《Rise of the Bone King》 Chapter 1 - Edgar Chapter 1

Edgar

I woke up dead. Which wasn¡¯t the worst thing to ever happen to me. Top five, maybe. No¡ªseven. Yeah, top seven. Right between the time I got locked in a public restroom on a first date and that unfortunate incident with the toaster. But at least those disasters had the decency to leave me with a face. I flexed my fingers, the raw click of bone on bone loud in the cavern¡¯s hush. Not my usual, admittedly pale and small, human hands. But bone. I looked down. Arms. Hands. Feet. Rib cage. I was basically a discount gag skeleton at Spirit Halloween. Maybe a bit cleaner. My brain¡ªor whatever passed for it¡ªhelpfully chimed in: I¡¯m not supposed to look like this. And the thought didn¡¯t do much to improve the situation. I was busy trying to come to terms with the idea of hands that were mine but weren¡¯t mine, when I turned my head and caught sight of my reflection in a shallow puddle nearby. Two tiny blue pinpricks of flame flickered in the sockets of a decidedly un-fleshy skull. My skull. My¡­ eyes? ¡°Well, at least they work,¡± I muttered. But the voice that rattled out, my voice, was hollow and raspy. Like death dragging a scythe across a dinner plate. Which, incidentally, is exactly how I felt. Then the whispers started. "Great Bone King!" a voice, somehow both gravelly and high pitched, hissed. I turned to find myself surrounded by little green people. I say people¡­ But, I mean, I¡¯d seen enough questionable fan art and played enough fantasy games to know what they were. Goblins. Dozens of them, all staring at me like I was their favorite rock star. Sadly, I was all out of dance magic. The only thing I had left was a healthy dose of ¡°What the fuck is happening?¡± "He rises at last!" the biggest one declared. I glanced at my skeletal hands, back up at the goblins, then around the cavern¡ªa place that managed to land somewhere between evil lair and grandma¡¯s basement after a flood. Dim blue mushrooms flickered against damp stone. Tattered, ancient-looking furs littered the ground. The air smelled of earth, mildew, and poor decisions. "Right," I rasped, which was both my first word above a whisper and my first mistake, because the goblins erupted into cheers. ¡°He speaks!¡± one shouted. ¡°Praise the dungeon!¡± another added. ¡°Long live the Bone King!¡± a third one screamed ecstatically. ¡°Okay then,¡± I said in response. So. Let¡¯s recap. Number one: What in the everlovingsonofachupacabralicking hell. Number two: Goblins. Putting¡­ All of that aside for a second. I tried to think about how I got here, but there was nothing. Not even a ''last thing I remember.'' Just a hard cut from existence to... this. Like someone changed the channel on my life and lost the remote. I was honestly having a hard time remembering much about myself¨Cthings coming back in pieces like videos downloading on dialup into the boney void where my brain used to be. With a similarly annoying series of tones to accompany. Then, my name dropped into my head: Edgar Allen. Oh, right. That. Because waking up as a skeleton wasn¡¯t enough¡ªI also had to be Edgar ¡°Fucking¡± Allen. My parents thought they were literary geniuses. Instead, they¡¯d just made sure I¡¯d get Poe jokes until I died. And, apparently, after judging by my new body. No flesh. No heartbeat. Just me and the hollow space where my dignity used to be. This, I realized, was no ordinary waking-up experience. For one thing, my usual routine didn¡¯t involve being undead, surrounded by goblins, or greeted by a mysterious, disembodied voice. ¡°Welcome, First Floor Boss! Your task: Defend the dungeon. Adventurer incursion in 8 hours.¡± ¡°What¡¯s... going on?¡± I asked, gesturing vaguely at my bony self, the cavern, and the growing sense of doom in the room. Gravel Voice stepped forward and bowed low. ¡°Me Grib, leader of goblins. And you Bone King! Our leader! Great and mighty boss of first floor!¡± ¡°And what exactly does the first floor do?¡± I asked, already suspecting I wasn¡¯t going to like the answer. ¡°We stab humans!¡± Grib said cheerfully. ¡°Stab humans?¡± ¡°Mmhm. Stab.¡± Grib nodded with the enthusiasm of one of those wind-up toys you find at flea markets or wedged in between the cushions of great uncle Lester¡¯s sixty year old couch. I sighed. Or at least, I tried to. It came out as more of a hollow breath that sounded like death politely calling from the void. ¡°Well¡­ Grib, was it? What happens if we don¡¯t stab the humans?¡± Grib blinked at me. The other goblins exchanged confused glances. ¡°Boss,¡± Grib said carefully, ¡°why wouldn¡¯t stab humans? Humans for stabbing. That just how it works.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, eyeing the countdown. No sudden revelations. Just a ticking clock and my own impending demise. The goblins had returned to their ¡°trap-building,¡± which seemed to involve the same amount of planning as a squirrel burying its nuts. I decided not to ask why one of them was shaking a bucket while the others shouted things like ¡°More mud!¡± and ¡°No, angrier mud!¡± Instead, I did what anyone in my position would do: I stared at my own hands. Again. Because honestly¡­ What the fuck, man? The slight blue glow that radiated from my bones felt accusatory. Like it was judging me for not figuring this whole ¡°undead¡± thing out yet. I rotated them slowly, half expecting to wake up any second. I didn¡¯t. This was real. Or maybe I¡¯d smoked the good stuff before going to bed. At least my roommate didn¡¯t get any if that was the case¨Ctotal piece of shit, that guy. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. The existential dread that had been quietly simmering in the background decided to bubble over. I didn¡¯t just look undead¡ªI was undead. Gone was the comforting tat of a heartbeat or the familiar sensation of air filling my lungs. In its place was... nothing. A quiet, eternal emptiness that I was already beginning to resent. ¡°Great Bone King!¡± Grib¡¯s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He was waving something in my direction. A stick, sharpened at one end and smeared with something that looked deeply unsanitary. ¡°You should see this trap!¡± he declared, proud as a peach, sounding like he¡¯d just invented the wheel. I glanced at the stick, the goblins, and the crude contraption they¡¯d assembled in the corner. A rickety wooden frame covered in what looked like an alarming number of rusted nails, balanced precariously on a wobbling stack of skulls. A rope dangled from the ceiling, attached to what I could only assume was the trigger, except the trigger appeared to be another goblin holding the rope and grinning expectantly. I decided I valued my sanity too much to engage. ¡°Later,¡± I said, turning away. That¡¯s when i noticed a shimmer at the edge of my vision. Pulsing in the air, just out of focus. I turned my head to follow it, but it stayed stubbornly out of reach, like a thought you couldn¡¯t quite remember. I tried again, this time reaching toward the shimmer. My hand passed through it, but the motion seemed to trigger something. The glow expanded, unfolding into a panel of floating text that blinked smugly in the air before me: Boss Overview: First Floor: I stared at it, letting the words sink in. Then, slowly, painfully, I read the first line again. Species: Lich. Lich. The word was alien, distant, and yet... uncomfortably correct. My gaze drifted back to my skeletal hands, my mind fumbling for some way to protest this. I wasn¡¯t a lich. I was... someone. Someone with skin and a pulse. A person. A human. Except I wasn¡¯t. Not anymore. ¡°What¡¯s it say, Boss?¡± Grib asked, poking his head around the corner of the trap he was definitely not improving. ¡°Nothing important,¡± I lied, though my voice came out shaky and hollow. I turned back to the panel, hoping for some clue, any clue, that might make sense of this. It had apparently decided to double down on unhelpfulness, adding new lines below the glowing statistics: Recommended Actions for Boss Success:
  1. Fortify traps to eliminate weaknesses.
  2. Train goblins for improved effectiveness.
  3. Do not let adventurers kill you.
¡°Oh, brilliant,¡± I said flatly. ¡°Thanks for the groundbreaking insight.¡± The floating words stared back at me, unhelpfully blinking in the cavern¡¯s dim light. Recommended Actions for Boss Success. Fortify traps, train goblins, and, my personal favorite, don¡¯t die. As far as advice went, it was right up there with ¡°try harder¡± and ¡°just stop panicking.¡± I waved my hand through the text again, mostly to see if I could swat it away. I couldn¡¯t. ¡°Boss?¡± Grib¡¯s voice cut in before I could spiral further into sarcasm. ¡°You okay?¡± ¡°No, not really, Grib,¡± I said. ¡°But thanks for asking.¡± Grib frowned, clearly unsure how to process that answer, and shuffled closer with something vaguely bucket-shaped in his hands. ¡°You wanna see the mud trap now? It¡¯s ready!¡± I took a deep, metaphorical breath. ¡°Sure, Grib. Show me the mud trap.¡± 7 Hours, 40 Minutes. Grib led me toward the far side of the cavern, where a group of goblins had gathered around what appeared to be an opening in the chamber framed with sticks and unearned optimism. A bucket dangled precariously overhead, tied to a piece of fraying rope. ¡°Watch this,¡± Grib said proudly. He yanked the rope. The bucket tipped forward, spilling its contents: a gloppy mess of mud, rocks, and what I could only hope were mushrooms. The goblins cheered like they¡¯d just invented fire. ¡°See?¡± Grib said, beaming. ¡°Humans walk through, and splat! Trapped!¡± I stared at the puddle of muck. Then at Grib. ¡°What¡¯s supposed to happen after that?¡± ¡°They... slip?¡± ¡°On mud.¡± ¡°Yeah!¡± I closed my eyes¡ªor at least, I thought I did. Hard to tell without eyelids. ¡°Grib, let me explain something to you. Humans don¡¯t fear mud. Mud isn¡¯t scary. Mud is... mud.¡± Grib looked crestfallen. ¡°But sticky. And slippery!¡± ¡°So are goblins,¡± I snapped. ¡°And we¡¯re not throwing them at adventurers.¡± The goblins muttered among themselves, clearly rethinking some plans. I sighed¡ªagain, a soundless rush of air that did nothing to make me feel better¡ªand turned back toward the center of the room. The timer ticked down another minute. Seven hours and thirty-nine minutes now. Time wasn¡¯t stopping, even if I desperately wanted it to. ¡°What am I even doing here?¡± I asked, more to myself than anyone else. I crouched near a shallow puddle by the cavern wall, looking at myself again. There was nothing in it that was¡­ me. Not the familiar flop of messy black hair, receding slightly on the left side. Not the crooked nose I¡¯d broken at fifteen in a tragic encounter with a skateboard ramp. Not the sharp cheekbones my mother always swore would make me look ¡°distinguished¡± when I was older. It was a strange thing, looking at your own face and realizing it had absolutely nothing to do with you. Like losing your wallet, but instead of panicking about your credit cards and ID, you were left wondering where your entire existence had gone. And if anyone would bother turning it in. I wasn¡¯t human anymore. But I didn¡¯t look like a king. Or a boss. Or anything remotely powerful. I looked like a Halloween decoration that someone had unpacked, decided against, and left sitting on the garage floor. I was dead. That much was obvious¡ªwhat with the whole "no skin, no heartbeat, glowing blue bones" situation. But how? I remembered it had been my day off. I¡¯d been outside. There had been a cat. A little black one, sitting on a fence, staring at me. I remembered stopping, maybe reaching out. And then¡­ Nothing. Just this. I glanced at the floating panel, which continued to be entirely unhelpful. Fortify traps. Train goblins. Don¡¯t die. Whatever it was, it didn¡¯t seem to care if I understood it. Grib¡¯s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. ¡°Boss? We¡¯re gonna need more mud.¡± He and the other goblins were still busy arguing about their latest masterpiece¡ªa bucket of mud, a crude spear, and some sort of dried lizard, all cobbled together with the enthusiasm of toddlers and roughly the same level of engineering skill. ¡°No mud,¡± I said, rubbing the side of my skull. The sound of bone scraping on bone did absolutely nothing to ease the growing pressure in what used to be my temples. ¡°Just... figure something else out. Something better.¡± Grib nodded slowly, though he looked like I¡¯d just told him Santa wasn¡¯t real. ¡°What we use, then?¡± ¡°Let me think,¡± I muttered. ¡°There has to be something.¡± ¡°Boss¡­ Grib wants to be good. But without stabbing or mud¡­. What we do when humans come?¡± His voice was quieter now, nervous. His wide, beady eyes were locked on me, unblinking. He wasn¡¯t grinning this time. He wasn¡¯t waving around a stick or enthusiastically pitching the next big thing in mud-based warfare. He looked scared. ¡°I...¡± The word stuck in my throat. My gaze flicked to the floating panel, to the timer, to the goblins who had stopped their bickering to watch me. They thought I had an answer. But I didn¡¯t. I wasn¡¯t a king. I wasn¡¯t a leader. I wasn¡¯t even sure I was real. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I said. The words were quieter than I meant them to be. And heavier than they had any right. ¡°Oh.¡± His ears twitched, then drooped in disappointment. The other goblins fell silent. The low hum of distant dripping water and the crackle of shifting rock filled the space where their chatter had been. The cavern was suddenly too big. Or maybe I was just too small. They exchanged murmurs, their glances quick and uneasy. Their voices returned, but softer now. Whispers that felt suffocating in the emptiness of the dungeon. ¡°I¡¯ll figure it out,¡± I said quickly. ¡°Just... get back to work.¡± Grib muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ¡°mud always worked before,¡± but didn¡¯t argue. He wandered off to rejoin the others, leaving me alone with the timer and the faint ache of... well, nothing. I stayed where I was, staring at the timer as it ticked down. 7 Hours, 20 Minutes. All I knew was that adventurers were coming. Presumably to kill the first floor boss. Me. And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do when they got here. Chapter 2 There was a rhythm to disaster, I¡¯d learned. It didn¡¯t just crash into you all at once; no, that would be too kind. It started small. A creak in the floorboards, a flicker of the lights, a goblin shoving a sharpened stick into a mushroom and calling it a trap. I should¡¯ve known disaster when I saw it. I used to live in it. Customer service wasn¡¯t a job. It was a slow, drawn-out apocalypse stretched thin over ten-hour shifts and endlessly ringing phones, and corporate nonsense that made you genuinely wonder if civilization had been a mistake. A warzone. Except, instead of bullets, the weapons were bad policies, worse tempers, and the unyielding despair of holding for a supervisor who absolutely did not want to take the call. I remember one guy, and he wasn¡¯t even the worst, who called to announce we were responsible for the end of the world. A national tragedy! A life-ruining catastrophe! Because his television hadn¡¯t arrived in time for the big game. ¡°Are you fucking stupid? Is that what you are? Fucking stupid? You¡¯ve gotta be fucking stupid!¡± he had shouted, as though I were the one who¡¯d lost the war of logistics that kept him from watching the Sixty-Niners win the superbowl in glorious 1080p. ¡°You should be ashamed!¡± I was ashamed. But not for the reason he thought. I was ashamed that I stayed on the line, apologized for a mistake I hadn¡¯t made, and promised to escalate the issue to a supervisor who, at best, would mark it as ¡°customer upset, lol.¡± Because that¡¯s what you did. You sat there, swallowed your pride, and let yourself dissolve into the corporate void. And for what? So some baby-boomer could yell at me like it was my fault the universe didn¡¯t personally bend to his expectations? I used to wonder about the other side of the line. Not middle management, but the ones with actual power. Did they feel important? Secure? Or were they just as exhausted as the rest of us, hiding behind emails and vague company-wide statements? And now, standing in a cavern full of goblins who were absolutely convinced I was the second coming of greatness, I wondered if this was what it felt like. To be in charge. It was... odd. Back in the call center, I¡¯d imagined being a boss meant respect, admiration, and maybe even the faintest whiff of fear. And the goblins? They had all of that in spades. Every wide-eyed stare, every ecstatic ¡°Bone King!¡± felt like it was building me into something bigger than I was. And yet. As much as I didn¡¯t miss being yelled at by strangers over thumb drive warranties, I wasn¡¯t sure I liked this either. There was something unnerving about being at the center of it all, about seeing these creatures pour so much of themselves into a belief I didn¡¯t even share. Because what they believed in wasn¡¯t me. Not really. It was the idea of me. A great, powerful leader. Someone worthy of their loyalty. Someone who knew what the hell they were doing. And that sure as hell wasn¡¯t me. ¡°Great Bone King!¡± Grib had finished barking orders and was now standing directly in front of me, clutching his bucket like a sacred artifact. He had this strange expression on his face, some mixture of reverence and unbridled optimism which I was beginning to suspect might be his natural state. I raised a bony hand, which I was starting to use more like a traffic signal than a limb. ¡°Grib, you don¡¯t have to call me that. Edgar is fine. Or Ed. Let¡¯s go with Ed.¡± Grib¡¯s face contorted as though I¡¯d suggested we put a stop to gravity. ¡°Oh no, Boss. No good. You Bone King. Great One. Stabber of Humans!¡± ¡°Yeah, no.¡± Grib blinked, ears twitching. ¡°Boss okay? ¡°I guess that''s better than the titles. Let¡¯s roll with it. What¡¯s up?¡± He shuffled his feet, head tilted down at the ground. ¡°So... um, what plan, Boss? ¡°Plan?¡± ¡°Yes! You know, plan.¡± He gestured wildly with the bucket, narrowly avoiding knocking himself out. ¡°Big plan. For big boss. Big boss always has plan! So... what Grib and goblins do when humans come?¡± He was trying to be casual. I caught the faint tremor in his voice, the way his ears twitched nervously. His grip tightening around the bucket handle. He was scared. Or at least nervous. Not that I blamed him. The idea of facing adventurers, whoever or whatever they were, didn¡¯t exactly fill me with confidence either. Grib, sensing the weight of my silence, suddenly puffed out his chest. ¡°Grib not scared!¡± he added quickly. ¡°Just¡ªuh¡ªthinking strategically!¡± ¡°Of course you are,¡± I said. Grib¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°Really?¡± ¡°No,¡± I replied, and he visibly deflated, the bucket slipping slightly in his hands. ¡°But thanks for trying.¡± Grib fidgeted for a moment before hesitantly looking back up at me. ¡°Well, uh... if Boss don¡¯t have a plan yet, maybe Grib can¡­ share plan?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I said cautiously. His confidence flickered back to life, ears twitching with more of their usual frenetic energy. ¡°Instead of stab humans... maybe slash humans?¡± I stared at him. ¡°Slash humans.¡± He nodded and his little green noggin¡¯ bobbed up and down with enough force that I was worried about whiplash. ¡°Like stabbing¡­ but sideways.¡± He turned a vertically aligned hand and flattened it, slashing slow and steady through the air with the deliberate motion of a craftsman trying to show someone a flat surface. No, he wasn¡¯t joking. Yes, I was sure. No, I had no idea what the hell to do with¡­ that. ¡°Grib,¡± I said finally, ¡°you¡¯re doing great. Just... keep thinking outside the box.