<figure></figure>
Chapter Three
The Fine Art of Misunderstanding
<i><u>Roaka</u></i>
The ruins groan beneath Roaka’s boots with each
step, as if they resent her fury. Her pulse pounds, drowning out the clash of
steel behind her. Let the others handle that. She has her own mission.
The air hums with unnatural energy, crawling up
her tusks, prickling her green skin. The stones whisper in an ancient tongue.
Magic coils tightly, like a serpent waiting to strike.
At the center of the chamber stands a man.
Not a scholar. Not a fragile archaeologist.
No—this one is different. Armed. Unyielding. His stance is firm. He doesn’t
carry himself like a frightened fighter. No, this is a warrior. But his
clothes—peasant garb. Something’s off.
Behind him, half-buried in the ruins, an ancient
throne rests under layers of dust. Faint carvings trace its surface—meanings
lost to time. The throne hums beneath him, stirring like a beast roused by its
master.
A knot tightens in Roaka’s gut. Something’s
wrong.
Her grip tightens 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 brow raises. His winter-steel eyes
flick to hers, widening. “Holy shit. An orc.”
His voice remains steady, but Roaka catches the
shift in his posture—he’s not running. Not cowering. Good. That would’ve been
disappointing.
Roaka rolls her shoulders, muscles rippling.
“Yeah, orc. What? Never seen one of my kind before?”
He 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 subtle 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 will
let me keep him.
The magic in the air—it’s not 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 she’ll let him go.
But if he’s why her friends are gone?
Then he’s already dead.
The air thickens, charged with unspoken
challenge.
Roaka lunges.
The ruins tremble beneath her boots, the echoes
of her charge rippling through the 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 with their
violence. The walls shift, morphing, drawing power from their fight. Stone juts
out where it shouldn’t, forcing her to 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’m
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 weight 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 snap. She drives her knee into his gut. A
solid thud. 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’m making him mine.<hr>
<u style="font-family: Comic Sans MS, Comic Sans">Grant</u>
[System Notification]
[Host Assimilation: 72% Complete]
[Language Synchronization: Tier-1 Acquired – Monster (Beast-kin Variant)]
[Warning: Full Assimilation Required for Advanced Comprehension.]
A soft chime rings, barely audible, before a shield slams into my chest like a battering ram. My ribs scream. My feet leave the ground.
In an instant, I crash through a crumbling stone wall. Jagged debris tears into my back. Dust fills my lungs, and the world tilts sideways.
[Received]
-34 HP (Blunt Force Trauma)
Status Effect: Winded (6s)
Great. Just great.
The ruins groan under the impact. The stones shudder. I push myself up, arms shaking, coughing up dust. My vision wavers, edges darkening, but I focus and sharpen my mind.
Four? No, Six?
The rest of the orc’s party stands in perfect formation, weapons drawn, too synchronized. These aren’t low-level mobs. They’re seasoned killers. And by the way they’re eyeing me, I’m their next target.
[System Update: 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 mark the last one. Either not a threat or beneath notice. I’d argue both.
A hobgoblin steps forward, shoulders tight with the deliberate tension of a seasoned warrior. Her voice is low, more promise than threat.
"Uo’y tih ro’u l’rig, redisto’u. Epoh uo’y ydaer ot rewsna rof taht."
Her eyes narrow, calculating. Not a threat—more like a challenge.
Beside her, a werewolf tilts her head, a smirk curving her lips as she nocks an arrow.
"T’nod l’lik mih tey, Ula. I annaw raeh mih geb."
I groan, pushing myself to my feet. My health bar flashes red in the corner of my vision—already a third of it gone.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “A full adventuring party straight out of high-fantasy hell.” And I can’t understand them.
I know the drill. Hobgoblin? Tank. That shield’s boomeranged back to her, ready for another round. Wolf-kin? Archer. Elf? Healer, hanging back, weaving her magic.
She murmurs something, and the air around the orc shimmers. A hum of magic crackles—different, but unmistakably familiar.
[System Update: Language Comprehension] (Partial: 68%) [Further Exposure Required]
The system’s catching up. I should run. I won’t.
A flash of motion—too fast. My instincts scream. I twist. Something sharp slashes across my ribs.
[Received] -12 HP (Laceration – Light Bleed)
I drop low, fingers grazing my carbine as I roll. Shadows loom over me.
[Warning] Tiger-kin (Rin Silverfang) – Rogue – Danger: Extreme (Close Quarters Combatant)
Her golden eyes burn with grief, fury—something darker.
