Nick pulled his boot out of the sucking mud with a wet shluck, grimacing as the black sludge clung to the leather.

  "This place," Monte muttered, wiping a smear of algae from his rapier with a silk handkerchief that had seen better days, "is an affront to dignity."

  "It's a swamp, Monte," Terence said, rolling his eyes.

  For all that they are both nobles, it’s clear which one is the spoiled scion and which one comes from the branch house. Nick thought, before blinking as he realized that, technically, he was also a noble.

  He shrugged. I forget sometimes. It’s not that important to who I am, but you’d never mistake these two for anything else.

  They stood in a small clearing of raised earth, a rare patch of stability in a sea of muck. Around them lay the bodies of their recent victims, a tribe of goblins that looked less like the wiry scavengers of the canyon and more like sickly children. Their skin was grey and weeping, their eyes cloudy with cataracts, and they fought with a frantic, desperate silence that disturbed Nick more than any war cry.

  Raphael kicked a corpse into the mire. "This is as good a forward base as we're going to get."

  The team moved quickly, too focused to stop and chat. Tents were pitched on the driest patches of ground. Willow set up a water-filtration perimeter and cast spells to remove toxins from the stagnant air and create a breathable dome that wouldn’t need constant upkeep.

  Nick approached the edge of the perimeter and looked out into the gloom.

  The fog here wasn't the blinding steam of the caldera. It was thin, wispy, and yellow, drifting between the gnarled roots of the cypress-like trees. From the distance came unnatural sounds, low, mournful groans that sounded startlingly human, intercut with the wet snapping of branches.

  Something felt off, Nick thought, tapping his fingers against the haft of his staff.

  He had experienced death mana before, but this was not the same. Death was cold, final, and sterile. This was stagnation. It was life that refused to have the decency to end. Similar to the Mycelial Sovereign, yet distinctly different. Rot usually followed death in its reign, but here, it was an unwanted companion to life.

  "We need eyes on the target," Nick said, turning back to the group. "The Anchor is close. I can feel its pressure, but the interference makes it hard to pinpoint."

  “Should we split up?" Ord asked, sharpening his axe. The mercenary looked exhausted, the humidity turning his heavy armor into a torture device, but recent successes and the promise of extra pay went a long way to give him a second wind.

  “Let’s form three teams," Raphael agreed. “We’ll spread out within a four-mile radius. Locating the Guardian is the main goal, but we also need to identify the terrain. Once you’re done, fall back and avoid engaging if you see the Hones.”

  “I'll take the center," Nick said. He nodded toward Monte and Terence. "You two are with me."

  Terence muttered grumpily, still not over the shock of losing and then regaining his hand.

  "You good?" Nick asked.

  "I'm fine," Terence said quickly, dropping his hand. “Just the new joints are hurting because of the humidity."

  “Try to fight from a distance, then,” Nick advised. “Everything we’ve encountered here seems to be something you should try not to touch anyway."

  They separated from the others and moved further into the mire shortly after, stepping from root to root to avoid the oily water.

  Nick kept [Empyrean Intuition] active, but at a low level to avoid the headache of processing the dungeon’s interference. The mana here was thick and syrupy, swirling in eddies of green and brown, and it wasn’t particularly pleasant to sense, like swimming through algae.

  It’s not just the monsters, Nick realized, watching a patch of moss pulse on a nearby tree. The biome itself is a trap.

  He saw a juvenile salamander, half-eaten by some larger predator, dragging itself through the mud. Its entrails were trailing behind it, yet the wounds were bubbling and knitting together even as they tore open. It hissed in agony, its eyes rolling wild, but it wouldn't die. The swamp forced life into it, a cruel, relentless vitality that prolonged the suffering indefinitely.

  Inverted mercy, Nick thought, a chill running down his spine. I guess Chesed has two sides, after all. He wondered again about his decision to approach Chesed before Tiferet, but he couldn’t waste time second-guessing now. If he wanted a chance at the end, he needed all the stability he could get.

