<figure></figure>
<u><i>Roaka</i></u>
The ruins groan under Roaka’s boots, each step a protest against her fury. Her pulse pounds, drowning out the clash of steel behind her. Let the others handle it. She has a different task.
The air thrums with unnatural energy, crawling up her tusks, prickling her green skin. The stones breathe, whispering in a language older than war. Magic coils tight, a waiting serpent.
At the chamber’s heart stands a man.
Not a scholar. Not some fragile, book-toting archaeologist. No—this one is different. Armed. Steady. His stance doesn’t waver. He doesn’t hold himself like a frightened blade-swinger. No, this is a warrior. But his clothes—peasant garb. Something doesn’t add up.
Behind him, half-buried in the ruin, an ancient throne leans under layers of dust. Faint carvings trace its surface—meaning lost to time. The throne hums beneath him, stirring like a beast roused by its master.
A knot tightens in Roaka’s gut. Something is wrong.
Her grip hardens on her axes. She snarls, low and dangerous. “Hey, cute thing. Where are my friends? What’ve you done with my people?”
The man’s eyebrow lifts. His winter-steel eyes flick to her, widening. “Holy shit. An orc.”
His voice is steady, but she catches the shift—posture tightening, weight adjusting. Not running. Not cowering. Good. That would’ve been disappointing.
Roaka rolls her shoulders, muscles flexing. “Yeah, orc. What? Never seen one of my kind before?”
The man laughs, rich and unguarded. “Well, how about that, sugar pie… I can understand you, and you can understand me.”
Confusion spikes through Roaka, sharp and sudden. “No shit. The Monster Tongue’s common enough for orcs.”
She moves. Fast. Fluid. Deadly. Her axes scrape free, gleaming under the eerie glow of the ruins. She smirks. “And if you can understand it, means you ain’t human.”
She watches him now, reading every shift in his stance. He moves like a fighter. But his weapon—unfamiliar.
Her thoughts sharpen like her blades.
This man’s got charm. Wonder if the others’ll let me keep him.
The magic in the air—it ain’t his. He’s no sorcerer. No sparks in his blood. But strength? Experience? That’s what matters. And he carries himself like a warrior.
If he’s some fool who stumbled in here, fine. Maybe I let him go.
But if he’s why my friends are gone?
Then he’s already dead.
The air thickens, charged with unspoken challenge.
Roaka lunges.
The ruins shake beneath Roaka’s boots, the echoes of her charge rippling through ancient stone. Her axes gleam, eager, their edges whispering promises of blood.
The man doesn’t flinch. He stands firm, feet planted like roots, weapon steady in his hands.
A boom shatters the air. Roaka twists mid-stride, the arcane shot slicing past her ear. The air burns where it passed, the sharp tang of magic lingering. She snarls, grinding her heel into the stone as she lunges. He doesn’t fire again. Instead, he swings his weapon like a club.
Metal crashes against her crossed axes, sparks flashing, the impact rattling through her bones.
Fast. Precise. Unyielding.
She’s fought elves, beast-folk, even ogres—but none moved like this. No wasted motion. No hesitation. He flows from weapon to limbs, striking like a storm. His elbow drives into her ribs. Pain lances through her, sharp but not enough to break her. She rolls with the blow, catching his next strike on the flat of her axe, then shoves him back.
The ruins pulse, ancient magic rousing from their violence. The walls shift, morphing, drawing power from the fury of their fight. Stone juts out where it shouldn’t be, forcing her to skid to a stop. The battlefield itself aids him.
Roaka wipes blood from her lip, eyes narrowing. “You need the walls to fight for you? What are you, too soft to handle me yourself?”
He doesn’t answer. He moves. Fast. Too fast. A shadow slipping from wall to wall. Sigils ignite along his weapon, glowing dark violet.
Roaka braces. Another boom rips through the air. This time, she doesn’t dodge. She meets it head-on, axes crossed, forming an X. The blast slams against her steel, deflecting skyward. Heat licks at her knuckles, but she doesn’t flinch.
The man rolls his shoulders, smirking—lazy, confident. “Ma’am, I swear on my life, I have no idea what’s going on. But I <i>am</i>
a man. A man who doesn’t fancy dying... again.”
Roaka bares her teeth. “That so? Then fight me like one.”