"Uo’y… uo’y dellik meht," she hisses. "Now, you will die."
The words land with a weight far heavier than her voice.
A chime.
[Language Proficiency Updated]
100% Monster achieved.
100% Beast-Kin – Variant achieved.
[Warning: Hostile Engagement Imminent.]
A primal, almost feral pulse races through me as the system acknowledges my understanding. I inhale, a grin twisting my lips, though it’s more instinct than amusement.
“Ah… I understand you now.”
The air stills. Every shocked eye locks onto me.
Except for the orc. She chuckles, shaking her head.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
“Oh yeah,” she says, her grin widening. “That one? Not human.”
I tighten my grip on the carbine, adrenaline surging. The system pings in my HUD, a soft chime—like breath on the back of my neck.
“Shotgun.”
[Weapon Configuration: Adaptive Reforge – Form: Tactical Shotgun]
The carbine shimmers, shifting shape. Violet runes pulse across its surface. The barrel retracts. The stock folds. The trigger-handle hums. Compact. Deadly. Familiar.
Before I can react, Tiger-Lady lunges, golden eyes locked on my throat, daggers gleaming in the dim light. But I’m faster.
I raise the shotgun to intercept. The blast knocks her back.
BOOM!
[Inflicted: -68 HP (Critical Hit – Concussive Force Applied)] [Status Effect: Staggered (3s)]
She crashes into the rubble, but she’s still moving, still breathing. Good. The system clicks again, chimes of approval filling the silence. My HUD pulses with data.
[Automatic Reload Engaged.]
Next.
“Tactical Analysis.” I almost hear the system’s voice—calm, cool, like a breeze through the ruins.
[Threat Level: Hobgoblin (Ula Stonefist): High]
[Threat Level: Wolf-kin (Nia Windsong): Moderate-High]
[Threat Level: Elf (Elara Moonveil): Unknown]
[Threat Level: Tiger-kin (Rin Silverfang): Extreme]
“Pragmatic decision: Eliminate threats in order.”
I exhale, rolling my shoulders, shifting my weight.
The hobgoblin moves, shield raised like a wall. I move too, but Wolf-Lady’s already flanking, her arrow nocked, eyes calculating. The Elf’s hands glow—magic swirling beneath her skin, the light like a storm gathering.
They think they’ve got me boxed in. Time to prove them wrong.
The world shifts again, the ever-present hum of the system echoing beneath the tension.
[System Update: Host Engagement Detected. Counteraction Activated.]
The goblin moves, shield a fortress. Wolf-Lady’s arrow finds its mark, grazing my thigh, but I’m already too far into motion. The shotgun goes off.
BOOM!
[Inflicted: -32 HP (Blunt Force Resistance Applied)]
The shield barely flinches. Same old dance, but this time—this time I’m not playing by the rules.
I raise my blade, and the world sings.
Through it all, I hear the Castle—her childish voice whispers, a giggle in the winds, a pulse beneath my feet. "I wanna play too."
And the Throne? His feral growl wraps around my thoughts. "Weak. Die. Fall."
The system hums in the background, philosophical and cool, as my body adapts to the fury of combat. “Weapon setting set to none lethal.”
The system. The Castle. The Throne.
They watch.
And I fight.
My sword slams into the goblin’s breastplate. She barely flinches. Her armor absorbs the brunt of the strike, and a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Damn tank classes,” I hiss.
Movement above—swift, unnatural. The wolf-lady sprints along the wall like a spider, a silver-gray blur.
"How—?"
“Notice: Race, Wolf-Kin. Clan… Moon-Blooded,” the system recites.
<b>[Moon-Blooded]</b>
<i>A variant of Wolf-Kin, this clan can manipulate their gravitational force—light as air or heavy as stone at will.</i>
A twang.
Pain flares in my shoulder.
<b>[Received: -18 HP (Piercing Damage – Arrow to Shoulder)]</b>
<b>[Status Effect: Minor Impairment]</b>
“How rude!” the castle protests.
Stone sentinels awaken with a groan, shifting from the walls. They swat at the wolf-lady like she’s an annoying gnat—or, more accurately, a mosquito.
I snap my gaze toward her as she smirks, already nocking another arrow. I dive—too slow.
A pillar erupts in front of me.
<b>Clank.</b> The arrowhead ricochets off the stone, the vibration rattling through my bones. I yank the shaft free.