¡± Grib beamed, practically vibrating with pride. ¡°Yes, Boss!¡± He paused a moment. ¡°What box?¡± I sighed. Questionable plans aside, he was scared. Even if he wouldn¡¯t admit it. And I couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of something. Pity? Maybe. Or responsibility. Either way, I wasn¡¯t a fan. If I didn¡¯t have a plan for them¡­ I had to do something. Even though the System hadn¡¯t been particularly helpful so far, I decided to give it another shot. The interface reappeared in my vision with a thought, tidy lines of text all neat and proper compared to the mess of emotions swirling in my head. Scrolling through it, I looked for something, anything that could help. Inventory, I noted. I reached into it mentally, scrolling through the items listed. Great. So a bunch of garbage. But the last item stood out. Protection. The kind of word that sounded reassuring until you actually stopped to think about it. Protection from what, exactly? Swords? Fireballs? The crushing weight of responsibility? Probably not the last one. The ring materialized in my hand with a faint shimmer, simple but sturdy. I turned it over between my fingers. It wasn¡¯t anything special to look at. Plain, a little weighty, the kind of thing you¡¯d see in a pawn shop display case listed for $15 more than it was actually worth. But it was something. And something meant options. I could wear it. Keep it for myself. Because if anyone in this mess needed protection, it was me. I remembered the system¡¯s early warning. Fortify traps. Train goblins. Don¡¯t die. Then I glanced at Grib. He was watching me with those wide, eager eyes¡ªbig and round, like the greenest, gobliniest puppy you¡¯ve ever seen. If hope had teeth, it would look like a goblin expecting a treat. I sighed. "Here," I said dismissively. "This might help." I grabbed his little goblin hand and placed the ring inside. He froze, staring at the ring as though I¡¯d just handed him a forgotten, cherished memory, or a stacked Italian Sub with hot peppers. For a long moment, Grib did nothing. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Not the deliberate kind of nothing, where someone sits very still because they are thinking, but the complete and total failure to process reality kind of nothing, where the body continues to exist while the brain takes an unauthorized leave of absence. His jaw worked silently. His ears twitched. His fingers tightened around the ring with the same desperate reverence one might hold a winning lottery ticket. ¡°Boss¡­¡± he breathed, voice trembling. ¡°Grib¡­ so¡­ happy.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a ring, Grib.¡± Grib¡¯s only response was a near-imperceptible wobble, like he was experiencing emotions too large for his small goblin frame. I turned away before he could make a thing of it. I had more important matters to attend to, like figuring out what exactly was happening, why I was here, and whether goblins could die from overexcitement. But then something shifted. I could still see Grib. I knew he was behind me. I knew, with absolute clarity, that he was still cradling the ring, still staring at it as if it contained the meaning of life. I knew that the moment he thought I wasn¡¯t watching, he started hopping in place, the way only creatures of pure, unchecked enthusiasm ever do. ¡°Best. Boss. Ever!¡± he whispered to himself. Which was strange. Because I wasn¡¯t looking at him. I was still facing forward. My body hadn¡¯t moved. And yet, somehow, I could see behind me. The interface flickered to life, smug as ever. Processing complete. Shape stored and interpreted. Processing? Shape? What the hell was this thing talking about? Passive Skill Acquired: Deathly Perception. I had no idea what the thing was talking about. Processed what? Before I had time to think, I became aware of the fact that I was still watching Grib. Despite very much not facing him. ¡°Well,¡± I muttered. ¡°That¡¯s... unsettling.¡± Grib froze mid-hop, then snapped into an exaggerated salute as though he hadn¡¯t just been bouncing like an overcaffeinated rabbit. ¡°What do we do next, Boss?¡± he asked, clutching the ring like a lifeline. I sighed, the sound rattling through my ribs like wind in dead branches. ¡°We... figure it out as we go.¡± Grib nodded with absolute, unwavering confidence. ¡°Yes, Boss. Whatever you say.¡± And as he marched off to rally the goblins, still holding the ring like it might personally save his life, something strange settled in my chest. A mix of guilt. Amusement. And something disturbingly close to responsibility. It was the same feeling you got when a dog happily dragged a sock into the room and looked at you like it had just slain a mighty beast. Equal parts endearing and profoundly, profoundly inconvenient. Grib marched off with the certainty of a man who had never once considered that his faith in the system might be misplaced. I envied him for it. I turned back to the cavern, the scattered goblins, the dim glow of the mushrooms, and the faint, unfeeling shimmer of the countdown in my peripheral vision. Six hours and fifty minutes. It didn¡¯t seem like nearly enough time. As if sensing my need for distraction, another interface window unfolded itself at the edge of my vision. Abilities. I hadn¡¯t summoned it. But apparently, it had decided now was the moment. With a thought, the list expanded. There weren¡¯t many, but the names alone were enough to be vaguely concerning. I squinted at the last one. Unavailable. That felt ominous. For now, I focused on Fear Aura. More out of curiosity than anything else. The effect was immediate. Not dramatic. Not even visible. Just a shift in the air, like a wrong note in a song you hadn¡¯t realized you were listening to. I didn¡¯t feel it. But the goblins did. Within seconds, the cavern exploded into chaos. Goblins screamed, tripped, ran. One attempted to scale a wall, despite having neither the physical ability nor a clear reason why that would help. They weren¡¯t running from me. Not exactly. They were running from something their tiny goblin brains had convinced them was lurking in the shadows, waiting to devour them. It was, presumably, me. ¡°Cancel,¡± I muttered, and the effect vanished. The goblins stopped running. A long silence followed. Then, slowly, one of them exhaled and declared, ¡°The Bone King is unstoppable!¡± Which was not the conclusion I had been hoping they¡¯d reach. I sighed and moved on. Chilling Touch. This one was slower. Less immediate. The air around my fingers dimmed. Snowflakes appeared, a hesitant few at first, as if checking to make sure this was the right place. Then more followed, swirling as frost unfurled along the stone. It wasn¡¯t a dramatic effect¡ªno blizzard, no surge of power. It just spread. Creeping forward, seeping into the cracks, turning the damp cavern floor into a sheet of glistening ice. It was quiet. Unassuming. And, judging by the goblins¡¯ faces, infinitely worse than the first one. A few of them huddled together. Others stared at me like I¡¯d just rewritten the laws of nature for fun. Then Grib reappeared, shivering violently, teeth chattering like castanets. ¡°Did you see that?!¡± he blurted, pointing at the frost-coated walls. ¡°Boss, that was amazing!¡± ¡°It was fine,¡± I said, flexing my fingers. The glow of magic faded, but the frost remained, lingering like an awkward pause. I scanned the rest of the menu, pausing at the bottom where a stat called Soul Counter read 0/1. The reassurance vanished. I stared at the counter. 0/1. It didn¡¯t blink, flash, or come with a cheerful little message like, ¡°Hey there! Here¡¯s a cryptic number to ruin your day!¡± No, it just sat there, quietly glowing and somehow managing to feel superior about it. ¡°What even is a soul counter?¡± I muttered. ¡°And why do I have one?¡± No response, of course. I didn¡¯t know why I expected otherwise. The interface wasn¡¯t exactly the chatty type, though it had mastered the art of being condescendingly silent. With a long, unnecessary breath¡ªI was still clinging to the habit, even if the lungs were gone¡ªI looked around the cavern. That¡¯s when I spotted Grib. He was crouched by one of the traps, inspecting a stick like it was an ancient relic. His expression was intense, the kind of focus you¡¯d expect from someone trying to determine whether an object was real or cake. ¡°Grib,¡± I called. He sprang to his feet, ears twitching as he spun toward me. ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± ¡°I think I have a plan,¡± I said, hoping that by saying it out loud, it might actually become true. Grib¡¯s face lit up like a kid being told bedtime was officially canceled. ¡°A plan! I knew it! What¡¯s the plan, Boss?¡± ¡°Maybe... no one has to die,¡± I said, letting the words out slowly, like they might break if handled too roughly. Grib tilted his head, his ears flopping as he stared at me with the same expression people reserved for flat-earthers and unicyclists. ¡°No one has to die?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, straightening up in what I hoped looked like confidence. ¡°Maybe we don¡¯t fight. Maybe we talk to them instead.¡± The cavern went quiet. The brittle, uncomfortable sort of quiet, like the pause after someone at a dinner party confidently mispronounces "quinoa." ¡°Humans are for stabbing,¡± one goblin said eventually, his tone suggesting he¡¯d never questioned this fact any more than he¡¯d questioned the sky being up or rocks being hard. Another nodded solemnly. ¡°That¡¯s just how it works.¡± ¡°And maybe slashing, someday!¡± Grib added, ever the forward thinker. ¡°No stabbing. No slashing. Just... let me handle it when they get here, okay? Don¡¯t help unless they attack.¡± Grib blinked at me, his confusion as tangible as the mud clinging to his feet. ¡°But, Boss, what if¡ª¡± ¡°Grib,¡± I said, cutting him off before he could finish whatever deeply concerning question was about to leave his mouth. ¡°Can you do that?¡± He hesitated, ears twitching, before finally nodding. ¡°If that¡¯s what you want, Boss.¡± ¡°It is,¡± I said. The goblins shuffled back to their work, still muttering, still glancing at me like I¡¯d just suggested we declare war on the concept of gravity. From what I could see, their trap-building efforts had somehow doubled the amount of mud in the room. I decided not to ask how. I wandered away with no real direction. Eventually, my feet led me down a side tunnel. It twisted and turned in ways that suggested the person or creature who built it had been either lost or deeply indecisive. I glanced at the countdown. Four hours and fifteen minutes. I kept walking. The further I went, the cooler the air became, the smell of the cavern shifting¡ªless wet earth, more old stone and rusted iron. The mushrooms were sparser here, their weak light casting jagged shadows that moved when I wasn¡¯t looking directly at them. The walls were different, too. Marked. Scratched. Maybe carved, if you squinted hard enough and ignored the distinct possibility that whatever made those marks had claws. Then the tunnel opened into a chamber, and there it was. A staircase. It spiraled downward, polished stone steps gleaming faintly in the dim light. Unlike the rest of the dungeon, this wasn¡¯t rough-hewn rock or slapdash goblin architecture. This was deliberate. Precise. Made with care. I hesitated. Something about it felt¡­ significant. Not dangerous, exactly. Just not for me. I took a step anyway. The stone was cold beneath my foot, and as I descended, the air thickened. Not physically, but in a way that pressed at the edges of my thoughts, like an idea just out of reach. Then the interface appeared. System Notification: You cannot leave your assigned level with a Raid pending. Return to your designated area. I stopped. Stared at the words floating in front of me, cold and unyielding. ¡°What do you mean I can¡¯t leave?¡± I stared at it, unsure whether to be angry or relieved. The notification didn¡¯t respond. It just hovered there, the digital equivalent of a bored security guard telling you, with absolute certainty, that this part of the club wasn¡¯t for you. I waved a hand through it. Nothing happened. With a sigh, I turned back. Whatever was down there, it wasn¡¯t mine to see. Not yet. Back in the main chamber, the goblins were still working. Or something that resembled work. I lingered at a distance, watching them move. Chaotic but with purpose, like a storm that had briefly agreed to follow instructions. And then I heard it. ¡°More mud!¡± ¡°Jesus chri¡ª¡± Grib interrupted before the string of expletives could escape my mouth. ¡°Boss!¡± Grib trotted over, beaming. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± ¡°Grib,¡± I said. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± ¡°Great! Everyone¡¯s working hard!¡± He gestured to the goblins, who were in the process of dragging¡­ something across the cavern. I decided not to investigate. ¡°Good,¡± I said. ¡°Just... remember what I said, okay? No fighting unless they attack first.¡± Grib nodded solemnly, ears twitching. ¡°We¡¯ll do what you say, Boss.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure if I believed him. But it was the best I was going to get. I sat down near the edge of the chamber, leaning back against the rough stone wall. The timer hovered in my peripheral vision, its numbers ticking down with mechanical indifference. Three hours and thirty-four minutes. It pressed against me¡ªnot literally, of course. I didn¡¯t have much left to press on. But in the way important things always do, demanding to be felt even when you¡¯d really rather not. I tried closing my eyes. Remembered, too late, that I didn¡¯t have eyelids. Instead, I listened. Goblin chatter in the background. The scrape of movement. Somewhere deep in the tunnels, water dripped¡ªsteady, patient, unbothered by my personal crisis. Fairness, I decided, was one of those lies we told ourselves. Like ¡°this won¡¯t hurt a bit¡± or ¡°I¡¯ll hit snooze just once.¡± Life hadn¡¯t been fair. Death hadn¡¯t been fair. And as it turned out, undeath wasn¡¯t interested in fairness either. Chapter 3 - The Adventurers The stone steps sloped sharply downward, surface slick with mud and damp moss. The sort of detail adventurers barely noticed but which dungeons seemed to insist upon. Phosphorescent mushrooms clung stubbornly to the walls, casting just enough light to see by and just enough shadow to make you doubt what you¡¯d seen. Markus led the way, his shield strapped to his back, longsword tight in his grip. ¡°Watch your footing,¡± he said over his shoulder. ¡°Dungeons like this, new ones, always have loose stones and sinkholes. Twist an ankle in the wrong place¡ª¡± ¡°Ah, yes,¡± Raven said dryly, ¡°because a twisted ankle is what kills people. Forget goblins, slimes, and traps. The real danger is poorly maintained flooring.¡± Markus didn¡¯t miss a beat. ¡°It¡¯s the little things that get you.¡± Behind him, Devon snorted, not looking up from his logbook. ¡°Thank the goddess we brought Markus,¡± he said, his quill scratching across the page. ¡°Otherwise, who would keep us safe from the horrors of subpar masonry?¡± ¡°Someone¡¯s got to keep you alive,¡± Markus said, glancing briefly over his shoulder. ¡°And it¡¯s the idiots who underestimate first floors who never make it past them.¡± ¡°I¡¯d take my chances with the floor,¡± Talia said, tapping the butt of her staff against the stone to knock loose some muck. ¡°At least it¡¯s predictable. Goblins? Less so. But we do remember how to handle a first floor, don¡¯t we?¡± ¡°Clearly,¡± Raven muttered, slipping into the shadows ahead, her dark leather armor making her blend in with unnerving ease. ¡°Let¡¯s just hope we¡¯re back in time for the Blue Ox¡¯s lamb stew. It¡¯s market day, and you know how Jorgan gets.¡± ¡°You¡¯re really hung up on that stew,¡± Talia said, adjusting her grip on her staff. ¡°It¡¯s the stew,¡± Raven replied. ¡°The only thing worth eating after a dungeon dive. Don¡¯t mock what you can¡¯t understand.¡± Behind them, Devon and Gray had settled into one of their usual arguments, their voices an undertone of quiet bickering that the rest of the party ignored by unspoken agreement. ¡°If we¡¯re quick about the mapping, we can swing by the guild hall on the way back,¡± Gray said, his tone as serene as ever as he traced a corridor onto his parchment. ¡°It¡¯s not like filing paperwork takes that long.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what you said last time,¡± Devon shot back, scribbling furiously in his logbook without looking up. ¡°And we ended up standing in line for two hours because you needed to discuss stamp variations with the clerk.¡± ¡°Those stamps were important, Devon.¡± ¡°Important to who?¡± ¡°To everyone,¡± Gray said, with the serene certainty of someone who believed it entirely. Devon shook his head. ¡°You know, for a beast tamer, Gray, you never act all woodsy and mysterious. Might as well be a guild representative.¡± Gray, who had been idly patting his wolf, gave the creature a final scratch behind the ears. ¡°Mystery¡¯s overrated.¡± The wolf huffed. Devon groaned and rolled his eyes. He had just begun his retort when the slime hit the ground ahead of them with an audible squelch. A translucent blob of pale green that might have been threatening if it had any real sense of presence. It quivered in place, vibrating with what could have been aggression or simple instability. ¡°Careful,¡± Markus said, steady as ever, though his hand went to his sword. ¡°That thing could¡ª¡± Talia didn¡¯t wait for him to finish. She flicked her staff forward, speaking a brief incantation. A streak of flame shot out, striking the slime squarely in what might have been its center. It let out a wet, almost offended hiss before dissolving into an acrid-smelling puddle. Devon barely glanced up from his logbook. ¡°First-floor bingo,¡± he said cheerily, scratching a note onto the page. ¡°Slime in the first corridor.¡± Talia nudged the remains with the toe of her boot, then wiped it against a patch of dry stone. ¡°The guild manual says slimes in this region are supposed to be gray, not green,¡± she said. ¡°Someone should log the variance.¡± ¡°Maybe the slime didn¡¯t read the manual?¡± Raven chuckled, stepping neatly around the mess. ¡°Slime color matters,¡± Devon replied without looking up. ¡°Dungeons follow patterns. It¡¯s all about the details.¡± Markus gave a faint snort but didn¡¯t take his eyes off the corridor ahead. ¡°Patterns or not, it¡¯s the predictable things that get you killed. People stop paying attention. That¡¯s when mistakes happen.¡± ¡°Right, right,¡± Devon said, waving him off. ¡°We¡¯ll be sure to treat every puddle of green goo like it¡¯s the harbinger of our untimely demise.¡± Talia chuckled under her breath, but Markus didn¡¯t waver. ¡°Every veteran has a story about a first-floor slime taking someone out,¡± he said. ¡°Routine makes people sloppy.¡± They moved deeper, the glow of the mushrooms casting shifting shadows along the stone. The air cooled as they descended, damp and thick, carrying the stale scent of something that had settled before it had fully formed. Gray tapped a quill against his map. ¡°Anyone else noticing something off about these mushrooms?¡± ¡°They¡¯re forming a pattern,¡± Devon murmured, already jotting something down. He traced a spiral in his notes, brow furrowing slightly. ¡°That¡¯s... new.¡± ¡°New isn¡¯t bad,¡± Raven said, though her fingers rested on the hilt of her dagger as she moved. ¡°Just means the dungeon has personality.¡± ¡°Personality is fine,¡± Markus said, resting his hand lightly on his sword. ¡°As long as it¡¯s not the kind that tries to kill us.