Round 175 Transcript

The air is thick with tension as Silra's magic reinforces the barricade, her concentration faltering for a moment before she manages to maintain the spell. Jeane, still channeling the dildo, feels a surge of wardstone energy course through her body, threatening to overload her magic. The Force stirs within her, urging caution. Halie's hands, burned and blistered from the corrupting influence of the wardstone, clench around the mirror as she braces herself against the door. The sound of creaking floorboards grows louder, the structural collapse imminent. As the darkness closes in, a faint hum emanates from the ceiling, growing louder by the second. The air is charged with electricity, and the very fabric of reality seems to be unraveling. Suddenly, the lights flicker and die, plunging the corridor into total darkness. The sound of crashing wood and crumbling concrete fills the air as the structural collapse accelerates, the barricade shuddering under the pressure. Silra's magic falters, and Jeane's channeling goes haywire, unleashing a torrent of wardstone energy that threatens to consume them all.

The floorboards crack under new weight; the ceiling groans like a dying man. The wardstone pulses faster now—shorter intervals between each thrum—as if something ancient and terrible has finally noticed us and decided we're worth the trouble. I don't need magical intuition to know that sound means bad things. I need leverage, exits, and my darling Jeane not channeling enough power through a fucking dildo to turn herself inside out. The barricade shudders again—Halie's hands are burned raw from trying to hold the mirror—and I swear if that door gives way I'll push Hera in front of it. "Jeane, stop. Now," I snap over my shoulder. "You're about two seconds from overloading and taking us all out."

She glares back, face flushed with stolen energy. "We need—"

"We need you conscious," I interrupt. "Hera, move to the side wall. Put your back against it." The floorboards under her feet flex like a drumhead. Bad sign. I check the ceiling again—the cracks are spreading—and then drop into a crouch, pressing both palms flat against the floor. Wood is still solid here. For now. "There's space between the joists," I mutter. "We can brace them from above."

But to get there means climbing through the dark corridor beyond this door—into whatever waits in that blackness—and I hate every second of it.

The wardstone pulses again—sharper this time, closer to breaking through—and I feel the spell structure in my mind start to fray at the edges like old lacework. "Silra," I say, voice tight but controlled, "if that door gives way we're all dead. I need you to reinforce it properly or find another exit before my brain melts from channeling this fucking dildo into a wall socket." The magical circuit is burning through my reserves faster than I calculated; demonic power tastes like copper and old pennies in the back of my throat. Hera's face is getting paler by the second, and her corruption is spreading visibly under translucent skin—I don't know if she'll survive this even if we escape the building. Can't think about that now though. One crisis at a time. The floorboards creak beneath us like they're telling secrets to the darkness below. Abby's curled up small near the ruined shower stall, useless but at least not screaming yet which is more than I can say for what Hera might do if we don't solve this soon. Silra's looking at me with that hesitant expression she gets when she wants to question my orders instead of just following them—she needs to learn that in a crisis the chain of command matters more than her mechanical competence. Can't have her second-guessing every decision right now when we're seconds away from being pancaked or corrupted. I pull power through the dildo again, feel the wardstone energy fighting back like it has teeth and claws, but maintain the barrier spell with pure force of will and aristocratic stubbornness. This is why I pay attention in summoning circles and learn demonic channeling techniques instead of wasting time at taverns getting drunk off my ass like half these so-called adventurers. "Someone needs to check if there's a drop-down hatch or service tunnel under the building," I tell Silra while keeping my focus on maintaining the spell, "before we all die in this fucking penthouse suite playing Russian roulette with structural integrity and eldritch corruption."

I lean my weight against the mirror bracing the door, but my burned hands scream protest. The wardstone's pulse is getting sharper, more insistent—like a heartbeat accelerating before death. "Hera," I say, voice low and urgent, "come stand beside me." I need to keep her away from that dark doorway even if it means putting myself in reach of whatever's corrupting her skin.