[Chapter 286. Deflection]

The air hung thick with the smell of burnt flesh, a scent that unexpectedly made his stomach growl. He adjusted his grip on the Magitech Rifle, its smooth metal a familiar comfort against his palm as he continued down the passage. His footsteps echoed in the silence, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the castle's depths.

In the next encounter, he moved with practiced efficiency. His drones cut down the Gatura Warriors and Mages with clinical precision, their energy beams illuminating the corridor in flashes of violet and crimson as they tore through fur and flesh. He intentionally left the shield-wielding Guard alive, watching it stand resolute in the center of the corridor, its heavy shield glowing with an eerie luminescence that cast soft shadows across its armored form.

He approached cautiously, recalling his previous encounter with the Elite. He decided to test the creature's deflection capabilities at close range, believing he could overcome the reflection with speed and surprise.

Just as he had done throughout the dungeon, he closed the distance, his movements fluid and fast. But instead of drawing his dagger as he normally would, he raised his rifle, intending to repeat the point-blank tactic that had proved so effective against the commander.

The moment his finger tightened on the empathic trigger, he wished he hadn't.

The beam erupted from the barrel with a high-pitched whine, the concentrated energy striking the Guard dead center. Unlike his encounter with the Elite—where the deflection seemed specific to the halberd—the energy beam from his rifle ricocheted off its body. The reflected plasma hit him squarely in the shoulder before his reflexes could even register what was happening.

The impact was devastating, throwing him backward as the super-heated energy tore through his armor plate like paper, vaporizing the flesh and muscle beneath. Pain seared through his nervous system—white-hot and blinding—as the smell of his own burning skin filled his nostrils. Before he could process the agony, the Guard's massive shield filled his vision. A bone-shattering uppercut sent him flying across the room, his body hitting the stone wall with a sickening crunch before he slumped to the dusty ground in a heap.

He lay there for what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a second. His world was reduced to a haze of pain and shock as his shoulder throbbed with a deep, rhythmic pulse that matched his racing heart. The Gatura—a creature barely half his size—had moved with unexpected strength and speed. Its furry form was deceptively powerful as it stood over him, shield raised to deliver what would likely be a finishing blow.

Humiliation burned just as hot as his wound. He, who had conquered dragons and cleared dungeons designed to break the strongest, had been manhandled by what amounted to a furry midget with a shield.

With a guttural growl of pain and determination, he pulled himself off the ground. His arm hung uselessly at his side, the mangled flesh still smoldering from the plasma burn. His eyes fixed on the Gatura Guard just in time to see its yellow-green shield dashing toward him with blinding speed, the creature having lowered its shoulder to charge.

There was a thunderous impact as one of his defensive drones intercepted the attack, positioning itself directly between him and the incoming threat. The drone's hexagonal barrier flared brightly, then immediately shattered; one of its layers was consumed by the sheer force of the collision. The Guard stumbled back, momentarily disoriented by the unexpected obstacle.

Searanox summoned a Healing Drone. The silver octahedron materialized in the air beside him, its pale green light immediately bathing his destroyed shoulder in soothing energy. The pain subsided to a dull throb as new tissue knit itself together, though the arm remained too weak to wield his rifle effectively.

With his remaining functional hand, he pulled the Mycelial Fang from his storage ring. Its familiar weight was a reassurance as he dashed forward, his mangled arm dangling awkwardly behind him. The Guard recovered quickly, raising its shield to deflect another attack, but Searanox was faster. He ducked under the shield's arc and drove the blade into the creature's exposed temple. The wet crunch of bone filled his ringing ears before the Gatura slumped in on itself like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Alright, total immunity to ranged attacks. No further testing required or advised," he muttered through gritted teeth as he let himself slump to the cold stone floor.

The Healing Drone's green light cast dancing shadows across his pale face as it worked to mend the catastrophic damage to his shoulder. His breath came in ragged bursts, each inhalation bringing the coppery tang of his own blood mingling with the dungeon's ever-present stench of damp stone and musky fur. He leaned against the rough wall, the mangled arm tingling with an unnerving combination of pain and regeneration as the drone's energy stitched flesh and sinew back together with unnatural speed.

He took a short break to eat and drink something, summoning provisions from his storage ring with his good hand. His drones were reduced to just the two defensive units positioned strategically in the room, their hexagonal barriers creating a shimmering wall of protection between him and open space of the room. His sharp teeth tore into the bloody meat, the texture and taste familiar as the raw essence of the beast nourished his weary body. The water was cool against his parched throat, each swallow washing away the acrid taste of plasma-burnt flesh.

