The workshop smelled of burning ozone and stale tobacco.
Borrin, the mad dwarf Artificer, was scribbling furiously on a sheet of dirty parchment. His mechanical arm whirred and clicked as he adjusted the lenses of his goggles. On the table lay the remains of the Peacekeeper. The melted steel looked like a sad lump of wax, but the Eye of the Zealot—the red gemstone Draven had ripped from Valerius—pulsed with an eerie, rhythmic light next to it.
"It's madness," Borrin muttered, spitting on the floor. "Beautiful, suicidal madness. You want to channel gravitational singularities through a handheld barrel? The recoil alone will shatter your arm."
Draven leaned against a crate of scrap metal, eating a strip of dried meat he had looted days ago. "My arm can take it. Can you build it?"
Borrin grinned, revealing his gold teeth. "I can build anything, lad. But I can't build it with steel. Ordinary steel will warp the moment you channel that gem. We need Frost-Iron." He stabbed the parchment with a charcoal stick. "It's a metal mined from the depths of the Glacial Peaks. Cold enough to freeze blood on contact, hard enough to contain unstable mana. It acts as a heatsink."
"Where do I get it?" Draven asked.
Borrin pointed a grease-stained finger upwards. "You don't mine it. Not anymore. The mines are overrun by Ice Stalkers. The only refined Frost-Iron in Crow's Perch belongs to Madam Vex."
Draven's eyes narrowed. "The crime lord?"
"The Information Broker," Borrin corrected. "She runs the Hollows—the underground fighting pits in the Mid-Levels. Tonight is the 'Gauntlet'. The prize for the champion is a brick of pure Frost-Iron. High quality. Stolen from a dwarven caravan last week."
Draven pushed himself off the crate. He checked his damaged saber. "A tournament," Draven said flatly. "How original."
"It's not a sport, Draven," Borrin warned, his voice dropping to a serious growl. "In the Hollows, they don't fight until first blood. They fight until the loser stops twitching. And Vex... she likes her champions to be flashy. Mages. Monsters."
Draven adjusted his basilisk-hide coat. He looked at the melted gun on the table. "Flashy," he repeated. "I can do flashy." He turned to the door. "Watch the horse, Borrin. If anyone touches him, he'll burn your shop down."
"I'll give him some coal," Borrin grunted, already turning back to his blueprints. "Just bring me that iron. And try not to die. I hate losing customers."
The Mid-Levels of Crow's Perch were a labyrinth of suspended wooden walkways and stone platforms carved into the mountain's side. Here, the smog from the Slag Pit below was thinner, replaced by the smell of cheap perfume, roasted meat, and blood.
The entrance to the Hollows wasn't hidden. It was a massive, gaping maw of a cave, guarded by two Ogres wearing loincloths and iron collars. A line of spectators—mercenaries, gamblers, and thieves—snaked out the door. Draven bypassed the line. He walked straight to the registration table.
The bookie was a goblin with one ear. He looked up at Draven, taking in the black coat and the scarred, pale face. "Fighter or spectator?" the goblin croaked. "Fighter," Draven said. "Entry fee is five gold. Or a soul-oath."
Draven didn't have five gold. He had spent his last coin on the information at the tavern. He placed his hand on the table. He didn't cast a spell. He just let a fraction of his Disruptor aura leak out. The ink in the goblin's pot began to boil. The paper on the table curled and turned grey. "I don't pay to bleed," Draven whispered. "I'm the main event."
The goblin swallowed hard. He had seen Mages, and he had seen Warriors. But this man felt like... static. Like looking into a void. "Name?" the goblin squeaked, dipping a quill into the boiling ink.
Draven thought for a second. He couldn't use his real name. The Inquisition might have spies here. He remembered the system classification of his mana type. "Null," he said.
The arena was a circular pit dug deep into the rock. The floor was covered in sand that had turned brown with old blood. Above, iron cages filled with cheering, screaming spectators hung from chains, swaying precariously over the violence. The noise was deafening. Drums beat a chaotic rhythm.
Draven stood in the holding cell, a damp cave barred with iron. He watched the current match. A barbarian with a greataxe was fighting a pack of dire-wolves. It was messy. The barbarian won, but he left an arm behind. The crowd loved it.
"Next!" the announcer's voice boomed, magically amplified. "A newcomer! A man of mystery! Give it up for... THE NULL!"
The gate to the arena groaned open. Draven stepped out into the harsh light of the magical lanterns. Boos rained down on him. He didn't look like a champion. He looked like a drifter in a coat. He held a chipped saber in one hand and nothing in the other. "He's too skinny!" someone shouted. "Fresh meat!" yelled another.
Draven walked to the center of the pit. He looked up at the VIP box—a balcony carved into the stone wall, draped in red velvet. A woman sat there. She wore a mask made of spider silk and a dress that looked like liquid shadow. Madam Vex. Beside her sat the prize. A heavy, glowing blue ingot of metal. Frost-Iron.
"And his opponent!" the announcer screamed. "The reigning champion! The Storm of the North! VOLKOR!"
The opposite gate exploded outward. A man stepped out. He was massive, clad in armor made of copper coils and rubber insulation. He held a hammer that sparked with electricity. Arcs of blue lightning jumped between his pauldrons. A Lightning Mage-Warrior. The crowd went insane. "Volkor! Volkor!"
Draven sighed. "Of course. Electricity." He hated electricity. It tasted sour.
Volkor raised his hammer. "I will fry you, little man!" The air in the arena grew heavy with static. Draven's hair stood on end.
