Learning from their earlier missteps, the team moved faster through the tunnels. Yet danger lurked on every side. For most, this was their first time in the Underdark, and the grueling trek left them exhausted—their efforts yielding meager progress.
Perhaps it was because they'd slain so many insects earlier, but for two full hours, they encountered no real threats. When Anthony noticed even Yoda's forehead glistening with sweat, he finally called out, "Alright, halt. Take a half-hour rest."
A collective sigh of relief rose from the group as they scattered to find clean, suitable spots to sit. Yoda watched the newcomers slump down haphazardly and rubbed his temples. "Be careful. Don't sit on loose rubble. Even if you're on solid rock, check the crevices for poisonous insects. The species down here are far deadlier than those above."
After a flurry of adjustments, they ended up moving stones to form a rough circle. Yoda knelt, unshouldered his pack, and pulled out an assortment of fine provisions and waterskins to distribute.
The newcomers stared in awe as the modest-looking backpack produced far more than its size should allow. The paladin couldn't help but ask, "Is that a bag of holding?"
Yoda nodded. "Once the mission ends, we'll return to the Overdeity's temple for a brief respite. There, modron merchants from Mechanus run shops selling all sorts of multiversal oddities. This backpack-style bag of holding is one of them. Sadly, my Divine Favor was too scarce—I could only afford the smallest model, holding a mere hundred pounds for emergencies."
The group perked up at his words. After all, wasn't the whole point of risking their lives on these trials to earn rewards and grow stronger?
A bag of holding was a rarity no matter where you went—an unassuming pouch that could carry far more than its size suggested, with no added weight for the wielder.
But such convenience came at a steep price. In the ancient Magic Empire, even low-tier mages scoffed at bags of holding, preferring to carve out demiplanes for storage. These pouches were considered paupers' tools. Now, however, overhunting had driven the magical beasts whose hides were needed to craft them to near extinction. Worse, only flawless pelts could be used.
The scarcity of materials made it too costly for novices to practice crafting them. Only experienced high-tier enchanters could manage the task, and their labor alone accounted for thirty percent of the final price.
Layer by layer, the costs piled up until bags of holding became ludicrously expensive. Most adventurers still resorted to carrying their own supplies—or using pack mules.
Far more economical.
Yoda basked in their astonished gazes but didn't linger on his moment of pride. He swiftly repacked and shouldered the bag again. "This hundred-pound bag of holding costs 100 Divine Favor in Mechanus. But just completing the first phase of the trial grants a thousand. Like I said—high risk, high reward. Survive, and you'll grow stronger."
The group's hearts raced. A hundred-pound bag of holding for just 100 Divine Favor? In the Overworld, magic shops sold them at an official price of 2,500 gold coins—if you could even find one. Most required connections or exorbitant markups, pushing prices well past 4,000 gold.
Anthony, however, dug deeper. If this goblin had completed two trials, he should have at least 2,000 Divine Favor saved up. He'd bought a bag of holding—a treasure in the Overworld—so where had the rest gone?
When Anthony voiced the question, all eyes snapped back to Yoda. Clearly, the others were just as curious.
The goblin didn't hide it—in some ways, he was remarkably forthright. "The modron merchants sell some truly miraculous items. A few border on myth. Bloodline surgeries, for instance. Demon or infernal bloodlines cost just 1,000 Divine Favor. Purchase one, undergo a painless procedure, and you gain their abilities."
"Dragon bloodlines cost twice that—same as celestial. No side effects, just pure power. Incredible, really."
Zad's narrow eyes bulged to the size of peas. Dagger trembled with excitement. "So with enough Divine Favor… we can swap bloodlines? How much to become human?"
The question drew every gaze toward him. Realizing his slip, Dagger shrank into the shadows, pulling his cloak tighter without another word.
But Yoda had learned the truth while carrying him earlier. This was a tiefling youth—one of the so-called "dirty bloodlines," scorned as demon-spawn by common folk.
The very Abyssal bloodline he'd just described.
