The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series by Roman Prokofiev (ebook reader for comics .TXT) 📗

pouring out of hexagonal plates that were mounted on the walls in a fantastically precise manner. Once again, there were no cracks; everything fit flawlessly. As I looked at the wall paintings, I realized that the Ancients were no goody-two-shoes. They portrayed some grotesque Borgesian mixture of human bodies, heads, and hands and monstrous limbs, tails, and torsos. Humans also looked weird: they had elongated egg-like skulls, while most of the handprints had long serpentine fingers. All together, it evoked a dismal feeling of longing and creepiness due to the meticulous level of detail. The floor was covered by the same Kann-Elo characters composing a strange sequence that I couldn’t make out. The level of Dread reached the center of the bar — five points. I felt slight discomfort, as if I was mildly sick — that’s because I lost ten percent of my stats, as I only had four Estel points.

As I understood, the Crossroads wasn’t an instance, but rather a lighthouse, a junction and a waystone on the Endless Paths. A subway station of a network, the branches of which constantly switched places. Staying there was dangerous, as another raid could arrive at any moment, and nobody could predict the outcome of such a meeting. Sometimes, two raids joined forces to farm hard dungeons together. Sometimes, they clashed, fighting each other in a merciless battle. We had to keep moving, search for new spots, and make camp. The expedition had already lasted five hours. We had planned for eight.

* * *

 

The route for further exploration of the Paths was chosen seemingly at random. The smooth surface of the Ancients’ creation soon gave way to ordinary caves. Twisting and narrowing, the tunnel led us down. Water sloshed under our feet, and the air started smelling sour. Giant bats dove at us from the ceiling, scaring the raid. We shot down six of them, all human-sized, but they didn’t drop anything of interest. Nothing indicated any trouble when one of our scouts suddenly sounded the alarm.

Inker: A signal! Something alive! Its’ moving to me, very fast!

 

Abbot: Calm down, you’re in stealth. Abel, Ox — back him up.

 

Inker: I’m down! It sees stealth! It’s a rikhar, it’s coming for you!

 

Abbot: A rikhar? (Censored) Scouts, retreat! I repeat, retreat! Raid, assume formation! Form a circle around the supports. Drink Giant’s Strength and Acid Resistance potions. Mages, Stoneskin on everyone!

 

Komtur: How do we hit it?

 

Abbot: Physical damage only! Magic and elemental heals it!

 

I opened the bestiary and entered the name of the monster.

Rikhar, a giant magical beast. Bred to kill dragons, it lives in the dungeons of the Endless Paths, hunting single targets and groups. A greedy and smart predator that poses a deadly threat from the moment of its birth. Possesses a number of unpleasant abilities...

 

A second later, I saw it. The rikhar, which reminded me of a giant centipede, swiftly edged out from behind the corner and ran across the ceiling above us, deftly clinging to rocks with its numerous limbs. What a brute! Its long body was covered with a plate-like chitinous armor the color of a bright ultramarine gem, its maw resembled a crocodile’s, and the flexible tail was capped by a barb dripping with poison.

Abbot: Broker, grab it!

 

Pawnbroker, our main tank, rushed to the monster, taunting it by screaming and bashing it with his shield. The rikhar turned around, crawled from the ceiling to the floor like a snake, and immediately wrapped its body around Broker in several coils. The Watcher’s hits helplessly bounced off its carapace, and the rikhar, not paying any attention to the arrows and hits of the raid, squeezed the tank in its deadly embrace.

Abbot: Healers, wake up! There are six of you, how did you lose him?

 

Damian: It’s impossible, the damage is too high.

 

The beast’s ultramarine hide kept easily deflecting missiles and spears. One of them managed to hit the space that momentarily appeared between two scales. The rikhar twitched, roared, flung the defeated Pawnbroker aside, and gracefully pattered across the wall with its many legs. Along the way, it spat a ball of green goo upon the raid.

Abbot: Acid breath! Dispel the DOT, it decreases armor durability!

 

Goldie: Too late, I’m dead.

 

Abbot: Healers, (censored)! Get to work! Raise the dead!

 

In the meantime, the monster killed one more player with its tail. It dealt incredible damage, one-shotting us while we couldn’t even penetrate its defenses. I could finally see why only raids could enter the Paths: a creature like that would crush a single player or a small group without even noticing.

Olaf: Ebb, what’s our tactics? We can’t pierce its armor!

 

Abbot: Why the hell are you hitting the carapace? Does marking Weak Spots go against your rules, Olaf? Aim at the eyes, the mouth, the openings in its armor. Get to work!

 

Easy for you to say, I thought. With an extraordinary effort, having lost fourteen people, we had removed a third of the rikhar’s hit points. We were wearing it down, as its health barely decreased. Still, we had an advantage — our healers immediately resurrected the fallen warriors, and they returned to battle. The monster wasn’t fast enough — or smart enough — to finish off the players, even if the description listed it as sentient.

Realizing the futility of its efforts, the rikhar once again ran up the ceiling above us, but instead of spitting at us or circling us while swiping its tail, it fell right on our heads!

Now that was unexpected. Chaos erupted, and I was sent flying into the tunnel wall. I lost half of my hit points and hadn’t even managed to hit the monster with the carefully prepared Aelmaris.

Abbot: Abel, the hounds! Popinjay, release the knights! Slow it down!

 

Our last trump card came