Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 34. Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part IV

Chapter 34

Yer a Wizard, Joseph! Act Like One, Part IV

I step over to the one patch of snow not painted with blood, brain matter, or matted tufts of white, yeti fur. It’s a nice little spot, a peaceful square of crunchy white silence in the middle of a battlefield that smells like gore, wet dog and frostbitten regret.

Time for magic. Time to prove that I’m truly the spellcaster the System has designated me. You got this, Joseph, I tell myself. Even in my head the words ring hollow. I crouch down and start pulling things out of my Inventory. In a single flash of light, the necessary elements sit splayed before me, like a wizard-themed garage sale.

First: Spellbook. The thing is a thick, leatherbound tome. I had received it as part of my starter pack, but it had spent the last four months collecting dust on my bedroom floor.

Next: Vial of Enchanted Ink. I got it off that gobblin robber baron back in my first Gate. The vial was full when I had first obtained it, but now sat just shy of half-full.

And finally: Thirteen Star Shards. Thirteen tiny slivers of celestial crystal, glittering with starlight that would be easy to lose in the snow if it wasn’t for their otherworldly brilliance. Each one hums faintly when I touch it. The resonance is hard to explain, but it taps into something deep within me.

I flip open the Spellbook to the centerfold. The pages of the tome are weathered, but empty. Except for these two pages, adorned with the spell circle I painstakingly copied from Arvid’s notes on his Discussion Channel thread on the topic of Spell-crafting. I’m still impressed that he was able to recreate a depiction of the spell circle using standard keyboard inputs, coupled with painstakingly detailed notes. Apparently the process could be used by anyone, but he had a Skill that automatically generated spell circles. Lucky bastard.

The thread exploded with comments. People said it worked. I hope they weren’t just being trolls. That would be… not great.

“Okay,” I whisper, heart hammering. “Moment of truth.”

I pick the Star Shards out of the snow and carefully place them into the tiny runic divots etched across both pages. The spell circle was meant to contain up to twenty of these “nodes” as Arvid had called them. I make sure the placement is precisely as I remember him describing. Part of me considers opening the Discussion Channels now, but I know it would take me ages to locate the same thread again. I exhale, centering myself.

Next, I uncap the ink, dip my wand, and begin tracing an inner circle within the larger one.

“Wow,” Veronica says from behind me. “You really are a wizard.”

“Those muscles are really just for show,” Clyde mutters.

“Bzzzzzt!” Jelly Boy blurts like an excited kazoo. He’s currently perched on a yeti goblin’s thigh, digesting it with a happy little ripple. The leg twitches every now and then. I try not to look.

I ignore them. Mostly.

“Well, we’re putting that statement to the test right now,” I say through gritted teeth, trying to keep the lines as smooth as possible. Why were circles so damned hard to draw?

My wand traces the inner ring first, then it draws a twelve-pointed star in the center. The ink glows as I work, bleeding into the parchment like it’s being sucked in by an invisible mouth. So far, so good… I think, letting the faintest glimmer of hope simmer up in my chest.

As soon as the ink is absorbed my the parchment it’s replaced by identical lines marked in blood red. Just like Arvid had explained. My breath quickens as I hold the monster core above the center circle.

The monster core vibrates in my open hand like I’m holding an excited Jelly Boy. Then, it stops, replaced by a slow pulse. Each pulse is matched by a violet glow. Pulse. Then another. And another. Each flash faster than the last. Until the monster core begins to dissolve in my hands, as though an eraser rubbed away at its very existence. Violet sand slides between my fingers, being pulled in by whatever hungry force lives within the pages of my spellbook.

The blood red ink begins to emit a matching violet light. The two concentric spell circles begin to rotate in opposite directions. When the last remnants of the monster core leaves my hand, I am met with a pulse that echoes through my mind and a System notification.

[Ritual Spell Detected]

[You have begun the Ritual of Spell Synthesis]

Components Detected: Star Shards (x13), Monster Core (Weak), Spell Circle: Twelve Pointed Star (Correct Form)

Spell-crafting Skill: Undetected

Chance of Success: 71%

Chance of Unintended Effect: 16%

Chance of Catastrophic Magical Failure: 13%

[Proceed?]

[Note: During the Ritual, you will be unable to move from the Ritual Circle. If you move, the Ritual will result in Failure and all Components will be expended with no resulting effect.]