<b>[Received: Status Effect: Minor Bleed (-1 HP every 3 sec for 15 sec)]</b>
“Look out!” the Throne warns.
I swerve. A fire blast detonates against the stone beside me, sending a shockwave through my ribs. I hit the ground, rolling.
<b>[Received: Status Effect: Minor Burn (-1 HP every 3 sec for 15 sec)]</b>
Tiger-lady recovered. Twin daggers spinning. She lunges.
I roll. A stone sentinel intercepts her first strike.
I raise my shotgun.
BOOM!
She springboards off the construct, evading the shot, laughing. "I like you, outsider. Too bad we have to kill you."
"You don’t have to," I grimace. "We could be civil about it."
“Screw that!” the Throne hisses. “Kill them all!”
“Now now,” the system interjects. “He has a point—we must be civil.”
“Yay!” the castle cheers. “More friends to play with.”
A sharp sting lances through my back.
<b>[Received: -18 HP (Piercing Damage – Arrow to Back-Shoulder)]</b>
<b>[Status Effect: Minor Impairment]</b>
“For fuck’s sake!” I yell. “I can’t concentrate with you three yapping in my skull!”
The goblin’s shield spins through the air.
I dive—too slow.
Lightning arcs from the shield, striking the arrow embedded in my back. My muscles seize.
<b>[Received: -18 HP (Lightning Damage)]</b>
<b>[Combo Status Effect: Minor Paralysis]</b>
<b>[You have lost sensation in your left arm. Until the arrow is removed, you cannot use your left arm.]</b>
A blade whistles toward me.
I barely parry. Another strike—too fast. I disengage, twisting.
Tiger-lady’s momentum severs the arrow shaft in my back.
Pain. Hot. Cold.
<b>[Received: -14 HP (Laceration – Major Bleeding Debuff Applied)]</b>
<b>[-3 HP every 3 sec for 30 sec]</b>
My left arm dangles—useless, dead weight.
Vision blurring.
I brace myself.
BOOM!
The shotgun’s blast kicks dust into the air—not enough to wound, but enough to gain distance.
The elf moves. A flick of her wrist—arcane orbs streak toward me.
A construct intercepts them.
I dive.
Pebbles, searing hot, slice through the air where I stood. Heat floods my skin—too close.
Rolling, my arm tingles, coming back to life. I snap the shotgun into position.
BOOM!
The elf twirls her fingers, forming a shimmering barrier midair. It absorbs the shot effortlessly.
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. Synchronized.
I fight like hell.
The goblin’s shield slams into my ribs.
“Pay attention!” the Throne demands.
“Fuck off!” I retort.
<b>[Received: -27 HP (Blunt Trauma – Status Effect: Winded (5s))]</b>
Wolf-lady looses another arrow. A sharp sting in my thigh.
<b>[Received: -14 HP (Laceration – Minor Bleed)]</b>
Tiger-lady darts in, daggers flashing. One sinks deep into my side.
<b>[Received: -19 HP (Deep Cut – Moderate Bleed)]</b>
I stagger. Vision narrowing.
Breath sharp, ragged. Slowing down. Too many cuts. Too many hits.
The constructs.
Where—?
They’re being dismantled. The orc. And—
“Oh, you have to be shitting me.”
A gnome.
A gnome riding a hijacked construct like a rodeo clown atop a wild bull.
“Where the fuck did that gnome come from?”
HP: <b>21/150.</b> Status: <b>Critical Condition.</b>
One mistake, and I’m done.
<b>[System Notification:]</b>
<b>Adrenal Response Triggered.</b>
“I have boosted your combat awareness,” the system chimes.
<b>+15%. Reflex speed increased.</b>
I inhale. Force my breath steady. “Thanks.”
The goblin charges, shield raised.
I shift.
Tiger-lady—midair—dagger gleaming—eyes locked on my throat.
Faster than expected.
She strikes—
<b>[Received: -20 HP (Severe Wound – Status Effect: Heavy Bleed Applied)]</b>
HP: <b>1.</b>
Red warnings flare in my HUD.
“No…” the castle cries.
“Karnak!” the system pleads.
“Fine,” Karnak grumbles.
<b>[Survival Instincts Activated: Death-Immunity (30s)]</b>
The world sharpens. Sound fades.
Weight shifts. Grip tightens.
“Oh, now we’re talking,” I say. “Thanks, buddy.”
Now or never.
I lunge—shotgun roaring, blade slicing.
The goblin stumbles—I find a weak spot—roundhouse kick—wall.
