"Finally," Sam muttered, pulling out his water canteen from his Spatial Satchel. After downing as much of the cool water as he could, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and tucked the water tin back into his Spatial Satchel. Without another word, Sam joined Deacon on standing atop the parapet that overlooked the marsh down below, and after grabbing onto Deacon's shoulder with his left hand and holding his staff in his right, Deacon gave Sam a single nod in confirmation. "He was entrusting his life in Sam's hands."
Then they jumped.
Cold night air howled past them as they were free-falling the massive 70-meter-tall fortress walls and down towards the marshes. Sam's voice cut through the rush, double casting two different modified Gust spells – one to prevent them from splattering on the ground, and the other to protect them from any hail of arrows if they regained the attention of the reanimated skeleton archers.
The first spell created a dome-like wind barrier around them, but slightly worse than before's as he had to split his concentration between both spells. The second spell wrapped their feet, creating some tangible yet intangible cloud around the bottom halves of their body, slowing their plummet just enough that when they hit the marsh, it was with a wet squelching noise as they touched down on the mud instead of two heavy thuds and instantaneous death. Sam let out a sigh of relief as he cancelled both spells around both him and Deacon, thankfully, the modified and slightly weakened Gust barrier wasn't put to the test as no reanimated skeleton took notice of their descent.
Upon landing on the mud, Deacon wrenched both short swords free and quickly began slathering them with the oily, bright blue shimmer of Spectral Grease. "Thank god for alchemy," he muttered as he periodically glanced up from his blades and around the both of them.
[Marsh Wraith Lv 11]
Now at ground level, they could finally take in the creatures' full forms. Their lower halves trailed away into wisps, their faces like hollowed lanterns leaking inky black ooze from every opening. Their upper limbs, the only limbs they had – some sporting a single arm, others four – hung in mismatched lengths, as if they were grafted upon their forms.
Sam covered Deacon, sending volley after volley of Manabolts into the wraiths streaking toward them. To his surprise, each one only took two hits to bring down – a pleasant change from the banshees they killed in the courtyard, which typically needed three or so to be killed.
"Done," Deacon barked out as both blades of Echoform Reliquary in its dual short sword form were now glowing bright blue.
Sam didn't even glance at Deacon, and instead, his free hand snapped open, and a thin, hard-edged, glowing blue Manashield flared into existence around them. A wraith slammed into it a second after its creation, breaking apart in a smear of smoke before reforming itself a meter away and hurling itself at the barrier again.
"I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing that," Sam muttered, who was met with a grunt of agreement from Deacon just before they broke into a sprint across the marsh and towards the bright violet barrier in the distance through the skeletal frames of half-collapsed watchtowers and shattered palisades, flickering over the twisted remains of the gatehouse like lightning.
Running through the marsh was a slog, even with their Windkissed Boots giving them a minor boost in speed, the mud of the marsh dragged at their every step.
Wraiths drifted out from the shadows between the ruins, drawn to them in twitching, unnatural bursts of speed. The first lunged low; Deacon's right-hand blade split it from jaw to sternum in one clean cut, the bright blue edge hissing as the creature dissolved into smoke. Another tried to flank from above – Sam's Manabolt punched through its chest, the impact scattering it like ash in the wind.
They didn't slow. The marsh thickened around the remains of the gatehouse, forcing them to slog through knee-high mud. While still protected by the spectral reflective barrier, Deacon and Sam took a moment to catch their breath as they took notice of a few figures within the bright violet barrier up ahead – humanoid ones.
Five of them.
Two wore quivers across their backs, bows drawn and already tracking Deacon and Sam through the barrier. The other three stood in a rough forward line – center man carrying a slab of a greatsword taller than he was, the one on his right set behind a heavy shield and short leaf-blade, and the leftmost resting an unsheathed katana on his shoulder. Even from here, Sam's eyes narrowed in recognition.
Deacon cut another wraith clean in half, its head twisting away before vanishing entirely. "We're in for one hell of a fight."
"Worst case," Sam said, staff angled low as he continued to stare at the five figures behind the bright violet barrier. "If we do end up on the back end, we can try to find an opening, snatch the banner, and get the hell out."
"… That is true," Deacon acquiesced; there was no need to pick a fight every time, and especially not with just under two hours left on the clock.
"Alright. We'll do that if push comes to shove," he said, eyes locking on the five silhouettes within the barrier. "Because it looks like we've already lost the element of surprise."
"Just as a heads up, my earth magic attacks and defenses will be shit on account of the mud, but I can just use it to restrain and slow them down," Sam warned Deacon. "So, I'll be swapping to Wind and Fire attacks."
Deacon nodded before they continued to push forward towards the bright violet barrier.
Passing through the barrier was like stepping through ice water and having their hearing of the outside vanish, very similar to the barrier that was in the courtyard.
