Raging Hornet: Part Four

After nearly four hours of travel, their ship turned up a stream and finally entered the Natural Reserve, venturing into its meanders while doubt shrouded the nine students. The canopy of red and yellow leaves over their heads blocked most of the sunlight, the dense vegetation on either side concealed any recognizable landmarks, and the sounds of predators—lurking who knows where—grew louder and more ravenous—a swamp-green labyrinth, where looking back was the first step toward losing your sanity. Yet, no matter how many times the river branched, their professor never slowed down, choosing each path without a hint of hesitation, while the water beneath their boat grew darker and murkier. Needless to say, the size of the insects inhabiting this oasis untouched by human hands made Katrina tighten her grip on Carmen and Oshira’s hands.

The temperature dropped considerably compared to the tropical heat outside Miraval Island, forcing everyone to cover their sun-bathed bodies for the remaining hour of the journey. When they finally reached their destination, Mr. Diaz cut the engine, Connor tossed a rope over a wooden pillar, and Casimir wrestled with the river’s current to haul the boat in, allowing everyone to disembark. The place Mr. Diaz had brought them to was a small clearing nestled within the dense temperate forest where a muddy road stretched from the wooden pillar to the mouth of a nearby cave. Several metal crates were stacked in front of its entrance, each marked with the same yellow code—XXX-37.

”My dear students, it’s my pleasure to present your very first Dungeon,” Mr. Diaz announced, his voice dimmed in nostalgia as memories of his own first raid flickered through his mind. His students, however, were poised somewhere between excitement and raw fear.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Jacques mumbled, calculating the odds of being eaten alive in a poorly ventilated hole full of wild monsters. “Dying during the first week of school wasn’t exactly part of my plan. Later? Sure, but now? C'mon!”

“Stop being such a little pussy,” Mr. Diaz pointed at the entrance. “As you can see from that yellow code, the Dungeon is still in programming. That means the average [Level] of the monsters within is low enough for even a Class F to conquer it. Just trust your professor—I’m an expert.” The ’Javelinist’ replied by glancing at Connor, prompting the ’Raging Hornet’ to snort.

“Mr. Diaz, what is Dungeon Programming?” Casimir asked, while Carmen pulled her yellow notebook—its cover decorated with colorful drawings—from her [Inventory].

“In short, Dungeons are places with an exceptionally high concentration of Mana, so intense it bent the fabric of space and time, creating a realm separate from our reality,” Mr. Diaz explained, mimicking with his hands the collapse of space and time into a single point. “You could spend a week inside a Dungeon, only to return and find that years—or just seconds—have passed outside. And the best part, we can exploit these dynamics by using a specific frequency of radiation to influence the Dungeon’s inhabitans and characteristics, crafting an ideal training ground for our students. In short, Dungeon Programming is the art of controlling time and space within a Dungeon to exploit its ecosystem.”

“So… you’re breeding monsters like my dad breeds chickens on his farm?” Casimir guessed.

“Not just monsters, but good job, Kaz.” The professor clapped for his student, making Casimir blush. “Now let’s set up the tents, rest for a couple of hours, and then—team by team—you’ll enter the Dungeon. Just remember this—if your team fails, every member gets an FFF, no matter how well you have done individually.”

“May I ask one last thing, Mr. Diaz?” The professor nodded at his student. “Why should I give a shit about my grades when I’m already in Class F?” The 'Javelinist' smirked, arms crossed. However, the ’Raging Hornet’s’ grin widened.

“Why do you need good grades? Well, Essentias who fail their classes, drop out, or get expelled for inappropriate behavior get sent to the 37th Fort for re-education. Imagine days and nights of brutal training and endless humiliation, while being screamed at by dozens of Mr. Anhogis on steroids. And that’s not even the worst part. After graduation, you’ll serve twelve years in the army as part of your ‘rehabilitation.’ With great power comes great responsibility, and your Gift is no less—fail today, and that’s your future. And yes—being in Class F doesn’t exempt you. ”

A long pause followed. Then, an awkward smile formed on Jacques’s face. In record time, he pitched both tents, working so fast even farm-boy Casimir was impressed. Then, Jacques pulled out of his [Inventory] a very expensive liquor—rented for free from Fragrance of the Morning—poured a glass, and handed it to Mr. Diaz. “My favorite professor, would you like more? May I suggest a massage?” He was already massaging Mr. Diaz’s shoulder as the professor sipped his drink, savoring both the taste of victory and the thousands of Marini’s worth of whisky.

After that, the men and women entered their respective tents. Casimir blinked in surprise as he stepped inside—the space was far larger than it appeared from the outside. “It's twice as big as our classroom,” he mumbled, astonished.