She rushes him. He backpedals, boots scuffing against the shifting stone. Just before she reaches him, he sidesteps. She expects it.
She slams into the wall—on purpose—using the force to rebound. Her axe swings down in a brutal arc. He barely gets his weapon up in time, the impact jolting through his arms. But she follows through, a second strike carving wide. He twists away, just shy of safety.
A thin red line appears on his cheek.
They crash together again, steel screaming, bodies colliding like two forces of nature. Her axes carve through the air, every swing a death sentence. But he slips between them, his movements fluid, relentless. The walls, the pillars—he uses them all, turning the battlefield into his ally.
Then he ducks low, slipping inside her guard. His fist slams into her jaw—an uppercut, brutal and efficient.
Stars burst in her vision.
Not just the impact—the <i>weight</i> behind it. He’s knocked her down like a novice.
And she’s starting to enjoy it.
Her vision tunnels, the edges darkening. Heat floods her veins. The berserker’s fury rises, thick and suffocating. She lets it take her. The world slows. Every detail sharpens. Her muscles coil, a bowstring drawn taut, body thrumming with raw power.
She lunges.
Her forehead slams into his, the crack reverberating through her skull. She swings before the pain registers. Faster. Harder. He blocks with the rifle, but she doesn’t let up.
She kicks. Feints a backward elbow.
An axe slips past his guard, the blade biting into the stock of his weapon. A sharp <i>snap</i>. She drives her knee into his gut. A solid <i>thud</i>. His rifle clatters across the stone floor.
Roaka grins, breathless. “Well, I got you now, cute thing.”
Then he moves.
Too fast. Too fluid.
His hands find her wrist—twist. Pain lances up her arm. Her axe tumbles free. She swings the other, aiming to smash the blunt end into his ribs. He catches it on his forearm.
Then he’s inside her guard.
A sharp strike to the back of her knee. Her balance shatters. Before she can recover, he sweeps her legs, the ground rushing up to meet her. The impact barely registers before his fist buries into her side—precise, brutal. A kidney shot.
Her lungs seize.
Darkness crowds in. She blinks, struggling to hold on. He looms over her, blue eyes unreadable. Cold. Haunted.
Why? He’s won.
The world slips away, but one last thought clings to her mind:
<i> I’m making him mine.</i>
<hr>
<u><i>Grant</i></u>
[System Notification]
[Host Assimilation: 72% Complete]
[Language Synchronization: Tier-1 Acquired – Monster (Beast-kin Variant)]
[Warning: Full Assimilation Required for Advanced Comprehension.]
The chime barely registers before—boom—a shield slams into my chest like a battering ram. My ribs scream. My feet leave the ground.
I’m airborne.
A heartbeat later, I crash through a crumbling stone wall. Jagged debris bites into my back. Dust fills my lungs.
[Received]
-34 HP (Blunt Force Trauma)
[Status Effect]
Winded (6s)
Great. Just great.
The ruins groan, unsettled by the violence. I push up on shaking arms, coughing grit from my throat. My vision wavers, but I force my eyes to focus.
Five—no, six.
The rest of the orc’s party?
They stand in formation, weapons drawn, movements too precise for amateurs. These aren’t low-level mobs. They’re killers. And from the way they’re looking at me, I’m next.
[Assessment Protocol Engaged. Scanning…]
[Threat Levels:]
Hobgoblin (Ula Stonefist) – Tank – Danger: High
Wolf-kin (Nia Windsong) – Archer – Danger: Moderate-High
Elf (Elara Moonveil) – Healer – Danger: Unknown (Magic User) Orc (Roaka) – Warrior – Danger: ??? (Healing in Progress)
The system doesn’t bother marking the last one. Either not a threat or beneath notice. I’d argue both.
A hobgoblin woman steps forward, rolling her shoulders until they pop.
<i> "Khor’gash ur’kai, vorrak. Zhul’tak grog vash’tar!"</i>
Low voice. Steady. Not a threat—a promise.
To her right, the wolf-lady tilts her head, smirking, bow already drawn.
"Raak’tuk no’gar Ula. Zhark’tuk do’ra tuk g’korr."
I groan, staggering to my feet. My health bar flashes red in the corner of my vision. A third of it already gone.
