The second trial commences with no additional instructions. A suit of shining armor appears in the middle of the room. The visor of the helmet is open, showing that there's nothing inside. Then, a silvery slime starts oozing out of thin air and directly into the armor, filling it up in just a few seconds. A tendril extends out of the helmet's opening and grabs the visor, shutting it closed with an echoing clang. The suit of armor—now with a pilot on board—jitters robotically, almost as if stretching stiff joints. With its boot-up sequence done, a deft hand draws a gleaming sword with envious grace.

Without having time to adequately react, my head is pierced through.

The Announcer hushedly asks for me, "Challenger?" Its voice is filled with not only concern, but dread.

My sword flashes in the bright light of the dungeon, returning the enemy attack in kind. An armored gauntlet redirects my blade, parrying the strike.

Both swords are drawn back. My kick is blocked with a raised knee. A stroke slides against an edge. A perfect counter detaches my right arm near the shoulder.

I crash against the armor. My one good arm locking its sword hand in place. With a twist of my body, I try to tangle its feet and bring it down. While we are toppling, I stich a replacement arm back in place. But the armor twists too, using my momentum against me and crashing on top of me. Before I can strike once, its free hand executes two strikes—one smashing my head, the other caving in my chest and crushing my heart. Nevertheless, my own attack still comes—a punch bends the metal of its breastplate but fails to go through.

The armor strikes, pulverizing my right shoulder and removing my ability to further attack it.

A new shell gets loaded up. A digital breath in, held for a moment that is impossibly long, only existing within my mind. When I see the image again, I let the breath out slowly. I feel closer to it, like I can almost reach out and touch myself.

My left arm, still coiled around the armored monster's right, flexes with power, crushing the metal and breaking the armor at the elbow joint.

Before the well-equipped slime can attempt another attack using its remaining arm, I embrace it close and tumble to its just weakened side, straddling it. With our positions reversed, I slam my left elbow into the helmet and try to pull out its arm with my right. Its legs frantically thrash behind me, a desperate attempt at freedom.

I bring my elbow down again and again, tugging at its arm each time, and until the helmet is flattened against the stone floor.

I tug one final time, but the armor slips out of my grasp. It grabs my inner thigh and heaves me overhead, escaping the mount.

We both scramble for our swords, grab the weapons, and charge.

The armor tries to cleave through both of my shoulders with a single stroke, but its sword gets stuck halfway through my chest. With its arm immobilized, I slip my sword in the gaps near its shoulder and separate the pieces, reducing its arms to zero.

A tendril slithers out, trying to retrieve the lost part. I cut it off. But another tendril successfully connects with the crushed parts of its right arm. The slime squeezes inside the metal and forcefully bends it out and back into shape.

I strike at the faux appendage. The armor separates into its component pieces, held together by silvery tendrils, and dodges my sword.

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Another strike is avoided with a chaotic flail. But there was purpose in the chaos. A tendril slithers inside the left arm, still clutching the sword, and sends it for me with a whipping stroke.

My vision focuses, getting sharper and clearer. This fight, this moment. There is nothing else. I feel my heart thump against my chest faster and faster, letting me dodge the attack by a hair, a sharp tip brushing against a joint, instead of severing it. I feel my artificial muscles tensing with strength, allowing me to weave through the incoming onslaught of flailing strikes with absolute precision, my mind merely guiding the instincts of battle. I feel light, like I weigh nothing, untethered from worry and fear. In the background, deep under the frenzy of strokes and strikes that is occupying my mind, I feel my mana silently boiling.

My blade catches a tendril, sending the flying arm off and away. My lips curl up at the accomplishment. I want more.

The armored slime snaps back into place, the damage it suffered causing it to tighten its defenses.

I parry an overhead slash, letting the monster's blade slide along the face of my sword, deflecting it away and down.

Right before slicing into the stone floor, the slime arrests the momentum of its weapon and brings it up in another slash. Step back. The sword passes through where I stood.

With its arm still up, I step back in. Taking advantage of the upward momentum of its stroke, I gather all of my power and cleave through the metal gauntlet.

The fully disarmed opponent sees my shortsword thrust at its chest, each successive strike puncturing further and further into the metal. The somewhat living armor tries to dodge, and kick, but my strikes still go through.

Soon enough, the chest piece has a sizeable gash in it. A final punch leaves my many-times-replaced left hand buried inside. I squeeze. The armor goes limp, spilling its contents to the floor. My breathing is fast, ragged, pleased.

"Phew," the Announcer sighs out in relief. "Scared me there. Nice job not losing. That was the most suspenseful trial I've ever witnessed."

I get a new shell. The vast majority of the lost material is reclaimed and put to use getting the next batch ready.

Together with the slowly opening portcullis, I start my slow walk.

"Do I get a reward?" I ask.

"Yes. Thanks for reminding me," the Announcer replies. "This should have you ready for the next trial." Full control over my tempering returns.

As I am walking, I ask another question, "Do you know what a dungeon is?"

"Hmm... Big basement? In, like, castles?"

"You know what a castle is?"

The Announcer proudly affirms, "Yup!"

"Which country has the most castles?"

"Aren't most castles privately owned?"

"I meant 'physically'."

"Ooh," the Announcer says, fully deciphering the query. Then it adds, still sounding proud, "I have absolutely no idea."

"That's alright." I somehow feel it expecting an answer to come from me. "Depends on which dimension we are talking about."

"How about the one you came from?"

"You know I'm from another dimension?"

"Are you? You must have come from somewhere, right? Unless... Challenger, are you me?"

"No."

"Right, right. That would have been too confusing. So, which country is it?"

"It also depends on the time period in question."

"Latest? That's a time period, right?"

"Don't forget about which definition of 'castle' we are working with."

"Hey... Challenger... Are you messing with me?"

"I would never do that, Announcer."

It hums suspiciously again. "Okay. Fortified structure used by nobility as a primary residence or by a military as a martial asset."

"Excellent. Now, how do we define what a country is?"

The Announcer hums again, the suspicion it its voice rising rapidly. "People united under a singular, independent government."

"We're almost there. For the final clarification, how do you define 'has' and 'most'?"

"Wha— Huh?"

"Well, the state of the castles might impact the final amount, depending on where we want to draw the line. What if a castle's damaged, or not currently in use in any capacity? Do ruins count? Do fully disassembled castles count? How about a castle that was moved from one country to another? Does that count for the former, the latter, or both. It has happened, so we need to consider it."

"What were we talking about again? I lost track."

"The topic was if you knew what a dungeon is."

After a bout of prolonged silence, the Announcer's voice returns, now calm and serene. "Honestly, Challenger, I thought I did, but you've shown me the truth. Knowledge is... subjective. Do any of us really know what a dungeon is? I believe we don't." Oops.

I point ahead, my walk turning brisk. "Is that the next trial I see?"

"Ooh! It is! Let's do this, Challenger!"

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