The Last Experience Point

Chapter 152: The Demon Commander

Gaelan didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. Not only had he totally failed to heed the warnings of coastal patrol, but he was starting to wonder if they were even correct about the assumed motivations of the Elvish scouting party. One thing was clear, however: the Elves were creating absolute havoc in the city, and word was spreading very quickly among the populace that the enemy had already invaded, which risked sending Shadowfall Coast into yet another state of all-out panic.

“Something…wrong?” Vim asked weakly. It was incredible how a man so close to death could still wear such a smug grin, though it did look like it took everything he had just to display it.

“A couple of Elves are running around slaughtering people in the city,” Gaelan said, seeing no reason to lie to him.

“You brought this on yourself,” Vim said with a cough. His skin was discolored, and his eyes had become a touch yellow.

The man was not dying because of his injuries. Though he’d suffered numerous beatings, the ones who’d administered them had appeared very careful to inflict maximum pain without compromising his life. No, it was his utter dehydration, lack of food, pneumonia, and other various illnesses that were bringing him closer to the verge of death. Now that Gaelan had taken point on guarding him, he’d sought to correct such abuses, but Vim was refusing to eat or drink. It was almost as though the tiny little man hoped to die before his execution out of spite. On the floor before him was an uneaten tray filled with gravy-covered turkey, mashed potatoes, and a very tall glass of mixed juices containing essential nutrients.

“Eat,” Gaelan said, getting up from a small, fold-out metal chair he’d had brought into the cell. He’d quickly learned that he needed to be near the man at all times to prevent any more deliberate acts of torture. Even some of the most loyal and obedient men and women under his command had gone against his orders and had kicked, slapped, punched, or otherwise spat at him the moment Gaelan took his eyes off of Vim. “You need to eat.”

“Eh, I’m trying to watch my weight,” Vim said, coughing again. “I bet I look so hot.” With his bruised, swollen, badly beaten face, Vim tilted his head to the side and fluttered his eyelashes. A moment later, he choked out something that started off as a crazed laugh but ended in another coughing fit.

“Gods have mercy on this Gnomish miscreant,” Galean muttered under his breath, frowning.

Promising to return, he stepped outside of the cell where Vim was being held. Then, shutting the sliding, solid-stone panel door behind him, he took a moment to collect his thoughts without the man’s mockery-filled questions digging into him. Based off the Comm chatter in his ear, it seemed like the Elvish scouting party—assuming it was more than one, which was likely—had just destroyed an H22 Guiding Angel battle tank, murdering all three of its occupants as well as a new recruit of the 6th brigade who’d been tasked with helping cover some of the areas the 133rd had already been spread too thin to patrol.

The Lords of Justice and the Elves are going to be here in a few hours, he thought, becoming frustrated. We don’t need this crap now!

What really worried him though was the possibility that the Elvish scouting party was interested in something other than finding and reporting possible nuclear weapons facilities—which was the assumption that came down from up the chain. Yes, the fact that they were rampaging through the southwest of the city was in line with that theory, and Gaelan agreed with the assessment that their goal was to flag attack targets for the rapidly approaching force that was marching through Whispery Woods and was expected to arrive from the northwest. But what disturbed him was the way in which each subsequent report seemed to be popping up closer and closer to this very prison, where Vim Alazar, the leader of the Royal Roses, was clinging to life as he awaited his execution.

Could the Elves be staging a rescue operation?

With a steadily growing apprehension, Gaelan contemplated such a possibility. What if the Elves really were here for Vim? Could it truly be just a coincidence that, if charted, each reported “incident” would form a direct line pointing in their direction? And this showed no sign of changing, either, as even more reports started flooding in over the Comm line.

“THERE IT IS!” a rattled, terrified woman screamed into the Comm. “That’s it! It’s right there! Between Warehouses 39 and 40! It’s the thing in the cloak! Kill it! Kill the fucking Elf!”

“Who said that?” Sir Malakor asked as the sound of gunshots rang out over the Comm. “What do you see? What’s happening? Report!”

“Arghhhhh!”

Static.

