The Gate Traveler-Interlude 6 - 1: Desperation
Malith Drex Var was frantic, pacing in tight circles as his mind scrambled for a solution. He didn’t know what to do. Banging his head on the counter hadn’t helped, though it had made a satisfying thunk. Drinking quork ferment hadn’t helped either. Well, technically, it had, since it was delicious, but that was beside the point. The problem still loomed, unresolved, and growing heavier by the day. His time was running out, and the more he panicked, the less his brain seemed willing to cooperate.
He circled his mana constantly, even in his sleep, yet this cursed place still drained minute amounts from him every single day. No matter how carefully he controlled his flow, the loss was inevitable. He had already fed every mana crystal he owned to the cores, leaving himself with no way to replenish his supply. The dungeon cores were the real problem. One had already run dry, its once-golden glow now nothing but a dead, empty black. The other dimmed more with each passing day, the last traces of gold barely clinging to the encroaching gray. Soon, that too would fade, slipping into black, and when that happened, it would all be over.
He knew it was his fault. He should have been more careful, more reserved with his mana. But how was he supposed to survive in this place without Minor Heal, Invisibility, or On Of The Crowd? Not to mention his class skills. It wasn’t like he had been wasting mana for fun—every single drop had been necessary.
He could always go to the cursed Gate to regenerate, but that was just a stopgap solution, a flimsy bandage over a gaping wound. That section was dangerous, crawling with threats, and even if he regenerated, he’d burn through mana just getting there and back. The worst part wasn’t even the danger. It was the suffocating, gut-wrenching dread that clawed at him every time he approached that thrice-cursed Gate. No, not thrice cursed. Ten times cursed. A hundred times cursed. A thousand.
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What was he thinking?
The Gate wasn’t subtle about its nature. It stated Threat Level: Lethal in big letters, and yet he still walked through like he was untouchable. Why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he stop and think? After clearing a Mana Aggregation on a 65-mana world, he had been so full of himself. So sure of his invincibility.
What was he thinking? Where did his brain go? Had he left it at the entrance of that hellhole, or had it simply abandoned him out of sheer frustration?
Banging his head on the wall didn’t stir up any answers or solutions. If anything, it just made his forehead throb. Punching the wall didn’t help either. It only left his knuckles aching, split and raw, and he couldn’t even use Minor Heal to fix them. He didn’t have enough mana for that.
Desperation clawed at him, dragging him down to his knees. He clasped his hands together, fingers pressing so tightly they ached, and did the only thing left—he prayed.
Please, Great Guiding Spirits, help me find a solution without going through that horrible place again. I won’t survive it! My mind won’t survive it! Please! freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting, hoping, pleading for something—anything. A sign. A whisper. A sudden revelation.
Nothing. No blinking red light. No divine intervention. No miraculous save.
His shoulders slumped, the last dregs of hope draining out of him like water from a cracked jug. Defeated, he let himself collapse forward, forehead resting against the cold, unyielding floor.