  "Nick," Monte whispered, freezing mid-step. "Look."

  Nick followed the noble's gaze.

  Through a break in the trees about a thousand yards ahead, the swamp opened into a wide, circular depression filled with black water. In the middle of the lake, a mound of vegetation and flesh stood out as clearly different from everything else.

  As they drew closer, he finally fully sensed it and realized it was the Guardian.

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  It looked like a Hydra, but one from a nightmare. A central mass of bulbous, weeping flesh was rooted in the muck. From this central tumor, three long, serpentine necks extended, made of braided vines and muscle, and slick with mucus.

  The heads were the worst part.

  One was the head of a massive salamander, its jaw hanging slack. Another was a cluster of goblin torsos fused together, with their mouths opening and closing in silent screams. A third resembled the head of a giant wolf, but the fur was moss, and the teeth were thorns.

  As they watched, a large crocodile-like creature burst out of the water, lunging at the central mass.

  The Guardian’s main body stayed still, as if it hadn’t noticed the beast, but one of the vine-necks shot out, wrapping around the crocodile with thorns piercing its hide.

  The crocodile thrashed, but the vines pulled it in, dragging it into the center. The Guardian's flesh split open, swallowing the attacker whole.

  “I didn’t know Guardians would eat dungeon monsters,” Terence said, raising a silver crossbow he’d produced from his spatial pouch.

  “It’s not eating it,” Nick corrected grimly, watching the mana flow. “It’s assimilating it.”

  The crocodile ceased thrashing shortly after, and its mana signature started to blend with the hydra's. A moment later, a new bulge appeared on the Guardian’s side, forming into a reptilian snout that gasped for air and emitted a low, gurgling moan.

  There is something about this… There is no hostility, despite the madness.

  “It is saving them," Nick whispered, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. "It is saving them from the dungeon by making them part of itself. It thinks it's a sanctuary."

  "It's an abomination," Monte hissed, disgusted. "Look at the wolf head. It’s biting the neck next to it."

  Nick looked. The wolf's head was indeed gnawing on the salamander's neck, tearing chunks of flesh away. The latter screamed, spewing yellow bile that burned the wolf’s head.

  "It wants to die," Nick concluded. “It has conflicting instincts, but they all feel the pain. It tries to kill itself, but the regeneration is too strong. The Anchor must be the suffering itself. The ritual is powered by this endless cycle of agony."

  He moved behind a decaying cypress, his mind racing.

  Finally, the trial for [Chesed] made sense.

  To someone else, that might mean healing the beast or trying to separate the souls trapped within. But Nick was an Occultist. He dealt in the darker truths of the universe.

  "We can't just kill it," Monte said, his voice tight. "We need to burn it. Every inch. If a single piece stays, it will grow back."

  "A surgical strike won't work," Nick agreed. "Cutting off the heads is useless; they are just the physical expression of the amalgam of souls inside. We need an overwhelming force to vaporize its existence."

  "Is that even possible for us?" Terence asked, staring at the writhing mass. "Killing it?"

  Nick looked at the adventurer. “Even if it wasn’t a Guardian, we’d need to end the nightmare. This is just torture."

  Even as he spoke, the concept of [Chesed] started to crystallize in his mind, shedding the gentle connotations of the word and revealing only the tough, core element of necessity.

  “We got movement," Monte warned as a crack echoed, dropping into a crouch. "Three o'clock. Not a monster."

  Nick quickly turned his head to the right, leaning back to hide in the shadows.

  A group of five figures moved through the treeline on the far side of the lake. They wore grey cloaks that shimmered with a distortion effect, clearly high-quality camouflage gear.

  Even [Empyrean Intuition] couldn't fully pierce their cloaks because of the heavy domain, but Nick sensed the presence of enchanted metal at their wrists and necks.

  The team moved forward with disciplined professionalism. The leader carried a silver lantern that emitted a pulsating, repulsive field, warding off the swamp rot, and they were getting closer to the Guardian, weapons ready.

  "They're going to engage," Terence whispered. “Should we interfere?”