Gaelan scowled. Why could nobody keep track of a few Gods-be-damned Elves? Given just how militarized and heavily fortified Shadowfall Coast had become in recent weeks, it truly did not bode well for their survival—or the survival of humanity as a whole—if just a handful of Elvish warriors were able to essentially roam around the city and kill as they pleased.

“Report!” he shouted again. “I said report!”

Again, just static.

Now, Gaelan became even more worried. It really did seem like the Elvish scouting party was making their way over here. Yes, it was unlikely. In fact, it was very unlikely. But Gaelan could no longer afford to simply shrug off the very real and growing possibility. No, he needed to act immediately in order to improve security. “This is Sir Malakor,” he said into the Comm. “I want everyone assigned to the prison to be on high alert in the event that the enemy’s goal is to extract the prisoner.”

“Sir Malakor,” said a man stationed several floors above. “You think they’re coming here?”

“No, I don’t, but it’s possible. Pull every patrol unit within three city blocks off the street and use them to beef up security on the inside. Have a full team stationed near the entrance in the unlikely event of a breach. Be ready for combat!”

“U-understood.”

*******

The moonlight cast a slight glow on the surface of the filthy, chipped flooring as a grating sound joined the opening of the large, rounded door. Peeking his head outside, Captain Greshek Mink extended his hand and began to wave it at the gathering of troops and leveled guild members waiting just beyond the vault door that led into the dungeon-like prison where the murderous, Gnomish devil was being held.

Why don’t they just kill him now? he wondered nervously. Why even leave things to chance?

Greshek was annoyed and worried in equal measure. Not only hadn’t Sir Malakor listened to him when he’d warned the man that something was amiss with the coastal patrol groups—which could have prevented so much of this—but now, out of nowhere, he was saying that a bunch of Elves might try attacking them. Gods, he hoped that wasn’t the case.

Greshek had deliberately worked hard and pulled every string he had to get himself assigned here to the front guard in the prison. And why? Because he couldn’t ever imagine this happening. He was sure that guarding the prisoner meant he wouldn’t have to personally see combat. Despite being level 28, his stats were pretty trash and his equipment was fourth-hand and barely serviceable: all except his rare-quality bandana, which had an advanced level of Helm Sight. The last thing he wanted was to have to use his great grandfather’s common-rarity hammer against a pack of feral, Elvish demons.

“Hurry up, you idiots! Get inside so we can seal the entrance!”

A bunch of alarmed, but resolute troops and guild members made their way towards him and into the dark, human-built dungeon. Yet in their faces, he could see panic. Continuing to wave them on, he paused when a particular individual caught his eyes: someone who absolutely should not have been here. And Greshek, caught off guard, could do little but hold out his palm to stop her from getting any closer.

“Jeanna, what in the name of the Gods are you doing here?”

“I came to see my dad,” the girl said.

“You what?”

“I’m gonna help.”

“Jeanna, you’re fourteen years old. Go home!”

The girl was wearing a starter set of flimsy-looking cloth armor. Atop her head was a small leather skullcap, which also looked like a starter item. Even her weapon looked like a banal, level-1 piece of stat-less, crafted gear; it was a spear, though it was nothing like the new one her father had gotten from the dragon. It was just a plain, level-1 spear that, visually, at least, was indistinct from one made by humans, as was often the case with many low-level pieces of equipment.

“I heard there’s like Elves or something running around,” the girl said. “That true?”

“Who told you that?”

“Not telling.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway.” He sighed. “Jeanna, go home.”

She shook her head. “What’s my dad gonna do if the Elves catch me and my dad finds out you wouldn’t let me inside?”

Greshek groaned. He was in a real bind here. He lowered the arm that was barring her passage, and then he beckoned her in. “Fine. But go straight to your dad.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said cheerfully.

Greshek watched as she went down the wrong stairwell. He called out to her, but she was already gone. Whatever. She’d find her way on her own eventually. He had more important things to worry about than the girl. For starters: closing that damn door.

“We’re open and exposed!” he shouted. “Shut the damn entrance!”