As he sat in the corner behind his protective wall, his eyes remained vigilant, scanning the shifting fog that coiled like living serpents in the distance. His mind raced, calculating new approaches, considering different formations, and analyzing every possible weakness in the Elite's defenses that he might exploit. The memory of the Guard's deflection replayed in his thoughts, each detail sharpening with cruel clarity.

`If anyone shit-talks me again, I'll drag them back here with me and show them what the fuck they are missing out on.`

He thought this with a dark smirk as he tossed the empty water bottle into the hallway. The glass shattered against the opposite wall with a satisfying crash that echoed through the stone passages. The sound was swallowed quickly by the silence that followed, leaving only the distant drip of water and the faint, rhythmic hum of his protective drones.

He stretched carefully, testing his newly regenerated shoulder as the Healing Drone completed its work. The muscle tissue was still tender beneath the skin—a reminder of his miscalculation and a dungeon's unforgiving nature. He stood slowly, his joints protesting after the brief rest, the weight of his rifle settling across his back with grim familiarity.

Then it was back to clearing the dungeon. The next dozen or so encounters were ordinary—there were no Elites commanding them, resulting in total chaos. The Gatura Warriors charged with predictable ferocity, their weapons glinting dimly in the drone's light, while the Mages hung back, their purple crystals crackling with unstable energy as they hurled bolts of magic. His defensive drones absorbed the initial onslaught, their barriers flaring and dimming with each impact, while his offensive units picked off the scattered enemies with cold efficiency.

The sound of energy beams tearing through flesh and the wet thud of bodies hitting stone created a grim symphony of destruction as he moved methodically through the labyrinthine corridors. The side rooms were also unsurprisingly uneventful; they were either completely empty, filled with fog so dense it seemed to have physical substance, or housed half a dozen Gatura huddled around makeshift altars of bone and rusted metal. Each room was cleared with the same ruthlessness, his movements deadly as he adapted to the dungeon's rhythm, his earlier humiliation transforming into cold, calculated resolve.

Searanox rounded a corner, his boots scraping against uneven stone as he stepped onto the threshold of a cavernous chamber that stretched before him like a gaping maw. The space was easily twice, perhaps thrice, the size of any room he had previously encountered—a vast hall with vaulted ceilings lost in darkness that clung to everything like a shroud. The air grew heavy, thick with the musky scent of Gatura and the faint ozone crackle of their magic.

Behind ornate banisters on a raised platform overhanging the room, at least a dozen crossbow warriors and mages formed a lethal firing line, their movements disciplined and coordinated. Down on the ground floor, they stood waiting—not one Elite, but three of them. Their darkend plate armor absorbed the dim light as they positioned themselves like statues. Beside them, another two dozen beasts—a mix of Warriors and Guards—paced restlessly, their weapons gleaming with malevolent intent as they formed a protective wall.

The only bright side to this terrifying tableau, he noted with detachment, was that all the ranged Gatura were positioned on the raised platform. It didn't take long for him to be spotted—their eyes fixed on him with predatory focus—and it also didn't take long for his eight drones to spring into action, their energy beams cutting through the light fog like incandescent spears.

The mages fell first, their cracked staves and bone trinkets useless against the coordinated aerial assault. The crossbow warriors followed, their quarrels clattering harmlessly against drone shields as the energy beams found their marks. Within seconds, the platform was littered with smoking corpses, their armor pitted and blackened where the plasma had penetrated.

But as the last of the ranged units collapsed in heaps of scorched flesh and twisted metal, the battle below took a sudden turn for the worse.

He found himself trapped in a tactical nightmare. His drones, whose beams had carved through lesser enemies with such devastating effect, were now virtually useless against the Elites impenetrable defenses. And he couldn't enter melee range without being torn to pieces by the overwhelming number of Warriors below.

He had tried, briefly, and learned something new in that moment of engagement—the Warriors were capable of using skills when properly commanded, a capability they normally squandered in blind aggression. They didn't rush mindlessly into his barriers; instead, they moved with coordinated precision, their attacks synchronized by the Elites leadership.

No sooner had he drawn near than his protective shield was bombarded by countless blows, each impact resonating with the enhanced force of their warrior skills. The sheer volume of attacks shattered two layers of his barrier in a single second, leaving him exposed to the relentless tide of steel and fury that surged toward him.