Tieflings were usually born from tragedy, but Yoda didn't expose him. Instead, he smiled. "Human bloodlines are the cheapest. It varies by ethnicity, but the highest is three hundred. Common ones go for a hundred. They're quite standard."
"Then, Master," Zad blurted, "what did you buy? Don't tell me you got a goblin bloodline?" He chuckled at his own joke, then awkwardly scratched his head when no one joined in.
Yoda wasn't offended. "I'd have loved a dragon bloodline—become a Dragonborn. But I had no Divine Favor to spare. Mine all went into potions to boost my base attributes."
"What?!" The group gasped in unison.
Raising one's attributes was notoriously difficult. Hard training could only yield minor improvements, while a Chosen One might surpass a veteran warrior's physique the moment they reached adulthood.
Attributes were the cornerstone of becoming a profession—any profession.
Even a bottom-tier, level-one warrior could easily take on three commoners unscathed.
For those unwilling to risk their lives, signing up as a guard in some backwater town was a decent way to coast through life.
This was also the greatest divide between races.
And why nearly all nobles and rulers on Toril were professionals.
Power was everything.
But even becoming a warrior had baseline requirements: Strength or Dexterity no lower than 12, and Constitution at least 13.
These were Warrior Guild mandates. Adventure wasn't a dinner party—those unfit for danger would only get themselves killed.
Specialized professions had even stricter criteria. Paladins, for instance, needed good looks and a robust physique. Only those who met all three benchmarks could become candidates, and only the best among them would be chosen by a mentor—who rarely took more than two disciples at once.
Temples were like that. Whether paladins or priests, quality trumped quantity. Sometimes alignment mattered more than talent.
Mages had it worse. Many were thrown out of mage towers by thirty, still stuck as apprentices, forced to scrape by as third-rate alchemists.
Only those who reached 5th level—and could cast that iconic fireball—were welcomed into adventuring parties.
As one of the Multiverse's most renowned Material Planes, Toril's professional unions had refined methods for testing attributes. Post-evaluation, the results were recorded on parchment—nameless, for the testee's reference—so professionals could gauge their limits and avoid biting off more than they could chew.
When adventurers crossed paths, exchanging levels gave a rough sense of capability. But personal attributes? Those were secrets never shared.
If your attributes became known, you'd be walking into a trap—one you wouldn't walk out of.
Attributes were that crucial.
And Divine Favor could buy them?
Anthony scowled, mentally cursing the Krypton Gold Wishing Machine his crossing had bestowed.
What kind of trash system only let him kill monsters to level up, locked features behind paywalls, and—after grinding to level 20—doled out a measly five attribute points? Was this joke even worthy of being his cheat?
Meanwhile, these modron merchants were practically selling destiny.
But Yoda's next words crushed their soaring hopes. "Attribute potions are expensive. Below 12, one point costs 100 Divine Favor. Below 14, 300. Below 16, 900. And hitting 18? 2,000 a pop. Beyond that, no potion can take you further."
The group deflated. A moment ago, 1,000 Divine Favor had seemed generous. Now? A single mission's reward might barely patch their weaknesses.
And these missions were lethal. Without that mysterious archmage's intervention earlier, the insect swarm would've wiped them out.
"Can bloodlines break the 18-point cap?" The little witch pounced on the loophole.
"Exactly what I was getting at. While potions max out at 18, bloodlines push the ceiling to 20—unlocking a sliver of Legendary power. That's why I'm still a goblin."
"Fascinating." Anthony's eyes gleamed. He wolfed down his bread and meat, drained his waterskin, and hooked it back on his belt.
"Alright, break's over. Time to move. Glory awaits."
"Oh, and so do a bunch of sneaky giant lizards." He yawned.
Tension spiked at enemy ambush, but when torchlight revealed the creatures' figures, relief followed.
Sure, they were over a meter long with scaly armor, but at least these were manageable foes.
Watching the rookies finally rally, Anthony allowed himself a faint, wicked smile.
He'd already drafted a rough plan for these teammates.
Now, to see how many would live to see it through.