Another grating came from the round metal door, and it wasn’t until the moment after it was sealed completely shut with an echoing thunk that Greshek let himself relax somewhat. Just a bit of the tightness faded in his shoulders now that they were once more protected behind an ancient barrier—one that hopefully not even an Elf could break into. In truth, he had no idea how much strength it would actually require to knock down or a punch a hole in the dungeon door. Certainly, he couldn’t do it.

Hope the Elves can’t, either.

Tamping down on his fears, he returned to his task of dealing with the newcomers. Having been put in charge of the front guard, he took a few units from their recent arrivals and sent the rest of them on their way, allowing others to decide how best to disperse the remainder of their added security throughout the “facility.” Afterwards, he set his eyes on two eighteen-year-old, low-ranking members who were clearly slacking off; the two boys were chatting away like schoolchildren just a few feet behind the shuttered door.

“Zol! Skent! What the hell do you two think you’re doing? Get off your asses and look alive!”

The two were sitting on the filthy floor and laughing at one another, engaged in a chat about girls or something. Greshek didn’t understand how they could be so carefree at a time like this. He snapped his fingers at them. Despite rolling their eyes, they stood up and at least pretended to look ready for combat should the need arise. Greshek knew both their fathers, and if either of the men saw their sons behaving like this, they’d receive a horrific beating.

Maybe that’s what they need.

Not wanting to take any chances, Greshek decided to carefully inspect and speak with each of the fifteen guild members and twenty-five soldiers who were here in the entrance with him. It was a pretty significant force for what was essentially the guarding of a single Gnome, but if Sir Malakor’s concerns turned out to have merit, not only wouldn’t it be overkill, but Greshek doubted it’d even be enough.

Even just a single Elf is vastly stronger than everyone here.

With the Guild of Gentlemen and Shadowfall Coast on full alert, all the strongest, highest-level, and most-capable members of the guild had been dispatched to the outer-city perimeter to await the arrival of Lord Oren and Queen Vayra’s joint, attacking force. Therefore, even though they’d gathered an impressive number of leveled fighters, the quantity didn’t mean all that much when considering most of them were under level 25 and under 20 years of age. They were kids with no experience. The only exception was Sir Malakor himself, who was all the way down at the bottom of the belowground dungeon with the prisoner.

We’ll make do with what we’ve got.

Complicating matters was the dire lack of ammunition, medical supplies, and body armor for the Ones serving in the guild’s military. Greshek pitied them in many regards. What could be worse than being level 1 and fighting in a war with people who’d leveled? Their only purpose was to neutralize enemy troops, control and contain territory, and take shots at casters or others with low enough constitution that their bullets could penetrate flesh. Yet he doubted there was a single Elf anywhere susceptible to their weapons. For all intents and purposes, the troops here were just fodder.

Life must seem so unfair to them. It would to me if I were in their shoes.

Greshek made his rounds, exchanging a few words with each of the forces stationed here at the entrance. Then he once more berated the two idiots, who had yet again decided to slack off. “Zol! Skent! What are you two fucking buffoons giggling about?”

“Nothing,” Zol said.

Greshek lowered his eyes and saw that the kid was lying. The two of them had kicked around some of the dirt and dust on the floor to form a very crude “drawing” of a woman’s breasts. Greshek peeled back his lips, glaring at the morons. “You’re both getting written up for this.”

For the first time, a level of seriousness came upon the two. “No, wait,” Skent said. “We were just messing around.”

“Yeah, come on, man.”

“It’s too late.”

Zol’s tone became desperate. “Gresh, don’t be like that. I swear to the Gods, it won’t happen again.”

“Please don’t,” Skent pleaded.

Greshek took a deep breath, which he released slowly. “Fine. But if I see even one more thing from you two that I don’t like, I’m not only writing you up, but I’m letting your fathers know how you behaved during a time of crisis.”

Both boys bowed formally. “We won’t. We swear.”

“I’m serious! Our guild, our region, and all of humanity itself is at stake here. You think I like working hard? I hate it too. I’d much rather be home right now. I didn’t get myself stationed here because I want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. But right now, Sir Malakor has called upon us to serve our guild with dignity. And I’ll tell you what: the things we do here today are going to be remembered. Our families and our descendants will be shamed or honored based on how we—”

BANG!!!!!!!!!!!

