Low-Fantasy Occultist

He aimed the Shard at the approaching tank, choosing the least damaging option he had time for. “[Spirit Blast].”

The spell slammed into the outer layers of the man’s aura, crushing his intent and motor control and bypassing the defensive skill he’d coated himself with.

The frontliner’s eyes rolled back as his muscles misfired, and his charge turned into a drunken lurch. The axe still came down, but space warped around it, and it cratered the ground several feet to Nick’s left, where a beastman had just arrived.

“Thanks!” He shouted, getting a thumbs-up from Raphael, who was already focusing on the latest enemy to approach.

Nick took a moment to get his bearings. The camp was in chaos, with all three groups fighting each other at the same time, yet there was a rhythm to the battle that told him they were doing better than the others. If he could maintain that pace a little longer, the momentum would become unstoppable, and they would overrun the rest.

Still, that didn’t mean there was nothing else he could do. “Focus on the chains around their neck! If you take those off, they’ll stop attacking!” he warned through a whisper of wind.

They weren’t exactly in a position to handle the beastman with gloves on, but it would be better if they could limit the deaths. The enemy wasn’t attacking on its own volition, after all.

“Try saying that to the one trying to take my head off!” Monte grunted, ducking under a swipe that tore a lock of his hair, then responding with a hard blow to the beastman’s chin, before kicking his chest and slashing with his sword.

It skittered off the Shadow Ore’s surface, but the interference was enough to scramble the beastman’s mind, allowing Monte to slip his blade beneath the chain and release another skill, ripping it off.

“Working on it!” Joran yelled back, flinging more beads and eating away at the chains with malicious glee. His approach was the most successful, though he had to keep his back protected at all times, as the beastmen seemed to have noticed his progress and were converging on him, forcing Terence and Yvonne to guard him.

The battle lasted for an endless hour filled with noise, blood, and flashing magic.

Nick burned through more mana than he planned, but the Shard absorbed the dungeon’s ambient energy and the many emotions that filled the ether eagerly, easing some of the strain on his channels.

Every time he thought they were making progress, another wave of beastmen would crash in, or one of Calder’s loyalists would take a cheap shot at an apprentice’s back, forcing them to slow down lest they get overstretched.

Twice more, Tholm’s armbands triggered, and roots erupted from the ground, strangling beastmen and adventurers alike. Without them, Nick couldn’t guess how the battle would have gone, but he was sure it would have been much, much bloodier.

The old man might be annoying, but his foresight shouldn't be dismissed. These things only activate when there's a risk of death, so they don’t steal exp.

At some point, the scout who had tried to knife Nick got up and tried to make another run at him, but he swatted the man away contemptuously, crushing his legs in the process. The mage he had flung into the rock crawled behind a mound and stayed there, clutching his ribs and wheezing, wisely choosing to avoid another challenge.

Beastmen without collars fought with dazed confusion once freed, turning on everyone around them or just fleeing to the outskirts and crouching, clutching their heads.

The dwarven artifacts’ effects would linger in their minds for a while, but at the very least, they weren’t taken by murderous rage any longer, which was better than nothing.

At last, the tide broke.

One more coordinated push from Raphael, bending space to funnel a group of the remaining attackers into a kill zone, saw Willow slamming a dome over them, allowing Nick to fill it with suffocating pressure, weakening the beastmen enough for the others to rip the chains off them, thus leaving half a dozen of them unconscious in a heap.

Only when the howling faded into low groans and whimpers, and the last of Calder’s men was subdued, bound in enough clay to prevent the slightest movement, did Nick allow himself to sag in relief.

Sweat coated his back, and blood spotted his sleeves. The ritual still pulsed faintly at the edge of his consciousness, like a toothache, but now that he didn’t need to sustain a dozen spells across the battlefield, it was a tolerable pressure.

The System chimed in soon after.