Tiger-lady leaps—I spin—catch her midair with the shotgun’s butt.
She crashes.
Point blank.
BOOM!
Not dead. But out.
The elf chants—sigils flare. Golden-green magic blooms—healing.
Damn it.
“Explosive round,” I bark.
“Affirmative,” the system replies.
A hiss. Click.
BOOM!
The elf should have shielded. Instead—
Wolf-lady.
She twists, intercepts the blast head-on.
The explosion engulfs her abdomen. Blood sprays.
Shit.
The elf catches her limp body, but staggers. Her spell fizzles.
I hesitate.
“Don’t think!” the Throne hisses. “Fight!”
I charge forward, boots slamming against stone. My heart pounds. The orc looms—massive, steady, predictable. A brute relying on sheer force.
Her jagged cleaver glints under dim light, slicing through the air in a slow, brutal arc. I sidestep. The wind of her strike brushes past my cheek, close enough to taste the iron tang of battle.
My shotgun is already raised.
<b>BOOM.</b>
The blast hits her gut. She jerks, convulsing as smoke curls from the wound. A gurgled grunt—then silence. She crumples, passes out before she hits the ground.
The gnome, though? Pure chaos.
He cackles, twisting dials on a grenade the size of his fist. The metal shell ticks—a mechanical heartbeat counting down to destruction. He hurls it.
I move.
<b>Explosion.</b> Heat sears my back. The shockwave rattles my skull. My ears ring.
The gnome scrambles up the construct, fingers flying over levers and runes. Sparks flash as ancient gears grind, stone limbs groaning awake.
<b>Not happening.</b>
I surge forward, drive my boot into his chest. He shrieks—cut off as he pinwheels through the air and crashes into a pillar. He twitches, groaning.
Victory is close. I can feel it.
Then—<b>impact.</b>
A force like a boulder slams into my back. Air rips from my lungs. My spine <b>cracks</b>. My body folds. Limbs go limp. I’m flung across the battlefield.
<b>Stone rises up to meet me.</b>
[Received: -180 HP (Massive Impact – Instant Knockdown)] ERROR: HP BELOW 0. CRITICAL FAILURE.
Pain explodes, sharp and absolute. My vision wavers, static creeping at the edges. <b>System failure?</b> My fingers twitch. No response. The ground tilts—or maybe I do.
Heavy footsteps echo through the haze. A shadow looms, broad and unmoving.
A voice, deep as shifting earth, rumbles through my skull.
<b>“N’wod uo’y og, dal.”</b>
The system pings.
[Adventurer: Retired – Hero]
[Association: Archaeology Guild]
Gorik
I blink, vision narrowing to the figure standing over me.
A <b>dwarf?</b>
Darkness swallows me whole.<hr>
<u style="font-family: Comic Sans MS, Comic Sans">Selene</u>
The battlefield was still.
Dust curled in slow, lazy tendrils where the last
traces of magic faded. Echoes of battle lingered—clashing steel, the crack of
sorcery, shouts of pain, the raw hum of mechanical weapons—but they were ghosts
now. Silence settled over the ruins, heavy as stone.
Selene exhaled, slow and measured. The tension
unwound from her limbs, but unease still prickled beneath her skin. A shimmer
ran down her cloak as the invisibility spell flickered out, leaving her exposed
to the cool air. She stepped forward, boots crunching over shattered stone.
At the heart of the chamber, the stranger lay
motionless. His weapon—a strange, mechanical thing with intricate
engravings—rested beside him.
Dead? Unconscious? Something felt off.
A sharp breath pulled her attention to Tibbins.
The gnome bolted past her, sliding to a stop before the weapon. His fingers
hovered over the handle, hesitation flickering across his face. Then, curiosity
won. He gripped it and pulled.
A hidden trigger clicked.
The weapon hummed—then erupted.
<b>BANG!</b>
The force sent Tibbins tumbling across the floor.
He landed hard, skidding to a stop.
Gorik scowled. “Damn it, Tibbins!”
The gnome bounced up, coughing through a cloud of
dust. He ran a hand over the engravings, grinning. “This ain’t just a weapon,”
he muttered. “This is… somethin’ else.”
Gorik knelt beside the fallen man and pressed two
fingers to his neck. Cold.
Selene watched, heart tight. “Is he…?”
Gorik shook his head. The weight in her chest
eased—slightly.
Then, behind them, a groan shattered the
stillness.
