Level Five

The cheers still echoed through the grove when the shimmer appeared in the corner of my vision—a soft golden pulse hovering just above my peripheral. I knew that glow all too well.

Level Up

I blinked, the exhaustion from the battle fading as a new, clean surge of energy ran through me. Level 5—now that was one of the good ones. A big upgrade tier for most classes. I opened my UI, and my smile tugged wider. Eldritch Blast upgraded: two beams instead of one. Simple, yet efficient. The Gemini Gloves flared in recognition, amplifying the surge. Three shots per cast now—very satisfying, and just a little unfair.

But level 5 wasn’t just about more blasting. It was also the "deepened pact" milestone for warlock builds—the flashy tier where the subclass usually comes alive. I looked around the menu and found… absolutely nothing. No new curses, no spells. Just an additional eldritch invocation choice. Incredible. Truly the peak Graz'zt warlock experience.

I picked Devil’s Sight. Seeing through magical darkness would help once we reached the Underdark. All in all, I couldn’t complain too much—my power didn’t scale with levels, it scaled with corruption. And my dear patron had already given me a massive boon recently: An extra party slot, new ways of gaining corruption, and an overpowered sword. Even if Kagha was the one wielding it.

Speaking of, I turned to see the others feeling the shift too.

Kagha stretched, her movements liquid. “Lighter on my feet,” she said, smirking. “I suppose I’ll have to… test just how flexible I can be.” Her eyes glinted as she shifted with a sleek, serpentine grace—her new feat: +2 Dexterity, evident in the way she flowed from foot to foot, limber yet coiled, ready to strike.

Lae’zel’s movements grew sharper, her form blurring as she whipped her sword through the air twice in a blink, the steel singing with each strike. “Twice as fast. Twice as deadly,” she declared, her feral grin bright with pride.

Karlach flexed her hands, a pop of fire sparking from her fingertips before she punched the air. The second hit came almost before the first ended. “Ha! Two for one!” she laughed. “They won’t know what hit ’em next time.”

Shadowheart stood still for a moment as the divine symbols on her skimpy armor pulsed faintly with silver light. Her brow furrowed as the magic settled into her, and she let out a soft, unamused huff.

“New spells,” she muttered. “Daylight—pure radiance to chase away darkness. And Mass Healing word.” She glanced at the others—Lae’zel already rehearsing rapid strikes, Karlach testing her new speed, Kagha flowing like a serpent—and Shadowheart’s expression softened into something wistful. “Lucky girls..”

Then came a small, tentative voice. “Mister Hero?”

Arabella stood there, clutching something in her hands—a silver ring glinting softly in the sunlight. “You saved us,” she said. “You saved everyone. Again. I’m not supposed to give this away… but I want you to have it.” She held out a ring with both hands, determined.

The Ring of Protection—the kid gang’s most prized treasure. In the game, you could only get it for stealing the Idol of Sylvanus, and starting a huge fight with the druids as a result. Where as saving the tieflings usually earned you a handful of gold, a healing potion, and an ugly hat. This was different. A shift in the pattern.

Zevlor’s ****… the Grove’s fate twisting off‑script… it must have scrambled whatever invisible logic sat behind the reward system. My mind drifted toward what events had triggered this reward instead of the other—until Arabella’s small voice tugged me back.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked, tiny and anxious.

I shook myself back to reality. “No—it's perfect. Really. Thank you.”

Her whole face lit up, eyes sparkling. “Good! Just… don’t tell the others. They’ll kill me if they find out I gave it away!” She spun to run.

That reminded me. “Hey—Arabella.”

She paused.

“Stay the hell away from that strange ox.”

She stared at me like I’d just tried mediating territorial disputes to a squirrel.

“I mean it,” I added sternly.

She puffed her cheeks, groaned a dramatic “Fiiine,” and bolted back toward the other kids.

I twirled the ring in my hand—the enchantment was subtle but unmistakable. A soft, protective warmth curled around my fingers, nudging fate in my favor while making me slightly harder to hit. Almost as good as my trusty shield, and infinitely easier to carry.

The girls had already started combing the battlefield for anything useful. Shadowheart tossed me a pouch. “Found a goblin trader. He won’t be needing this anymore.” Inside: three hundred gold coins, bloodstained but real enough. Lae’zel unearthed a pair of Gloves of Archery, flexing her fingers experimentally. “I can wear these for now,” she said. “They aren’t perfect, but they will harden my bolts,"

Karlach laughed, jingling a small handful of common gems. “Well… that’s pathetic,” she snorted, then laughed harder. “A whole army and this is all they had? I’ve seen imps with better pocket change.”

Her gaze drifted toward Minthara’s **** form. “She tied up good and proper, yeah?” she asked, voice warm but wary.

"Good question." I walked over to check. Lae’zel and Shadowheart had tied her wrists, ankles, and even looped rope under her arms to keep her pinned against a broken pillar. The knots were clean, tight, and merciless—Shadowheart’s work, judging by the neatness.

Minthara didn’t stir. She was utterly out cold.

Still… I pressed a hand to her throat, checking the pulse, then tested the bindings myself.

Kagha stood behind me, smiling faintly. “She’s not going anywhere, I will make sure of that.”

I frowned. “How can you be sure?”

Her smile deepened with serene confidence. “Teela will keep watch.”

Right on cue, her serpent slithered down from her dress, scales whispering along the ground. The creature coiled itself atop Minthara’s abdomen, head bobbing slightly as it settled—alert, poised, unblinking.

Kagha lowered her voice, almost tender. “Drow are resistant to most venoms. She won’t die from just one bite… should it be necessary.”

"Good thinking." I said as I backed away quickly, deciding I’d had more than enough contact with Teela for one day.

I reached the others just as their laughter faded, Shadowheart’s gaze had drifted to Zevlor’s still form by the broken gate. “He saved you,” she said softly. “He knew the smite was meant for you, and he still threw himself in front of it.”

A hero’s ****. A warrior’s end. And like before I had gotten lucky. Well sort of. I had no way of knowing Dror Ragzlin would hurl Minthara onto the wall like that. The fight had been entirely off‑script—another curveball from a world growing less predictable by the day. And now that Zevlor was gone, the consequences were only just beginning to show.

I stared at him for a long while, the air growing heavy.

The path ahead was now unclear—Zevlor would have led the tieflings toward Act 2, where Dammon would have found a forge hot enough to repair Karlach’s infernal heart.

Now? That future was gone.

No Zevlor meant no safe passage. No Dammon at the forge. No fix for Karlach.

We’d won the battle—but at a steep cost and with a string of new headaches already forming. Still… that could wait. Tonight, we celebrate.