¡± They rounded the next bend, and the passage widened. The air shifted. Then, from the edge of the gloom, something moved. Talia was the first to react. Her staff flared, a quick pulse of fire streaking outward. The creature barely had time to register the attack before it burst apart, scattering fibrous remains across the stone. A faint, rotting scent followed in its wake. She exhaled and shook out her sleeve. ¡°Write that one down,¡± she said, glancing at Devon. ¡°Mobile mushrooms aren¡¯t unusual, but that one was faster than it should¡¯ve been.¡± Devon didn¡¯t hesitate, already flipping to a fresh page. ¡°Aggressive behavior near the entrance,¡± he muttered. ¡°That¡¯s not standard. Could mean something deeper is¡ª¡± ¡°Less logging, more moving,¡± Raven interrupted. She wasn¡¯t quite tense, but there was a new edge to her focus. ¡°Whatever¡¯s ahead, I¡¯d rather get back to town, the ste¨C¡± Markus cut her off. ¡°Yes, yes, Raven. The stew. We''ll make sure you eat well tonight. All we need to do is map the first floor, clear the boss¨C¡± Raven interrupted him right back. ¡°And loot the place, of course.¡± Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Of course.¡± They pressed forward. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. Not the oppressive weight of something lurking, but the kind of stillness that suggested the dungeon had decided to be still. Gray, normally indifferent to minor shifts in atmosphere, kept glancing toward the walls, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, from the back of the group, Marielle murmured, ¡°Something¡¯s wrong.¡± Markus didn¡¯t break stride. ¡°Wrong how?¡± She hesitated, fingers brushing against the holy symbol at her waist. ¡°Not dangerous,¡± she admitted. ¡°Not yet. Just... off.¡± Markus¡¯s expression hardened slightly, but he only nodded. ¡°Keep moving. Stay sharp.¡± They moved in careful silence. Then the first signs of goblins appeared. Scratches on the walls. Debris scattered along the edges of the path. The lingering scent of smoke. It should have been routine. And yet. Raven was the first to notice them. Not attacking. Not hiding. Watching. A goblin stood at the edge of a side passage, eyes locked on them, its posture unreadable. Raven barely had time to process it before it slipped back into the shadows. Then another appeared. Then another. No war cries. No rushing feet. Just the quiet, deliberate weight of unseen eyes. ¡°This isn¡¯t normal,¡± Raven muttered. Her grip on her dagger was light, but her fingers had curled just a little tighter. ¡°Goblins don¡¯t just watch.¡± The deeper they went, the more the usual signs of goblin infestation surfaced. Crude carvings scratched into the walls, scattered refuse, the lingering scent of old smoke. And then there was the mud. It had started as an inconvenience. A little extra effort with each step, the occasional squelch that announced their presence far too clearly. But as they pressed forward, the mud deepened. It clung, thick and heavy, dragging at their boots like a thing with opinions. Talia frowned, tapping her quill against her map. ¡°Is it just me, or is there¡­ more mud than usual?¡± Devon lifted a foot experimentally. A stubborn strand of sludge stretched between his boot and the ground, fighting separation like an old lover unwilling to let go. He made a face. ¡°I hate mud. It¡¯s sticky.¡± ¡°That¡¯s mud for you,¡± Talia said, rapping her staff against the stone to shake some of it loose. ¡°It¡¯s not supposed to be convenient.¡± ¡°And it¡¯s slippery too,¡± he added, his frustration mounting as he tried to scrape it off against the edge of a rock. ¡°Why is there so much of it?¡± ¡°Maybe it¡¯s a trap,¡± Raven said. Her voice had settled into something lower, something measured. Her eyes scanned the corridor ahead, watching the places where the torchlight didn¡¯t quite reach. ¡°Could be they¡¯re trying to slow us down.¡± ¡°If they wanted to slow us down,¡± Markus said, as steady as ever, ¡°they¡¯d need more than mud.¡± ¡°Speak for yourself,¡± Devon muttered, still trying to free his boot from what was now definitely an enemy combatant. ¡°This stuff is practically glue.¡± ¡°Stay sharp,¡± Markus cut in. He gestured forward, where the corridor widened. ¡°The boss chamber should be close.¡± The mud only got worse. It pooled in uneven patches, streaked the walls where hands, or claws, had smeared it, thickened until it was impossible to step without feeling held. Then the goblins started appearing. Not rushing. Not attacking. Watching. The first one barely registered. Just a shadow at the edge of Raven¡¯s vision, a squat figure lingering at the corridor¡¯s edge. She raised a hand, signaling the others. ¡°Goblin,¡± she murmured. Markus lifted his shield, gaze locking ahead. ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Gone now.¡± Raven¡¯s eyes scanned the gloom, sharp and searching. ¡°It was just¡­ standing there. Watching.¡± Talia glanced around, shifting her grip on her staff. ¡°Goblins don¡¯t do that. They scream. Or charge. Or run. They don¡¯t stare.¡± They pressed forward. Another goblin appeared. This one directly in the center of the corridor. It locked eyes with them, still and silent. Then it stepped backward into the shadows. Then another. And another. ¡°They¡¯re everywhere,¡± Talia whispered. ¡°Why aren¡¯t they attacking?¡± Devon asked and, for once, there was no humor in it. He exhaled, closing his logbook with an audible snap. His earlier confidence had dulled into something quieter. ¡°Maybe they¡¯re sizing us up. Or waiting.¡± Markus didn¡¯t hesitate. ¡°Stay together. No one moves unless I say.¡± The goblins didn¡¯t attack. They didn¡¯t run. They just¡­ existed. Always just out of reach, slipping between patches of darkness, their presence a quiet, deliberate thing. The stillness settled, thick and pressing. Marielle, who rarely spoke without reason, tightened her grip on her holy symbol. ¡°This isn¡¯t right,¡± she murmured. ¡°There¡¯s something else here.¡± No one argued. The corridor ended abruptly, spilling into a wide chamber where the air felt wrong. Weapons came up. The space had all the usual hallmarks of a goblin lair. Uneven stone, damp furs clinging to the walls, barricades made from bones and scrap wood, the kind of crude ingenuity that only barely held itself together. And yet. Something was off. The air carried more than just the usual stink of mildew and rot. It pressed against their skin, a weight they couldn¡¯t quite name. Not enough to choke. Just enough to make every step feel a little harder, a little more deliberate. Talia exhaled slowly, fingers flexing around her staff. ¡°Then what is it?¡± she asked, quieter now. No one answered. The silence stretched. Then Raven¡¯s voice, low and controlled: ¡°Up ahead. There¡¯s something.¡± At first, it barely registered. The faint blue glow of the mushrooms distorted its outline, bending the shadows around it. But as they moved closer, the shape came into focus. Near the far wall, standing motionless, was a figure. A skeletal form wrapped in pale, flickering light. The faint shimmer of its bones caught the glow from the chamber, and twin pinpricks of blue flame burned steadily in its sockets. It didn¡¯t move. It didn¡¯t speak. But the weight of it filled the room, the kind of presence that turned silence into something else. The adventurers stopped as one. Marielle¡¯s fingers clenched around her holy symbol. ¡°By all the gods¡­ that¡¯s a lich.¡± The words landed heavily, breaking something unspoken. Raven¡¯s dagger was already in her hand, her knuckles white against the hilt. ¡°That¡¯s impossible,¡± she said quietly. ¡°A lich on the first floor? That doesn¡¯t happen.¡± ¡°Well,¡± Devon muttered, his voice lower than before. ¡°It¡¯s happening now.¡± Markus adjusted his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable. ¡°No one acts without my signal.¡± Talia¡¯s fingers twitched where they hovered at her side, instinct already drawing on the shape of a spell. ¡°It hasn¡¯t attacked yet.¡± ¡°Yet,¡± Raven echoed. Marielle¡¯s holy symbol pulsed faintly in her grip, its light steady but dim. ¡°We need to leave,¡± she said, her voice firmer now. ¡°Whatever this is¡­ we¡¯re not prepared.¡± But even as she spoke, they all knew the truth. There was no way back. The polished stone behind them stretched long and empty, a corridor that had led them here and would not easily let them return. Not with a Lich casting spells at them. The lich tilted its head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. Markus exhaled, voice low and measured. ¡°It knows we¡¯re trapped.¡± Chapter 4 - Edgar The problem with being a walking skeleton is that people tend to skip introductions and go straight to the part where they try to kill you. The adventurers at the edge of the chamber hadn¡¯t moved yet, but I could see it in their eyes¡ªthe frantic mental page-flipping through whatever monster manual they¡¯d memorized, cross-referencing ¡°talking lich¡± with ¡°acceptable reasons not to immediately set it on fire.¡± The results didn¡¯t look promising. Their weapons weren¡¯t raised yet, but their hands hovered, waiting for some unspoken threshold to be crossed. Maybe it would be a sudden movement. Maybe it would be the wrong tone of voice. Or maybe it was just existing for too long. Unfortunately, my track record with not making things worse was spotty at best. I straightened instinctively, adjusting my posture into something I hoped suggested competence. Professional, maybe? Intimidating? Approachable? I wasn¡¯t sure what I was aiming for, to be honest. Anything that said ¡°things don¡¯t have to be this way¡± without giving away the terror ringing in my skull. ¡°Uh¡­¡± My voice scraped out, dry and hollow, the sound of ancient crypts and bad decisions. The adventurers flinched in perfect, synchronized horror. ¡°¡­Welcome to the dungeon! And thank you for visiting today.¡± Silence. Not the usual silence. Not the awkward kind, or the unimpressed kind, or the kind where people are waiting for someone else to speak. This was the kind of silence that had mass. Like if I took a step forward, I might bump into it. The leader¡ªbig guy, shield raised, jaw clenched¡ªshifted his weight ever so slightly, like a man who had just realized he was inside a bear¡¯s mouth and didn¡¯t want to make any sudden movements. Great start, Edgar. Absolutely nailed it. I coughed, or at least, I tried to. It came out as a rattling wheeze, which, in hindsight, was probably not the reassuring gesture I had intended. ¡°Now, I understand you may have questions,¡± I said quickly, raising my hands in what I hoped was the universal please don¡¯t kill me position. ¡°And I¡¯d be happy to address those for you. But first, let me assure you: I am here to help.¡± The mage took half a step back. ¡°What¡­ is it doing?¡± ¡°Talking,¡± the rogue muttered. ¡°Liches don¡¯t talk much. They kill.¡± Oh, come on. This was worse than working for an insurance company. But I had to try anyway. ¡°Listen, I think we can all agree that good communication is key to resolving any conflict.¡± She looked at me, dagger in hand, like I was something that she both wanted to kill which had also just suggested she take interpretive dance lessons. The mage tightened her grip on her staff. ¡°It¡¯s trying to trick us. Don¡¯t listen!¡± I could hear the fear in her voice. ¡°That¡¯s a valid concern,¡± I said, nodding as if she¡¯d just made an excellent point, trying to sound as calming as possible. ¡°But I¡¯d like to clarify that I¡¯m not here to harm anyone,¡± I continued. ¡°In fact, I¡¯d prefer we avoid conflict altogether. Your safety is very important to us.¡± The leader hesitated. Doubt crossed his face, just for a second. ¡°Our safety?¡± ¡°Yes, absolutely,¡± I said. ¡°I understand that this can be a stressful experience. This is stressful for me too. But I want to assure you, this dungeon floor is under new management, and we¡¯re currently exploring less¡­ murder-heavy ways to engage with adventurers.¡± ¡°Boss,¡± Grib hissed behind me. ¡°That not what you said earlier.¡± ¡°Not now, Grib.¡± I turned back to the adventurers, keeping my voice calm, reassuring. ¡°Anyway! I¡¯d be happy to discuss any concerns or work together toward a solution that benefits everyone.¡± The rogue¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°What kind of lich talks like this?¡± ¡°What kind of anything talks like this?¡± the leader asked. ¡°The polite kind of anything?¡± I tried. ¡°Is it stalling?¡± The rogue spoke again. ¡°Preparing a spell?¡± ¡°No, no spells,¡± I said quickly, raising my hands again. ¡°Just good, old-fashioned dialogue. Liches have a reputation, and I know trust takes time to build, but I promise you¡­ I am not your average undead overlord.¡± The cleric, who had been clutching her holy symbol like it might spontaneously catch fire, finally spoke. ¡°It¡¯s lying,¡± she said, voice shaking with conviction. ¡°It has to be. Liches don¡¯t negotiate.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a fair point,¡± I conceded, nodding in the same way I used to when customers told me their toaster had personally wronged them. ¡°And I completely understand your hesitation. But if we could just take a moment to¡ª¡± ¡°Boss,¡± Grib whispered urgently. ¡°They look very stabby.¡± ¡°Yes, I noticed,¡± I whispered back. ¡°Please don¡¯t escalate.¡± ¡°But stab¡ª¡± ¡°No stabbing.¡± ¡°Not even a little?¡± I turned slowly and gave him the kind of glare I reserved for people who microwaved fish in office break rooms. ¡°Grib,¡± I said, voice low. ¡°If you stab anyone right now¡ª¡± And that¡¯s when I made the mistake of looking back at the adventurers. Something had changed. They hadn¡¯t moved, but the air had shifted. That fragile tension¡ªthat hesitant maybe we should hear him out¡ªwas gone. Their fear had settled. Hardened. The mage exhaled sharply, like something had finally clicked into place. She raised her staff. "He¡¯s toying with us." A pause. Barely a breath. But the energy in the room changed. "Oh, for crying out loud¡ª" I started. But the cleric was already stepping forward, holy symbol flaring. Her voice rang out, deafening in the stillness. "By the goddess, we must end this now! By the light of the Ever-Radiant, scourge of shadows, beacon of¡ª¡± ¡°Okay, I get it,¡± I interrupted, raising a bony hand. ¡°Very holy, very bright. You¡¯re doing great.¡± She glared at me, undeterred. ¡°¡ªbeacon of justice, may your radiant chains bind this unholy abomination. Hold Undead!¡± The words echoed through the chamber, carried on a wave of searing energy that raced toward me like divine payback for every irreverent thought I¡¯d ever had. The magic coiled around me, locking onto my form with the kind of relentless efficiency I¡¯d only ever seen in tax audits. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Before it could take hold, a prompt blinked into my vision: Offensive spell incoming. If not countered, First Floor Boss will be unable to act for 1 hour. Would you like to counter the spell? [Yes] [No] I stared at the prompt, weighing my options. If I countered the spell, I might avoid being frozen in place. But let¡¯s be honest, the room was already wound tighter than Grib¡¯s favorite bucket handle. Any sudden display of power would only convince them I was plotting something nefarious. ¡°Not helping,¡± I muttered at the system and selected No. The spell hit me like a thunderclap of holy judgment, my entire skeletal body seizing up with an audible crack. My arms froze mid-gesture, one still raised in a reassuring ¡°let¡¯s all calm down¡± pose. My legs locked, my spine stiffened, and even my glowing blue eye sockets dimmed slightly, as if the spell had decided my vibe was too relaxed for a lich. ¡°There,¡± I rasped, my voice reduced to a hollow echo. ¡°You got me. I¡¯m held. Can we talk now?¡± The room fell silent. The adventurers weren¡¯t moving. Which should have been a good thing. Except they also weren¡¯t lowering their weapons, and their expressions were locked somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and the kind of reflexive disgust usually reserved for finding out your sandwich has a surprise raisin in it. The cleric stood stiff, her holy symbol trembling slightly in her grip. Like she hadn¡¯t fully expected her spell to work. ¡°I think it¡¯s bluffing,¡± the rogue muttered, though she didn¡¯t sound entirely convinced. ¡°Liches can fake that, right?¡± ¡°Oh, sure,¡± I said, jaw rattling. ¡°This is all part of my master plan. I wanted to be completely paralyzed. Really adds to the intimidation factor.¡± The rogue¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°See? It¡¯s still talking.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I said, exasperated. ¡°Because that¡¯s all I can do. Or would you rather I just sit here and rattle ominously?¡± The leader hesitated. His sword didn¡¯t lower, but his grip adjusted. A fraction. A pause. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ not going to resist?¡± I exhaled. Dry, hollow. ¡°Resist what? You hit me with your big shiny spell. What do you want me to do, wiggle my eyebrows at you menacingly?¡± The leader¡¯s expression shifted. Something cracked, just a little. ¡°You¡¯re not what I expected,¡± he admitted, voice careful. ¡°Thanks,¡± I said. ¡°I think.¡± The cleric¡¯s knuckles went white. ¡°We can¡¯t trust it,¡± she snapped. ¡°Liches don¡¯t negotiate.¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, eye-lights dimming slightly. ¡°Because I¡¯m such a textbook example of proper undead etiquette.¡± Her face flushed. The glow of her holy symbol pulsed, like she was actively considering skipping straight to the smiting. The leader didn¡¯t react. But he was still thinking. That was the problem. He was thinking. And that meant there was a chance¡ªa small, stupid, fragile chance¡ªthat this wouldn¡¯t end in blood. Until the rogue moved. ¡°We should finish this now,¡± she said, slipping closer, voice low and sharp. ¡°It¡¯s toying with us. Whatever it¡¯s planning, it won¡¯t wait long.¡± ¡°Oh yes, because I¡¯m in such a position to execute brilliant schemes,¡± I said, tone knife-sharp with sarcasm. ¡°Look, if I had a grand plan, don¡¯t you think I¡¯d be¡­ you know, doing it?¡± ¡°Maybe it¡¯s biding its time?¡± The mage held her glowing staff, the subtle buzz of magic growing instead of fading. ¡°I AM LITERALLY FROZEN IN PLACE,¡± I shouted. ¡°What do you think I¡¯m going to do? Haunt you with bad vibes?¡± Grib, bless his stupid little goblin heart, picked exactly the worst moment to chime in. ¡°Boss, you okay? Should I throw mud at them?¡± I clenched my nonexistent teeth. ¡°No, Grib,¡± I hissed. ¡°No mud. Absolutely no mud. Stay where you are.¡± The goblins muttered among themselves, clearly displeased with this new no-stabbing, no-mud policy. And worse, the adventurers noticed it too. Their gazes flicked between me and the goblins, their stances tightening. ¡°Boss,¡± Grib said, voice quieter now. ¡°They¡¯re looking at us funny.¡± A pause. Then, more hesitant: ¡°Can we stab just a little?¡± ¡°Grib, I swear, if you stab anyone¡ª¡± The leader moved first. ¡°Enough,¡± he snapped, voice cutting through the air like a blade. He turned to his party, his decision already made. ¡°This isn¡¯t worth it. We¡¯re not equipped for this.¡± He exhaled, a slow, measured breath. ¡°None of us have a weapon or spell that could even scratch a lich. And we can¡¯t risk breaking Marielle¡¯s spell.¡± For a moment¡ªjust for a moment¡ªI thought I had won. Then he finished. ¡°We should take advantage of the lucky prayer.¡± The cleric¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°You¡¯re saying we should leave it?¡± she asked, horrified. ¡°Let this¡­ thing keep existing?¡± ¡°I¡¯m saying we kill the goblins, loot the area, and get out before that thing can move again.¡± His tone was final. He wasn¡¯t suggesting anymore. ¡°We¡¯re not here to die.¡± Silence stretched. Then the rogue stepped forward. ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± she murmured, her dagger catching the faintest glint before vanishing into the folds of her cloak. ¡°We can¡¯t fight it.