In a gradual bleeding of one color into another, Deacon fully opened his eyes and took notice that the forest of Floor Two was gone, and in its place stretched an endless jungle.
He stood on a massive platform of sun-whitened yellow brick, each brick looking cobbled together, and heavily worn to smoothness at the edges, with the occasional large, shallow cracks. Alongside and within said cracks was green moss, and as per the rules of nature, small insects scurried atop the bricks, either eating at the moss or finding a new crack to hide inside.
Peering over the edge closest to him, he could see that he was currently high above the jungle floor, which was somewhere around 100 to 120 meters by his estimates, as it was supported by four enormous pillars of stone that disappeared into the dense and wild flora below, which truly hid how high the platform was. Still, even at this height, the tops of the trees soared far above him.
Trees here were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Their trunks stretched wider than some of the towers at the Academy of Beginnings, their bark was the color of dried blood, slick with moisture. Some even grew in spirals for some reason, while others were wrapped in thick, pulsing vines, covered in thorns or thistles.
The hum of unseen insects, the rustling of leaves far above, as though something enormous moved from limb to limb. The distant call of birds that didn't sound like any bird he'd ever known. Some of their cries were sharp, almost human. Others were guttural and deep, the sort that sank into your chest and lingered there, making your body think of predators long before your mind could catch up.
All of them combined created the perfect ambience to tune out to, however, before he could enjoy it, a ripple shimmered in the air before him as the System interface bled into view:
Floor Three – The Isles of the Damned:
You have arrived at the Isles of the Damned, containing the remnants of a once-great Aztec empire. These lush isles were home to a proud and prosperous people of sorcerers and shamans, whose golden cities and rituals were the envy of surrounding lands. But such as with all great kingdoms, greed brings blood. However, their deaths had nothing to do with the human invaders that arrived two hundred years after the collapse of their once glorious empire.
Upon a discovery by a single adventurer, colonies, empires, warlords, and profiteers all sought to take the riches and valuables of the Aztec empire. However, every warrior, wizard, witch, soldier, and outcast they sent to the isles never made it back to the boat that was designated to take them back.
For hundreds of years after the disastrous expedition of 1562, an attempt that ended in a bloody massacre, the Isles remained mostly untouched. But desperation eventually drove the world's kingdoms to try again. One by one, they began sending their worst criminals into the jungle, offering full pardons and unimaginable riches in exchange for even a sliver of the ancient treasure that resides within the isles.
Not a single coin ever made it out of the Isles.
Still, they persist. More ships arrive; more exiles are cast ashore.
Floor Completion Criteria:
▸ As a Treasure Hunter, uncover and retrieve treasures and valuables totaling 100,000 Gold in worth.
▸ Bring them to the central Altar of Offering to lift the seal and unlock Floor Four.
Time Remaining: — ∞ —
Deacon grinned.
Not the carefree and happy smirk he wore while around friends. Nor the wide, toothful smile he had when fighting. No, this was something else… bordering on the line of being sinful.
His lips peeled into a full smile as his greed-filled eyes scanned and re-scanned the glowing system interface hanging before him.
A Treasure Hunt Floor.
He let out a low whistle at the realization and stepped away from the edge of the platform, dragging a hand through his hair, slicking it back with a light sheen of sweat already forming in the jungle's humid air.
The Isles of the Damned, cursed, blood-soaked, and godless as they may be considering they had shamans, it was a damn Treasure Hunt Floor which meant artifacts, relics, gear, gold, and tombs of old galore.
"I can already see myself swimming in a pool of gold and artifacts," Deacon said aloud, already picturing towering ziggurats filled to the brim with gold and enchanted weaponry, "This is my kind of floor."
Pulling himself out of the reverie with a sharp exhale, Deacon reached into one of the leather pouches strapped at his side and withdrew the neatly folded piece of parchment that he used for his Status Page half an hour ago.
He tapped open the Party tab with a gloved finger, and a smaller side window slid into view above his own stats – two names, two bars, both pulsing bright green.
Jass – 95% HP
Esmerelda – 100% HP
Deacon tilted his head, squinting at the subtle flickering of Jass's health. "She's in a fight," he muttered as he saw that both of their compasses were still spinning around erratically, meaning that they were still on Floor Two.
Esmerelda's bar, in contrast, was untouched. Which considering both her personality and class she'd selected, made sense as she fought in the backline, making it difficult for her to get injured.
Satisfied that neither of them were in immediate danger, Deacon tucked the page away again, but in doing so, something else on the platform caught his attention.
There, at the far end of the platform, past a line of ruined archways, was an altar. An altar that he assumed to be the very same Altar of Offering the Quest was referring to, based purely on the fact that the other altars around it were much smaller and blander.
He could even spot from where he was that there was something unique about it.
Deacon stepped carefully, brushing through a fern that had spread low across the space between the cracks of the brick plinth. With each step he took to reach the altar, it only proved his theory that it was indeed a special altar. Its surface was threaded with whirling patterns and figures that shifted with the light. Gold filigree flowed through its cracks and curves, worn with age but still catching the eye with irrevocable worth.