“Great,” I mutter. “A full adventuring party straight out of high-fantasy hell.”
I barely put the orc down, and now I’ve got a squad of pissed-off warriors eyeing me like a raid boss with a rare drop.
I know this setup. Seen it before.
Hobgoblin? That shield boomeranged back to her. Tank.
Wolf-lady? Archer.
Elf? Healer—no way she’s standing back like that without support magic.
She murmurs something. The air shivers, static crackling around the orc. She grunts, language shifting—no longer a garbled mess.
The words register. Not fully, but enough.
[System Update: Language Comprehension]
(Partial: 68%)
[Further Exposure Required]
Right. Different races, different tongues. But the system’s catching up.
I should run.
I won’t.
A flicker of motion—too fast.
I twist. The air parts. Something slashes past my ribs. Claws? A dagger?
[Received]
-12 HP (Laceration - Light Bleed)
I drop low, rolling toward my carbine. Fingers graze the stock. A shadow looms.
[Warning]
Tiger-kin (Rin Silverfang) – Rogue – Danger: Extreme (Close Quarters Combatant)
She stands over me, hands trembling, gripping the shattered remains of what I shot earlier.
Golden eyes burn. Wide. Seething.
"Raak… raak’tuk… gar’tuk do’ra." she whispers. Her voice is raw, thick with grief.
A chime.
[Language Proficiency Updated.]
100x Monster.
100% Beast-Kin - Variant.
[Warning: Hostile Engagement Imminent.]
"Now you will die."
I exhale sharply, a wry grin pulling at my lips.
"Ah… I understand you now."
Silence.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Every eye locks onto me.
Except for the orc.
She just chuckles, shaking her head.
“Oh yeah,” she says, grinning wide. “That one there? Not human.”
I tighten my grip on the magi-tech carbine. My pulse spikes. Adrenaline surges.
"Shotgun."
[Weapon Configuration: Adaptive Reforge - Form: Tactical Shotgun]
The silver carbine shimmers, shifting in my hands like a puzzle box unfolding. Deep violet runes pulse across its surface. The barrel retracts, the stock folds inward. A trigger-handle hums with arcane energy. Compact. Deadly. Familiar.
The tiger-lady lunges, golden eyes burning—grief, fury, something deeper. I raise the shotgun, blocking her strike as I drive a boot into her gut. She staggers back, snarling.
I cock the weapon. "Dual-wield."
[Secondary Weapon Summoned: Energy Blade]
A short sword materializes in my right hand, vibrating with caged energy. I pivot to a knee, shotgun aimed.
BOOM!
The blast catches her mid-leap. Her body twists, fur rippling from the impact. She crashes against a crumbling wall.
[Inflicted]
-68 HP (Critical Hit - Concussive Force Applied)
[Status Effect]
Staggered (3s)
She groans but moves. Still breathing. Good. The shotgun hums, runes flickering.
[Automatic reload engaged.]
Next.
"Tactical Analysis."
Ula advances, shield raised—a moving fortress.
Nia flanks wide, arrow nocked—waiting for an opening.
Elara lingers, hands aglow—calculating, patient.
They think they have me boxed in. Let’s prove them wrong.
A blur from behind. I pivot. A mace swings for my head—I intercept with my sword.
“Miss, that’s not very ladylike,” I say.
The goblin hisses, shield a blur of iron and spikes. I duck. The edge whistles past my skull. I snap my shotgun up to her chest—point-blank.
BOOM!
[Inflicted]
-32 HP (Blunt Force Resistance Applied)
[Status Effect]
(None)
She barely flinches. Her armor absorbs the brunt. A slow grin spreads across her face—damn tank classes.
Movement above—the wolf-lady, running along the wall like a spider. A silver-gray blur.
"How?"
A twang. Pain blossoms in my shoulder.
[Received]
-18 HP (Piercing Damage - Arrow to Shoulder)
[Status Effect]
Minor Impairment (pending)
I hiss, snapping my gaze to her as she smirks, already nocking another arrow. I dive behind a pillar, yank the shaft free.
[Received]
[Status Effect]
Minor Bleed (-1 HP every 3 sec for 15 sec)
A fire blast slams into the stone beside me. The shockwave sends me rolling.