Greshek’s words cut off, Zol fell backwards, several guild members drew their weapons, and numerous troops gasped and looked around at each other. An unsettling quiet immediately came upon the front guard. An atmosphere of fear blanketed all forty of them: one so thick it could be felt—and smelled, as evident by a young man behind him who’d clearly shit his pants. Several seconds came and went—then several more after the first few. Finally, someone spoke.

“What was that sound?” Zol whispered.

Greshek didn’t know. It sounded like the fist of a God had just pounded on the vault door, creating an explosively, deafeningly loud echo that had left him feeling just as shocked as anyone else in here. Even still, he had a responsibility. He might not have wanted to be the one to deal with this, but someone had to take charge, and that was him.

“Sir Malakor,” he whispered into his Comm. “This is Captain Greshek Mink, front guard. Do you copy?”

“I do,” the man’s voice replied. “Anything to report?”

“Yes, sir. We just heard a very, very loud pounding sound on the vault door. Like somebody hit it with their fist.”

“Any signs of damage?” Sir Malakor asked, his voice becoming commanding and firm.

“None that I can see, sir. But…” Greshek had to force himself to continue speaking. This was, truly, the most afraid he’d ever been in his life. The quiet had only made it worse, and so too did the fear in the eyes of those here with him. Something had clearly struck the door. Yet in his terror, he searched for some alternative explanation. “Can…can you check to see if maybe this was something from our side?”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that was supposed to happen? Maybe someone dropped something on the door?”

“Dropped something on the…Captain Mink, get ahold of yourself. I’m sending out an emergency alert now. It’s likely the enemy is trying to breach.”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. His knees began to go weak, but he was able to hide it from the others. “Okay, well, can you please tell them to hurry? None of us are really equipped to handle Elves, and the thing is that if they get in here, I’m not sure how we can—”

BANG!!!!!!!!!!!

This one was even louder than the previous, and now, the two troublemakers, Zol and Skent, both seemingly began to appreciate the severity of the situation they were in. They began to shake, shudder, and whimper. Skent looked like he could barely keep his grip on his staff, and Zol’s rapier visibly shook as he held it out in front of himself with his arm extended.

“Is that the enemy?” Zol asked, quivering. He began to shake his head. “I’m only level 22. I can’t…I should be sent down to reinforce the lower levels.”

“Stay put,” Greshek ordered. “If you flee, you disgrace your father.”

“Man, I’m just…” He sniffled and began sobbing. “I’m just really fucking scared. I’m sorry. I wanna go home.”

“Be strong for me, Zol. You have to be strong.”

The two were standing just a few feet away from the middle of the massive, round door, which thankfully showed no signs of damage or denting. Whatever had struck it—twice now—seemed to have been repelled. And as a torturous, nerve-wracking minute came and went in total silence, Greshek began to pray to the Gods that whatever invaders had caused such loud bangs had reconsidered and left to go fuck with someone else instead. He wasn’t alone in his prayers, either; he knew this because both the boys, along with numerous other guild members and soldiers, were also quietly chanting prayers under their breath. The boys even had their eyes closed and were breathing unevenly, fear evident in every rise and fall of their chest.

“Please, Raurum, protect me,” Zol begged. “Raurum, please look after us.”

It became so quiet in here. For a time, the only sound was the shifting of feet and the continued whispering of prayers. Maybe the invaders really had moved on. Maybe the door really was strong enough to withstand even the incredibly powerful Elvish. It made sense, too. It had been built by ancient humans during a time when humanity regularly faced conflicts with various races. Surely, humanity’s ancestors would have wanted to construct something that could withstand assault. This, Greshek began to ardently hope as one minute slowly and painfully turned into two, and then two became two-and-a-half.

“Maybe they’re gone,” Skent whispered, his knuckles having turned white from how tightly he was gripping his staff. “Maybe they’re—”

Something happened. Something Greshek did not at first understand.