As he drew closer, a dull thrum pulsed beneath his feet, triggering two reactions: Deacon instinctively leaping back, and the bricks beside the large altar beginning to shift.
From the center of the altar platform, a seam developed with a grinding creak, and a narrow panel of stone slowly withdrew into the ground. A beat behind it, a wide table pushed out in its place, its surface cut from the same pale stone as the platform but polished to an almost glassy sheen.
Lined neatly across the surface were thin watches, if you could call them that. Deacon's brow furrowed as he stepped closer, studying them.
They weren't traditional timepieces. These were almost wafer-thin, formed of golden metal with a faint shimmer, and shaped more like wrist bands.
Identifying it provided a System Notification.
Item Name: Identification Relay – Property of the Altar of Offering
Type: Floor Item
Effect: Calculates valuables found within Floor Three.
Rarity: Unique
Description:
Automatically assesses and appraises the value of discovered items when worn.
Warning: Cannot be removed until death or Floor Completion.
Deacon let out a low whistle. "That's convenient."
He picked one up and noticed two things instantaneously: it was light and cold to the touch.
With a shrug, he slid the band onto his left wrist, just below his Mycelial Grasp gauntlet. A faint hiss of pressure signaled its activation, followed by a silent System confirmation that flickered into view and then vanished.
It was only then that he noticed the table in front of him wasn't full. Of the forty eight slots etched into its surface, only thirty eight were filled.
"Figures," he muttered, looking around the platform once more, "I wasn't the first."
But he'd known that already. The flesh golem copy of Liam on Floor Two couldn't have existed unless Liam had already cleared it. And if Liam had passed through, then so had others. At its core, the Floor wasn't all that difficult; Deacon had just unknowingly taken the harder path.
Deacon took one last look at the table of bands, then at the Altar of Offering in front of it, before he let out a deep exhale and turned his gaze to the ocean of greenery that surrounded him.
He scanned the surrounding trees until his gaze fell upon one that was especially close to the edge of the platform. It wasn't the largest, but its branches were the closest ones to him, as well as being the most untouched ones. More importantly, a thick vine hung down in a natural curve between it and the tree beside it.
Deacon backed away a couple of steps from the brickwork, stretching his legs out, then shrugging his shoulders. The jungle was warming up now, but he'd already got his blood singing at the thrill of what was about to happen.
With a short run, he sprinted toward the edge and launched himself into the air.
For a moment, there was wind, weightlessness, and the uprising wave of adrenaline. His gloved hand flashed out and grabbed onto the vine with ease, his body swinging out and over the drop in a tight arc. Carried by the impetus, he spotted his next hold and released at the peak of the swing.
His boots slammed into the branch with a firm thud.
The impact rippled through the wood, but it held, thick and moss-covered. Deacon bent his knees low to receive the impact, arms loosely out to either side for balance. A sharp breath in, steady. Then he straightened again and looked around from his new vantage point.
The trees were even more gigantic up close. Torso-sized leaves sat all around him, some speckled with patches of glittering spiderwebs, hinting of massive Tree Spiders lurking about, others with roosting birds whose shapes he couldn't quite make out, but could see that they were quite massive. The air smelled of wet bark and blooming spores, tangy and sweet all at once.
One thing did stand out to him - no direction stood out more than the others.
"Eenie, meenie…" he muttered to himself, before shrugging. "Bah, it doesn't really matter with how everything looks the same."
He leapt again, sailing from one branch to the next, going into the path that seemed the least touched by his fellow cadets.
Wherever this Floor hid its riches, he'd find them.
***
Elsewhere on Floor Three, on the outskirts of the very same isle Deacon was currently exploring, a figure stood in the shadow of a fallen archway, his wings folding inwardly, exploring a massive, ruined Aztec city.
At the center of it all stood a ruined ziggurat, split down the middle like some giant had taken a massive and jagged sword and struck it.
His feathers were bone-white and edged with dull silver markings that had become slightly dirtied by them brushing against the narrow pathways of the ruined ziggurat. The figure wore a long, belted coat, its hem split for movement, and carried a pack slung across one shoulder. Said backpack was already bulging with scrolls, brittle pottery, and an odd-looking skull, and on his wrist was an Identification Relay, which currently displayed a value of 332.
As he walked across the ruined streets of the Aztec capital city, he would pause occasionally to glance at the murals that had been chiseled on the ruined walls of various structures long ago. Murals such as the one that he was staring at painted scenes of the Aztec people's glory days, boasting of their riches, various rituals, creatures, and every so often, the beings they held in reverence. But as the street took him deeper into the city's center, the stories they told became darker.
The winged figure paused before one of the last intact wall panels and traced the scene with a gloved hand.
It showed a crowd fleeing from a black maw that had opened in the sky, at its center, an eye. Dozens of smaller figures, less detailed, appeared to fall from the sky and into the city like spears, impacting with enough force to crack the stone itself.
The figure's wings twitched.
"Interesting."