Paragon of Destruction

At the end of the hallway, Arran found a great hall, circular and about a hundred paces across, with a domed ceiling that hung at least sixty feet from the ground.

The hall was completely empty, as bare as the cells had been, but on its side, Arran could see five large doors.

The doors superficially resembled those that barred the cells in the hallway, but these were twenty feet high and half as wide, each barred with a dozen steel beams that were held in place by large steel locks.

At once, Arran understood that behind these doors also lay prison cells, but that they were made to hold prisoners far more powerful than those he had seen in the regular cells.

He headed to one of the doors, intent on opening it. If the prisoners here were stronger, perhaps they would be of use when he tried to escape the dungeon.

While the locks on the cells in the hallway had been easy to break, he discovered these to be far stronger. Still, he broke through them, blasting them with the raw Essence that coursed through his body. With each attack, he felt relief, as he released at least some of the pressure that was still causing him to grimace in pain.

When he broke through the final lock on the first door, he quickly removed the bars, then opened the door.

"So he finally sent someone, then?"

In front of Arran stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a strikingly handsome face. Square-jawed and golden-haired, he looked like a figure out of legend.

"Nobody sent me," Arran said.

"Then why are you here?" the man asked, a curious look on his face. Unlike the previous prisoners, he did not seem emaciated or underfed at all.

"I intend to escape," Arran said. "Can you help?"

"Do you have any weapons?" the man asked, casting a covetous look at Arran’s starmetal sword.

"Not that one," Arran quickly replied. He took out another sword, one of the Herald’s treasures, then tossed it to the golden-haired man. "Take this."

The man easily caught it in one hand and gave it a few quick swings, then nodded appreciatively. "Good sword. Got another?"

"Another?" Even though Arran’s void bags were filled with treasures, he felt some unease at the rate with which he was losing them.

"I have two hands," the man said, holding out his left hand to demonstrate that he did, indeed, have two hands.

Arran reluctantly took out another sword and tossed it to the man, who caught it in his left hand.

Wielding a sword in each hand, the man performed a few quick strikes, then grinned excitedly. Arran was astonished — with just the few moves he had seen, he already knew that this man was a master swordsman, probably more skilled than anyone he had ever met.

"I’ll cut a path out of here," the man said. "You go free the others — be careful, they’re a tricky bunch." As he finished the words, he started to walk toward the hallway, leaving Arran behind.

Just as Arran was about to head to the second door, the man turned around.

"Don’t take any more of those pills," he said, a serious expression on his face. "Your Realms are already on the verge of becoming unstable. Any more, and you will die."

Before Arran could respond, the man turned and left. The mention of unstable Realms caused Arran some pause, but he did not have the attention to spare right now.

With a shake of his head, he moved toward the next door. He could worry about unstable Realms later.

As with the first door, opening the second one took a while. When he finally broke the last lock, he was disappointed to see that the cell was completely empty. Hurriedly, he moved on to the third.

Again, it took him some time to break through the locks, but this time, he was stunned at what the door revealed once he opened it.

In the cell stood a gaunt figure. It was about Arran’s height, and it lacked the impressive build of the man Arran had freed earlier. Yet its face was the stuff of nightmares — deathly pale, lacking a nose, and with black holes where its eyes should be.

Arran felt a wave of terror as the creature approached him, stronger than even the creature’s hideous appearance would justify. With a start, he realized that the feeling seemed to come from the creature, as if it emanated a magical aura of pure dread.

"A debt will be repaid," the creature said in a hissing voice, turning its eyeless face toward Arran.

Arran did not dare respond. He just stood there, frozen, until finally the creature headed into the hallway. Whatever it was, Arran fervently hoped that he would never meet it again.

As he was about to head for the next door, he hesitated, wondering just what he had unleashed on the world — and what lay behind the two doors that were left.

But the pain of the Essence in his body left him neither the time nor the concentration to consider the matter more carefully, and he headed for the fourth door.

This time, he found a young girl, twelve at most, with long black hair and an excited look on her face.

"Oh! You are like me!" she said, lips curling in a mischievous smile. "I’ll see you soon!"

"What do you—" Arran stopped talking as the girl had vanished into thin air.

Although her disappearance was uncanny, it did not leave him as shaken as the creature behind the third door had, and with a shrug, he moved on to the final door.

Once more, he broke through the locks, and the moment the door opened, a giant man came walking out. Seven feet tall if not more, he had a bald head and muscles like steel cables, with a neck nearly as thick as Arran’s waist.

The man did not give Arran so much as a single look, instead heading straight for the hallway.

The last of the cells opened, Arran finally relaxed — and immediately, he knew it was a mistake. Just a slight lapse in focus, and the painful pressure of the Realm Opening Pills instantly threatened to overwhelm him.

For a second, he considered blasting some of the Essence into the empty hall to relieve the pressure. But then, he realized he might still need it later. Even if he was certain the four people he had just released would wreak havoc on whatever lay at the end of the staircase, he doubted he would be lucky enough to escape without a fight.

No choice but to bear the pain, he hurried toward Windsong’s cell, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

When he arrived, he saw that five of the prisoners he had released earlier had joined Windsong. Emaciated as they were, they still looked far better than when he first saw them, and he realized that freeing the final four must have taken longer than he thought.

As he stepped inside the cell, one of the prisoners spoke up, a plain-looking man with graying hair and a long, bushy beard.

"You kept us waiting long enough," the man said. "Now that you’re here, we must prepare. Once we’re ready, I will lead, and you will stay behind us to cover our retreat. When we—"

Smack!

The man was sent sprawling to the ground as Arran slapped him in the face. When he got to his feet a few moments later, there was a look of shock on his face.

"You will—" the man began.

"I will leave now," Arran interrupted him. "Follow, or don’t. It’s up to you."

He did not say another word, instead hurrying toward the staircase. He knew that he needed to release the raw Essence that was trying to burst from his body, and for that, he needed a fight.