Well. Crap…

“Thirteen percent?” I mutter. “That’s unlucky as hell.” The System must hate my guts. “Son of a bitch…”

Apparently, Arvid’s thread left out the tiny little detail where I become the human equivalent of a magical lightning rod while this thing cooks. No movement. Locked in place. I can’t blame Arvid. Probably less of an issue when you’re doing this in the safety of your own apartment and not a Winter Wonderland of Horror. And his guide got me this far.

I look up at Clyde. His eyes leave the glow of magic pulsing from the pages of my spellbook. “Uh,” I say aloud. “Minor development. I can’t move. At all. Like, the ritual straight up says ‘move and fail’.”

Veronica stops mid-scan of the treeline and raises a single eyebrow. “So?”

“So?!”

“So, what are you waiting for?” she shrugs, slinging her hammer over her shoulder with a sickening wet clonk. “We can’t pretend to be on Extraction Duty forever. If you’re going to be locked in while this takes place, then no time to waste. We’ve got your back. Start the ritual.”

Clyde nods, adjusting his pauldron. “Yeah, man. Get that spell and let’s bounce.”

I glance at Jelly Boy. He’s moved onto trying to consume more of the Warlock.

“Bzzt,” he chirps, all-in.

“Fine.” I sigh and mentally select ‘Proceed’.

Immediately, my hands are yanked down onto the pages by some invisible force. I attempt to lift them, but they refuse to budge, as though magically vacuum-sealed to the surface of the pages.

“Okay! Okay! Jesus!” I hiss, trying to wriggle my fingers, but they won’t budge. The parchment is warm now. Pulsing, just like the monster core had been. The light lifting off of the pages intensifies.

Ping!

Another notification:

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 1%.

The ink on the page starts shifting. Crawling around the page like a mosh pit. It writhes into swirling little sigils in the upper margins, twitching like they’re being written by a very caffeinated centipede leaving words in its wake. My HUD shows a faint progress bar, glowing purple. It inches forward.

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 2%.

A few seconds later: 3%.

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I take a few more seconds to try and get my breathing under control. I hate being stuck there. Vulnerable. Useless. I almost want to chew my arm off and just make a break for it.

Veronica seems to notice. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re here,” she says.

Then Jelly Boy starts buzzing. Loud.

“BZZZZZZZT—BZTZTZTZT!”

“What’s wrong, buddy?” I ask without looking, unable to move anything except my mouth and my increasingly tense butt cheeks.

That’s when I hear it.

Rustle. Snap. Crunch. Like the forest itself just cleared its throat.

“And we’ve got company,” Clyde says, stepping between me and the tree line.

“That didn’t last long,” Veronica says with a sigh.

Eight yeti goblins emerge from the brush. A few are brandishing axes. Some, simple clubs.

And they’re not alone.

Each of them has one of those nightmare-inducing yeti squirrels clinging to their shoulders. Their beady pale blue eyes glow with malicious, rabid intelligence. One of them bares tiny crystal teeth and chitters like it wants to chew through a kidney.

Mine, specifically.

“Don’t move,” Veronica says, not looking back.

“No plans,” I say through gritted teeth.

Clyde summons his pistol, spinning the chamber, which flashes with magical energy and a satisfying click-click-click-click. “We’ve got your back. Finish the ritual and we’re out. Don’t worry.”

Jelly Boy blobs down off the chest of the dead Warlock and lands with a wet plorp. He slides out in front of the group, vibrating with chaotic enthusiasm.

The goblins hiss. The squirrels scream. One squirrel in particular I swear runs a hand over its throat.

My HUD ticks upward.

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 4%.

5%.

My palms are sweating, but the book doesn’t care. My hands are still locked in place like the pages themselves are drinking in my pulse.

The yeti goblins move as a pack—slow, hunched, coordinated. These guys are on some kind of patrol pattern. Probably sniffed out the corpse of their Warlock buddy and followed the stench of magical carnage to our happy little battlefield.

“Just hold,” Clyde mutters. “Let them commit first.”

The goblins fan out. One breaks off. It bends low, snorting with bloodlust, trying to capture Veronica off guard.

Bang!

Clyde fires a shot, the bullet catching the goblin right in the shoulder. It falls to the ground, barrel rolling and landing back on its feet. It dropped its club and has a hand over its shoulder. Dark blood spills from between its fingers, but the wound isn’t enough to take it out.