All along the round frame that housed the metal door, where one could spot what little light was allowed to make its way into the dungeon from the outside, there was now an eerily bright, crimson-colored glow: one so intense that from the tiny, eighth-of-an-inch crack that ran in a circle around the entrance, enough of this red light breached the inside of the dungeon that it actually lit up the entire room. And though only a tenth of a second had transpired from the moment Greshek saw this light, it was still just enough time for his brain to form a questioning thought—and then came the screams.

With the loudest bang yet, the entire vault door was blasted off its hinges, and before Greshek’s eyes, he saw both Skent and Zol crushed like insects as it rammed directly into them, flattening and compacting their skulls, slamming them both down onto the filthy flooring. Greshek shouted out their names. He called out to them—or tried to. Yet he was yanked backwards by a member of the guild—a woman he did not recognize—who’d been standing behind him.

Then, emerging from behind the vault door was a…it was some kind of wall of red light—one rounded and laser-like and almost half the size of the room itself. And this red, blinding light—it struck like a tidal wave, absolutely vaporizing everyone who stood in its path, which was nearly half of them. Skent and Zol, who were already dead, were disintegrated, as were six more members of the guild and three quarters of the soldiers. In the blink of an eye, nearly two-dozen voices were silenced mid-scream, which came across in a way horrifyingly similar to pressing pause during a music track. It was as though they were erased from existence itself.

It’s a beam!

Even amid the confusion, the shock, and the body-paralyzing fear that threatened to break through every last trace of his courage, there was something that emerged in his mind: something vaguely familiar. Something he realized was recognition. Somehow, even as he endured the single-greatest moment of pure, nauseating fright he’d ever before experienced, he still had just enough wits about him for his brain to piece together something of such immense importance that it managed to rise within him directly alongside the overwhelming dread.

I’ve seen that before, Greshek thought as a terror so great he could no longer withstand it consumed him completely. I’ve—I’ve seen that before! On the live feed of the…

“SIR MALAKOR!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “WE HAVE BEEN BREACHED BY ZACHYS CALADOR OF THE ROYAL ROSES!”

The name spread from the lips of all those who still lived, which in this case was anyone who’d taken up a position to the left and right side of the room. The level of fear rose exponentially. “Impossible,” a man said.

“Why would he risk our retaliation on Giant’s Fall?” asked another.

Weapons were drawn, and rifles were raised. Yet all looked to Greshek for how to proceed. But Greshek did not know what to do. How could he? Everyone here knew what that Elvish-loving son of a bitch had done to their people at the raid camp. He had single-handedly slaughtered dozens of them. There wasn’t a single member of the guild who did not shake in fear at the boy’s name. He was a psychopathic, murderous maniac on a scale that few in history had ever rivaled. And he was here.

“Z-Zachys Calador?” Greshek called out—to silence. His throat having gone dry, he forced moisture into it. “Zachys Calador!” he cried out, his fear activating his fight-or-flight response. He moved back towards the center of the room and over the incinerated, powdery ashes of what had just been human beings. The red, laser-like blast had incinerated them to such an extent that there were hardly even “remains” to be found.

“Zachys Calador!” Greshek shouted again, entering something of a craze as goosebumps traveled down his back and his heart beat furiously in his chest. “Answer me, coward! I know you’re there!”

Due to the age of this place and the sudden shock it had sustained as a result of the blast, a thick screen of smoke and dust had been kicked up, and it made it impossible to see anything beyond the entrance and from the outside world. Yet as it began to settle, Greshek thought he saw something moving: the outline of something he could not discern. Now, in a cross between hysterical fear and vengeful wrath, he lifted his hammer and screamed, “Zachys Calador! Answer me you fucking coward!”

And finally, he received a reply. But it was not the one he’d expected. It was, however, a reply. At least insomuch as something could be called a “reply.” It was a reply that could be heard by all, yet resounded off the walls and caused an even greater, more crippling fear to come upon the faces of those around him.

“He-he-he-he-he!”

“What…what is that?” someone asked. He was a nineteen-year-old kid Greshek recognized as being Haril Yifan, a boy whose parents had already died in the prior fighting that had taken place during the initial invasion. Perhaps that was why he stood alone as the only person brave enough to move towards the screen of dust and investigate. His sword raised, he made his way closer. “Is that Zachys Calador?” He raised his sword even higher as though ready to strike. “You murdered both of my parents! Come out here, you piece of shit!”