“You’ve never seen a Hunting Tent before?” Jacques asked his teammate. “It significantly reduces the size of military encampments. Plus, you can pitch and unpitch it as many times as you want without moving the furniture inside.” He gestured toward the neatly arranged sleeping bags lined up around a heater, and over it, scented candles were infusing the space with an exotic fragrance.

“Behind that curtain, there’s a shower,” Mr. Diaz added. “But someone still needs to connect the hose to the riv—” Before he could finish, Jacques had already vanished, and a few minutes later, the soft sound of running water announced his success—Jude claimed the first hot shower. Meanwhile, Connor, who had remained silent for the entire trip, despite Sahel’s attempts to talk to him, went straight to his sleeping bag without uttering a word. Eventually, everyone silently agreed to leave him alone until time had healed his wounds.

“Mr. Diaz, a question,” Derserk said under severe pressure from Himself. “Jacques told us you’re…ahem…very intimate with Miss Sinclair.”

“That little shit,” Mr. Diaz groaned. “Yeah…she is…my ex-girlfriend.” A sharp whistle echoed from the shower—Jude’s honest opinion.

“You mean S-Class ‘Everlasting Spring’ Aoife Sinclair?” Sahel jumped in, speaking faster than a Hydrail. “A Class S, renowned throughout the Empire for her groundbreaking discoveries in Monster Biology. Three-time consecutive winner of Sandhedens Stjerne’s 'Most Beautiful Woman in Chaotia.' Daughter of SS-Class 'Dark Catharsis' Nechtan Sinclair—head of the Sinclair Tribe, which holds a monopoly on all public relations between the Free Woodlands and the rest of the world, and bound by eternal friendship with the Von Sternenstaubs? That Aoife Sinclair dated you? A Paisano born in Esperanto del Sol, raised in an orphanage after your farmer parents died during the Perfect Imperfect Winter, and mostly infamous throughout the 'HRE' for botching the Thousand-Year Raid, wasting millions of Marini the Di Mario Family had invested to organize it?…Ahem…it does sounds…unrealistic.”

Mr. Diaz blinked a couple of times. “When the hell did I ever tell you all that?”

“Ahem…maybe you should try not showing up to class drunk."

“Never!” The ’Raging Hornet’ shouted, slapping Sahel on his bald head. “Besides, I’m a Class A and an official member of the Miraval Family. As for Aoife…the past, problems, and even someone’s [Rank]…none of that matters to her.” The professor sweetly whispered.

“Even the greatest of kings is still a worm compared to a god,” the ’Tin Blade’ solemnly declared, and everyone in the tent nodded in agreement.

“Shut up, little boy!” Mr. Diaz snapped.

“I’m not a little boy! I’m fourteen! Look at these documents—LOOK!” The bronze-skinned student yelled furiously, showing him his passport, which confrimed, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he was a 53-year-old Barbarian woman.

Maybe I hit an exposed nerve. Better change the subject. “Okay, okay. Do you really want to know how I ended up dating a Class S?" His students hastily regrouped around him, their ears perked. "Back in my first year at the Academy, me, Miss Sinclair, Mr. Al Córdoba—and Gus—we were all in Class E.”

“So both of them evolved into Class S…except you?” Derserk pointed out. What a fucking loser! Himself added.

“Technically, no,” Diaz corrected. “I evolved into Class A, Xoán into Class D, and Aoife into Class B, and during our academy years, the three of us were inseparable friends. But three months before our graduation, both Aoife and Xoán evolved into Class S, and from that point on, everything changed between us. Their new responsibilities made me feel like a dead weight, and after enough humiliations…I cut ties with them.” His voice faded, and the room grew quiet. “Years later, I got hired by this school, and, to my surprise, I found out they had made the same decision.” He let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the blue fire at the center of the tend.

“What a fucking retard. You deserve to die alone.” Everyone—even Jude, who had just stepped out of the shower—turned to stare at Jacques.

“What did you just say to me?” Mr. Diaz’s eyes narrowed into a dangerous glare.

“Shut up, you liar!” Jacques snapped back, arms folded. “I’ve spoken with Katrina—you can’t touch me. The Miraval Code of Ethics requires all professors to evaluate students fairly, regardless of any personal grudge against a particular student. If you threaten me again, I’ll go straight to Dh. Miraval—I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to deal with you personally.” He seasoned his declaration with a series of vulgar hand gestures, each more offensive than the last. However, Mr. Diaz, as much as he wanted to retaliate, knew Jacques wasn’t technically wrong, so all he could do was to seethe in silence.

