The brine-thick air clawed at ProlixalParagon’s throat with every step, his silver fur damp with sweat and dust, the black-marble whorls along his limbs shimmering faintly in the rising pulse of ambient mana. The weight of centuries hung heavy here — in the walls, in the air, in the old blood seeping from forgotten stones.
The pulse ahead was stronger now. A pressure knotting in his jaw, humming behind his teeth.
“This way,” he rasped, and the others followed without question.
Kaelthari stalked close behind, her mulberry-colored scales catching the flickering witchlight, markhor-horns scraping a low arch. Marx stayed tight to her flank, knives in hand, his olive skin streaked with salt and the runes on his mana prosthetic pulsing faster with the pace.
A wide chamber opened ahead — ancient and vault-like, ringed with sigils neither Draggor nor Soohan. Symbols older, their loops and angles shimmering faintly in a color his mind struggled to name. The air tasted of brine and burnt steel.
At its heart: a sealed shrine. A blocky altar of black-veined stone, its surface etched with deep, spiral runes. Piles of bone-dust and rusted helms ringed its base. Behind it, half-shrouded in saltfall and time, stood a workbench.
Even half-buried, ProlixalParagon knew it.
An ancient Tinkerer’s station — brass fittings tarnished black, crystalline mana conduits dead but intact, a spiderweb of copper inlays weaving through its surface. The faded plaque above it read:
“By Order of the Guild of Artifice — Master Tinkerer Arulan’s Second Workstation. Those who solve its riddle shall claim what was lost.”
A sharp ping from his system interface:
You have discovered the second hidden Workbench of the legendary Master Tinkerer Arulan. Solve its puzzle to claim ancient schematics and lost relics.>
ProlixalParagon’s pulse quickened. His fur bristled, the marbled patterns shimmering in the charged air. A grin cut across his muzzle.
“The second one,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “I didn’t think… gods, I didn’t think they were real.”
“Move fast,” Lyra ordered, already setting the others to block the chamber’s narrow entryways. Kaelthari braced a fallen beam, while Marx dragged a rusted iron grate into place. Ralyria whispered old words to weave faint warding threads across the gaps.
ProlixalParagon moved to the bench, sweeping away salt crust and grime. The mana circuits carved into the brass shimmered faintly, a residual pulse in their pattern.
The plaque beneath the work surface read:
“Seven in all. One mind. One hand. Five flows. Find the pulse and balance the tide.”
He could see it now — five mana lines, each branching from a central socket. Two flickered unsteady, one dark, two overloaded. A puzzle. Old Guild work. The kind meant to test nerve and insight, not brute force.
His Hexwright instincts flared, reading the flows like a living map.
He set to work.
Fluxsalt wire. A flicker spike. Two charge capacitors and a half-bent breaker loop. His claws worked quickly, rerouting, siphoning volatile threads into brine-soaked rubble. The air thickened around him as the mana circuits hummed to life.
Another boom shook the earth. The Siege Beast was close.
“Almost—there,” ProlixalParagon muttered, driving a Null Rune Coil into the base of the final overcharged node.
Good enough.
He slammed his palm onto the pressure plate.
The circuits blazed, a wave of cold blue light flooding the chamber. The old conduits came alive, casting strange, shifting patterns across the ancient walls. The workbench’s core crystal flared.
A system prompt blinked into view:
>Rewards:<
He let out a sharp, exhilarated breath. The relic components were swiftly gathered into his pack. The glow faded — but the mana in his blood still hummed.
“I’ve got it,” he called out.
The barricade shuddered under the weight of something heavy slamming against it.
Lyra’s voice, steady as iron. “Then we move.”
ProlixalParagon cast one last glance at the workbench. Two out of seven. The old guild myths had always spoken of them. Scattered, lost, buried in war-forgotten places.
Five left.
And he was going to find every one of them.
He turned toward the others as the Revenants shrieked beyond the barricade — and the Siege Beast’s guttural, grinding roar echoed through the earth.