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 8%.

This is going to be a long fucking ritual. And that squirrel just made eye contact with me. My legs suddenly feel very, very naked.

POV: Clyde Richmond

They’re trying to flank us.

I see it in their posture, in the way their knobby legs shuffle through the frostbitten brush. One goblin sniffs the air with its gross little pig-nose, and I catch the twitch of movement from two more breaking wide to the sides, trying to get a clear line on Joseph.

That’s not good. They know he’s our weak link.

Which means it’s time to thin the herd.

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I raise my pistol.

Line up the shot.

Exhale.

Crack.

Miss.

The lead yeti goblin—one of the bigger ones—dives to the side just before my bullet whistles past its bearded face.

“Shit,” I murmur, already adjusting. No time to get emotional. No time to panic. This isn’t a raid team in some video game. This is real. If Joseph gets swarmed mid-ritual, we’re boned. If Veronica goes down, we all go down. She can handle their aggro, but not for as long as we’d need.

I blink, triggering my Scan Skill.

A ripple bursts from my chest in a faint pulse of invisible force. It’s like my skin exhales, a breath from each pore. The world tints and flexes, then there they are.

Neon green outlines wrap around every yeti goblin like a crime scene chalk drawing. Simple wireframes. Basic silhouettes. Not the real treasure.

That comes next.

Green ‘X’ marks flicker over certain points of their bodies. Knees, throats, armpits. Some over the lower back. They pulse three times—thump, thump, thump—then vanish. My eyes suddenly dry out. I blink once, trying to ignore the pain.

But it’s enough.

I know where to aim now.

I pivot, sweep left, target the goblin with the sideways jaw. Kneeling near the corpse of their Warlock. His squirrel chittering like a methed-up toddler.

I slow my breathing. Picture the angle. Visualize the entry point.

Crack.

[Critical Hit]

The bullet enters just above the collarbone, rides the angle down, and explodes out the goblin’s spine. A spray of black-red mist paints the frost behind it. The yeti goblin collapses to its knees with a sound like a sack of wet rags and doesn’t get back up.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.

So that’s how it works.

When I leveled earlier, I picked a new passive Ability: Crowd Control. The description said it stacked critical bonus damage when chaining hits against the same exact monster type. Combine that with Scan’s weak point targeting?

It’s lethal. Obviously, I immediately equipped that shit.

And I’m just getting started. These motherfuckers don’t know the hell they’ve just unleashed. But damn do I wish I had some eyedrops on me.

I scan the battlefield again—this time for momentum. For rhythm. The goblins are hesitating now. They're not dumb. They saw their buddy get turned into a meat sprinkler. They’ll adjust. If they’re smart. And I won’t give them the time.

One of them howls and starts forward. Too late.

My finger is already squeezing the trigger.

Clyde’s out there, doing his best impression of a bullet hose. I can hear the sharp retorts of his pistol like thunderclaps behind me. Rapid fire, no hesitation. Just that cold, methodical rhythm. Like a heartbeat with a body count. I want to get a better vantage point but I’m stuck here like a jackass.

“VERONICA!” Clyde barks. “Draw the squirrels! They’re on me! I’ll handle the goblins!”

Veronica doesn’t hesitate. She straightens. She cups her free hand around her mouth and screams. “HEY! YOU FURRY LITTLE RAT DICKS! COME GET SOME!”

The squirrels lose it. I know that has to be her Center of Attention Skill.

Eight of them chitter like caffeinated maracas and launch from goblin shoulders like little furry torpedoes of death. They hit Veronica like a squirrel tsunami. One ricochets off her shoulder. Another latches onto her thigh. She spins, roaring, her warhammer a whirling steel hurricane.

One of the squirrels—oh god—is inside Jelly Boy. Like, inside him. Just floating there. Suspended in ooze. Flailing in slow motion. Its tiny mouth pulled back in a silent scream, its little claws scraping uselessly against the gelatin walls of its new, jiggly prison.

Jelly Boy doesn’t seem to mind. He gurgles happily. “Bzzzt! Blorp!” Like he just got a surprise protein shake. He bounces across the middle of the battlefield.

I check the status of my ritual.

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 71%.

“Almost there!” I yell.

That’s when everything starts to go sideways. Clyde moves and is finally in my line of sight. The goblins take advantage of Clyde’s reload window like they were waiting for it. They break cover and charge.