¡± A beat. Then her gaze slid to the edges of the chamber. ¡°But the goblins?¡± She smiled. ¡°That we can handle.¡± Something in my chest went cold. ¡°No, wait a second¡­ Just¨C,¡± I rasped, my voice bouncing off the stone. ¡°What are you doing? Wait! Stop! Let¡¯s just talk about this!¡± The adventurers didn¡¯t stop. They moved with the trained precision of people who had done this before. Quick, controlled, deadly. The leader raised his shield and advanced, slow and methodical, his sword held low but ready. The rogue disappeared into the shadows, her dagger glinting before vanishing. The mage muttered under her breath, her staff beginning to glow, power humming in the air. ¡°No,¡± I said, my voice cracking. ¡°Listen to me. You don¡¯t have to do this.¡± The cleric¡¯s holy symbol burned with light. The beast tamer knelt beside his wolf, murmuring commands. The animal slinked forward, low and silent, eyes locked on the goblins. I couldn¡¯t move. But I could see everything. I could see the goblins fidgeting, their wide, nervous eyes darting between me and the adventurers. They weren¡¯t ready for this. They didn¡¯t know what to do. Their Bone King had told them not to stab. And now their enemies were closing in, weapons drawn, and the only order I could give them was to run. I swallowed back the panic rising in my skull. ¡°Grib,¡± I said, my voice shaking. ¡°Run. Get everyone out of here. Now.¡± Grib hesitated. His bucket dangled loosely from one hand, the spear trembling in the other. His wide, beady eyes flicked between me and the adventurers, ears twitching, shoulders tight. He didn¡¯t want to run. He didn¡¯t want to leave me behind. "Grib," I said, my voice raw. "Please. Take the others and go." For a second, I thought he might. He took a half-step back, grip tightening on his spear, ears drooping just slightly. The other goblins murmured, shifting their weight, waiting for an order that might never come. Then his back straightened. His ears flicked up. He planted his feet. "No," he said, and raised his spear high. "For the Bone King!" The goblins froze. Then, one by one, they echoed it back. "For the Bone King!" A rusted blade lifted into the air. "For the Bone King!" A crude club. A stolen kitchen knife. A sharpened stick. "No," I rasped, the sound rattling in my skull. "Not for the Bone King. Run." But it was already too late. Grib charged, little legs pumping, spear aimed forward, his war cry ringing through the cavern. The others followed, a ragged wave of mud, sticks, and absolute, misplaced loyalty. The rogue struck first. A blur of steel, a flash of movement. A goblin with a bent stick didn¡¯t even have time to turn before the dagger found his throat, a clean, quick line across his skin. He crumpled instantly. The mage¡¯s staff flared, and a dart of flame ripped through the air. It struck another goblin square in the chest. He let out a strangled, choking cry as his body went up in flames, his crude leather armor igniting like dry tinder. His limbs flailed, mouth open in what might have been a scream if his lungs weren¡¯t already burning. The smell hit next. Burning flesh. I screamed, my voice cracking. "Stop! You don¡¯t have to do this!" The adventurers didn¡¯t even look at me. The wolf leapt, fangs flashing, locking onto a goblin half its size. The goblin shrieked, flailing wildly, but it was already over. The wolf ripped out his throat. A twitch. A gurgle. Stillness. The leader waded through the chaos like a force of nature, shield raised, sword moving in brutal, methodical arcs. Each swing ended something. A goblin rushed him with a sharpened stick, screaming all the way. Markus didn¡¯t even blink. His shield slammed forward, smashing the goblin to the ground, and before the poor thing could even lift his head, the sword followed. A sharp, clean thrust. Through the chest. A sickening, final crunch. I couldn¡¯t move. I couldn¡¯t look away. My Deathly Perception forced me to see everything¡ªthe blood that splattered the stone, the way the wolf tossed a body aside like a ragdoll, the faint, awful sound of bones breaking under steel. And still, Grib was standing. His bucket in one hand, his spear in the other. He was shouting, voice raw, body shaking, rallying the last of the goblins. "Fight!" he roared. "For the Bone King!" "No!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "Grib, run!" He didn¡¯t. The mage turned, staff flaring. Another dart of flame shot across the room, crackling with heat. It struck Grib¡¯s bucket. The flames engulfed it instantly. He staggered back, the fire licking up the sides, his fingers singing black. But he didn¡¯t drop it. He lifted the flaming bucket like a shield, teeth bared in a snarl, and hurled his spear with everything he had. The spear flew true. It buried itself in the mage¡¯s leg. She screamed, a sharp, raw noise, and collapsed to the ground. The goblins let out a ragged cheer. A fleeting, desperate, moment of triumph. It didn¡¯t matter. It was already over. Grib turned to the others, eyes blazing with something fierce, something unstoppable. "See?" he shouted. "The Bone King guides us! We can¡ª" He didn¡¯t finish the sentence. The warrior was already there. He loomed over Grib like a storm rolling in, his shield casting a long shadow that swallowed the little goblin whole. For just a second, just one awful second, Grib froze. His spear hand was empty. His bucket still smoldering. Then the sword came down. A single, brutal arc. Through Grib. It split him nearly in two. A wet, visceral sound ripped through the cavern, the spray of blood painting the stone. Grib hit the ground in nearly two pieces. His bucket clattered next to him. The flames snuffed out as it rolled to a stop. I screamed, my voice breaking against the chamber walls. I begged. I howled. But it didn¡¯t matter. Grib didn¡¯t move. Chapter 5 I couldn¡¯t move. Not even a twitch. The divine magic holding me wasn¡¯t just a spell. It was a sentence, locking me in place, forcing me to watch. Grib¡¯s body lay in the center of the chamber, crumpled and split. His blood seeped into the stone, pooling like spilled ink. His bucket sat a few feet away, still smoldering, blackened from the mage''s fire. He had fought for me. Believed in me. And now he was... I couldn¡¯t bring myself to finish the thought. ¡°Well, that¡¯s done,¡± the rogue said. Her voice was too casual. Wrong in the way that I imagine Death would be on a playground. She knelt beside Grib¡¯s body, her dagger catching the glow of the mushrooms as she reached for his hand. ¡°Stop,¡± I rasped. She slid the ring from Grib¡¯s fingers and held it up to the light. ¡°This¡¯ll fetch something nice.¡± She tucked it into her pouch. ¡°He¡¯s not going to miss it.¡± Something deep inside me twisted. ¡°I said don¡¯t. Leave him.¡± Her smirk widened. ¡°Relax, bone boy. You¡¯re lucky we left your skull attached.¡± ¡°Enough, Raven,¡± the leader snapped. His voice was sharp, tired. His shield was still raised, like he expected me to lunge at him. An insult, considering I couldn¡¯t even move my goddamn arms. The cleric turned, her holy symbol still glowing in her grip. Despite the conviction I heard, her voice was thin. ¡°A lich on the first floor¡­ it¡¯s unnatural. We need to contact the church.¡± ¡°I can barely tolerate you,¡± the rogue quipped. ¡°And you want a bishop to join the party?¡± ¡°Get ready, lich,¡± the leader said, fixing me with a look that wasn¡¯t quite pity, but wasn¡¯t far from it. ¡°You won¡¯t survive the next encounter.¡± They left. Their footsteps faded into the tunnels, their voices vanishing like they had never been here at all. And Grib was still dead. The spell wore off a few minutes later. I collapsed forward like a bony ragdoll, weightless and useless. I could move again, but It didn¡¯t feel like freedom. If anything, the weight pressing on me had only grown heavier. I pulled myself upright. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. The chamber was different. Not darker. Not colder. Just¡­ emptier. Like something had been cut out of it. A piece removed. A voice gone. I made my way to where Grib lay, each step dragging me deeper into some darkness I¡¯d never experienced before. I knelt beside his body, my hands hovering uselessly over him, fingers curling and uncurling, desperate for something to do but terrified of touching him. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Grib,¡± I whispered. The words were nothing. Sorry didn¡¯t fix anything. Sorry didn¡¯t mean anything. Sorry was a placeholder for something that should have mattered, but didn¡¯t. A sharp, unwelcome heat flared in my chest. Anger. It was ridiculous. An emotion I couldn¡¯t justify considering this was my own damned fault¡­ but there it was, hot and wild and insistent. I stood abruptly, skeletal hands curling into fists. I needed to do something. Anything. My gaze caught the faint trail of blood leading out of the chamber. The mage¡¯s blood, from where Grib¡¯s spear had found its mark. A thin, winding thread leading me forward. I didn¡¯t think. I just started walking. The cave mouth was just ahead. A jagged, yawning wound in the dungeon, leaking daylight in thin, desperate strands. I could see it¡ªjust barely. A sliver of sky beyond the rocks. A hint of green. The world outside. I ran for it. And slammed into something that wasn¡¯t there. It stopped me cold. No warning, no resistance to push through¡ªjust a sudden, absolute no. I staggered back, shaking off the shock, then reached forward. My fingers met nothing. The air should have been empty, but it wasn¡¯t. Something was there, unseen and unmoving, pressing back with an impersonal, unyielding force. I pushed harder. It didn¡¯t give. I curled my fingers into a fist and hit it. Bone met nothing. Bone met everything. A solid wall of refusal that rang up my arm like an insult. ¡°Let me through!¡± I shouted, slamming my fists against it. The sound of bone on magic cracked through the cavern. ¡°They killed him! Let me through!¡± The system responded. Cold. Detached. Indifferent. Notice: You are not allowed to leave your assigned dungeon. I hit it again. Harder. Again. And again. My fists clattered uselessly against it, but I didn¡¯t stop. Couldn¡¯t stop. My anger came in sharp, chaotic bursts, breaking through the silence because something had to break. Beyond the barrier, the blood trail stretched toward the outside, fading into the distance, leading somewhere I would never reach. Nothing had changed. But everything was different. And behind me, Grib¡¯s body waited. I turned back. Walked to him. This time, when I knelt, I let my hands rest on his shoulder. His face was frozen in the same determined expression he¡¯d worn in life. ¡°You idiot,¡± I said. He had trusted me. Fought for me. Died for me. And what had I done? If I was able to cry¡­ I¡¯d never felt the sensation of tears that couldn¡¯t exist until right this moment. And it was definitely one of the worst things I¡¯d ever experienced. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Grib,¡± I said again. ¡°I should¡¯ve stopped them. I should¡¯ve done¡­ something.¡± And then the system UI appeared. The words hovered in the air, clear and wrong in the dim glow of the cavern. Recommendation: Create Undead. Would you like to raise Grib - Goblin Leader? Your current soul counter is 0/1. I froze. My hands hovered over Grib¡¯s broken body. The prompt did not move. Would you like to raise Grib? I couldn¡¯t speak. I couldn¡¯t move. I could only stare. Chapter 6 The words floated in front of me, glowing faintly in the gloom. Recommendation: Create undead. Would you like to raise Grib - Goblin Leader? Your current soul counter is 0/1. I stared at the prompt, my thoughts tangled in a knot of disbelief and guilt. Create undead? Are you serious? This thing was telling me I could bring him back? Grib, who had fought for me when I didn¡¯t even fight for myself? But could I? Should I? I looked at his body¡ªwell, his halves. His split form lay in a pool of blood that had long since stopped spreading. His right hand was still clenched, as if gripping a spear that wasn¡¯t there anymore, while his left had fallen slack. His face, or what was visible of it from this angle, was frozen in determination. Grib had believed in me. Fought for me. Died for me. How could I not try? ¡°I owe him.¡± My voice cracked under the weight of it. ¡°I owe him at least this.¡± The prompt flickered, waiting for my decision. ¡°Yes,¡± I said, the word brittle as it passed my teeth. ¡°Do it.¡± The system responded instantly: Corpse reanimated. Grib - Goblin Leader is now Goblin Zombie. A groan arose from the body. Horrific and pained, coming from either side of his mangled mouth. Would you like to retrieve his soul? ¡°Retrieve his soul? What¡­ yes?¡± I managed to stutter, looking at the escalating horror before me. Soul restored. Grib - Goblin Zombie is now Grib - Awakened Corpse. The light of the prompt dimmed, and for a moment, the room fell silent. I waited, holding my breath¡ªnot that I needed it anymore¡ªbut nothing happened. And then something did. Grib¡¯s two halves twitched, then yanked apart, like a wishbone splitting under tension. I froze as his right side tried to sit up while his left half scrabbled against the floor, kicking itself in circles in the process. His right torso twisted, movements jerky and confused, like a puppet with two hands on different strings. ¡°Grib?¡± I said, my voice trembling. Relief and horror fought for control. His right hand flailed upward, his fingers curling weakly before slamming back onto the ground. His left leg tried to do the same, but without the rest of him attached, it mostly ended up booting his other half. ¡°Oh,¡± I said, staring in mounting panic. ¡°Oh no. Oh no, no, no.¡± The two halves were now fully animated, each moving independently. His right side twisted aimlessly, waving it¡¯s arm in uneven circles, flailing like it was searching for something¡ªor possibly trying to fight the floor. His left tried to stagger upright, its good foot wobbling before promptly losing balance and collapsing into a kicking, writhing mess. ¡°Grib!¡± I shouted, my voice cracking. ¡°Oh my god, I¡¯m so sorry. I didn¡¯t mean for this to¡ªstop moving! Just¡ªoh, no. What do I do? What do I do?¡± Grib¡¯s right hand managed to prop himself up briefly before slipping sideways again, his movements jerky and uneven. I froze, staring as his mangled jaw flapped in what I could only guess was an attempt to form words. He started making noises like a man gargling water and smooth rocks, which, by some miracle, i seemed to understand. Talking. He was talking. The right side spoke up. ¡°Boss! Grib... Grib alive! Grib confused! Where¡¯s¡ªgghhkk¡ªrest of Grib?¡± From the corner of my eye, I noticed his left half lurching upright in an unsteady wobble. It took a step. Then another. Then a weird little spin, like it had somewhere important to be. Grib¡¯s left side groaned, his half-mouth slurring the words like he was chewing gravel. ¡°Boss! Gggghhkk... Grib¡¯s other Grib being rude! Tell¡ªffzttch¡ªGrib come back to Grib!¡± ¡°Oh my god,¡± I muttered, pacing in a tight circle as panic clawed at my ribs¡ªor, well, the metaphorical space where ribs used to be. ¡°Grib, I... Oh no. Oh, no no no. This is bad. This is so bad.¡± Grib¡¯s left side, unburdened by any sense of coordination or decency, lurched forward again. It slipped on the blood, kicking up a spray before collapsing in a heap. His right half let out an indignant squawk as it flopped onto its side, one arm flailing for balance before falling to the floor and lurching its way over to the other half. ¡°Grib!¡± the left side of his mouth managed to rasp out, the words slurring into each other. ¡°Grib half here... grhhrghh... and half there! Boss fix?¡± ¡°Boss fix!¡± the right side of his jaw echoed, slightly clearer but no less horrifying. His voice was like two broken wind chimes trying to harmonize. ¡°Grib strong! Just... just need... ggk...!¡± Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°Hold still!¡± I shouted, waving my hands in what I hoped was a universal gesture for stop moving. ¡°Please, just¡ªstop! Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad.¡± Grib¡¯s left side twitched as if offended by the suggestion. It heaved itself upright again, shaking off excess blood like an oversized dog, before launching into a sideways charge straight toward the rest of him. ¡°Other Grib!¡± the left side gurgled. ¡°Other Grib¡ªstop¡ªgrbbbghh¡ªattacking Grib!¡± ¡°Grib fine!¡± the right side retorted, though the flailing arms and smacking limbs suggested otherwise. ¡°Boss... tell legs... work with Grib!¡± I was pretty sure I was going to lose whatever remained of my sanity when the system chimed in, its infuriating neutrality cutting through the chaos: First undead created. Skill acquired: Mend Undead. ¡°Oh, thanks,¡± I said through gritted teeth, glaring at the prompt as if it could feel my frustration. ¡°Couldn¡¯t have mentioned that sooner, could you?¡± Grib¡¯s right side managed to roll onto its back, his eyes wide with panic as his left side flopped on top of him, an uncoordinated tangle of limbs. ¡°Boss!¡± one side wheezed. ¡°Other Grib¡ªgghhk¡ªbeing mean! Grib needs fixing!¡± ¡°Fix! Fix!¡± the right side agreed, though its attempt at enthusiasm was undercut by the fact that his upper half was currently trying to wrestle his own knees. I fumbled with the interface, my skeletal fingers trembling as I accessed the skill. A pale, steady light appeared in my hands, and I stepped toward the flailing mess that was Grib. ¡°Mend Undead!¡± I shouted, pushing the light toward him. The effect was instant. The chaotic movements stopped as his two halves were enveloped in a soft glow. Bones clicked into place, sinew stretched and reconnected, and with a final, wet schlorp, Grib¡¯s body snapped back together. He blinked at me, his two eyes finally aligned for the first time in minutes. His expression shifted from confusion to awe. ¡°Boss fix Grib!¡± he patted himself down, pausing to wiggle his fingers and toes separately, just to be sure. ¡°Grib... whole again! Better! Grib feel good! Strong! Like new bucket!¡± I slumped against the wall, letting my skull clunk back against the stone. ¡°Great, Grib,¡± I muttered. ¡°Glad one of us feels good.¡± Grib hopped to his feet like nothing had happened. ¡°Grib ready for orders! Stab humans? Hug humans? Stab, then hug?¡± I groaned, rubbing at the spot where my temples used to be. ¡°No stabbing. No hugging. Just... stay still. Please.¡± He plopped down instantly, cross-legged, grinning ear to ear. ¡°Grib wait! Grib good at waiting!¡± I let out a slow, rattling sigh, my thoughts tangled in a chaotic knot of relief, guilt, and disbelief. The system had given me a way to bring him back¡­ but what had I actually brought back? And what did that say about me? Grib tilted his head. ¡°Boss need nap? Boss look tired.¡± A dry, humorless laugh scraped out of me. ¡°Yeah, Grib. Something like that.¡± His grin stretched even wider. But something in his unwavering enthusiasm made my nonexistent chest tighten. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re okay,¡± I said. ¡°You are okay, right?¡± Grib blinked, then wiggled his fingers, his toes. And, because he was Grib, his ears. He nodded so hard his head tilted to one side before snapping back into place with an audible click. ¡°Grib okay!¡± he declared. ¡°Better than okay! Grib perfect! Grib best!¡± I exhaled, the weight in my voice betraying how much I needed to hear that. ¡°That¡¯s... good.¡± Grib¡¯s excitement dimmed just a little. His eyes drifted around the room, landing on the bodies of his fallen comrades. His ears drooped. The brightness in his expression flickered. He turned back to me, voice small. ¡°Boss... can you bring back others? Like Grib?