ProlixalParagon turned toward the others as the Revenants shrieked beyond the barricade — and the Siege Beast’s guttural, grinding roar echoed through the earth. The sound vibrated through the stone, a promise of immense power unleashed. There was no more time for lingering fascination with the remnants of the past. Survival in the present demanded immediate action.
“This way!” ProlixalParagon shouted over the din, his voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in the ground. He pointed towards the smaller of the two passages Lyra had indicated earlier. “Tight, but likely less… guarded.” His Salvager’s Insight, though focused on arcane anomalies and siege cores, had offered a subtle reading of the ward residue in the larger tunnel, a heavier concentration that suggested lingering defenses or perhaps even more slumbering constructs. The narrower passage felt comparatively clean, free of that oppressive weight.
Lyra, ever pragmatic, nodded curtly. “Kaelthari, you lead. Clear any immediate obstructions. Marx, Ralyria, cover our rear.” Her commands were crisp, honed by countless perilous crossings. She trusted ProlixalParagon’s instincts, especially when it came to the workings of these forgotten places.
Kaelthari, her mulberry scales shimmering in the dim light cast by Lyra’s witchlight staff, didn’t hesitate. Her imposing form moved with surprising agility, her large markhor horns just clearing the low archway of the smaller tunnel. The delicate golden chains that draped between them chimed softly as she squeezed through.
Marx, leaning heavily on his mana-powered prosthetic, positioned himself with his axe held ready. His single hazel eye scanned the barricaded entryway to the main chamber, where the shrieks of the Revenants were growing more frantic, punctuated by the Siege Beast’s earth-shaking roars. Ralyria, her pale and elegant features set in a mask of focused calm, moved silently beside him, her internal sensors undoubtedly processing every sound and vibration. Her spear, once meant for stories, was now stained with the blood of their recent encounters, a stark testament to her unexpected role as a protector.
ProlixalParagon waited for Lyra to move, then followed, his white fur brushing against the rough-hewn stone of the tunnel walls. The air grew thick and close, the brine tang intensifying, mixed now with the metallic scent of old blood and dust. The passage twisted and turned, barely wide enough for Kaelthari’s broad shoulders. They moved in single file, the only sounds their hurried breaths and the scrape of their feet on the salt-choked earth. The echoes of the chaos they had left behind – the Revenants’ fury and the Siege Beast’s awakening – still reverberated through the tunnels, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their escape.
Despite the urgency of their flight, a part of ProlixalParagon’s mind remained fixated on the workbench. Two out of seven. The discovery had been a fleeting moment of revelation amidst the encroaching darkness. The old guild myths… he had dismissed them as fanciful tales, whispers of a bygone era of masterful craftsmanship. Yet, here was tangible proof, a link to that lost knowledge. The inscription on the plaque, “Seven in all. One mind. One hand. Five flows. Find the pulse and balance the tide,” resonated with a strange familiarity, a half-remembered echo from his own inherited traits, the Scholar’s Apprentice perhaps stirring with forgotten knowledge.
Five left. The thought ignited a spark of determination within him, a purpose that transcended their immediate need for survival. This wasn't just about escaping the clutches of undead and awakened constructs. This was about rediscovering a lost legacy, piecing together fragments of a forgotten craft. He felt a pull towards these workbenches, a conviction that they held secrets that could be vital, not just to him, but perhaps to the wider world of Ludere Online. The Hexwright Machinist passive, the Salvager’s Insight – these weren’t random skills; they were keys, and the workbenches were the locks.
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He pushed the thought aside for the moment, focusing on the immediate task at hand. They rounded another tight bend, and the tunnel opened slightly into a small, cramped chamber. Kaelthari stood near the far wall, examining a narrow fissure that seemed to lead further into the darkness.
“This is the only way,” she rumbled, her voice echoing in the confined space. “Tight squeeze.”
Lyra stepped forward, her witchlight illuminating the crack. It was barely wide enough for a Fennician to pass through comfortably.
“ProlixalParagon, your size might be an advantage here,” she said, her golden eyes meeting his. “See if it widens on the other side.”