  "No," Nick said, his eyes cold. "They have no idea what they're walking into. That lantern might repel the rot, but it won’t work on the Guardian."

  “Should we leave, then?” Monte asked, surprised.

  “Yeah," Nick decided. “They look like they’ll take some time to set up, and I don’t want them to notice us. We should slip away and regroup with Raphael. We’ll come back before they’re ready to attack.”

  As they backed into the gloom, Nick kept a cautious eye on the Hones’ team. They were moving closer to the water's edge, confident in their artifacts, not realizing that the weeping mass in the middle of the lake was already aware of the disturbance.

  The return to the camp was fast. They met others, who had only found endless mud and more monsters.

  "We found it," Nick announced as they gathered under the filtration dome, and briefly outlined the situation.

  “You think they’re going to attack soon?" Raphael asked.

  "They looked like they were preparing for a capture or suppression," Nick said. "They had containment artifacts. But against that thing? They're going to get mauled."

  "So, what's the plan?" Malik asked, lifting his shield. “Should we crash the party?"

  “We'll wait for them to test it," Nick said. "The Guardian is a massive battery of spiritual mana. If they manage to damage it, it will try to pull more power from the Anchor to heal, and I’ll learn more of its nature."

  Drawing a circle in the dirt, he began to outline his strategy. “I expect them to fail miserably, no matter their setup, but I need to understand what I’m up against to prepare to banish it.”

  “Banish it?" Yvonne asked. “Like a spirit?"

  "Yeah," Nick nodded. “That’s essentially what the Guardian is. I have no idea how it originated, but my best guess is that the swamp was the site of some kind of massacre in the past, and the surfacing of the leyline finally gave the gathered resentment enough power to manifest.”

  "It sounds dangerous," Tessa said.

  "It is," Nick admitted. "But it's the only way to kill it permanently. If we just hack at it, we'll be fighting it for a week."

  He looked at the group. "This is the last Anchor. Once this breaks, the way to the Well is open. The Hones know this too, which is why they are desperate enough to attack so brazenly. Expect them to throw everything they have at us once the Guardian falls."

  "Let them come," Ord growled. “I’m not going to let them stop us when we’re so close to victory.”

  "Gear up," Raphael ordered. "We move in five."

  They reached the tree line overlooking the dark lake just as the first explosion shook the swamp.

  The battle had begun.

  The Hones team—and Nick counted six of them now, a full squad—had set up a series of silver pylons along the water's edge. Arcs of lightning jumped between the pylons, striking the Guardian’s central mass.

  The creature emitted a chorus of voices, screaming in unison as it was zapped again and again.

  The water churned around it, reacting to its pain, but the Guardian didn't pull back. The salamander's head spat a blast of acid that instantly dissolved one of the pylons. The wolf's head stretched out, its neck unnaturally elongating to bite a rogue trying to flank it.

  "Hold your fire," Nick whispered, crouching in the reeds. "Wait for it."

  The Hones were skilled. Their tank, a woman clad in full Sunsteel plate, drew the attention of three enemies, her armor glowing white-hot as she deflected acid and thorns. Their mages coordinated their strikes on the central tumor, trying to burn it out.

  But for every piece of flesh they burned away, the swamp surged to replace it. Vines shot up from the mud, weaving new muscle. The Guardian was drawing on the entire biome to sustain itself.

  "They really can't kill it," Monte observed. "They're just making it angry."

  “Told you," Nick muttered. If there was one thing he was confident in, it was recognizing spirits.

  It wasn’t long before one of the Hones' rangers got too close. A vine shot out of the water, wrapping around his ankle, and he screamed as he was dragged under, disappearing into the murky depths only to resurface seconds later, held aloft by a new tentacle that was already fusing to his skin.

  "Help me!" the ranger shrieked, his voice bubbling as the assimilation began.

  Nick raised a hand, ignoring his teammates' growing anxiety to act, and looked closer, observing how the two souls interacted.

  Ah, I see. That’s how it is.

  ANNOUNCEMENT!

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