"I'll give you something to scream about, you dumb cat!"
R'virr took the hit. He grunted, doubling over, but he didn't fold. The guards rained blows down on him, kicks and punches thudding against fur and muscle. But instead of begging, R'virr started to chuckle. It started as a wheeze and grew into a laugh, blood staining his teeth.
The Executioner paused mid-swing, looking confused. "What's so funny? You like being hit, cat?"
R'virr stopped laughing. He looked up, wiping a tear from his eye with a bruised hand.
"No... But the kitten was right. You guys are as dumb as you look."
Thud.
The guard standing watch outside the cell crumpled, eyes rolling back in his head. I stood behind him, shaking out my hand. Sneak Attack critical.
Before the Executioner could process that I was out of my cell, R'virr swept his leg. The big man's knees buckled with a sickening pop. He hit the floor hard. I didn't hesitate. I stepped in and drove my boot into his temple.
Lights out.
Silence returned to the hallway, save for the heavy breathing of the prisoners. I reached down and helped R'virr to his feet. He winced, clutching his ribs.
"I hope you got what you wanted," he grumbled, leaning against the wall. "R'virr is going to be sore for a week."
I grinned, holding up a heavy ring of iron keys in each hand.
"I think we did a great job, my friend." I tossed one set to him. "Start unlocking. We need to move. Now."
We exited the cell, ready to sprint, when the first guard, the one I'd knocked out, groaned and started to push himself up, eyes darting toward the exit alarm.
He didn't make it. R'virr was a blur of motion. He pounced, delivering a single, precise chop to the man's neck. The guard went limp instantly, and R'virr tossed him into an open cell like a sack of potatoes.
"Let's go," R'virr hissed.
We started moving down the line, unlocking doors. Prisoners spilled out, confused and terrified. But as we reached the end of the hall, a sound tore through the air, a roar so deep it vibrated in my teeth. The entire dungeon lurched violently, dust raining down from the ceiling.
Alduin.
"Move! Everyone to the exit!" I shouted.
I picked up the pace, rushing to the last cell on the block. Inside were four children, huddled together in the back corner. I fumbled with the key, got the lock open, and swung the door wide.
"Go, follow the others!"
"Thank you!" they cried, scrambling out.
But the last one, a small boy with tear-stained cheeks, grabbed my sleeve. He wouldn't let go.
"Wait! The mage!" he sobbed, pointing down a dark corridor around the bend. "He was here before us. He's in the corner cell, he protected us when the guards got rough. He told us someone was coming to help. I didn't believe him, but he was right! Please, you have to save him!"
I looked at the boy, then down the dark hallway. "Go. I'll find him."
The boy nodded and ran. I turned the corner, keys in hand, ready to liberate one last prisoner.
I froze.
The cell was isolated, damp, and smelled of copper. In the corner, shackled to the wall by his wrists, was the mage.
There was no saving him.
His robes were shredded. His head hung low. And driven clean through his chest, pinning him to the stone brickwork, was a rusted steel sword.
My stomach should have turned. I should have retched, screamed, or backed away in horror. It was a brutal, violent sight, a man tortured and executed.
But I felt... nothing.
[Gamer's Mind] washed over me like a cold wave. The panic, the disgust, the fear, it was all filtered out before it could touch me. I looked at the corpse not as a tragedy, but as an object in the environment. A fact.
I walked into the cell. I unlocked the cuffs, catching the body before it could slump to the dirty floor. I laid him down gently, straightening his limbs.
The next part turned my stomach. Gamer's Mind kept me from vomiting, but it didn't stop the moral hesitation. This man had died a hero. Robbing his corpse felt like a violation.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, kneeling beside him. "But I need this."
I patted down the blood-soaked robes. If he was a mage, he had to have a tome, a scroll, something.
Ding.
A blue window hovered over the body.
[Loot Found]
[Spell Tome: Sparks (Novice Destruction)]
[Novice Robes of Destruction] (Regenerate Magicka 50% faster; Destruction spells cost 15% less)
[Spell Tome: Healing Hands (Apprentice Restoration)]
[Spell Tome: Healing (Novice Restoration)]
[Minor Healing Potion x3]
[Minor Magicka Potion x2]
I stared at the list. It hit me then, I had zero magic. Because I hadn't selected a specific race like Breton or Altmer, I didn't start with the default Flames or Healing spells. Without these books, I was magically inert.
"Thank you," I said to the silent mage.
I learned the spells instantly, the books dissolving into light, then popped the cork on a red potion. It tasted like strawberries and rubbing alcohol. The throbbing in my ribs vanished as my HP bar refilled.
I stashed the rest in my inventory and sprinted back to the group.
The scene that greeted me was chaotic but promising. The prisoners weren't just standing around; they were arming themselves.
There were about twelve people clad in mish-mashed Imperial leather and chainmail.
We had only taken out three guards, which meant R'virr and the others must have raided a supply closet or taken down reinforcements while I was gone.
R'virr walked up to me, carrying a bundle of heavy steel.
"Here," he grunted, shoving the gear into my chest. "You're too squishy to lead from the front in those sweats."
[Item Received: Imperial Heavy Armor]
[Item Received: Steel Sword]
[Item Received: Steel Dagger]
I equipped the armor. It was heavy, clunky, and smelled of stale sweat, but the defense boost was massive. I handed R'virr one of the healing potions in return. He nodded his thanks and downed it in one gulp.