He nodded and edged towards the fissure. Taking a deep breath, he turned sideways and slipped into the narrow opening. The rough stone scraped against his fur, and the air grew even more stagnant, thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying salt. He moved slowly, pushing forward, his rotating ears straining for any sound beyond the scrape of his own passage.
The fissure did widen slightly after a few feet, enough for him to move with a bit more ease. He could see a faint glimmer of light ahead, suggesting another, larger chamber.
“It opens up,” he called back to the others. “Come through.”
One by one, they squeezed through the narrow passage, Kaelthari’s scaled form a tight fit, Marx maneuvering carefully with his crutch, and Ralyria gliding through with her customary silent grace. Lyra was the last to emerge, her gaze sweeping the new chamber with practiced vigilance.
The room was larger than the previous one, its ceiling lost in shadow. Faint phosphorescent moss clung to the walls, casting an eerie green glow that illuminated strange, twisted rock formations and scattered fragments of what looked like ancient machinery, rusted and broken beyond repair. The air here held a different quality – cooler, with a subtle undercurrent of earthy dampness that hinted at deeper levels beneath the salt-choked tunnels.
The sounds of the Revenants’ shrieks and the Siege Beast’s roars were more muffled here, a distant threat rather than an immediate presence. For the moment, they were out of immediate danger. But ProlixalParagon knew this respite would be brief. The tunnels were a labyrinth, and the horrors they had awakened were relentless. Their escape had just begun, and the path ahead remained shrouded in darkness and uncertainty. Yet, amidst the lingering fear, the image of the workbench and the inscription burned in his mind. Five left. He would find them. He had to. The echoes of the old guild myths had found a voice, and ProlixalParagon, the unlikely heir to a lost legacy, was ready to answer its call.
ProlixalParagon turned toward the others as the Revenants shrieked beyond the barricade — and the Siege Beast’s guttural, grinding roar echoed through the earth. The sound vibrated through the stone, a promise of immense power unleashed. There was no more time for lingering fascination with the remnants of the past. Survival in the present demanded immediate action.
“This way!” ProlixalParagon shouted over the din, his voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in the ground. He pointed towards the smaller of the two passages Lyra had indicated earlier. “Tight, but likely less… guarded.” His Salvager’s Insight, though focused on arcane anomalies and siege cores, had offered a subtle reading of the ward residue in the larger tunnel, a heavier concentration that suggested lingering defenses or perhaps even more slumbering constructs. The narrower passage felt comparatively clean, free of that oppressive weight.
Lyra, ever pragmatic, nodded curtly. “Kaelthari, you lead. Clear any immediate obstructions. Marx, Ralyria, cover our rear.” Her commands were crisp, honed by countless perilous crossings. She trusted ProlixalParagon’s instincts, especially when it came to the workings of these forgotten places.
Kaelthari, her mulberry scales shimmering in the dim light cast by Lyra’s witchlight staff, didn’t hesitate. Her imposing form moved with surprising agility, her large markhor horns just clearing the low archway of the smaller tunnel. The delicate golden chains that draped between them chimed softly as she squeezed through.
Marx, leaning heavily on his mana-powered prosthetic, positioned himself with his axe held ready. His single hazel eye scanned the barricaded entryway to the main chamber, where the shrieks of the Revenants were growing more frantic, punctuated by the Siege Beast’s earth-shaking roars. Ralyria, her pale and elegant features set in a mask of focused calm, moved silently beside him, her internal sensors undoubtedly processing every sound and vibration. Her spear, once meant for stories, was now stained with the blood of their recent encounters, a stark testament to her unexpected role as a protector.
ProlixalParagon waited for Lyra to move, then followed, his white fur brushing against the rough-hewn stone of the tunnel walls. The air grew thick and close, the brine tang intensifying, mixed now with the metallic scent of old blood and dust. The passage twisted and turned, barely wide enough for Kaelthari’s broad shoulders. They moved in single file, the only sounds their hurried breaths and the scrape of their feet on the salt-choked earth. The echoes of the chaos they had left behind – the Revenants’ fury and the Siege Beast’s awakening – still reverberated through the tunnels, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their escape.