¡± The question hit harder than I expected. I followed his gaze to the scattered corpses, each one frozen in that awful, final stillness. They had fought for me. Trusted me. Died for me. And now they were gone. The system interface flickered to life at my command. The soul counter glared at me like an accusation. Soul Counter: 1/1 I swallowed the answer before it could hurt. ¡°I don¡¯t think I can, Grib. Not right now.¡± Grib didn¡¯t react at first. With a small sigh, he turned to the nearest fallen goblin. ¡°Live for Bone King¡­¡± He reached out and patted the corpse on the back. ¡°Die for Bone King.¡± I had no words for that. But I did have a choice. The interface flickered at the edge of my vision, patient, waiting. I hadn¡¯t summoned it, but it was there anyway. Create Undead still glowed in the list. Ready. Available. The Soul Counter read 1/1. Full. I didn¡¯t know the mechanics. Didn¡¯t know the rules. But I was pretty sure that meant if I did bring them back, it wouldn¡¯t be them. Not really. Not like Grib. Their souls were already claimed. By the System, by the afterlife, or by whatever the hell handled those things in this world. And Create Undead¡­ It didn¡¯t say Raise Dead. It didn¡¯t say Resurrection. It didn¡¯t say Cure Death Stuff. It was necromancy. . There had been a brief moment before Grib¡¯s soul was restored. I saw his halves twitch. Groan. Move like something was pulling them rather than having any kind of agency. And I wasn¡¯t ready for that. Not yet. So I said nothing. I glanced at the corpses. At Grib. At the faint blood trail leading to the exit. I wasn¡¯t just some skeleton in a cave anymore. I was a dungeon boss. And I honestly had no idea what the hell that meant. The adventurers would come back. They¡¯d said so, and I believed them. This time, they wouldn¡¯t hesitate. They¡¯d bring someone stronger. Someone who wouldn¡¯t stop until I was dust. And I had to do something. I swallowed the unease creeping through me. ¡°Grib,¡± I said. ¡°We have work to do.¡± He perked up immediately, ears twitching. ¡°Yes, Boss! What we do? More traps? Better mud?¡± ¡°Not... quite,¡± I said, already thinking ahead. ¡°But we¡¯re going to need all the help we can get.¡± Grib grinned, full-force again. ¡°Grib get ready! For Bone King!¡± He darted off before I could stop him, leaving me alone with the bodies, the blood, and the silence. I let out a long, rattling breath and turned toward the chamber opening that led to the dark entrance of the dungeon. The adventurers would be back. And all I knew is that I¡¯d better be ready. Chapter 7 There was a time when my life was as far from magical as humanly possible. I was thirty-five years old, living in a city so forgettable even its postcards felt apologetic, and working in customer service¡ªa job that seemed less like a career and more like a slow-motion punishment for every bad decision I¡¯d ever made. Creativity had been the dream once. I¡¯d wanted to write, or maybe sketch, or build something that made people pause and think, Wow, someone put their soul into this. But dreams were heavy things. My parents had insisted on something practical. The neighbors¡¯ son was going into computer science, they¡¯d said. It was a smart field, they¡¯d said. And so, in the face of expectations I hadn¡¯t been brave enough to challenge, I traded my sketchbooks and notebooks for coding textbooks and late-night debugging sessions. I was good at it, too. Algorithms clicked, data structures made sense, and I could write a sorting function in my sleep. But I hated every second of it. The endless grind, the corporate kiss-assing with performative enthusiasm for ¡°hustling,¡± and the gnawing realization that I didn¡¯t care about the problems I was solving. I cared even less about the people I was solving them for. I lasted three years before burning out. Not a dramatic burnout, no fiery exits or main character energy. Just a quiet unraveling, like a shirt losing its last button. I retreated to the relative anonymity of remote call center work, trading debugging for customer complaints. It wasn¡¯t a glamorous career move, but it paid the bills and let me stay in my apartment, where the only person I had to impress was myself. I couldn¡¯t count the number of times I¡¯d answered the phone with, ¡°Hi, my name¡¯s Ed with insert tech company here, how can I help you?¡± The words came out automatically, a script burned so deep into my brain that I probably could¡¯ve recited it under anesthesia. ¡°Man, your life must really suck,¡± one caller had said after I¡¯d patiently walked him through the soul-crushingly mundane process of unplugging his router and plugging it back in. He wasn¡¯t wrong. And now here I was, walking down the second floor of a dungeon, an undead goblin at my side. The smooth walls around me glowed faintly with the light of hundreds of crystals placed so neatly it was hard not to picture some unseen dungeon decorator painstakingly arranging them for maximum ambiance. Everything here was deliberate, crafted, in stark contrast to the chaos of the first floor. The floor was laid out in clean, deliberate angles that were almost surgical. Even the puddles, though still inexplicably present, gave the impression they had been placed there by someone who thought ¡°damp¡± was an essential part of a well-balanced dungeon. Grib was squatting over one of those puddles, his expression a peculiar mix of fascination and hunger. In his hands was a small, gelatinous blob¡ªa slime, wobbling faintly as if to say, ¡°Excuse me, but could you not?¡± ¡°Boss!¡± Grib called out, holding the blob aloft like some kind of slimy trophy. ¡°Look! Tiny slime!¡± ¡°That¡¯s... great, Grib,¡± I said, already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to follow. ¡°Grib think slime has potential,¡± he announced, squinting at the creature like it might reveal its secrets if stared at hard enough. ¡°Maybe fight? Maybe friend? Maybe... snack?¡± ¡°No,¡± I said firmly, pointing at the puddle. ¡°Put it back.¡± Grib frowned, his ears drooping in disappointment. For a moment, it looked like he might comply. Then, with the solemnity of someone making a Very Important Decision, he tucked the slime into his tunic. The blob gave a faint, wet squelch as it settled in, and Grib patted it with a satisfied grin. ¡°Grib keep slime. Slime good for morale.¡± I opened my mouth to argue, realized immediately that it was a lost cause, and sighed. ¡°Fine. Just don¡¯t let it eat anything important.¡± Grib saluted, his chest puffed out proudly. ¡°Grib won¡¯t! Grib is responsible slime owner!¡± The slime, apparently content with its new accommodations, jiggled faintly in agreement. ¡°Alright,¡± I muttered, surveying the room. ¡°What else is down here? Anything useful?¡± ¡°Not much,¡± Grib admitted, poking at the puddle with a stick. ¡°Second floor kinda boring. Grib think third floor better. Maybe lava?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll settle for something functional,¡± I said. ¡°Let¡¯s just figure out what we¡¯re dealing with.¡± Grib tilted his head, his expression turning thoughtful. And thoughtful-Grib was not on my list of his favorite expressions. ¡°Boss... why no spells?¡± I blinked at him. ¡°Spells?¡± ¡°Yes!¡± He bounced slightly on his heels. ¡°Boss big, strong Bone King! But no magic? Goblins think Bone King have big magic!¡± ¡°I... uh...¡± The question threw me off balance. ¡°Good point. Let me check something.¡± I pulled up the UI. Which, now that I wasn¡¯t suffering an existential crisis and more of a logistical one, wasn¡¯t much of a UI. There was the boss overview. My innate abilities. A rank¡ªone, of course. And my inventory. And that¡¯s about it. I flicked a hand towards the inventory. Not much in there. A book, a jar, and a staff. I¡¯d ignored them earlier, but this time, I actually selected the staff. A pulse of cold air rippled through my fingers as it materialized in my grip. A long, twisted length of dark metal, gnarled like petrified wood. Strange, jagged etchings ran along its surface, shifting slightly when I tried to focus on them. The top curled into a skeletal claw, clutching a dull, fractured gemstone that pulsed like a dying ember. The system chimed cheerfully: Staff of the Forgotten Arcanist identified. Mage affinity confirmed. Mana unlocked. ¡°What?¡± I stared at the text. ¡°Mana? I have mana?¡± Grib¡¯s ears perked up, his eyes shining with glee. ¡°Boss have mana! Boss is magic! Grib knew it!¡± ¡°Right,¡± I said, already regretting how much energy this revelation was going to unleash. ¡°Let¡¯s see what else is in here.¡± I selected the book and it manifested in my hands with a weight that felt almost... wrong. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Its cover was worn, blackened leather, scarred with deep fissures that pulsed faintly, as if something beneath was trying to escape. Jagged runes slithered across the surface, never settling, shifting like ink bleeding through old parchment. The spine had no title, just a single, thin crack that ran straight through the leather, as if the book itself had been fractured. I hesitated, then flipped it open. The pages were dry, rough, unnervingly brittle. Like old skin stretched too thin. And yet, the text inscribed within was sharp, unnervingly precise, glowing with an eerie, colorless light. The system chimed in, its usual smug detachment intact: Fragment of the Death God''s Grimoire identified. Tier 1¨C3 spells unlocked. Available Spells: I stared at the list, my mind already racing. Offensive spells, defensive spells, utility... ¡°Boss have book!¡± Grib exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. ¡°What it say? Maybe slime spell?¡± ¡°It¡¯s got options,¡± I said, running my finger down the list. My gaze landed on a diagram for Magic Bolt¡ªa basic attack spell. It looked simple enough, and less likely to blow up the room than something like Fireball. I raised the staff, feeling a faint hum in my bones. Energy gathered at its tip, a small orb of crackling light forming almost instantly. It was warm, but not unpleasant. A steady pulse that felt... alive. As the spell formed, I felt a strange tug deep inside me, like something draining away. There was nothing on the UI to indicate it, but I somehow knew, instinctively, that it was mana. And that little pulse had cost me about ten percent of it. Grib pointed at a distant wall with a dramatic flourish. ¡°Boss show dungeon who¡¯s boss!¡± I aimed for a jagged outcropping of stone and released the spell. The bolt streaked forward, leaving a faint trail of blue light before slamming into the wall with a loud crack. A small crater appeared where it hit, sending bits of rock skittering across the floor. Grib cheered like I¡¯d just brought down a mountain. ¡°Boss amazing! Boss use more magic!¡± I lowered the staff, staring at the faint glow still lingering at its tip. For the first time, I felt like I wasn¡¯t just fumbling through this. There was something here¡ªsomething real, something I could actually use. I didn''t know about amazing. But mayybe Grib was right. Maybe I could figure this out. I closed the grimoire with a snap, feeling something that almost resembled resolve. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, gripping the staff a little tighter. ¡°Well, now we have some real firepower.¡± ¡°Do more magic! Maybe big ice spike next?¡± ¡°Let¡¯s not,¡± I said, brushing past him to keep moving. ¡°We¡¯re here to figure this place out, not redecorate with destruction.¡± Grib saluted, his grin somehow even wider than before. The slime, still squelched against his chest, gave what I could only describe as a supportive jiggle. ¡°Boss ready.¡± Grib nodded. ¡°Grib ready. Dungeon not ready for Bone King and Grib!¡± For the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I felt a small smile tugging at my nonexistent lips. ¡°Let¡¯s hope you¡¯re right.¡± The corridor stretched ahead of us, its angles far too precise to feel natural. The smooth stone walls gleamed faintly in the glow of the mushrooms, and the silence was thick enough to make every step echo. It felt more like a tomb than a dungeon, but at least it wasn¡¯t actively trying to kill us. Yet. ¡°Boss?¡± Grib called, lagging a few paces behind. ¡°Why second floor so boring? First floor had goblins, mushrooms, mud. Second floor just walking.¡± ¡°That¡¯s probably a good thing,¡± I said. ¡°If it¡¯s quiet, maybe we won¡¯t get our heads cracked open.¡± Grib tilted his head, unconvinced. ¡°Maybe. But boring.¡± I didn¡¯t argue. The truth was, the silence was unnerving. Every time I thought I¡¯d adjusted to it, the quiet pressed in a little closer, like it was daring me to let my guard down. But there was something else. Something I hadn¡¯t quite put my finger on until now. The silence wasn¡¯t just heavy. It was intentional. It wasn¡¯t that the second floor was empty; it was that things were avoiding us. The place was too still, the absence of sound as conspicuous as a held breath. No skittering in the shadows, no distant growls or squeaks. That knot of unease tightened in my chest. I remembered the adventurers, how they had looked at me like I was the thing nightmares told their children about. The terror in their eyes hadn¡¯t been the casual sort you¡¯d give to a skeleton wandering around; it had been something deeper. Primal. And now, whatever creatures lurked here were keeping their distance, as if they knew better. I wasn¡¯t sure if that made me feel better or worse. We rounded a corner, and that¡¯s when I saw it, a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision. I froze, raising a hand to stop Grib. ¡°Something¡¯s there,¡± I whispered. Grib¡¯s ears twitched, his spear already in his hands. ¡°Where?¡± I pointed down the corridor. A shadow lingered near the next bend, small and low to the ground. It shifted slightly, and I caught the faintest glint of yellow eyes staring back at us. Grib squinted. ¡°Goblin? No, too small. Maybe lizard?¡± ¡°Lizard?¡± I said, glancing at him. ¡°It looked more like... a dog.¡± Grib shot me an incredulous look. ¡°Dog? No way, Boss. Too scaly.¡± ¡°It was fast,¡± I said, keeping my eyes on the corner. ¡°Whatever it was, it¡¯s gone now.¡± The creature darted out of sight, disappearing behind the bend with a quick, almost fluid motion. I tightened my grip on the staff, unease prickling at the edges of my thoughts. It hadn¡¯t attacked us, which was... something. But it also hadn¡¯t looked particularly friendly. Grib puffed out his chest. ¡°Grib find it! Maybe friend? Maybe snack?¡± ¡°Neither,¡± I said, grabbing his shoulder before he could charge ahead. ¡°Let¡¯s be smart about this.¡± ¡°Smart means find it,¡± Grib said, his ears twitching. ¡°If it lizard, maybe it has friends. If it dog... why dog here?¡± ¡°That¡¯s... not helping,¡± I, gestured for him to stay behind me. ¡°Let¡¯s just take it slow.¡± We moved cautiously down the corridor, the silence pressing heavier with each step. The faint glow of the mushrooms seemed dimmer now, the shadows deeper. I could still feel the weight of those yellow eyes on us, like they¡¯d left an impression in the air itself. When we reached the bend, I peered around the corner carefully, the staff raised and ready. The corridor beyond was empty, stretching out into the gloom like nothing had happened. ¡°Gone?¡± Grib asked, his voice tinged with disappointment. ¡°Maybe Boss scare it.¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± I said, though the knot in my nonexistent gut told me otherwise. Whatever it was, it wasn¡¯t running scared. It was smart. At least smart enough to watch us without being seen for long. That thought didn¡¯t sit well. Grib sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling. ¡°Still smells like lizard.¡± ¡°Does it?¡± I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief. ¡°Because I¡¯m pretty sure it looked like a dog.¡± ¡°Boss wrong,¡± Grib said confidently. ¡°Too fast for dog. Too shiny.¡± ¡°Dogs can be fast,¡± I argued. ¡°And maybe it wasn¡¯t shiny. Maybe that was just the light.¡± Grib frowned, clearly unwilling to concede. ¡°Dog in dungeon makes no sense. Lizard makes sense.¡± ¡°Does it, though?¡± I asked, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Lizards like rocks,¡± Grib said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. I sighed, letting the argument drop as I turned back to the empty corridor. The creature¡¯s absence didn¡¯t feel like a relief. It felt like a pause¡ªlike it was waiting for us to get closer to something it didn¡¯t want us to see. ¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± I said, my grip tightening on the staff. ¡°And stay alert.¡± Grib saluted, his slime companion giving another supportive jiggle from inside his tunic. ¡°Boss lead the way! Grib ready!¡± As we walked deeper into the dungeon, the silence pressed in closer, as if the whole place was conspiring to keep its secrets. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the eyes weren¡¯t gone. Whatever that creature was, it wasn¡¯t just running. It was planning. And, judging by the way the air itself seemed to hold its breath, it wasn¡¯t the only thing. Chapter 8 Something was watching us. The prickling weight of unseen eyes, the way the air seemed to pause in certain places, as if the dungeon itself were holding its breath. I couldn¡¯t see it, of course. That would have been useful, and nothing in my afterlife so far had suggested I was entitled to that kind of convenience. The creature¡ªassuming I hadn¡¯t started hallucinating, which seemed unlikely given my distinct lack of a brain¡ªhad appeared once. A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision, just long enough for my instincts to trip over themselves in warning. Small, fast, too quiet. Then it had disappeared, not with the blind panic of something fleeing for its life, but the measured retreat of something that knew it had the upper hand. Like a shopkeeper stepping into the back to fetch something more appropriate for a particular kind of customer. The shadows ahead weren¡¯t just dark; they had a lean to them, like they were paying attention. I tightened my grip on my staff, which had long since crossed the line from weapon to comfort object, and kept moving. My jaw clenched on instinct. Pointless, since my bones didn¡¯t actually do tension. It was a strange thing, realizing that all the old ways of dealing with stress had been taken from me. No deep breaths, no quickened pulse, no reassuring weight of fatigue in my muscles. Just stillness. Cold and endless and mine. I didn¡¯t like it. But this wasn¡¯t aimless wandering. I had a goal, even if it was little more than a vague declaration of intent. If I was going to survive¡ªand by survive, I meant avoid being pulverized, incinerated, or otherwise forcibly disassembled¡ªI needed to get stronger. I wasn¡¯t much of an RPG guy in life. Civilization? Sure. SimCity? Absolutely. But spending hours hunting wolves for two percent better armor and a slightly shinier sword had always seemed like a deeply inefficient use of my time. Now, however, the prospect of grinding for survival felt disturbingly relevant. The main thing I knew about fantasy world dungeons¡­ Deeper meant better loot. It meant new creatures. Which, being a dungeon boss myself, I hoped meant allies. If I wanted to stop being a glorified pile of laundry waiting to be folded, I had to go deeper. ¡°Boss, Grib think floor two colder than floor one,¡± Grib said, his arms wrapped around himself. ¡°Yes, Grib, the second floor is colder,¡± I replied. Which was actually a really weird thing to admit¨CI hadn¡¯t really thought about it, but I could definitely still feel things. I knew the air was cold, but I didn¡¯t feel it in the same way I would have when I was alive. Grib beamed as though I¡¯d just promoted him. ¡°Grib good at noticing things!¡± ¡°Yes, like the cold. And... well, that¡¯s it so far.