“He-he-he-he-he!”

“He-he-he-he-he!”

“He-he-he-he-he!”

“Come out here!” he shouted.

And then something did emerge. But it was not Zachys Calador.

HP

72,500/72,500

Name

Sneering Imp Warrior A

Level

45

“W-what the fuck is that?” one of the soldiers screamed. “What the fuck is—”

The man’s words ended in a gargle as a dagger sailed across the dungeon’s entrance, nearly hitting Greshek in the process. Instead, it ended up going straight into and through the man’s face, likely puncturing his brain, the base of it sticking out of his forehead. He fell over onto the side.

“What…?” Haril’s mouth fell open, and he retreated a step. “What are these? Are these mobs? But…but how? How can there be—”

“Watch out!” Greshek cried as one of these creatures, which looked like flying, winged demons wielding gilded spears, began to make a loud buzzing sound as it dashed forward in the air and went straight for Haril. “Watch out!” Greshek yelled again. “Haril!”

“I’m okay!” he replied, swinging his blade upwards as if to parry. But he missed. Or rather, the creature missed—or sort of. It wasn’t really clear what happened, for an instant before their two weapons clashed, the creature suddenly veered widely off to the right, causing Greshek and two members of the guild near him to drop down to their knees. Yet they, too, were not attacked, as the creature then reversed its motion and buzzed its way right back over to Haril, who simply could not react fast enough. The boy’s entire head was separated from his shoulders as the mob made a spinning slash that cleanly severed it from the neck up.

“He-he-he-he-he!”

In the same moment that the boy’s bloodied head fell to the ancient, roach-infested flooring, what looked like seven more of these creatures entered the prison, with half of them being more of the winged, flying monstrosities, and a few of them being dagger-wielding demons that were shorter than the shortest of Gnomes. These launched several daggers, which ripped across the room and ended up lodged in the chests, faces, or groins of two guild members and another infantryman.

With that, all order and discipline were abandoned, and every man and woman entered into a wild panic. Many attempted to flee, knocking others down in the process, but a few did at least try to stand and fight. Numerous loud, buzzing sounds came upon the entrance as these creatures flew across and around in unpredictable, blazingly fast ways.

Now, there were screams. So many screams. The level-45 mobs began slaughtering the front guard. The imps zipped around so fast it was almost impossible to follow them with one’s eyes. Every time it looked like they’d strike, they’d fly off elsewhere only to come unpredictably buzzing back. Men and women, leveled and un-leveled alike, were skewered, disemboweled, or otherwise cut apart and mutilated.

Out of sheer desperation, Greshek swung his hammer and managed to actually hit one—for just 587 damage. This, combined with the sight of one of the smaller, dagger-wielding ones jumping onto a soldier and ripping apart his face was more than Greshek could emotionally withstand; in particular, it was upon witnessing the horned, sneering creature slice out both the soldier’s eyeballs that Greshek broke.

Gods!

The imp creature had its legs wrapped around the man’s neck, and it was stabbing its daggers time and time again into the man’s now-empty eye sockets, all while laughing with sadistic glee. The man screamed, the pain and fear coming through very clearly on the sound of it. Greshek had now seen enough.

“R-run!” he cried. “Retreat!”

The last of his courage spent, he made a reckless dash for the left stairwell, and in the process of doing so, he felt something grab his arm. Shrieking in terror, he spun around and slammed his hammer into it with all his might—and then he shrieked a second time as he mistakenly murdered the woman who’d only just saved his life, bashing in her skull. Yet he was too terrified to feel any kind of remorse. In a total panic, he fled for his life as the rest of them attempted to do the same.

Only he made it.

*****

“What is going on up there?” Gaelan shouted. “Will one of you idiots answer me? Did you say Zachys Calador?”

“Zach’s here?” Vim asked. He coughed. “That little brat really came for his dear guild leader, huh?” Vim weakly smiled. “You’re so fucked, Malakor.”

Gaelan grabbed his spear. “We’ll see about that.”