torn muscle, easing the worst of the rib pain, and restoring a measure of vitality. It wasn’t a miracle cure, nothing replaced proper rest and food but it was enough to keep him moving.

“That was something,” he sighed as he emptied the last drops. He tossed the empty bottle aside; it shattered against the stone with a sharp crack that echoed through the ruined floor.

Injuries still lingering, Beaumont walked toward the entrance to the fifth floor. Each step grew steadier. The amber sigils on his forearms pulsed faintly, drawing faint strength from the surrounding stone. He paused at the top of the descending stairs, staring into the pitch-black passage below.

A fierce, battle-hardened grin spread across his mud-streaked face.

“What do you have for me next?”

With those words, Beaumont descended into the darkness, boots ringing softly on ancient stone as the fourth floor’s devastation faded behind him.