¡± The glowing mushrooms from the first floor were gone. In their place, crystals jutted from the walls, casting a pale, yellow light. They didn¡¯t just illuminate; they fractured the glow, throwing it in sharp, uneven patterns that made the walls seem farther apart than they were. The floor was too smooth. Not polished, not decorative¡ªjust unnaturally uniform, like something had cut the stone all at once and never bothered to rough it up afterward. My staff echoed in dull thuds as we walked, the sound coming back too clean, like an empty highschool hallway after hours. ¡°Boss, why mushrooms gone?¡± Grib suddenly asked, jabbing at one of the crystals with his spear like it had just suggested something insulting about his mother. ¡°Mushrooms friendly. Sneaky rocks, not so much.¡± ¡°They¡¯re crystals, Grib,¡± I said, rubbing the space where my temples used to be. ¡°Crystals aren¡¯t sneaky. They¡¯re decorative.¡± ¡°Decorative means sneaky,¡± he muttered darkly. Before I could stop him, he pried one loose with an enthusiastic twist of his spear. ¡°Hah! See? Grib genius!¡± he declared, holding the crystal aloft. And then the trap triggered. A soft click echoed through the corridor, followed by a puff of greenish gas from the hole where the crystal had been. I stepped back instinctively, because in my experience, holes puffing gas were rarely the prelude to something pleasant. Grib sniffed at the air, tilted his head, and did absolutely nothing. ¡°Grib fine!¡± he said proudly, as if being fine were a skill he had worked tirelessly to master. I frowned. ¡°Wait... you¡¯re not coughing or anything?¡± Grib sniffed again, his nose twitching. Then his eyes widened. ¡°Boss, gas broken!¡± ¡°No, Grib,¡± I said, the realization dawning on me. ¡°You¡¯re undead. You don¡¯t breathe. That gas doesn¡¯t affect you.¡± Grib stared at me, scandalized. ¡°Boss mean Grib... dead?!¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I said, gesturing at his remarkably intact undead self. ¡°No breathing necessary. Congratulations, you¡¯re immune to gas traps.¡± Grib¡¯s jaw dropped, a feat made possible by both his goblin physiology and the general absence of shame. ¡°Boss, you didn¡¯t tell Grib before!¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t notice when I brought you back from the dead?¡± Grib¡¯s expression went blank for a moment before he lit up like a particularly enthusiastic firework. ¡°Oh! Right! Grib is dead! Boss is dead! We best dead team ever!¡± Grib moved on to testing his undead capabilities, which mostly involved spinning in place with increasing urgency. ¡°Boss,¡± he announced mid-spin, ¡°Grib faster now! Watch!¡± But I was too busy noticing something else. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. That flicker of movement again. Just at the edge of my vision. It lingered down the corridor. Just for a second. Just long enough to confirm that something was still there. Watching. I stopped short, raising a hand. Grib, naturally, took this as a direct order to start stabbing. ¡°Boss see lizard?!¡± he whisper-shouted, his spear already jabbing at ghosts. ¡°No,¡± I said, my voice low. ¡°But it¡¯s out there.¡± Grib squinted into the shadows like a goblin diviner consulting the stars. ¡°Lizard waiting. Maybe plotting. Grib very good at noticing plots.¡± I kept my eyes fixed on the gloom ahead. We moved cautiously, the quiet pressing in heavier with each step. It wasn¡¯t just the silence¡ªit was the way it felt. The weight of something just outside my vision, pacing us. Every time I turned my head, it was gone. Every time I looked forward, the feeling returned. I gripped my staff tighter, expecting something to finally make its move. And then it did. No warning¡ªjust a blur of motion and the guttural hiss as something small and fast shot from the darkness. I barely had time to register its shape before it collided with my chest, claws scraping against bone as it scrabbled for purchase. I let out a sound that was absolutely not a shriek, just as Grib let out a battle cry of equal, if not greater, dignity. ¡°Boss!¡± Grib shrieked, leaping back and brandishing his spear. ¡°LIZARD ATTACK!!¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a lizard!¡± I shouted, flailing wildly. ¡°It¡¯s¡ªget it off!¡± The creature clung to me with the enthusiasm of a tourist climbing a particularly challenging rock wall. I twisted, shook, and nearly whacked myself with my staff in the process, but it held fast, chittering excitedly in some language that sounded like a combination of barking and very enthusiastic swearing. Grib, meanwhile, was hopping up and down like an overeager mascot. ¡°Grib save Boss!¡± he cried, stabbing wildly at the air. Unfortunately, his best attempt at "rescue" resulted in the tip of his spear coming dangerously close to my own skull. ¡°Stop poking me!¡± I yelled. ¡°Grib not poking Boss! Grib poking lizard!¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a¡ª¡± I started, but the creature interrupted by smacking me squarely in the back of the head with something hard and blunt. A soft ding rang in my ears, and a system notification blinked into existence: Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. I froze. The kobold (because now that I could see it up close, I was fairly certain it was a kobold) hit me again, this time aiming for the general vicinity of my spine. Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. I blinked at the notification. Then at Grib, who was still flailing heroically at nothing. Then back at the kobold, which had apparently decided that I was either a pi?ata or a stubborn tree. ¡°Grib,¡± I said slowly, still holding perfectly still as the kobold continued to slap me ineffectively with its tiny club. ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± Grib replied, still hopping and waving his spear like a very angry pogo stick. ¡°It can¡¯t hurt me.¡± Grib froze mid-leap. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I¡¯m immune. To non-magical weapons,¡± I explained, as the kobold delivered another hearty smack to my spine. Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. Grib stared at me, his expression shifting rapidly between confusion, relief, and mild offense. ¡°So... no danger?¡± ¡°No danger,¡± I confirmed, as the kobold shrieked again and doubled down on its entirely ineffective bludgeoning. Grib¡¯s ears perked. ¡°Then Grib still save Boss!¡± ¡°Grib, you don¡¯t¡ª¡± Too late. He was already airborne, spear angled with all the precision of someone who had not fully thought this through. ¡°Grib, stop jumping!¡± I twisted sharply, narrowly avoiding the fate of being impaled by my own minion. ¡°Grib must save Boss!¡± he insisted, leaping again. This time, he actually managed to jab past my shoulder, missing the kobold by an impressive margin. The kobold, unimpressed, swiped at him with its tail, which only seemed to fuel his determination. ¡°Grib! It¡¯s fine! I¡¯m fine! You don¡¯t need to¡ª¡± Ding. Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. I let out a long, rattling sigh as Grib continued his one-goblin crusade, his spear still failing to do anything except vaguely menace the kobold¡¯s feet. Meanwhile, the kobold had apparently decided that if bludgeoning wasn¡¯t working, maybe shrieking directly into my nonexistent eardrums would. The whole thing had officially stopped resembling a battle and started looking more like an extremely underfunded circus act. ¡°Grib,¡± I said finally, cutting through the chaos. ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± he replied, mid-jump. ¡°Stop trying to stab it.¡± Grib landed awkwardly, ears drooping. ¡°But Boss...¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I said firmly, reaching back and grabbing the kobold by the scruff of its neck. It let out an offended squawk, flailing its tiny arms as I held it up for inspection. ¡°See? Not dangerous.¡± Grib narrowed his eyes, spear still half-raised. ¡°What Boss do with lizard-dog?¡± The kobold bared its teeth, tiny club still clutched in one hand like it might reconsider trying to hit me again. I sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t know. But I think it¡¯s time we had a chat.¡± Before I could figure out how to reason with an angry kobold, I heard an ominous squelch. ¡°Grib have idea!¡± he announced triumphantly. I turned just in time to see him yank something out of his tunic: his tiny, wobbling pet slime. It jiggled violently in protest, the universal body language of a creature that knew whatever was about to happen, it did not approve. I stared at Grib for a long moment, letting the sheer weight of my exhaustion settle into my bones. ¡°Grib,¡± I said slowly, ¡°what are you doing?¡± ¡°Grib show slime to lizard-dog! Maybe slime scare it! Or... slime eat it?¡± He tilted his head thoughtfully, holding the slime up like an offering to a deeply unimpressed deity. The kobold, still dangling from my grip, paused its thrashing just long enough to glare at the slime. The slime, for its part, responded with a faint wobble¡ªless an act of aggression and more the universal gesture for What¡¯s your problem? ¡°Grib, put the slime away,¡± I said, rubbing my temples out of pure habit, which was a really unpleasant sound as my bony fingers scratched against my skull. ¡°Slime good for intimidation!¡± Grib protested, giving the blob a firm shake. The slime let out a damp, distinctly untrustworthy plorp, a sound that sent the kobold into an immediate frenzy. It hissed furiously, swiping at the air with its free hand. ¡°See, Boss? Slime make it mad! Slime work!¡± Grib looked absolutely thrilled by this development. ¡°No, Grib, you made it mad. The slime is just existing,¡± I said, still holding the kobold as it twisted and snapped at nothing. ¡°Now put it back before¡ª¡± But before I could finish, Grib, interpreting my words as encouragement, attempted to place the slime directly onto the kobold¡¯s head. Both creatures immediately began shrieking. One in fury, the other in what I could only assume was an existential crisis. I closed my eyes for a long, suffering pause. ¡°Grib.¡± ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± he said innocently, as the kobold and slime continued their duet of indignation. ¡°Put the slime away before I let the kobold hit you with its club.¡± Grib¡¯s ears drooped. ¡°Fine. But Grib still think slime useful.¡± He tucked it back into his tunic, giving it an affectionate pat. The slime gave a happy little jiggle, entirely unbothered by its brief moment of biological warfare. The kobold, by contrast, let out one final, indignant chitter before going limp in my grip, apparently deciding that surrender was the best option. I sighed, adjusting my hold on the scaly troublemaker. ¡°Right,¡± I muttered. ¡°Now where were we?¡± Chapter 9 I stood in the middle of the corridor, staff in one hand and a wriggling kobold in the other. Its claws scrabbled at my arm bones, tail whipping against my ribs with the persistence of someone determined to overcome physics by sheer stubbornness. It belatedly occurred to me that I was holding him up far too easily. He wasn¡¯t exactly heavy, but I¡¯d been human once, and I was fairly sure my past self would¡¯ve at least needed both hands to manage a flailing, furious kobold. Then again, my past self had also needed lungs and blood to function, and we¡¯d clearly moved past that particular phase of existence. I decided to add ¡®weirdly strong¡¯ to the ever-growing list of things I¡¯d deal with later. Grib stood beside me, spear clutched tight, vibrating with indignation. He glared at the kobold like it had just declared war on his favorite mud puddle. ¡°So,¡± I said to the kobold, who dangled defiantly despite his position, ¡°what exactly possessed you to jump on my back like that? Was it a dare? Some sort of cultural rite of passage?¡± It bared its teeth, hissing in a way that was probably meant to sound menacing but mostly sounded like an angry teakettle. ¡°Skeleton trespasses on kobold territory. Big Chief says intruders must be dealt with!¡± ¡°This not kobold territory!¡± Grib snapped, puffing up like a very small, very offended rooster. ¡°This Bone King¡¯s floor!¡± The kobold shifted his weight, spinning around to face him, yellow eyes narrowing. ¡°Bone King? You mean skeleton?¡± ¡°No!¡± Grib barked, jabbing his spear for emphasis. ¡°Bone King is boss! Strongest! Smartest! Best!¡± The kobold snorted, the sound laced with condescension. ¡°Big Chief says second floor belongs to kobolds. Always has.¡± Grib¡¯s ears twitched, his indignation reaching critical levels. ¡°Bone King rule whole dungeon!¡± ¡°Do I, though?¡± I interjected, tilting my head toward Grib. ¡°Because I¡¯m fairly certain the system only made me boss of the first floor.¡± Grib froze, looking up at me like I¡¯d just told him Santa didn¡¯t exist. ¡°But... Bone King strongest! Strongest means boss!¡± The kobold smirked. ¡°Skeleton doesn¡¯t even know his place. Big Chief knows. Big Chief stronger, smarter, better than skeleton.¡± Grib¡¯s jaw dropped. ¡°Wrong! Bone King better than Big Chief!¡± The kobold squirmed in my grip, pointing at Grib with his free claw. ¡°Big Chief has big mace. Big Chief has tribe. What does skeleton have? Goblin with stick?¡± ¡°Grib not just goblin with stick!¡± Grib shouted, brandishing his spear like it was a sacred relic. ¡°Grib best goblin! Best goblin for best boss!¡± ¡°Alright,¡± I interrupted, raising my voice over their escalating squabble. ¡°Let¡¯s all calm down before this becomes a full-blown marketing campaign for Overlord of the Year.¡± Both of them paused, blinking at me in confusion. ¡°Thank you,¡± I said, giving the kobold a small shake for emphasis. ¡°Let¡¯s try this again. You said this is kobold territory?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the kobold said, straightening as much as his dangling position allowed. ¡°Big Chief rules second floor. Kobolds keep it safe. Skeleton doesn¡¯t belong here.¡± ¡°Fair point,¡± I said, nodding. ¡°Technically, I¡¯m trespassing.¡± Grib gasped, staring at me in betrayal. ¡°Boss! No say that! Kobold wrong!¡± Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°Well, Grib, I am here without an invitation,¡± I replied, gesturing to the corridor around us. ¡°And I don¡¯t exactly see a ¡®Welcome, Bone King¡¯ banner anywhere.¡± The kobold smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. ¡°Skeleton knows his place. Big Chief will crush skeleton. But soft crush. Pity crush.¡± Grib immediately recovered from his shock, brandishing his spear with renewed vigor. ¡°No way! Bone King crush Big Chief!¡± ¡°Big Chief smarter than Bone King.¡± ¡°Bone King stronger than Big Chief!¡± ¡°Big Chief has traps.¡± ¡°Bone King has Grib!¡± I dragged a hand down my nonexistent face. ¡°This is the dumbest argument I¡¯ve ever witnessed, and I once watched a guy try to negotiate with a vending machine by threatening it with a sandwich.¡± That got me a blessed few seconds of silence. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, shifting my grip on the squirming kobold. ¡°Let¡¯s start with a name.¡± The kobold lifted his chin, an impressive attempt at dignity for someone currently being held like an unruly housecat. ¡°Krix. Fastest scout of kobold tribe. Big Chief trusts Krix.¡± ¡°Well, Krix,¡± I sighed, ¡°you¡¯re going to take me to this Big Chief of yours. If he¡¯s staking a claim on this floor, I¡¯d like to have a conversation about zoning rights.¡± Grib practically vibrated beside me. ¡°Boss going to fight Big Chief?!¡± ¡°Hopefully not,¡± I muttered, though I tightened my grip on my staff just in case. Krix bared his teeth in a smirk. ¡°Big Chief doesn¡¯t talk. Big Chief crushes.¡± Grib gasped, scandalized. ¡°No way! Bone King crushes Big Chief!¡± ¡°Big Chief better than Bone King!¡± ¡°Bone King better than Big Chief!¡± I let out a sigh so deep it might have altered the local climate. ¡°This is already exhausting.¡± Krix¡¯s tail flicked as his sharp yellow eyes scanned me, weighing his options. I could see the calculation happening in real time. The slow realization that, despite his bravado, he was very much still dangling. ¡°Here¡¯s the deal. I put you down, and you take me to your Big Chief.¡± Krix blinked, his bravado flickering slightly. ¡°Skeleton will let Krix go? Just like that?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± I replied, ¡°because contrary to popular belief, I don¡¯t enjoy carrying kobolds around like squirmy handbags.¡± Krix tilted his head, clearly weighing his options. ¡°And if Krix runs?¡± I activated [Minor Poltergeist], and a nearby rock lifted off the ground. ¡°Then I¡¯ll pick you up again,¡± I said, watching as it started to spin lazily in the air. ¡°But next time, I¡¯ll make you spin.¡± The rock immediately kicked into a rapid, wobbling spiral before I flicked my fingers and sent it whistling down the hallway. I had no idea if the spell was strong enough to actually lift Krix¡ªI¡¯d only ever used it on a bucket and, well, this rock¡ªbut he didn¡¯t know that. And judging by the way his pupils shrank to nervous slits, I wasn¡¯t about to correct him. Grib grinned at this, clearly enjoying the mental image far too much. Krix let out a begrudging grunt, crossing his arms in an exaggerated huff. ¡°Fine. Krix will lead skeleton to Big Chief. But Big Chief will kill skeleton and smelly goblin.¡± Grib stiffened, his ears twitching indignantly. ¡°Grib not smelly!¡± Krix sniffed the air dramatically. ¡°Kobold nose says goblin smells like wet dirt.¡± ¡°Grib smells like warrior!¡± ¡°Warrior smells worse than dirt,¡± Krix shot back. I sighed, cutting in before Grib could escalate. ¡°For what it¡¯s worth, Grib is technically undead now, so I¡¯m not sure how much of that ¡®smelly goblin¡¯ thing still applies.¡± Krix froze mid-step, his pupils narrowing to sharp slits as he turned to stare at Grib. His eyes widened just slightly, but his expression quickly twisted into an exaggerated sneer. ¡°Undead goblin? That disgusting.¡± Grib jabbed his spear at the air. ¡°Grib best undead goblin! Grib loyal to Bone King!¡± Krix¡¯s tail flicked nervously, though he quickly smothered the reaction with a scoff. ¡°Big Chief will still crush you both. Undead or not.¡± Grib was silent for a moment. Then his ears twitched indignantly before drooping. He reached into his tunic, patting the slime as if for moral support. ¡°Slime thinks Grib smells fine,¡± he muttered, glaring at Krix. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, lowering Krix to the ground, ¡°before this devolves into a discussion about the finer points of goblin hygiene and mortality, can we just go?¡± Krix huffed, brushing off his scales with an exaggerated flourish. ¡°Follow Krix. Big Chief will crush skeleton soon enough.¡± Chapter 10 Krix scuttled ahead of us, moving with the kind of relentless energy typically reserved for caffeinated squirrels or aggressive Roombas. His claws clicked against the smooth stone floor in a rapid, hypnotic rhythm. Occasionally he''d throw a smug glance over his shoulder. He clearly enjoyed being the fastest one in the room, and he wasn¡¯t going to let us forget it. Grib, bless his undead little heart, was determined to keep up, even if it meant he looked like a marionette in the hands of a deeply confused puppeteer. His legs churned, his spear bounced precariously with each step, and every so often, I heard him muttering, ¡°Grib fast too. Grib just warming up.¡± The slime in his tunic let out occasional squelches of protest, as though it hadn¡¯t signed up for this kind of reckless movement. And then there was me. Edgar Allen, the Bone King, the once-mediocre customer service representative, and now a glorified skeleton tourist. I wasn¡¯t running so much as lurching after them with all the grace of a rickety office chair being pushed by a very unmotivated intern. My staff clicked against the floor like an old man¡¯s cane, which felt appropriate given how every inch of calcium in me was already regretting this. The corridors stretched on in an unrelenting sprawl of sharp turns and luminous crystals. The architecture had the sterile precision of something that had never been touched by actual hands¡ªjust raw, mechanical intent. It was a dungeon built by numbers, not by sense. I, unfortunately, was built by neither. ¡°Boss too slow!