Nia slumped against a crumbled pillar, teeth
clenched. Blood slicked her tunic and fur where the blast had torn through her
side. Elara was already kneeling beside her, hands weaving glowing strands of
light over the wound. The soft hum of magic filled the air.
Selene crouched at Nia’s side, her own magic
stirring to life. Threads of moonlight shifted and coiled at her fingertips.
Elara’s healing was precise—like a lone
instrument in the quiet. Selene’s was layered, a harmony of shifting energy. As
she pressed a hand to Nia’s shoulder, their magic fused, knitting torn flesh
and fractured ribs back into place.
“You’re damn lucky,” Elara murmured. “The blast
shattered your ribs. Another inch, and it would’ve pierced your lung.”
Nia huffed a weak laugh, wincing as the last of
the pain faded. “Lucky isn’t the word I’d use.”
Selene’s voice was quiet. “I believe it is.”
Silence.
Elara and Nia exchanged glances, dumbfounded.
“What?” Nia managed.
Selene pointed at the obliterated stone sentinels
across the battlefield. “That man had the power to shatter Fused
Obsidian-Moonstone.”
Elara’s breath caught. “Are you saying…”
“Yes,” Selene said. “One blast nearly killed you.
He could’ve wiped us all out just as easily.” She gestured toward Roaka. “And
she took three of those damn blasts—and she’s still breathing.”
A weighted pause.
Elara and Nia exchanged a look, shoulders tense.
Neither spoke, but the meaning was clear.
Then—a low pulse thrummed through the chamber.
Selene stiffened.
Stone shifted, grinding against stone, the sound
deep and guttural—like something ancient stirring from slumber. Symbols
flickered to life across the walls, jagged lines and curling script pulsing in
rhythmic succession. A heartbeat. A warning. Then, one by one, they faded,
swallowed back into the stone.
Selene stepped forward, pressing her palm to the
wall. Cold seeped into her skin, but beneath it, something else lingered—an
echo of sorrow. Not magic. Not a curse. Not the remnants of a spell.
Grief.
As if the ruins themselves remembered a loss too
great to name.
Gorik rushed past her, nearly tripping as he
fumbled for his notebook. He dropped to one knee, ink staining his fingers as
he scribbled frantically. “It’s vanishing too fast—dammit, I need more time!”
His eyes darted between the symbols, trying to trap their meaning before they
slipped away.
Selene didn’t move. She watched the markings
dissolve, watched 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 scuffed against stone.
Roaka cracked her knuckles, standing over the
fallen man, eyes glinting with something unreadable. A predator sizing up prey
that could no longer run.
“What a shame,” she said, rolling her shoulders.
“Would’ve loved playin’ with ya a bit more.”
Selene didn’t miss the way Ula and Rin shifted,
their stances tightening. A flicker of unease. Their glances met for half a
second—just long enough to speak volumes.
Doubt. Hesitation. Regret.
Selene tilted her head, voice low. “What’s
wrong?”
Ula frowned, arms crossed. “So… why’d he attack
you?”
Selene hesitated. “He… didn’t.” Her gaze slid to
Roaka. “You attacked him.”
“Yeah, I did.” Roaka grinned, utterly
unapologetic.
Elara smacked her shoulder. “Why?”
Roaka shrugged. “Dunno. Why’d you attack him?”
Nia snorted, 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 shifted to Rin.
Rin cleared her throat, ears twitching. “What? I
thought they were dead!”
Roaka barked a laugh. “I did too!”
Selene narrowed her eyes. A misunderstanding? No.
Something deeper lingered beneath this. The tension in their movements, the
instinctive aggression.
Panic? Mistrust?
Or something worse—something guiding their hands
before they could think.
“So, just to be clear,” Selene said, disbelief
lacing her voice, “we killed a man… over a misunderstanding?”
Gorik, still flipping through his notes, barely
looked up. “Well…” He scratched his beard. “It’s not like the lad could speak
Common.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Tibbins muttered,
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. “That’s right. He knew the monster tongue.”
“And the beast tongue,” Rin added, tail flicking
uneasily.
Elara’s arms crossed. “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. “I think we
have a couple of artifacts on our hands.”
Selene barely heard them.
Something else pulled her forward.
The ancient throne loomed before her, its stone
frame bowed under centuries of neglect.
She reached out.
Light flared.
A voice, low and guttural, rumbled through her
skull.
<b>“I see you…”</b>
Her stomach twisted.
They hadn’t just fought a man.
They had disturbed something ancient.