The entrance to the cave was a jagged maw in the mountainside, exhaling a stench of damp rock and primal musk. It was teeming with monsters, a nest of high-level Zone D creatures. A week ago, this would have been an insurmountable obstacle, a place we would have marked on our map and avoided at all costs. Now, it was just another resource node waiting to be harvested.
I stood before it, my arms crossed, feeling the thrum of stolen power coursing through me. I didn't need to risk my team. I didn't even need to risk myself. I had a tool for this kind of menial labor.
I focused my will, and the ground beside me darkened. Shadows coiled and solidified, rising into the towering, brutish form of my newest puppet: the spectral echo of the Orc Champion. It was a masterpiece of necromantic art, its violet eyes burning with a cold, controlled fury, its massive frame radiating an aura of pure physical dominance.
"Go," I commanded, my voice flat. "Kill everything inside. Leave nothing alive."
The Orc Champion let out a silent, psychic roar that I alone could feel, a wave of its former battle lust now perfectly shackled to my will. It lowered its head and charged into the darkness of the cave.
Beside me, my team stood in a tense, weary silence. They didn't participate. They didn't need to. This was the new dynamic. The massive harvest of mana from the orc horde had done more than just heal me; it had expanded the very vessel of my soul, granting me the capacity for one more puppet. My limit was now six. I had wanted to summon my full army, to unleash all six of my spectral lieutenants and watch them tear the cave apart in a beautiful symphony of death. But the battle with Rhonda had taught me a valuable lesson. Maintaining six powerful puppets, especially one as potent as the Orc Champion, was a severe drain on my mana. Even if I forced them all out, they wouldn't last long. It was more efficient to use a single, powerful tool for the job. So, my team waited, relegated to the role of spectators, while my undead slave did the heavy lifting.
The sounds from within the cave were horrific. The high-pitched shrieks of giant bats, the guttural yelps of dog-like kobolds, and above it all, the phantom roar of my champion. The clash of its shadow axe against rock and flesh echoed out, a percussive beat in our grim vigil. We were waiting for the screams to die down, waiting for the champion to finish its work so we could go in and collect our harvest.
This zone, which should have been a deadly challenge, had become laughably easy. We were already planning our advance into Zone C.
A weird smile touched my lips. New zone, new adventure, huh? Sounds fun. I murmured the words to myself, the irony a private, amusing joke.
Yesterday had been a strange, quiet day. The team had spent it recovering their strength. I had spent it integrating our newest, most volatile asset.
"Hey, Kael."
The Mimic, who had been nervously watching the cave entrance, flinched and turned to me. "Yes, Dante? What is it?"
"Your skill," I began, getting straight to the point. "The description you gave me, that you can only keep three copied skills at a time. Has that changed? My own capacity for mana increased when I absorbed the power from the orcs. Has your limit increased as well?"
He shook his head, but this time there was a look of thoughtful concentration on his face, not frustration. "No, it's not increasing my capacity. I'm still limited to three skills. But consuming the mana cores... it's doing something else. It's making my copied skills more stable, less faulty. The 'imprint' feels stronger, more permanent." He added quickly, "I can still erase a previous skill to make room for a new one, though."
I murmured to myself, Interesting. So his power grows in quality, not quantity. A balancing mechanic, but a useful one. It prevents him from becoming a walking encyclopedia of every skill, but it allows him to perfect the ones he chooses. This makes his choices even more critical.
"So, the faults you mentioned before are decreasing?" I asked aloud.
He hesitated, trying to find the right words. "It's like… the copy becomes a higher resolution. When I first copied Leo's Warpstep, it felt shaky, like I might lose it. After absorbing some mana, the skill feels solid, like it's truly mine. The distance is consistent, the mana cost is lower. The 'faults' aren't with the copied skills themselves anymore. The real fault of my ability," he looked down at his hands, "is that there are some skills I just can't copy at all. Like yours. Or Rina's healing. Or Edgar's Appraisal. I can see you use them, but when I try to copy them, it's like trying to grab smoke. There's nothing there for me to hold onto."
I nodded, the pieces clicking into place in my mind. "I figured. Our skills are bound to our core, to the very essence of who we are. Rina doesn't just cast a healing spell; she is a healer. My Necromancy isn't a technique; it's an extension of my soul. You can't copy that." I looked him over. "But the other skills, the ones you can copy, are different. They're signature-based. A specific pattern of mana manipulation that you can observe and replicate. Masha's ice magic, for example. It comes from her core, but the way she shapes it into a spear is a technique. You don't have her core affinity for ice, but you can copy the signature of the spear spell itself."
I gave him a cold smile. "But you are not useless, after all. Just keep the most useful skills in your arsenal. By the way, what skills do you have stored currently?"
He seemed relieved that I wasn't discarding him. "I erased the Berserker Rage. It was too draining. Right now, I have Leo's Warpstep for mobility, the lightning mage's Lightning Bolt for a ranged attack, and I copied the Orc Champion's Brutal Swing before you sent it in. It's a simple, heavy-hitting physical enhancement."
"Perfect for now," I said. A teleport, a ranged attack, and a close-quarters power move. A versatile toolkit.
Just as I finished my assessment, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through my mind. The psychic tether connecting me to my Orc Champion snapped back, receding into my soul like a broken rubber band. The puppet was gone.
"Looks like my mana ran out," I said, a flicker of annoyance passing over my face. The champion was more draining than I had anticipated. "But I guess he's done ninety percent of the job."
I turned to my team, who had been listening to my conversation with Kael with varying degrees of interest and fear. "Can you all clean up the rest?"
The reaction was immediate. Three pairs of eyes—Talia's, Masha's, and Erica's—looked at me with a shared, profound sense of boredom and irritation.
"Can't I just rest for a while?" Talia complained, leaning against a rock and massaging her sword hand. "We've been on edge for two days straight. My eyes hurt from staring into the dark."
"He has a point," Masha added, her arms crossed, her voice dripping with her signature sarcasm. "Your pet monster gets to have all the fun, and we get to go mop up the leftovers? What an honor."
Even Erica, my ever-loyal valkyrie, looked tired. "Dante, we are still recovering. Perhaps we should rest first and clear the cave in the morning."
I fixed them with a cold stare. "The mana cores inside will begin to degrade the longer the corpses sit. We are moving to Zone C tomorrow. I want every last drop of power we can squeeze from this place before we do. Now, go."
My tone left no room for argument. With a collective, weary sigh, the team prepared themselves. Jin and Eric took the lead, their shields raised, and they entered the dark, monster-filled cave that my puppet had so graciously pre-cleared for them. The girls followed, their annoyance clear in every reluctant step. Kael gave me a nervous glance before joining them.
I sat down on a rock, conserving my own energy, and listened to the sounds of the "clean-up." The fighting was brief, punctuated by the occasional flash of magic from the cave mouth. They were finishing off the wounded, the stragglers. It was easy work, but it was still work they had to do while I rested.
A few minutes later, they emerged, dragging the corpses of giant bats and mangled kobolds behind them. The bodies were piled up, and the familiar, shimmering wisps of mana began to rise.
This time, I did not hoard it all. A king must occasionally reward his subjects to maintain order.
"Take your share," I said magnanimously. "You've earned it."
They looked at me, then at each other. There was no gratitude in their eyes, only a weary resignation. They knelt by the corpses and began to absorb the mana, a process that was now tinged with a subtle resentment. But as I watched them, I could feel the silent, unspoken truth in the air. I was their leader, their protector, their god. But I was also their tyrant. And even the most loyal subjects will eventually grow tired of their king.