¡± Grib called over his shoulder, legs pumping furiously. ¡°Grib getting faster by second!¡± ¡°Yes, Grib, your speed is truly humbling,¡± I gasped, gripping my staff and wishing¡ªnot for the first time¡ªthat my newly undead existence had come with some form of motorized acceleration. ¡°Really, just an inspiration. I¡¯m feeling more motivated by the second.¡± Krix skid to a halt at a fork in the corridor. He tapped his foot, claws clicking impatiently on stone, as he watched me stumble forward. ¡°Keep up, skeleton,¡± he hissed. ¡°Big Chief doesn¡¯t like to wait.¡± ¡°Sounds delightful.¡± I said, finally catching up and leaning on my staff. ¡°And remind me again why we¡¯re trusting you to lead us instead of, I don¡¯t know, marching us straight into a trap?¡± Krix¡¯s grin spread, all teeth and menace. ¡°Big Chief crushes enemies. Big Chief HAS traps. But not NEED traps for skeleton and smelly goblin.¡± ¡°Oh, fantastic,¡± I said, glancing at Grib, who had paused to pat his tunic in what I could only assume was a wellness check on his slime. ¡°See, Grib? We¡¯re skipping the subtle murder and heading straight for the blatant kind. Very efficient.¡± Grib, ever the optimist, flashed me a thumbs-up. ¡°Boss can handle Big Chief. Grib believe in Boss!¡± ¡°Appreciate the confidence.¡± But I was already regretting my life choices. Or rather, my afterlife choices. ¡°That¡¯s exactly the kind of reckless faith that¡¯s gotten people killed throughout history.¡± Krix¡¯s grinned as he darted down the right-hand corridor. ¡°Follow Krix! Or get left behind.¡± I forced my tired legs to move, my mind turning over the reason I was putting myself through this. I needed to be stronger. Not just for my sake, but for Grib. The adventurers would be back. That was the rule of this place, wasn¡¯t it? Adventurers came in, killed things, got stronger, and moved deeper. I wouldn¡¯t be able to stop them next time. Unless I got stronger. Unless I got help. Which was why I was chasing a kobold through a dungeon hoping that the so-called Big Chief wouldn¡¯t smash me into bone dust before I could convince him to help. Because if the adventurers got past me, they¡¯d go deeper. To the second floor. To the kobolds. And eventually, they¡¯d come for Big Chief and his traps and his tribe. The way I saw it, I wasn¡¯t just saving myself. I was offering Big Chief a mutually beneficial arrangement. Help me hold the first floor, and he wouldn¡¯t have to worry about defending the second. And maybe, just maybe, if I made myself useful enough, I¡¯d be more than just a speed bump on the adventurers¡¯ quest log. Not that I expected Krix to understand any of that. He was too busy dashing ahead and occasionally stopping to sneer at how slowly I was moving. It was fine. I had time. As much as I hated to admit it, this little cardio session was probably good for me. Or at least, for my undead sense of pride. ¡°Almost there,¡± Krix called back, his voice echoing off the walls. ¡°Big Chief will see you soon.¡± "Great," I said, tightening my grip on the staff. "I can''t wait." Grib, ever the optimist, straightened up and gave a salute that was entirely unnecessary and entirely Grib. ¡°Boss ready! Grib ready! Slime ready!¡± The slime gave a long, damp squelch, which I took to mean acceptance of fate. "Good to know," I said, squaring my shoulders as the corridor widened into a vast, dimly lit chamber ahead. "Let¡¯s just hope Big Chief is as enthusiastic about diplomacy as we are." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The room ahead breathed wrong. Not literally¡ªthough at this point, I wouldn¡¯t rule it out¡ªbut in the way certain places just feel like they¡¯re watching you. The crystals embedded in the walls flickered weakly, their light feeble against the sheer enormity of the space. The darkness wasn¡¯t just present¡ªit was intentional, coiled into every corner, thick and patient. It hadn¡¯t simply swallowed the light. It had left enough to make sure we knew how small we were. Krix halted just before the threshold, his profile sharp in the dim glow. His tail flicked once, deliberate. ¡°Keep close. Big Chief not like waiting. Not like excuses.¡± Grib bristled beside me, his small frame going rigid. His grip on his spear tightened, the faint rattle of wood against the stone floor the only sound in the oppressive stillness. ¡°Grib strong. Big Chief see.¡± Krix shot him a glance, unreadable save for the barest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. ¡°Big Chief will see everything,¡± he said flatly, before stepping into the darkness. Grib hesitated¡ªjust a fraction of a second, a moment too small to acknowledge but too big to ignore¡ªthen followed. I moved after them, my staff tapping against the stone in an echo that sounded far too loud. The air felt thick, like it was ushering us forward rather than letting us enter by choice. Then I noticed the smell. Thick decay. Iron and damp earth. Coating the back of my throat, worming into the spaces between bones like it belonged there. The second thing I noticed was the bodies. Or what was left of them. A twisted arm jutted from a mound of viscera, its skin stretched tight and leathery. A broken wing¡ªif that¡¯s what it had been¡ªhung limply against the wall, torn membrane sagging like rotted parchment. Horns lay scattered, jagged and snapped in half. Bones¡ªtoo many, too large¡ªstrewn across the floor. One pile, partially collapsed, still bore the shape of something¡¯s ribcage, splayed open like a trap that had been sprung too late. These weren¡¯t the neat, noble corpses of adventurers felled in battle. No swords lay beside them. No shattered shields, no armor worn to the bitter end. Whatever these creatures had been, they had died badly. Torn apart, dismantled piece by piece, and left in a way that suggested the act of destruction had been just as important as the result. This wasn¡¯t a battlefield. It was a warning. Grib had gone still. Not the restless kind, the kind where he was just winding up to say something else. No, this was different. His usual energy had drained away, leaving him standing stiff and silent, like a child who had walked into the wrong room at the wrong time. His knuckles whitened around his spear. His mouth was slightly open; caught between words, realizing none of them were right. I didn¡¯t blame him. Because for the first time since waking up in this dungeon, I felt the same way. Krix moved certainty¨Che was exactly where he was supposed to be. Claws clicking against the stone as he strode forward, unfazed by the carnage surrounding him. He didn¡¯t hesitate. Didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°Big Chief!¡± Krix called out, voice slicing through the thick, rancid air. ¡°Krix brings intruders!¡± The shadows shifted. A ripple at the edges of the chamber where dim light bled into shadow. Shapes began to emerge as my vision adjusted. Hunched and indistinct at first. Then dozens of eyes glinted yellow in the dark, blinking in uneven rhythms. And then I saw him. His throne sat at the far end of the chamber. A monument of stone and bone with crystals from the dungeon walls, jammed in haphazardly, their glow barely enough to carve the hulking figure from the dark. Big Chief. Massive. A fortress of muscle and dark, jagged scales. Every inch of him bore scars¡ªsome shallow, others carved deep enough to expose pale bone beneath. One eye, a milky ruined thing split by a long brutal scar that dragged from brow to jaw. The other, bright and predatory, fixed directly on me. His mouth hung slightly open, revealing chipped and uneven teeth, wickedly sharp despite their wear. Blood stained the edges, fresh. And then I saw what he was holding. An arm. Long, sinewy. Clawed fingers still twitching faintly, as though still struggling against its fate. A slow drip of blood pattered against the stone floor, rhythmic in the most disturbing way possible. Big Chief lifted the limb to his mouth with the ease of a man about to take a bite of lunch. His teeth sank, followed shortly by the crunch of bone. He chewed slowly. He did not blink. Krix fell to one knee, tail sweeping the floor in deference. ¡°Big Chief,¡± he said, voice steady. ¡°Krix brings you skeleton. Says he wants talk.¡± Big Chief didn¡¯t answer immediately. He leaned back, his eye narrowing slightly as he swallowed. The sound was wet, deliberate. Around him, the other kobolds shifted, their yellow eyes glinting brighter as they watched. Some crouched low, clawed hands gripping jagged weapons. Others stood motionless, their forms barely distinguishable from the darkness. None of them spoke. Their silence wasn¡¯t passive. It was waiting. Finally, Big Chief rumbled to life, his voice deep and guttural, each word dragging through the air like stone scraping over metal. ¡°Skeleton,¡± he said, as if the word itself was barely worth the effort. The weight of his gaze pinned me like a knife through the ribs. ¡°Why you come here?¡± For a moment, I forgot how to move. The staff in my hand felt smaller. Useless. The room pressed against me, heavy with a presence I did not understand. This wasn¡¯t bravado. Not posturing. Not the showboating of an adventurer or the false confidence of someone with something to prove. This was something that simply didn''t care. What I knew. What I thought I knew. Or really anything that related to me at all. At best I was a minor inconvenience to him. Not a person or a monster. Just some thing that happened to show up on his doorstep. And for the first time since I woke up in this cursed dungeon, I felt it. Not thought about it. Felt it. I was in another world. And I wasn¡¯t ready for it. Chapter 11 I couldn¡¯t stop shaking. Not a trembling in my hands or legs. A quaking in the hollow spaces where nerves and even the slightest shred of courage should have been. It was the fear of a fundamental wrongness. Like I¡¯d stepped somewhere I didn¡¯t belong and the world itself had noticed. My thoughts weren¡¯t cooperating. They crashed into each other, tumbling like waves in a storm, rising with purpose only to break apart into useless foam. My mind kept circling the same unhelpful realization, over and over. I am not ready for this. Big Chief wasn¡¯t just powerful¡ªhe was power. His presence didn¡¯t fill the chamber; it defined it. He sat motionless on his jagged throne, watching. His single working eye locked onto me with an intensity that sent something instinctive, something old, crawling down my spine. His ruined eye, stared past me, blind but no less menacing. Blood from the mangled arm in his grip splattered onto the stone floor, slow and rhythmic, the only sound in the sudden, suffocating quiet. Drip. The chamber pressed in, thick with the weight of old death. Crimson pooled across the floor, dark and undisturbed, a canvas of violence left to set and dry. And now, standing in the middle of it, I was just another thing waiting to be smeared across the stone. Drip. Behind him, beside him, all around him, dozens of kobolds waited in the shadows, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. Silent. Watching. Waiting. Drip. ¡°Speak, skeleton.¡± His voice rumbled like stones falling. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I was supposed to have a plan. An argument. A strategy. But under the weight of his gaze, every thought crumbled into dust. The silence stretched, the blood kept dripping, and I felt myself shrinking beneath it. Say something. ¡°I¡­¡± My voice cracked. I swallowed hard¡ªnot that it did anything. ¡°I came to¡­ propose an alliance.¡± Big Chief didn¡¯t move, but something in the air shifted. ¡°Alliance?¡± he repeated, the word curling with disdain. He leaned forward slightly, claws curling against the throne¡¯s arms. ¡°Skeleton thinks Big Chief needs help?¡± ¡°No,¡± I said quickly, rushing to get ahead of the hole I¡¯d just dug myself. ¡°Not help. Just¡­ cooperation. The adventurers¡ª¡± ¡°Humans,¡± Big Chief interrupted, his lip curling into a snarl. ¡°Weak. Fragile. Not threat.¡± I almost laughed. The sheer, casual arrogance of it. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°They¡¯re not weak,¡± I said before I could stop myself. ¡°They¡¯ll come back. Stronger. Smarter. And they won¡¯t stop until they¡¯ve taken everything¡ª¡± ¡°Big Chief does not lose to humans,¡± he growled. The finality in his voice was a blade cutting through my words. ¡°Big Chief crushes.¡± I was losing him. I tightened my grip on my staff, desperation bubbling under my ribs. ¡°I¡¯m not saying you¡¯ll lose,¡± I pressed on, trying to salvage what little ground I had left. ¡°I¡¯m saying we can hold them back together. You control the second floor. I hold the first. We¡ª¡± Big Chief moved. The shift was so sudden, so fluid, that my mind struggled to catch up. One moment, he was seated. The next, he was standing, his massive frame unfolding like a thunderhead rising on the horizon. Then he reached down, grabbed a nearby kobold by the head, and threw it at me. The kobold screamed¡ªsharp, startled, a high-pitched wail that cut through the air like a knife. Its body was small, wiry, but fast. I barely had time to react before it slammed into me, a flurry of claws, limbs, and wild panic. My bones rattled with the impact, a sharp crack ringing through the chamber as we both crashed to the ground. My staff slipped from my grasp, clattering uselessly across the stone floor. ¡°What the hell¡ª¡± I started, but movement cut me off. I managed to stand up, but Big Chief was already coming. His iron mace gleamed in the dim light¡ªold, worn, but heavy with the weight of something that had broken many things before me. He swung in a wide, brutal arc, the air itself shuddering with the force of it. I braced myself for the impact. For the familiar message: Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. It didn¡¯t come. The mace hit. The impact tore through my ribs like dry branches snapping underfoot. The pain was sharp, immediate, and real. Not the phantom discomfort of imagined injury. Real. I hit the ground hard, bone fragments skidding across the floor as I reeled, mind screaming to catch up. He can hurt me. His weapon¡ªit¡¯s magic. I scrambled back, clutching my fractured arm. I needed my staff. I needed to think. Big Chief stood over me, the mace resting casually on his shoulder, his lips curling into a grin. Not cruel. Not angry. Just¡­ pleased. ¡°Skeleton breaks,¡± he rumbled, his voice thick with satisfaction. ¡°Skeleton weak.¡± I forced myself upright, my staff finally back in my grip, but my hands shook. The pain still echoed through my frame, dull but insistent. This wasn¡¯t the adventurers. They had been dangerous, yes, but they were human. Predictable. They fought by rules. Strength. Numbers. Equipment. Big Chief was different. He didn¡¯t play by rules. He was the rule. He was the power here. His eye gleamed as he raised the mace again, the weight of it bending the very air around him. The kobolds in the shadows shifted, their yellow eyes gleaming brighter, waiting for the kill. I realized¡ªtoo late¡ªthat this wasn¡¯t a negotiation. It was an execution. Big Chief bared his teeth, the grin widening. ¡°Skeleton dies now.¡± And the mace came down. Chapter 12 There¡¯s a quiet kind of horror in knowing you¡¯re going to die again. It¡¯s not dramatic. No slow-mo, no orchestral crescendo. Just a stillness curling inward, cold and certain. The realization that whatever force brought you here has changed its mind¡ªand you are the correction. Big Chief moved like that realization made flesh. Every step landed with the weight of inevitability. The kind of weight that doesn¡¯t sprint. It simply arrives. His mace swung in slow, deliberate arcs. ¡°You don¡¯t belong here.¡± He didn''t speak it as a threat. Just a truth. My staff buckled under the impact as I barely managed to block a hit from his mace, and pain rattled up through me like someone slapping out a bad rhythm on bone. Bone creaked. Metal groaned. I gritted my teeth and shoved back, which did exactly nothing. ¡°Not warrior. Not king. Weak. Small.¡± ¡°I never asked to be one.¡± He leaned closer, his presence blotting out the light like a thunderhead rolling in. ¡°Big Chief can help with that. Just die.¡± The next swing came faster. I twisted aside, just barely, and the mace shattered the floor where I¡¯d stood. Stone fractured like glass. The air rang with the sound of something old breaking. I staggered, staff shaking in my hands, trying to remember which direction was away. Movement flickered at the edge of vision. Grib. He shouldn¡¯t have been moving that fast. Or that quietly. Or with that much purpose. He launched himself from the shadows, a blur of motion wrapped in bones and reckless devotion. ¡°For the Bone King!¡± he howled. Giddy, triumphant, and definitely enjoying himself way too much. And then, God help us,he threw the slime. He hurled it like he was a goblin-shaped trebuchet and the blue blob hit a kobold square in the face with a noise like stepping into a wet sock. The kobold shrieked, arms flailing as it tried to peel the slime off, but the slime wasn¡¯t going anywhere. It clung with the unshakeable determination of old gum under a diner table. Grib didn¡¯t hesitate. He darted forward and drove his spear into the kobold¡¯s gut with a cheerful grunt, then yanked it free like he was ringing a bell. I stared. Grib spun, already charging the next one, slime jiggling victoriously in one hand, spear in the other. His movements were disturbingly fluid. Fast. Focused. Wrong. Not in the usual goblin way. In a way that said: you built this. Because I had. I¡¯d reforged him. Reassembled what was left. Given him something else. Something sharp. I didn¡¯t know if it was a gift or a theft. Big Chief¡¯s roar yanked me back to the present. I turned just in time to catch the mace with my staff again. The shock slammed through me¡ªhard enough that I felt ribs I didn¡¯t technically have. Bone splinters scattered across the floor. My grip faltered. ¡°Not king,¡± Big Chief rumbled. ¡°Pretender. Wrong shape.¡± The mace lifted again. I froze. There was no clever trick waiting in the back of my mind. No strategy. No next move. I wanted to scream, but even that felt like it would waste time I didn¡¯t have. Big Chief was too close. Too strong. Grib was somewhere behind me, still fighting. And I was about to fail him again. I had nothing. Big Chief was going to kill me. I stopped thinking. Instinct reached out through the panic and grabbed hold of something sharp. Chilling Touch. My hand snapped up, fingers blazing with blue frost. I caught Big Chief¡¯s wrist mid-swing. The ice spread instantly. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Fractal veins of frozen air raced up his arm¡ªbiting, seizing, cracking. Flesh froze and split. Bones popped like old wood in a fire. Big Chief screamed. The sound echoed off the walls, low and ragged, a thing pulled from somewhere deep and unwilling. He ripped his arm back, chunks of frozen meat flying in every direction. One eye locked onto me. Burning. ¡°You¡ªwhat you do?!