[Received]
[Status Effect]
Minor Burn (-1 HP every 3 sec for 15 sec)
Tiger-lady recovered. Twin daggers spinning. She lunges. I roll, sword deflecting her first strike.
I raise my shotgun.
BOOM!
She sidesteps. Laughs. "I like you, outsider. Too bad we have to kill you."
"You don’t <i>have</i> to." I grimace. "We could be civil about it."
A sharp sting lances through my back.
[Received: -18 HP (Piercing Damage - Arrow to Back-Shoulder)] [Status Effect: Minor Impairment]
Before I react, the goblin’s shield spins through the air. I dive, but pain arcs from my shoulder down my arm. A bolt of lightning slams into me. My muscles seize.
[Received]
-18 HP (Lightning Damage)
[Combo Status Effect]
Minor Paralysis
[Caution: You have lost sensation in your left arm. Until the arrow is removed, you cannot use your left arm.]
A blade whistles toward me. I barely parry. Another strike—too fast. I disengage, twisting. The tiger-lady’s momentum severs the arrow’s shaft in my back.
Pain. Hot. Cold. Shallow cut, but deep enough.
[Received]
-14 HP (Laceration)
[Status Effect]
Major Bleeding Debuff Applied (-3 HP every 3 sec for 30 sec)
My left arm hangs limp, no useless, but motionless. My vision blurs. I steady my stance.
BOOM!
The shotgun’s blast knocks at my feet—not enough to wound, but enough to gain distance.
The Elf moves. With a flick of her wrist, multiple arcane orbs shoot toward me.
I dive, just as a hail of searing purple light cracks the air where I stood. Heat floods my skin. Too close. I roll, my arm coming back to life. My shotgun snaps into position.
BOOM!
The Elf twirls a hand. A shimmering barrier forms midair, absorbing the shot. Her eyes narrow. “Surrender. I’d rather not kill you.”
I wipe blood from my lip and grin. “Jesus, why is everyone trying to kill me?!”
They move again, synchronized. I fight like hell.
The goblin’s shield slams into my ribs. No spikes.
“Retractable?”
[Received]
-27 HP (Blunt Trauma)
[Status Effect]
Winded (5s)
Wolf-Lady looses another arrow. It grazes my thigh, a sharp sting.
[Received]
-14 HP (Laceration)
[Status Effect]
Minor Bleed (15 sec)
Tiger-Lady darts in, daggers flashing. One sinks deep into my side.
[Received]
-19 HP (Deep Cut - Moderate Bleed).
I stagger, vision narrowing. My breath hisses, sharp and ragged. Slowing down. Too many cuts, too many hits.
HP: 21/150. Status: Critical Condition.
One mistake, and I’m done.
[System Notification:]
Adrenal Response Triggered.
Combat Awareness +15%. Reflex Speed Increased.
I inhale, forcing my breath to steady.
The goblin charges, shield raised. I shift, sidestepping. Tiger-Lady’s in the air, dagger gleaming, eyes locked on my throat.
Faster than I expected.
She strikes—
[Received] -20 HP (Severe Wound - Status Effect: Heavy Bleed Applied).
HP: 1.
Red warning flares in my HUD.
Survival Instincts Activated. Death-Immunity: 3s.
The world sharpens. Sounds fade. I grip my sword tighter. Weight shifting. Now or never. I lunge—shotgun roaring, blade slicing. The goblin stumbles, a weak spot found. Tiger-Lady leaps—I spin, catching her midair with the butt of my shotgun. She hits the ground hard. Not dead, but out.
The Elf chants, arcane sigils flaring around her hands. Golden-green energy blooms in her palm—healing magic, restoring her allies.
Damn it. I whip the shotgun toward her.
BOOM!
Wolf-Lady twists to face the blast, taking it head-on. The Elf barely catches her body, but the force staggers her. Her spell fizzles.
I’m winning, I think?
Then something slams into me from behind.
[Received]
-180 HP (Massive Impact - Instant Knockdown).
ERROR: HP BELOW 0. CRITICAL FAILURE.
Pain. Everything splinters. My body goes weightless, then heavy. The ground rushes up. I hit stone, vision flickering. My limbs refuse to move. Can’t breathe. A deep voice rumbles behind me.
“Down you go, Lad.”
[Adventurer: Retired – Hero]
[Association: Archaeology Guild]
Gorik.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is his looming shadow.
