The air at the catacomb entrance is thick with the dry, chalky dust of the mountain and the lingering ozone-like scent of discharged magic. Astartes emerged from the shimmering, arch-shaped teleportation door not with a triumphant stride, but with a moment of profound stillness.
He planted his feet firmly on the rough-hewn stone platform, his shoulders rising and falling in a deep, controlled rhythm. The pristine white and gold of his robes are now marred: smudges of soot streak the gold trim, and the white fabric is stained with patches of kobold blood that have dried to a rusty brown and his own, fresher crimson, already slowly receding under the subtle, persistent glow of his [Greater Heal] skill. Fine cracks web across sections of his light armour, as a result of the impacts from chain flails and crushing blows.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, not in exhaustion, but in focused recalibration. The mental strain of the catacomb was palpable—the constant spatial awareness for ambushes, the split-second calculations for skill chaining, the willpower to push through pain. A Class E raid demanded a symphony of focus, whereas a Class F was a simple melody.
In his mind's eye, he reviewed the battle: the four-armed kobold lord's furious roars, the shattering of ice and shield, the decisive, bloody severance of its limbs. A faint, cold smile touched his lips. Alone. He did it alone. The weight of that truth is both a badge of honour and a chain of responsibility.
His hand drifted to the spatial belt secured at his waist. It's a simple, elegant band of dark leather with a polished obsidian buckle. With a thought, he feels the satisfying, almost weightless presence of his loot within its extra-dimensional space: the 120+ low-Class E and 35 middle-Class E attribute cores, each a condensed gem of potential power, now neatly stored without bulk or burden. The convenience is a stark, pleasant contrast to the gruelling combat moments before.
As he opens his eyes, his gaze sweeps over the scene before him. The "Kobold Arena Catacomb" entrance is built into the side of a craggy cliff-face, managed by a small outpost of the Rankers Association (RA). Several officials in crisp, blue-trimmed uniforms and a squad of rankers in practical combat gear are frozen in various states of action—some were monitoring consoles, others in mid-conversation—all now staring past him, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Their focus was locked onto the massive, rune-etched obelisk that towered beside the catacomb entrance—the Risk Indicator. Throughout the day, its peak had burned a steady, worrying orange, signalling "Moderate Risk: High creature density, Lord active. Raid party recommended."
Now, as Astartes stood in its glow, the orange light flickered, died, and was replaced by a calm, steady green. "Healthy Risk: Creature population suppressed, Lord eliminated. Stable."
A murmur ripples through the RA personnel, swelling into audible astonishment.
"By the Founders... he actually cleared it."
"Alone? The indicator's green... that means the Lord is dead. He soloed the Four-Armed mutation?"
"Look at him—he's just a youth! In the fancy robes... wait. White and gold. That's the configuration they talked about..."
The head official, a woman with streaks of grey in her hair and a face lined with the stress of managing such dangers, steps forward, her data-slate hanging forgotten at her side. Her professional composure cracks, revealing raw awe.
"The Infinity Mage," she breathed, the title carrying through the sudden quiet. "The reports weren't exaggerating."
The Infinity Mage.
To them, it's not just a name; it's the solution to a looming crisis averted. They understood the mechanics of catacomb outbreaks significantly: the indicator only resets to green after a systemic culling of the catacomb's monster population and the permanent deletion of its core leadership—the Catacomb Lord.
For one person to achieve this in a single push, in a matter of hours, defied standard RA doctrine, which relies on coordinated teams making incremental raids over days.
Astartes met the official's gaze. His own eyes, bright and sharp with residual combat energy yet calm on the surface, gave nothing away of the storm beneath—the knowledge of the Orc Chieftain waiting in the city's heart, the tidal wave of Wild Catacombs on the horizon in a mere fortnight. To these people, his emergence is a miracle. To him, it is the first, minimal step on a cliff-face he must scale.
He offered a slight, acknowledging nod to the official, a gesture both respectful and detached. Without a word, he stepped off the platform, the green light of the obelisk casting his long, solitary shadow across the ground.
The whispers of the rankers followed him.
"Prodigy"
"Unbelievable"
"How is that even possible?"
But these comments faded into the background hum of his own thoughts. The catacomb was pacified, its threat neutralised. But for Astartes, the true raid was just beginning. He had bought his city a little more time, and himself a few more resources. Now, he must convert them into the strength needed for the battles to come.
The moment Astartes stepped away from the glowing green obelisk, the reverence of the onlookers solidified into a palpable wave. Whispers of "Infinity Mage" crescendoed into open, fervent praise. Faces, etched with the weariness of living under constant catacomb threat, now shone with a desperate, grateful hope as they looked at him—a lone figure in battle-stained, glorious robes.
He felt their stares like a physical pressure, a collective will trying to shape him into their saviour. His expression, already schooled to neutrality, hardened imperceptibly. He did not meet their eyes. To bask in this would be a trap, a distraction from the cold calculus of survival that lay ahead.
With a deliberate, unhurried motion, he turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the cracked stone path leading from the outpost, mentally mapping his next move.
He had taken only three steps when the crowd subtly parted, not from his own presence, but from the purposeful advance of three figures. They moved with the quiet efficiency of seasoned professionals. Their suits were a deep, unadorned charcoal grey, crisp and functional, a stark contrast to the eclectic armour and gear of the rankers around them. The only ornament was the silver, sword-shaped pin on each of their lapels—the sigil of the Rankers Association, gleaming with authority.
