Pity the Ghoul: A LitRPG GameLit Adventure (Steve the Paladin Book 1) by A.C. Hadfield

Author:A.C. Hadfield [Hadfield, A.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter

Twenty-Six

I continued down the corridor for a hundred or so paces, looking for the directions to the infirmary. Eventually, I spotted a directions board attached to the marble wall. A single glowing orb the size of a melon hung above the board, bathing it in warm light the color of custard.

Beyond me, I spotted a spiral staircase carved from the same stone. The masonry work featured lots of small details—glyphs, carvings, and the like. It struck me how long it must have taken to build. And that went for the building itself. I suspected what I saw from the outside bore no resemblance to its layout within.

Shaking off my awe, I looked at the directions and found the floor number for the infirmary. It was three levels below. I started down the stairs, running a hand down the polished wooden rail. It must have been made from ebony or a similar wood brought to a glossy, smooth sheen by years of use.

I wondered idly as I walked down the steps just how much magic the rail must have absorbed from all the wizards and warlocks and who-knows-what-else as they’d traversed the various levels.

And what of my magic?

I thought back again to Bertrand and his shock that I couldn’t channel divine power from a deity. If that were correct, then what had happened when I had fought the demon and hag? I’d certainly felt some inner power during those fraught moments.

Perhaps it had been a delusion. Nothing more than an adrenaline-fueled phenomenon.

As I thought about that and approached the infirmary level, my stomach clenched. The hair on my arms prickled. I stopped, gripping the rail as my head spun. Then, as abruptly as it came, my brain sharpened, focused on a sensation deep within my being.

Every muscle snapped to attention, and I sensed a pulling, the center of it coming from my chest as though a string were attached and something on the other end was tugging. My breathing became shallow and my scalp prickled. My senses grew ever more sensitive. I smelled a mixture of herbs and oils coming from the infirmary, the open door of which I could see to my left.

But I didn’t go in.

The pulling was coming from somewhere lower, so I followed, eager and intrigued to find the source of this sensation. I continued down the staircase into the gloom, faster and faster and for what seemed like forever. I must have gone down at least a hundred or more levels, thinking as I went that it would never end and I would end up at the heart of the world. I had become Professor Otto Lidenbrock of Jules Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth, traveling down one of his proposed volcanic tubes.

A childhood memory of sitting in front of the fireplace in my parents’ Sheffield residence bubbled to the surface. I was no more than five years old, with various books spread around me on the floor. These were old volumes passed down from generation to generation, originating with Archibald, my great-great-grandfather.

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