"A dwarf?"
<hr>
<i><u>Selene</u></i>
The battlefield lies still.
Dust lingers in the ruins, curling in lazy tendrils where the last of the magic fades. Echoes of battle—clashing steel, the crack of magic, shouts of pain, the raw hum of mechanical weapons—hang in the air. But the fight is over. Silence settles, heavy as stone.
Selene exhales, slow and measured. Tension unwinds from her limbs, but unease lingers beneath her skin. A shimmer runs down her cloak as the invisibility spell flickers out. Cool air kisses her exposed skin. She steps forward, boots crunching over shattered stone.
At the heart of the chamber, the stranger lies motionless. His weapon—a curious, mechanical thing with intricate engravings—rests beside him.
Dead? Unconscious? Something feels wrong.
A sharp breath pulls her attention to Tibbins. The gnome bolts past her, sliding to a stop before the weapon. His fingers hover over the handle, hesitation flickering across his face. Then, curiosity wins. He grips it and pulls.
A hidden trigger clicks.
The weapon hums—then erupts.
BANG!
The force hurls Tibbins across the floor. He lands hard, skidding to a stop.
Gorik scowls. "Damn it, Tibbins!"
Tibbins bounces up, eyes alight. He runs a hand over the engravings, grinning. "This ain’t just a weapon," he mutters. "This is… somethin’ else."
Gorik kneels beside the fallen man and presses two fingers to his neck. Cold.
Selene watches, heart tight. "Is he...?"
Gorik shakes his head. The weight in her chest eases—slightly.
Then, behind them, a groan shatters the stillness.
Nia slumps against a crumbled pillar, teeth clenched. Blood slicks her tunic and fur where the blast tore through her side. Elara kneels beside her, hands weaving glowing strands of light over the wound. The soft hum of magic fills the space.
"Selene!" Elara calls, tension sharp in her voice. "Come quick—I can''t close the wound."
Selene moves to them, crouching at Nia’s side. Magic stirs in her fingertips, threads of moonlight shifting and coiling. Elara’s magic flows like a single instrument, careful and precise. Selene’s is layered—a harmony of shifting energy.
She presses a hand to Nia’s shoulder, letting her magic fuse with Elara’s. The wound knits together, flesh and bone restoring beneath their touch.
"You’re damn lucky," Elara murmurs. "The blast shattered your ribs. Another inch, and it would''ve pierced your lung."
Nia huffs a weak laugh, wincing as the last of the pain fades. "Lucky isn’t the word I’d use."
"I believe it is," Selene says.
Elara and Nia stare at her, dumbfounded.
"What?" Nia manages.
Selene points at the obliterated stone sentinels across the battlefield. "That man had the power to shatter Fused Obsidian-Moonstone."
Elara’s breath catches. "Are you saying..."
"Yes," Selene says. "One blast nearly killed you. He could’ve wiped all of you out just as easily." She gestures toward Roaka. "And she took three of those damn blasts—and she’s still breathing."
Elara and Nia exchange a glance, shoulders tense. Neither speaks, but the weight of Selene’s words settles between them.
A low pulse thrums through the chamber. Selene stiffens.
The ruins shift, stone grinding against stone, the sound deep and guttural—like something ancient stirring from slumber. Symbols flicker to life across the walls, jagged lines and curling script pulsing in rhythmic succession. A heartbeat. A warning. Then, one by one, they fade, swallowed back into the stone.
Selene steps forward and presses her palm to the wall. The cold seeps into her skin, but beneath it, something else lingers—an echo of sorrow, not magic. Not a curse. Not the remnants of a spell. Grief. As if the ruins themselves remember a loss too great to name.
Gorik rushes past her, nearly tripping as he fumbles for his notebook. He drops to one knee, ink staining his fingers as he scribbles frantically. "It’s vanishing too fast—dammit, I need more time!" His eyes dart between the symbols, trying to trap their meaning before they slip away.
Selene doesn’t move. She watches the markings dissolve, watches the last flickers of energy seep into the stone like breath exhaled from a dying body.
Whatever had awakened here—whatever had stirred—it knew.
And now, it was watching.
A boot scuffs against the stone. Roaka cracks her knuckles, standing over the fallen man, eyes glinting with something unreadable. A predator sizing up prey that can’t run anymore.