[ Boss Battle Initiated: Volkor the Storm-Caller ] [ Level: 19 ] [ Threat: High ]
Volkor didn't wait for a signal. He swung the hammer, and a bolt of lightning, thick as a tree trunk, shot across the arena toward Draven. The crowd gasped, expecting the newcomer to turn into ash.
Draven didn't move. He didn't dodge. He simply raised his empty left hand. [ Skill: Mana Eater (Active) ]
The lightning bolt hit Draven's palm. But instead of burning him, the energy coiled around his arm like a loyal snake. The blue light was sucked into his skin, flowing up his veins, turning his eyes a blinding white. [ Mana Absorbed: +150 Points ] [ System Alert: Energy Overload. Discharge Recommended. ]
The lightning vanished. Draven stood there, smoke rising from his glove. He looked bored. "Is that it?" he asked, his voice amplified by the stolen energy.
The arena went silent. Volkor blinked. "What?" "I said," Draven took a step forward, the sand turning to glass under his boot, "is that it?"
Volkor roared in confusion and rage. He charged. He was fast for a big man. He closed the distance in seconds, swinging the massive hammer down to crush Draven's skull. This was a physical attack. Mana Eater wouldn't stop a ten-kilogram block of steel.
Draven sidestepped. Agility: 16. The hammer smashed into the ground, sending a shockwave through the sand. Draven was already moving. He didn't use his sword. He placed his hand on Volkor's copper armor.
"Thanks for the recharge," Draven whispered.
[ Skill: Disruptor Discharge ]
He reversed the flow. He dumped the raw, chaotic lightning mana he had just absorbed back into Volkor's suit. But he added his own Disruptor frequency to it. The copper coils on Volkor's armor didn't ground the electricity. They exploded.
BOOM.
Volkor flew backward as if he'd been kicked by a giant. His armor sparked and smoked. He crashed into the arena wall, cratering the stone. He tried to stand up, twitching uncontrollably. "How..." Volkor gasped. "Magic... doesn't... work..."
Draven walked over to him. He drew his chipped saber. "I'm not magic," Draven said. "I'm the off-switch."
He didn't kill him. The quest didn't require murder, and Draven wasn't a butcher unless necessary. He kicked the hammer out of Volkor's reach and placed the tip of his sword on the champion's throat. "Yield."
Volkor looked at the white-glowing eyes of the man above him. He looked at his ruined armor. "I yield," he wheezed.
The silence in the arena stretched for a second. Then, chaos. Half the crowd was furious they lost their bets. The other half was screaming in awe. "NULL! NULL! NULL!"
Draven sheathed his sword. He looked up at the VIP balcony. Madam Vex was standing up. She wasn't clapping. She was staring at him with intense curiosity. She snapped her fingers. A servant picked up the Frost-Iron ingot.
Draven met Madam Vex in her private chambers behind the arena. The room was lavish, filled with silk pillows and smelling of incense. Vex sat on a divan, sipping wine. Up close, her spider-silk mask hid her features, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent. Two massive Orc bodyguards stood in the shadows.
"The Frost-Iron," Vex said, gesturing to the table where the heavy blue brick lay. "As promised."
Draven walked to the table and picked it up. It was bitterly cold. It stung his hand, but his Endurance ignored it. "Thank you," he said, turning to leave.
"Not so fast, Null," Vex purred. The bodyguards stepped forward, blocking the door. Draven didn't flinch. He just shifted his weight, calculating the distance to the nearest Orc's throat.
"You're not from here," Vex said. "You fight like a soldier, but you wield mana like a monster. And you carry the stench of the Black City on you." She leaned forward. "Who are you really?"
"A satisfied customer," Draven said calmly. "Unless you want to become a grieving widow, tell your dogs to move."
Vex laughed. A low, throaty sound. "I like you. You have teeth. Crow's Perch needs teeth right now. The Inquisition is sniffing around our borders." She waved her hand. The Orcs stepped back. "Take the iron. It's yours. But I have a feeling you need more than just metal."
Draven paused. "I need a crystal," he admitted. "A Volatile Mana Crystal. High grade."
Vex's amusement vanished. She went still. "That... is a dangerous thing to ask for. There is only one place to find a crystal like that near here." She pointed to a map on the wall. To the north of the Perch, high in the jagged peaks. A drawing of a cave mouth, marked with a skull.
"The Wyrm's Roost," Vex said. "An ancient Frost Drake nests there. It swallowed a mana-geode a century ago. It's the source of its power." She looked at Draven. "If you want the crystal, you have to cut it out of a dragon."
Draven looked at the map. A dragon. A solo raid boss. It was suicide. It was perfect.
"Does the dragon fly?" Draven asked. "Not in this weather," Vex replied. "It's grounded in its cave."
"Good," Draven said, tucking the Frost-Iron under his arm. "Then it can't run away."
[ QUEST UPDATED: THE ARTIFICER ] [ Material Acquired: Frost-Iron (1/1) ] [ New Objective: Kill the Frost Drake. ] [ New Objective: Harvest the Volatile Mana Crystal. ]
Draven walked to the door. "One last thing," Vex called out. Draven looked back. "When the Inquisition comes..." she swirled her wine. "Which side will you be on?"
Draven opened the door. The noise of the arena flooded in. "I'm on my own side," he said. "But they are in my way."
He stepped out. He had the metal. Now he needed the heart. And to get it, he had to slay a dragon.