“Why did you take so long outside, Jacques?” Sahel asked, trying to shift the mood.

“I fixed the girls’ shower, too, then I heard a voice calling me from the woods. I checked it out, but no one was there—pretty weird.” The Javelinist shrugged.

“So, do you really think Mr. Diaz was stupid for leaving Miss Sinclair?” Derserk asked. He’s right. If you were him, you’d never let her go—literally. Himself snickered.

“No, not that part. I’d have done the same. Mr. Diaz is way too broke to afford the cravings of a Class S—I’ve seen his paycheck. My main issue is how he just lets her humiliate him, like, holy shit, professor—do you really lower your head and go quiet every time your ex walks into the same room? C’mon, man.”

“Shut up, all of you!” Mr. Diaz snapped. “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. You have twenty minutes to finish your showers, then w—”

*Tweet!* A small, unexpected, and blue guest dropped its very ’muddy’ opinion directly onto Mr. Diaz’s head.

“YOU STUPID BIRD!”

***

In front of the ’Scarecrow’ stood a humanoid jackal, roughly his height, sporting a reddish fur and a white belly slick with its own drool. The beast unsheathed its claws and slashed into Casimir with savage force, blood splattering across the cave walls. Yet, the gray portion of his [HP] bar didn’t budge.

“Ehhh, You were right, Mr. Diaz. It’s tickling me,” Casimir chuckled, his smiling face contrasting with the enraged and frustrated jackal.

***
Passive Skill: SameOldJob
***
Let A(n) denote an ordered element in the chronological sequence
of an X enemy’s attacks endured. Define A(next) as the incoming
enemy attack, define F(A(n)) as the damage output of A(n), and
define G(A(n)) as the attack type of A(n) according to the current
guidelines drawn up by the Collective Consciousness.

Then F(A(next)) takes the new value of:

F(A(next))
-----------------------------
1 + 37 · count

where the count’s value is obtained by following this algorithm:

count = 0, temp = next;
while (G(A(temp)) is equal to G(A(temp - 1))
and temp is not equal to 0) do;
count = count + 1
temp = temp - 1
end while;
return count; 
***

“The more the monster strikes Kaz, the weaker its attacks get. And Best part? It doesn’t even realize it.” Jacques explained, laughing at the pitiful beast. “I almost feel bad for the oversized mutt.” Beside him, Derserk crouched in silence, eyes locked on the enemy, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“Katrina and Connor’s teams have completed their Dungeon Raids in under an hour,” Mr. Diaz pointed out with a yawn. “Unless you’re aiming for a less-than-mediocre score, exhausting your enemy ain’t the smartest strategy.”

“Safety first!” Jacques shot back. “But you’re right—[BasicJavelin].” A blurry, bluish, spear-like object materialized in his right hand. He extended his left arm, fingers outstretched, and closed his left eye to aim. “Casimir, get down!” The ’Scarecrow’ instinctively ducked down as the javelin flew past him, striking the jackal square in the face.

*GRRAAAAUUUUUGGHHHHH!* The beast howled as it crashed to the ground. Nevertheless, its Red Bar—simulated by the [Essentia.OS]—barely shifted, gaining only a few centimeters of gray.

“Great job, Jacques,” Mr. Diaz clapped. “At this rate, your javelins might kill that Class F monster just in time for your graduation.”

“I’m a Buffer. My job is to support the team—Madserk is the striker.” Jacques nonchalantly admitted.

“It’s Derserk, not Madserk.”

“Sure, dude. [AttackJavelin].” A red javelin shot from Jacques’ hand hit Derserk, exploding into a crimson wave that bathed him in glowing energy. Then, a red icon appeared above his Red Bar, visible in the bottom-left corner of Derserk's view.

“[Falsifiability]!” The Bloodmarcher Scion exclaimed, materializing the towering scythe in his hands. “Kaz, out of my way—this one’s mine!” The Gravedigger bellowed, loading the weapon before dashing forward. He leaped, spun three full rotations, and hit the jackal’s skull with a bone-cracking blow.

*GRRAAAAUUUUUGGHHHHH!* The beast screamed, but Derserk had yet to finish. He jumped to the cave wall, using it as a springboard to deliver another spinning strike. Then another, and another. With each blow, his scythe left a crimson trail that lingered in the air, and strike after strike, the glowing lines overlapped, blooming into a radiant Chrysanthemum of blood-red light that seemed to engulf the jackal entirely. The relentless onslaught continued for ten full minutes, until his [SP] bar finally hit zero. Gasping, the Bloodmarcher stepped back before snapping his fingers. “Back in position, Kaz.” The ’Scarecrow’ obediently stepped forward to resume tanking duty as Derserk retreated to Jacques's position.