The man at the lead was middle-aged, with hair trimmed to precision and eyes that held the sharp, assessing look of a logistics officer rather than a frontline fighter. He stopped at a respectful distance and executed a shallow, formal bow. His voice, when he spoke, was low, polished, and devoid of the crowd's fervour, all business.
"Pardon the straightforwardness, Esteemed Superior, Infinity Mage." The title was spoken as a fact, not as flattery. "We are from the RA, instructed by Ranker Chief Blaze Beam to handle any matters that may concern your well-being. Our mandate is to ensure your singular focus may remain on handling the catacombs as you desire. Logistics, security, amenities—consider them managed."
Astartes paused. The offer was unexpected in its immediacy and scope. A part of him, the solitary survivor, bristled at the implication of handlers. But a larger, more pragmatic part—the one that had just gambled his life in an arena and calculated the threat of a Wild Catacomb wave—saw the profound utility. Blaze Beam wasn't coddling him; he was optimising him. Removing friction. This was strategic support. The momentary surprise in Astartes's eyes vanished, replaced by a cool acceptance. He gave a slight, acknowledging nod.
"Very well then. I am grateful for your service."
A flicker of what might have been relief passed over the RA officer's face. "It is we, the RA and the people of this city, who should be thankful for your aid," he replied, his tone earnest. "We have arranged a resting lodge, suitable for your needs, not far from the Lava Wyvern Catacomb. Kindly follow me."
With a smooth gesture, he indicated a vehicle waiting on a cleared pad nearby. It was a private hovercar, its lines sleek and armoured, its dark hull absorbing the sunlight without a gleam. It spoke of resources and discretion. Astartes followed without hesitation, the murmurs of the crowd fading behind him as the car's door slid shut with a hushed thump, sealing him in quiet, climate-controlled air.
The interior was spacious and minimalistic. As the hovercar glided soundlessly away from the cliff face, the officer who had introduced himself as Zoom Glass turned slightly in his seat. His concern was professional, but genuine.
"May I know when you plan to raid the Class D Lava Wyvern Catacomb?" he asked. "Ranker Chief Blaze Beam was explicit: you are not to overwork yourself. Avoiding severe injury is paramount."
Astartes looked out the window as the blasted landscapes dotted with catacomb entrances flashed by. His reflection in the tinted glass was calm, resolute. He shook his head.
"Ranker Chief Blaze Beam and his party are prioritising recovery to deal with the threat of the Blood Orc Catacomb. That leaves the two remaining Class E Catacombs—including the Lava Wyvern—at elevated risk. Time is a resource we cannot waste in abundance. I will rest and consolidate my strength, but within a constrained timeframe. I will challenge the Lava Wyvern Catacomb soon."
Zoom Glass absorbed this, his lips pressing into a thin line. He did not argue; he assessed. After a moment, he nodded. "Very well then, esteemed superior. I still humbly advise that you exercise the utmost caution." He met Astartes's gaze in the window's reflection, the weight of the unspoken heavy in the car's quiet cabin. "You are not merely a ranker. You have become the hope of our city's survival."
Astartes did not flinch from the label. He simply nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. The hope of the city was a burden, but it was also a fact—one he had already factored into his plans. The hovercar sped on, carrying him toward a brief respite, the calm before diving into the next layer of the inferno.
The conversation had lapsed into a contemplative silence. The city lights below painted fleeting patterns across their faces.
Astartes, his gaze fixed on the glittering vista of the wealthy districts, remained silent and Zoom Glass finally broke the quiet.
"Esteemed Superior," he began, his tone respectful but carrying an undercurrent of righteous indignation, "I am assuming that you are young, but did you know that several Rankers, after discovering their power, use them for selfish gain, refusing to join the RA?"
The question hung in the air, carrying with it the memory of Astartes' own childhood in the grimy underbelly of the city. He remembered the heavy-handed "protection" rackets run by low-level thugs who could shatter concrete with a punch, and the corrupt officials who turned a blind eye for a cut of the profits.
"Although I saw a few rankers steal from the poor and take bribes as a street kid, I did not expect them to be such a canker for the RA."
Zoom Glass's expression remained placid, but a flicker of ancient weariness passed through his eyes. He turned his head slowly to face the young man. "Oh, they are, esteemed superior," he confirmed, his voice dropping slightly, as if sharing a grim secret. "They are termed Outlaw Rankers. They engage in assassinations, robbery and other sorts of crime to satisfy their shallow desires. To have a selfless ranker like you, risking your life to save our city, is nothing short of admirable." He gave a small, formal bow of his head, a gesture of genuine respect.
Astartes felt a flush of embarrassment at the praise. He wasn't seeking glory; he was driven by a simpler, more visceral need.
"I see. I guess it never crossed my mind to use my power to hurt others," he said, his voice firm with conviction. "My singular aim has been and still is to become powerful enough to protect what matters to me." He paused, his brow furrowing as he considered the darker implications of his own drive. "If you think of it, perhaps my motivation and that of Outlaw Rankers are the same."
Zoom Glass's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. He regarded Astartes with an appreciative gaze, a glimmer of recognition in his aged eyes. "Your words are rather wise, esteemed superior," he said. "We are on opposite sides of the same coin. All of us strive for maximum personal strength. In the end, it is how we make use of it."
The analogy resonated with Astartes. It was a chilling thought to be so closely aligned with the criminals he despised, yet it was also a liberating truth. It meant the power itself was neutral; the choice of what to become was entirely his own. The weight of that responsibility settled on his shoulders.