Clyde swears, opening and spinning his chamber which sparks with magic. He lines up a shot, squeezes the trigger.

Bang!

The bullet zips. It’s a clean shot. A squirrel throws itself in front of the target goblin like it’s jumping on a grenade. It explodes in a mist of blood and fluff.

“WHAT?!” Clyde barks.

He fires again, hits the goblin this time, square in the chest—and it just keeps coming. Like he tossed a water balloon at a charging rhino.

I feel my stomach clench. What the hell?! His shots were just turning goblins into Swiss cheese. How did that goblin just body the shot like it was nothing?

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 80%.

Even more goblins flood from the tree line. More squirrels too. Their chittering and screaming fill the air, a white noise of violence.

It’s chaos.

I swallow hard.

Do I break the ritual? Jelly Boy, Clyde and Veronica are outnumbered. Outgunned. I could help. I could do something!

But if I move now… it all goes to waste.

“God dammit…!”

I grit my teeth and press harder into the book, like that’s going to make it go faster.

RITUAL IN PROGRESS: 82%.

Come on…

Come on, come on, come on…!

That when there’s a loud crack in the trees. A deep-throated grunt. And then something tears into the clearing like a drug-fueled linebacker charging through a paper banner on Homecoming Night.

For a terrifying second, I think it’s more goblins. Or worse. Bigger ones. Giant squirrel god, maybe. I brace for death.

But no.

Oh no.

What barrels into the clearing is… Well, not that.

It’s something else.

Seven feet tall, at least. Humanoid. Pale as sour milk left out in the snow. Completely, aggressively naked. Like, no shame at all. And hanging between its legs is the saddest little Vienna sausage I’ve ever had the misfortune of being exposed to in such, er, high definition. Its hair—bright white—sticks straight up like a static-charged broom, and its eyes are icy blue. Its hands are too big for its body—comical proportions. Its feet are snowplows with claws.

My HUD pings.

New Monster Identified!: Adolescent Naked Sasquatch, Level 18.

I blink.

“What the fuck,” I whisper. You’ve got to be kiddingme!

The Sasquatch doesn’t he. It hesitate. It lowers its head and shoulder-checks a yeti goblin hard enough to yeet it across the clearing. The goblin slams into a tree with a noise that sounds like celery snapping in a vice. It doesn’t get back up.

The Sasquatch—still flopping in the breeze—grabs two of the squirrels mid-leap, like it’s picking apples. One of them screams. The Sasquatch bites its head off. Crunch! Like it’s opening a beer with its teeth.

Then it tosses the headless squirrel at the ground, already snatching for another one.

The other goblins and squirrels panic. I mean lose-their-damn-minds panic. They shriek and scatter, diving for the trees in an absolute terror.

And the Sasquatch? He just… jogs after them. Loping like a bloodthirsty gazelle.

But before it disappears into the trees, it pauses. Just a moment. Turns.

And looks right at me.

Those bright blue eyes meet mine. There’s something in that look. Something gentle. Wise. Paternal.

It gives me a little wave.

Like a bro.

Like it’s saying, “You’re doing great, sport.”

I blink.

“I’m not a fucking sasquatch!” I yell after it.

But it’s already gone.

RITUAL COMPLETE.

The words blink across my vision. My hands release from the Spellbook.

I stumble back, lightheaded. Feels like someone jammed a USB drive directly into my soul and started uploading new firmware. Notifications explode across my interface, but I mentally slap them into minimized notifications in the bottom corner of my vision.

Now’s not the time.

I yank the Spellbook into my Inventory and push myself to my feet.

Clyde’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.

“Let’s get out of here.”

He’s standing with his pistol raised, eyes scanning the trees.

Veronica is cradling Jelly Boy in both hands. The slime burbles happily, still partially digested squirrel floating inside it like a nasty little snow globe. The dead squirrel lamely falls out of the bottom of the slime.

“Yeah,” I croak. “Let’s do that.”

And so we run.

Three human wrecks and a murder-jello, limping, bleeding, but very much alive, sprinting toward the Exit Gate.

Behind us?

Dead goblins, mutilated squirrels, and the haunting memory of one very naked, very majestic forest bro.

I swear I hear distant screaming.

And somewhere, out in the woods…

The Naked Sasquatch roams.