Despite the urgency of their flight, a part of ProlixalParagon’s mind remained fixated on the workbench. Two out of seven. The discovery had been a fleeting moment of revelation amidst the encroaching darkness. The old guild myths… he had dismissed them as fanciful tales, whispers of a bygone era of masterful craftsmanship. Yet, here was tangible proof, a link to that lost knowledge. The inscription on the plaque, “Seven in all. One mind. One hand. Five flows. Find the pulse and balance the tide,” resonated with a strange familiarity, a half-remembered echo from his own inherited traits, the Scholar’s Apprentice perhaps stirring with forgotten knowledge.
Five left. The thought ignited a spark of determination within him, a purpose that transcended their immediate need for survival. This wasn't just about escaping the clutches of undead and awakened constructs. This was about rediscovering a lost legacy, piecing together fragments of a forgotten craft. He felt a pull towards these workbenches, a conviction that they held secrets that could be vital, not just to him, but perhaps to the wider world of Ludere Online. The Hexwright Machinist passive, the Salvager’s Insight – these weren’t random skills; they were keys, and the workbenches were the locks.
He pushed the thought aside for the moment, focusing on the immediate task at hand. They rounded another tight bend, and the tunnel opened slightly into a small, cramped chamber. Kaelthari stood near the far wall, examining a narrow fissure that seemed to lead further into the darkness.
“This is the only way,” she rumbled, her voice echoing in the confined space. “Tight squeeze.”
Lyra stepped forward, her witchlight illuminating the crack. It was barely wide enough for a Fennician to pass through comfortably.
“ProlixalParagon, your size might be an advantage here,” she said, her golden eyes meeting his. “See if it widens on the other side.”
He nodded and edged towards the fissure. Taking a deep breath, he turned sideways and slipped into the narrow opening. The rough stone scraped against his fur, and the air grew even more stagnant, thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying salt. He moved slowly, pushing forward, his rotating ears straining for any sound beyond the scrape of his own passage.
The fissure did widen slightly after a few feet, enough for him to move with a bit more ease. He could see a faint glimmer of light ahead, suggesting another, larger chamber.
“It opens up,” he called back to the others. “Come through.”
One by one, they squeezed through the narrow passage, Kaelthari’s scaled form a tight fit, Marx maneuvering carefully with his crutch, and Ralyria gliding through with her customary silent grace. Lyra was the last to emerge, her gaze sweeping the new chamber with practiced vigilance.
The room was larger than the previous one, its ceiling lost in shadow. Faint phosphorescent moss clung to the walls, casting an eerie green glow that illuminated strange, twisted rock formations and scattered fragments of what looked like ancient machinery, rusted and broken beyond repair. The air here held a different quality – cooler, with a subtle undercurrent of earthy dampness that hinted at deeper levels beneath the salt-choked tunnels.
The sounds of the Revenants’ shrieks and the Siege Beast’s roars were more muffled here, a distant threat rather than an immediate presence. For the moment, they were out of immediate danger. But ProlixalParagon knew this respite would be brief. The tunnels were a labyrinth, and the horrors they had awakened were relentless. Their escape had just begun, and the path ahead remained shrouded in darkness and uncertainty. Yet, amidst the lingering fear, the image of the workbench and the inscription burned in his mind. Five left. He would find them. He had to. The echoes of the old guild myths had found a voice, and ProlixalParagon, the unlikely heir to a lost legacy, was ready to answer its call. The desire to understand the "One mind. One hand. Five flows" hinted at a level of Tinkerer knowledge he had only begun to glimpse, a potential that his Scholar's Apprentice background yearned to unlock. This forgotten place, this perilous dungeon, was no longer just an obstacle; it was a potential treasure trove of lost knowledge, a tangible link to the masters of his craft. The deeper they delved, the greater the risk, but also the greater the potential reward. He could feel it in the very air of the chamber, a faint hum of residual energy that resonated deep within his being, a whisper of the past urging him forward.