"What a shame," she says, rolling her shoulders. "Would’ve loved playin’ with ya a bit more."
Selene doesn’t miss the way Ula and Rin shift, their stances tightening. A flicker of unease. Their glances meet for half a second—just long enough to speak volumes. Doubt. Hesitation. Regret.
Selene tilts her head, voice low. "What’s wrong?"
Ula frowns, arms crossed over her chest. "So... why’d he attack you?"
Selene hesitates. "He... didn’t." She glances at Roaka. "You attacked him."
"Yeah, I did." Roaka grins, utterly unapologetic.
Elara smacks her shoulder. "Why?"
Roaka shrugs. "Dunno. Why’d you attack him?"
Nia snorts, testing her injured side with a wince. "No clue. Saw Roaka passed out, Rin stabbed him first... figured I''d go with the flow."
Silence. All eyes shift to Rin.
Rin clears her throat, ears twitching. "What? I thought they were dead!"
Roaka barks a laugh. "I did too!"
Selene narrows her eyes. A misunderstanding? No. Something deeper lingers beneath this. The tension in their movements, the instinctive aggression. Was it panic? Mistrust? Or something worse—something guiding their hands before they could think?
"So, just to be clear, since we are clearly much alive." Selene says, voice edged with disbelief, "we killed a man... over a misunderstanding?"
Gorik, still flipping through his notes, barely looks up. "Well..." He scratches his beard. "It’s not like the lad could speak Common."
“That’s what bothers me,” Tibbins said, grunting as he hauled the mechanical weapon with a rope. Gears scraped against stone, metal groaning under its own weight. “Mankind is extinct. No one knows why, how, or even when. But one thing I do know… Common was their language. And that man? He didn’t speak a word of it.”
Roaka slammed a fist into her palm, eyes narrowing as if something finally clicked. “That’s right. He knew the monster tongue.”
“And the beast tongue,” Rin added, tail flicking uneasily.
Elara crossed her arms, gaze shifting between them. “Well, Captain… what now?” she asked Rin.
Rin hesitated, then turned to Gorik. “Well, master dwarf?”
Gorik sighed, rubbing his temples before casting an apologetic glance at Selene. “We can’t go back to the Magister empty-handed. The Council will revoke our adventurer’s licenses if we do.”
“Actually…” Tibbins mused, now holding a short sword—though in his small hands, it looked closer to a longsword. He turned it over, inspecting the strange engravings along the blade. “I think we have a couple of artifacts on our hands.”
Roaka and Nia exchanged grins, then smacked their palms together in a resounding high-five. “Score,” they said in unison.
Selene barely heard them. Something else pulled her forward.
The ancient throne loomed before her, its stone frame bowed under centuries of neglect. Dust coated its surface, muting the intricate carvings that once told a story—one now half-swallowed by time. She reached out, fingertips grazing the worn etchings.
<b> Light flared.</b>
A surge of images burned into her mind. Faint. Fleeting. A figure wreathed in shadow. A beast with many eyes. A crown, heavy with unseen weight. And beneath it all, something vast. Something watching.
<b> “I see you…”</b>
The voice rumbled through her skull, low and guttural, coiling in her chest like a cold hand squeezing her ribs.
She gasped, yanking her hand back. Her stomach twisted.
They hadn’t just fought a man. They had disturbed something ancient.
Selene inhaled sharply, forcing down the rising dread. She turned to the others, voice steady despite the pounding in her skull.
“We need to leave. Now.”
A tremor ripples through the throne—slow, deliberate. A whisper follows, not in words but in knowing.
Selene staggers back, breath catching in her throat.
Before her, the man’s body glows.
Light seeps from his skin, threading through his veins like molten gold. It spreads, unraveling him—flesh, bone, and soul dissolving into the air. He vanishes, not as a corpse but as something never meant to remain. Like mist retreating before the dawn.
Selene’s heartbeat slams against her ribs.
Gone. Just like that.
<b> ROAR!</b>
The earth shudders. A sound—no, a presence—rises from the deep. Furious. Famished. Grieving.
Selene staggers, hands braced against the worn stone. Whatever lies beneath them isn’t just waking.
It’s remembering.
And it is not pleased.