The total damage inflicted on the jackal during Derserk’s rampage amounted to—a quarter of its [HP].

Mr. Diaz buried his face in his hands. “This team is a lost cause.”

“Are you telling me...the other teams...actually killed these monsters?” Derserk asked breathlessly before collapsing to the ground.

“Katrina used her [Skills] to pinpoint the enemy’s weak spots, and then Oshira finished the job. Jude rope-a-doped the jackal until it was so focused on him that it left its vital point exposed, and Sahel finished the job. Carmen and Connor did absolute nothing, but that’s fine. Their [Skills]— whatever they are—aren’t suited for normal combat anyway—unlike yours!” Mr. Diaz pointed his index at the trio in front of him. ”Jacques, you can buff from a distance. That’s excellent, and yet useless in a Class F team. Derserk, you’re fast and agile, but what’s the point if you can’t deal any real damage? Casimir, you can defend yourself indefinitely, but without someone who can actually deal damage, you’re stuck in an eternal battle.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but…your Class F [Party] is—unbalanced!”

Your fatass is unbalanced! Himself was furious. I hate to admit it, but that Shurapatri might be right. We need a solution—now!

Hearing the conversation, Casimir suddenly had an idea. Without warning his teammates, he hugged the jackal, squeezing it inside his big arms as powerfully as a hydraulic press.

*GRRAAAAUUUUUGGHHHHH!* Agonized howls echoed through the cave as the jackal thrashed in his grip, claws lashing wildly. However, the more it struggled, the weaker its attacks became. *GRRA*…*AUUUuu*…*hhh*… The oxygen ran out, and the beast’s final thoughts went to the litter of pups waiting back in the den for their mother to return with food, and then she closed her eyes for a last time.

“That was easy!” The ’Scarecrow’ gave a proud thumbs-up to his professor.

“You weren’t supposed to kill it without using your—” Mr. Diaz stopped himself mid-rant. “You know what? Fine, do it your anyway. I’m not wasting another day of my life in this shithole.” After the vent, he gestured for the group to move on.

Jacques helped the exhausted Derserk to rise, and together, they approached the jackal’s lifeless body. They both stared at the bloody tears streaking from the corners of her eyes, but the Gravedigger didn’t flinch—apathy withers all feelings. “Wait a moment, Mr. Diaz. I want to try something.” Derserk knelt beside the corpse and placed a hand over its heart. “[ImperfectDeath]!” A black wave pulsed outward from his palm, flooding over the monster’s body. Violent spasms, a twitch, and after a loud gasp, the jackal’s eyelids opened once more.

***
Imperfect Death
***
Death has an unclear definition, and by making a few corrections
to it, you are able to resurrect any X life form who had suffered
the old definition of death by your hands, if and only if its
dead body satisfies the guidelines approved by the
'Imperfect Eclipser'—they might change according with his will—
at the cost of one soul from [Graveyard].

The resurrected X will obey all commands until decay causes it
to violate the aforementioned guidelines. 
***

***
Passive Skill: Graveyard
***
Every human you kill will add one soul to your [Graveyard].
Current Souls: [ 373736 ] 
***

The others stared at the resurrected jackal in awe. Casimir poked at it—first the belly, then the eyes—before ending his inspection with a loud scream in its ear. Still, he got no reaction.

“Make him do a backflip, Madserk,” Jacques requested, excitement lighting up his face.

“Ok…” A second later, the white-eyed jackal began to move—jumping, kicking, punching—cycling through commands without resistance. However, no words left Derserk’s mouth because their minds were now linked, allowing an unambiguous form of communication between master and slave.

“I’ve gotta admit—this [Skill] is incredible.” Mr. Diaz proudly patted Derserk’s back. “You don’t even need to worry about your own damage output anymore. From now on, your resurrected monsters can do the heavy lifting.”

Kill it, kiddo—now! If they ever find out what you have sacrificed to use that [Skill], we’ll both be vivisected. Himself commanded, and Derserk obeyed. With a single thought, he forced every blood vessel in the jackal’s brain to implode at the same instant, killing the monster a second time.

“What the hell just happened?!” Jacques shouted, quickly stepping back as black blood splattered across his Basilisk-Leather Overcoat.

“Ahem…I’ve run out of [MP],” Derserk muttered, avoiding the disappointed gaze of his professor.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Mr. Diaz sighed. “Still, you were already drained from the fight. Maybe, with proper training, I might be able to boost your [MP] enough to make the resurrection last at least ten minutes.” He nodded to himself, and then the four descended deeper into the Dungeon.

WORLD'S END BLOG:

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