The chamber beyond pulsed with a sickening vitality, a grotesque parody of life born from death. Before them stood not just one animated corpse, but a towering, shambling behemoth, a horrifying amalgamation of Revenants and other long-dead remains. Limbs from different bodies jutted out at unnatural angles, some skeletal and salt-bleached, others still bearing tattered remnants of desiccated flesh. Their pearlescent eyes glowed with a collective, malevolent hunger, a thousand dead gazes fixed upon the living. Rusted blades and broken shields were embedded in its mass, like morbid decorations on a nightmarish golem. The air thickened with the stench of brine, decay, and a palpable cold that seeped into their bones.
A collective gasp rippled through ProlixalParagon’s group. The subtle hum he had felt earlier intensified, now resonating with a discordant, rattling energy that seemed to emanate from the creature’s very core. His Salvager’s Insight flared involuntarily, painting the abomination in his vision with lines of fractured mana and clinging remnants of what felt like multiple siege core signatures, twisted and intertwined in a horrifying mockery of a unified whole. The Anomaly Level screamed 'Lethal' in his mind, amplified tenfold by the sheer scale of the construct. The plaque's inscription, "One mind. One hand," echoed with bitter irony in the face of this disjointed horror.
Lyra’s hand tightened on her witchlight staff, the glowing crystal at its tip pulsing with a frantic energy. Her golden eyes, usually so steady, widened momentarily before narrowing into slits of grim determination. “By the Silent Judge…” she breathed, a name ProlixalParagon recognized as a deity of the Pale Dominion, a land known for its mastery of necromancy. This creature felt like something ripped from the darkest of those tales.
Kaelthari’s mulberry scales bristled, the delicate golden chains between her markhor horns clinking softly as she shifted her massive frame, her weapon already being drawn. A low growl rumbled in her chest, a sound that spoke of primal defense against an overwhelming threat. Even her immense size seemed insignificant compared to the towering construct before them.
Marx froze, his single hazel eye fixed on the creature, his usual gruff demeanor replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. The runes on his mana-powered prosthetic pulsed erratically, as if sensing the raw necromantic energy saturating the chamber. His hand instinctively went to the multiple knives strapped to his belt, but ProlixalParagon could see the uncertainty flicker in his gaze. This was no mercenary or simple beast; this was something far beyond their usual encounters.
Ralyria remained outwardly still, but ProlixalParagon could sense the subtle increase in the whirring of her internal mechanisms. Her spear, a constant companion, was now held in a low, ready stance, its tip unwavering despite the shuddering energy that filled the chamber. Her sensors were undoubtedly processing every minute detail of the creature – its composition, its movements, the emanations of its unnatural animation.
The Corpse Colossus, as ProlixalParagon’s mind instinctively labeled it, shifted its weight, and a cascade of loose bones and rusted fragments clattered to the salt-slick floor. Its multitude of dead eyes seemed to focus on them, and a sound began to emanate from its disjointed form – a chorus of dry, rattling moans and choked whispers, the collective agony and rage of the many souls bound within. It was a sound that clawed at the edges of sanity, a physical manifestation of despair.
Before anyone could issue a command, the behemoth lurched forward with surprising speed for its size, its mismatched limbs moving with a jerky, unnatural coordination. Some of the skeletal arms reached out, their bony fingers grasping like skeletal talons, while others dragged rusted, broken weapons across the stone floor, sending sparks flying. The air crackled with the residual energy of the warfire stasis that had once held the chamber’s dead, now twisted and perverted into animating force.
“Brace yourselves!” Lyra’s voice cut through the cacophony of moans and scraping metal, her staff held aloft, the witchlight casting wild, dancing shadows on the grotesque spectacle. “Kaelthari, you engage! Marx, Ralyria, provide support! ProlixalParagon, see if you can find a weakness!” Her commands were immediate and decisive, a testament to her years of navigating unimaginable dangers. The respite they had hoped for in this deeper chamber had evaporated, replaced by a confrontation with a horror that defied simple understanding. Their escape had taken them from one nightmare and plunged them directly into another, a terrifying testament to the cursed nature of this forgotten place. The secrets it held were not just of lost knowledge, but of enduring, animated death.