The five stood exactly as they'd seen from outside, weapons still at the ready, the purple banner planted in the churned-up mud behind them, each one nursing a bandaged-up wound or three and various empty potion bottles scattered about. But up close, the man in the middle, the one with the metal slab of a greatsword, made Deacon slow his step for just a second. Even under the streaks of mud, dried blood, and dented plate, he looked familiar.
Sam stopped beside him, brow furrowing.
[Human Lv 9]
…
[Human Lv 9]
The air between both groups went still.
"Deke? Sam?" The greatsword-wielding cadet muttered, voice rough and strained from shouting and fighting. Still, the familiarity of his voice turned the gears in their heads.
"…Gael? That you?" Deacon asked, not dropping his guard and keeping his grip on the hilts of his dual short swords firm and angled in a way to be able to respond to any one of them if they made any sudden movements.
"If you're really him, then what's the name of–" Sam started, but Gael cut him off.
"I'm not repeating the nickname Bonehead gives his dick."
A beat of silence passed between the seven of them, disregarding the noises of confusion from the four behind Gael that came a few seconds after those words left his mouth.
Deacon's glowing blue dual short swords and Sam's staff and raised arm lowered at Gael's words, not by much, just enough not to look like they were about to swing or blast them, but their stances stayed tight, weight balanced, and ready to move.
Friend or not, this was still a competition. And they were still outnumbered.
"How've you been?" Sam asked, eyes flicking cautiously over the four others standing tense behind Gael, weapons still raised and ready.
Gael noticed their hesitation and gave a sharp wave. The four lowered their blades without complaint, though their stares didn't soften.
"Been better," Gael muttered, voice low and tired. "With all these wraiths swarming us, and no way to outrun or actually kill them, we've been pretty much fucked this whole time."
His gaze drifted to Deacon's glowing blue blades, then to the banner tied firmly to Sam's back. A spark of an idea lit in his eyes. "What're your thoughts on a Sponsio Bellatorum? A Wager of Warriors?"
Deacon shrugged at Sam, and Sam gave a half-grimace in return. Neither looked particularly thrilled with the idea, but they knew it was the smartest and a fair one, considering it was Gael; someone whom they personally know who is at heart both trustworthy and honest to a T.
Deacon turned back to Gael, voice steady. "Terms? And what's your reward if you win?"
Gael's expression sharpened. "Standard rules. No killing blows. If someone's at the killing point, they have to surrender and not interfere afterward. Same if they call uncle. As for the format, I would hate to not take advantage of our numbers, so it'll be a straight-up five versus two." He gestured at his teammates with a nod. "As for our reward? The knowledge of how you cut through those wraiths with your blades. If it's some item you used to get them able to do so, then we want it."
Sam's brow furrowed, suspicion creeping in. "You've given up on this attempt? You never give shit up this easily."
Gael snorted, rolling his shoulders and crossing his arms, uncaring how a foot of the greatsword dug deep into the muddy marsh. "Can you blame me? With less than an hour and a half left on the clock, trying to get two more banners and deal with invulnerable spectral creatures outside? It's not worth risking my teammates' lives – or my own."
"Trust me, I get I look like a dumbass standing here and giving up, but it's smarter to bide our time, recover, roll for a better spawn next attempt, and come back equipped to handle wraiths and the like."
Deacon and Sam exchanged a long, measured look before Deacon pulled them both into a tight huddle, turning away from Gael and the others – much to Gael's amusement. Three fingers pressed to his chest; Sam nodded once, then rolled two fingers toward Deacon before going back again. Deacon's nod was slow but sure.
They turned back around to face Gael, who was smirking at their little huddle up.
"We agree, to your terms," Deacon said, voice clipped and confident. "Our reward will be your banner, and that guy's pants," he pointed at the shield-bearing warrior's battered leggings, "and that other guy's boots." He nodded at the rightmost archer, whose boots were clearly regular, unenchanted boots – far worse than his or Sam's Windkissed Boots.
Sam's smirk twitched at the deliberately petty choice, and he caught the gleam of annoyance flicker across the archer's gritted teeth, matched only by a similar growl from the shield and sword-wielding warrior.
They opened their mouths to protest, but Gael cut them off, voice sharp and amused. "You guys are seriously worried about losing when the odds are this heavily in our favor? They're trying, and not to mention succeeding in rattling you both."
Glaring at the two to calm down, the two of them lowered their gaze and flicked their heads to the side, begrudgingly listening to their Party Leader.
"We agree to your reward terms," Gael replied back to Deacon, letting out a sigh as Deacon's penchant for pissing off people just from his words already succeeded in screwing up the mettleof two of his teammates.
Deacon smirked at Gael's annoyance as Sam pulled out a throwing dagger from his Spatial Satchel, holding it up between them all to see.
"Alright. We start when the dagger strikes the dirt," he said as Deacon tugged sharply at a loose vine across his chest, loosening the rope that held the banner to his back. The banner slipped free, falling flat onto the marsh's muddy floor, its pink fabric stained by the wet and muddy marsh.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the air, eyes locked on the spinning blade as it fell…