¡± I didn¡¯t answer. I couldn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t know. Big Chief lunged. I dove aside as the mace cleaved through empty air and obliterated the wall behind me. Stone burst like a blister. Light vanished. Dust filled the room like smoke from a funeral pyre. I was already pulling myself up. The system opened without me calling it. A quiet presence at the edge of panic. Waiting. Fireball. One word. Bright. Cold. I didn¡¯t have time to ask why or how or what the collateral damage might be. I raised the staff. Let go. The world screamed. A ball of fire ripped from the tip of the staff: pure force, pure heat, pure system. It tore through the chamber, hit Big Chief square in the chest, and swallowed him whole. There was no sound. There was only light. And then¡­ nothing. Silence poured into the space the fire left behind. When the smoke cleared, Big Chief was still standing. Technically. His body was blackened, split open in places where the heat had been worst. His good eye was gone, melted to a hollow socket. What remained of his chest rose once, then gave up. He swayed¡ªthen dropped. And that was it. The silence afterward didn¡¯t feel earned. Just¡­ present. Like it had stepped in to clean up. Big Chief lay where he¡¯d fallen, collapsed into himself, smaller than he had any right to be. The fire had taken his size, his weight, the myth of him¡ªand left behind something brittle. I knew this was supposed to be a victory. It didn¡¯t feel like one. Just a consequence. Grib broke the stillness with a yell. ¡°The Bone King wins!¡± he howled, triumph fizzing out of him like shaken soda. The slime in his hand jiggled helpfully, as if offering moral support. I didn¡¯t answer. Didn¡¯t look at him. I was still staring at Big Chief. At the ruined shape of someone who had once filled the whole room just by existing. His mace was nearby, cracked and twisted, its jagged head half-buried in scorched stone. I found myself staring at the grooves it left behind. Not because they meant anything. Just because they were still there. ¡°Big Chief no match for us!¡± Grib crowed, turning to the kobolds still lurking in the shadows. He lifted the slime like it was a battle standard. ¡°See? Bone King strongest! No one stop us now!¡± No one stop us. The words echoed, hollow and off-key. I didn¡¯t move. My eyes stayed locked on what was left. The heat in the room shimmered slightly, but there was nothing behind it anymore. No threat. No force. Just ash and motionless limbs. Gone. The air was heavy. Dry. Thick with smoke. But under it, something worse. The kind of smell that clings. Burnt hair. Open blood. Heat-warped metal. The kobolds hadn¡¯t moved. Their weapons hung limp in their hands. A few of them were staring at me. Most were staring at Big Chief. Three of them were dead. One still had Grib¡¯s spear lodged in its chest. Another had fallen face-first, head cracked open where Grib must¡¯ve hit it. I hadn¡¯t seen it happen. But I didn¡¯t need to. The staff slipped from my hands and clattered to the stone. Loud. Too loud. It sounded like punctuation. Grib turned to me. His grin flickered a little, like he was trying to read my face. ¡°You all right, Boss?¡± he asked. I didn¡¯t answer. I wasn¡¯t sure how. What do you say when you realize the fire didn¡¯t feel like casting a spell¡ªit felt like flipping a switch? My hands still buzzed. The heat was fading, but not gone. I looked down at them like they might explain something. They didn¡¯t. Grib stepped closer, smile snapping back into place. ¡°Big Chief never had chance,¡± he said, practically glowing. ¡°Bone King too strong! We unstoppable now!¡± I finally looked at him. At the pride in his eyes. The way he lifted the slime like it had done something brave. He believed it. He thought we¡¯d won. ¡°Yeah,¡± I said. ¡°Unstoppable.¡± Grib laughed, sharp and bright, and the slime jiggled along with him. I tried to stand. My legs didn¡¯t like that idea. One gave out. Something in my side shifted the wrong way. My grip on the staff had already gone; I hadn¡¯t noticed when. A few loose bone fragments scattered across the floor like I was shedding. I looked down. My arm was cracked from shoulder to wrist. The bone was slowly pulling itself back together, but not with any urgency. A jagged edge slid into place by millimeters, paused, then started again like it had forgotten what it was doing halfway through. Even the knuckles were doing it¡ªeach one twitching gently, reshaping, like a time-lapse of erosion played in reverse. It wasn¡¯t fast. It wasn¡¯t impressive. It just... was. And it hurt. Not a sharp pain. Not something useful like a warning. Just this deep, ambient throb that settled into every corner of me and refused to leave. Which raised a question. If the system could build me without blood, or nerves, or anything remotely squishy... Why the hell did it think pain was essential? There was no answer. Just the slow, steady scrape of bone trying to remember how to be whole. Like watching something die in reverse. I looked over one last time. No magical mending for Big Chief. No coming back. The fire was gone. But I could still feel where it had been. Big Chief was dead. And I wasn¡¯t sure how to feel about the person who had killed him. Chapter 13 - The Adventurers The Whispering Willow Inn had endured worse. Floods, brawls, a particularly nasty business venture involving pickled eel. It had weathered them all with the unshakable resolve of a place too old and too stubborn to fall apart just yet. But a week of adventurers doing nothing at all? That was testing its limits. And worse, they were running out of coin. At first, the innkeeper had treated them like any other travelers¡ªpolite nods, a practiced smile, the occasional refill offered with something approaching warmth. But as the days dragged on and their coin turned to haggled discounts, as their presence became less a temporary inconvenience and more a permanent fixture, the welcome soured. The nods became grunts, the smiles faded into tight-lipped tolerance. More than once they¡¯d heard him murmuring about the guard and evictions. ¡°Still nothing from the church,¡± Raven said. She lounged in her chair, all sharp angles and impatience, one boot hooked over the table¡¯s edge, her dagger rolling idly between her fingers. ¡°A week, and not even a whisper of divine interest.¡± ¡°Shocking,¡± Devon muttered. His logbook lay open before him, though his quill sat abandoned at its side. He traced a finger along its spine, gaze unfocused. ¡°Almost as if a lich in some nameless dungeon isn¡¯t worth their time.¡± ¡°They care,¡± Marielle said, quiet but firm. Her fingers rested against the silver symbol of her faith, as if by habit. She hadn¡¯t looked at them once since the conversation began, her eyes fixed instead on the fire. ¡°The church always cares. They¡¯re just¡­ deliberate.¡± Raven¡¯s smirk curled slow, deliberate as a blade being sharpened. ¡°Deliberate,¡± she echoed. ¡°That¡¯s a polite way of saying they don¡¯t lift a finger unless the problem starts burning down temples.¡± Marielle¡¯s grip tightened on the symbol. She still didn¡¯t look away. ¡°Careful,¡± she murmured. ¡°They are listening.¡± ¡°To what?¡± Devon said, raising an eyebrow. ¡°The sound of us running out of money? Or the fact that we can¡¯t even get a permit for a new dungeon until they decide to do something?¡± He snatched up his tankard and took a long, bitter sip. ¡°I¡¯ll give them something to listen to.¡± Markus sat hunched over his drink, his shield resting against the chair beside him. The grooves in its surface caught the flickering light, worn deep by years of use. His voice cut through the growing tension, calm and low. ¡°Enough. This isn¡¯t helping.¡± ¡°What¡¯s helping, then?¡± Raven asked, flipping her dagger and catching it by the hilt in a single, fluid motion. ¡°Sitting here for another week? Telling stories about how this will all work out? I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve noticed, but inns don¡¯t take good intentions as payment.¡± ¡°Neither do blacksmiths,¡± Talia added, her tone measured as she ran a hand over her carefully folded map. ¡°And we need better gear if we¡¯re going back in there.¡± ¡°Better gear won¡¯t matter if it¡¯s not enchanted,¡± Markus said, setting his tankard down with deliberate care. ¡°Liches are resistant to most weapons. Magical ones are rare, and we don¡¯t have the coin for them.¡± Marielle¡¯s fingers tightened around her holy symbol, her voice barely above a whisper. ¡°It was a miracle that my spell worked at all.¡± Raven frowned, leaning forward. ¡°What do you mean, a miracle?¡± ¡°I mean it shouldn¡¯t have,¡± Marielle said, finally turning to face them. The firelight caught the edge of her expression, a flicker of something uneasy crossing her face. ¡°Hold Undead isn¡¯t strong enough for something like that. Not against a lich. It¡­ it wasn¡¯t me. It was the goddess!¡± The table fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a cold draft. ¡°If it was the goddess, do you think she could maybe hurry up her earthly representation?¡± Raven said.. ¡°Because right now we¡¯re waiting on a bureaucracy and divine intervention. Two forces famously known for their speed and reliability.¡± ¡°Do you want to go back without them?¡± Markus asked, his tone calm but weighted. ¡°You saw that thing.¡± ¡°Obviously,¡± Raven said, her voice sharp. ¡°Who the hells has ever heard of a lich on the first floor?¡± Devon hesitated, fingers brushing the spine of his logbook. He stared at it like a man hoping to find the answer written somewhere inside¡ªsome explanation that made sense of what they had seen. But there was none. He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. ¡°This isn¡¯t right,¡± he muttered. ¡°Liches don¡¯t belong on first floors. And goblins don¡¯t just¡­ watch you until you attack.¡± His hand raked through his hair, voice curling with irritation. ¡°None of it fits. It¡¯s wrong.¡± Markus didn¡¯t disagree, but agreement changed nothing. His fingers tapped idly against his tankard, the only outward sign of his impatience. ¡°It¡¯s dangerous is what it is. And I don¡¯t like it either, but we aren¡¯t getting a permit for a new dungeon unless we clear down to floor three or forfeit. And we can¡¯t afford another canceled contract.¡± Raven exhaled sharply, her dagger spinning once between her fingers before sliding back into its sheath. ¡°So we sit here. Again. Waiting for the church to decide if this is worth their time.¡± Her lip curled. ¡°That worked well the first time.¡± Markus leaned back in his chair, unreadable. ¡°You¡¯re welcome to go back alone, Raven.¡± The dagger in Raven¡¯s hand stilled. Her lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Don¡¯t tempt me.¡± Gray sat by the fire, one hand resting on the massive wolf curled beside him. He didn¡¯t look up. Didn¡¯t speak. Just ran slow, absent fingers through fur like he was tuning a thought that hadn¡¯t quite formed yet. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. After a long silence, he said, without turning, ¡°You all talk too much.¡± The wolf huffed, as if in agreement. The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow painting restless shadows along the walls. No one at the table spoke, but the silence between them wasn¡¯t the easy, comfortable kind. It was the kind that wanted to be filled and wasn¡¯t, stretching thin across the room, fraying at the edges. Devon turned a page in his logbook. He wasn¡¯t reading. Just moving for the sake of movement. Across from him, Talia dragged the tip of her quill along her map, tracing and retracing lines that had long since been set. Markus sat still, watching the room with the quiet patience of a man daring someone else to break first. It was Raven who finally did. ¡°I¡¯m just saying,¡± she muttered, quieter now but no less sharp, ¡°waiting on the church is starting to feel a lot like waiting to starve.¡± Talia didn¡¯t look up. ¡°We¡¯ve waited this long. Another day or two won¡¯t kill us.¡± Devon scoffed, a breath barely more than sound. ¡°Not yet, anyway.¡± Raven¡¯s fingers twitched toward her dagger, her mouth half-open to argue¡ª And then the door groaned open. The sound shouldn¡¯t have been loud. Not over the murmur of the inn, not over the crackle of the fire. But it was. A deep, weighted noise, wood and iron dragging against time-warped hinges, cutting through the air like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. The draft came next, slipping in past the threshold like an unseen thing, curling under tables and chairs, making the fire in the hearth gutter low. Voices dwindled. The warmth in the room, thin to begin with, thinned further. Every head turned. And he stepped inside. Tall. Broad. His frame carried the kind of weight that had nothing to do with size. A dark cloak hung over polished steel plate, its jagged edges catching in the firelight, throwing back sharp glints of gold and silver. The armor wasn¡¯t ornamental. The etched designs weren¡¯t decorative. They meant something¡ªto those who knew, to those who should. At his hip, a longsword rested, the hilt wrapped in black leather, the grip worn smooth by use. But it was the emblem on his chest that held the room still. A silver cross, encircled by sharp rays. Not just a warrior. A Holy Knight. Even in the rough corners of the world, that meant something. The Church did not send knights without cause. And when they did, it was never for something small. The fire crackled, but softer, as if it had the good sense not to draw attention. He moved further inside. His boots met the wooden floor with a weight beyond their size, measured in a way that made the space between each step matter. He wasn¡¯t looking for them. He didn¡¯t need to. His gaze swept the room, and the silence followed it, trailing in his wake like an obedient thing. Then he found them. Markus sat up straighter, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. Talia set her quill down, fingers still curled around it, as if grounding herself with the motion. Raven¡¯s hand drifted closer to her dagger¡ªnot quite reaching for it, but not far from it either. Only Marielle remained perfectly still. Watching. Unreadable. The knight stopped in front of their table. His cloak shifted with the movement, the fabric settling like the dust before a storm. His face was sharp, pale, the kind of features that might have been handsome if they had anything in them besides purpose. The inn seemed smaller now. No one spoke. No one moved. Then, finally, he did. ¡°You are the ones who reported the lich,¡± he said. His voice was quiet. Certain. The kind of tone that left no space for doubt. Markus inclined his head, his expression guarded but steady. ¡°We are.¡± The knight nodded once. ¡°Your report has been reviewed. The Church has determined the threat to be significant.¡± ¡°Oh, thank the gods,¡± Devon muttered. The knight¡¯s gaze snapped to him. Cold. Unflinching. The weight of it settled like iron around Devon¡¯s throat, and whatever humor had been lingering in his expression died a quick, silent death. ¡°This is not a matter for gratitude,¡± the knight said. His voice carried no heat, no irritation¡ªjust a simple, undeniable certainty, the kind that turned walls into doctrine and doctrine into law. ¡°I am Sir Garrick Draemir, Knight of the Holy Church. Effective immediately, you are conscripted into the Church¡¯s Holy Army for this divine purpose. You will remain in service until the lich is destroyed.¡± The words settled heavy between them, balanced on the edge between a promise and a threat. A beat of silence. Then¡ª ¡°What?¡± Raven¡¯s voice cut through the air, sharp as drawn steel. ¡°You can¡¯t just conscript us. We¡¯re independent. Mercenaries. We don¡¯t work for¡ª¡± ¡°You do now,¡± Draemir said, cutting her off as neatly as a blade severing a rope. ¡°You will be released from service upon the destruction of the lich. This is a divine mandate.¡± His voice did not rise, but the words held weight, pressing down on the table like an executioner¡¯s hand. ¡°Your compliance is not optional.¡± Raven¡¯s mouth opened, ready to fire back, but the knight moved before she could speak. A hand dipped into his cloak. A dull thud against the wood. The bag landed in the center of the table, heavy enough to make the tankards tremble. The leather shifted slightly, the drawstring loosening just enough to reveal the cold gleam of silver and white metal beneath. ¡°Pure platinum,¡± the knight said. His tone had not changed. It did not need to. ¡°Payment in advance.¡± The group stared at the bag. Even Markus faltered, his usually impassive expression cracking as his eyes flicked between the knight and the fortune sitting in front of them. Talia¡¯s quill stilled against her map, the ink pooling at the tip. Devon leaned forward, fingers twitching slightly, like some part of him had already decided to take it before the rest of him caught up. The silence stretched. Then Raven let out a quiet, bitter laugh. ¡°Well, shit.¡± She pulled the bag closer before anyone else had finished processing. No hesitation. No discussion. Her fingers toyed with the drawstring, just enough to pull it open¡ªjust enough to see what lay inside. A pause. ¡°Guess we¡¯re working for the goddess now,¡± she said, lifting the bag with one hand, feeling the weight of it. Then came a dry smirk .¡°Hope she offers better terms than the guild.¡± Chapter 14 - Edgar System Alert Rank up. HP and Mana Increased Rank Acquired: Floor 2 Boss. Dungeon Skill Acquired: Floor Teleportation. It¡¯s amazing how clinical triumph can feel when delivered by a disembodied text box. There was no confetti, no rousing chorus, no pat on the back for a battle well fought. Just a sterile announcement that I was now better, whatever that meant, while Big Chief¡¯s corpse smoldered on the ground. I stood slowly, each movement deliberate, as though rushing might shatter something invisible holding me together. My bones clicked faintly in the quiet. Around me, the kobolds hadn¡¯t moved, their eyes wide and unblinking, fixed somewhere between me and what was left of their leader. The throne loomed ahead, jagged and oversized, its silhouette cutting into the heavy air of the chamber. I walked toward it without thinking. My steps felt hollow, as if each one echoed in a place I couldn¡¯t see. When I reached the throne, I sat. The stone pressed against my bones, solid and unyielding, yet not cold. It carried the weight of something older, as though it had been waiting far longer than I had been alive¡ªor undead. Big Chief¡¯s body lay crumpled near the center of the room, the remains of something immense, undone. I stared at it for a long time. Around me, the silence shifted. ¡°Bone King take throne!¡± Grib¡¯s voice broke the stillness, a jarring clash of noise and emotion. He was beaming¡ªbeaming¡ªand holding his slime companion aloft as though it were the standard of some great and terrible army. The kobolds startled, their heads jerking toward him. Grib didn¡¯t care. He was already pacing back and forth, a wiry figure radiating undead enthusiasm, his spear clutched in one hand, the slime jiggling enthusiastically in the other. ¡°You see? Big Chief gone! Bone King strongest! You lucky to join us!¡± He emphasized the last word with a sharp stab of his spear into the air. Scaly hands gripped spears and clubs tighter as the kobolds exchanged uneasy glances. They were afraid of me. Every last one of them. There was something¡­ I don¡¯t even know how to describe it. Unsettling, satisfying, horrifying, powerful. Some mixture of a million different emotions. And I hated every second of it. Grib didn¡¯t notice¡ªor didn¡¯t care. He strode into their ranks, his voice rising with each word. ¡°You part of Bone King¡¯s army now! Best army in dungeon! No, in world!¡± He thrust the slime at one kobold, who recoiled slightly before recovering, their eyes darting nervously toward the throne. ¡°Look!¡± Grib turned to me, his expression so fervent it almost felt painful to watch. ¡°Bone King is chief now! We win!¡± At first, none of the kobolds moved. They stood frozen, their gazes flickering between Grib and me, their bodies coiled tight with the kind of tension that spoke of fear. Then, slowly, one stepped forward. Krix. He moved like someone wading through deep water, each step hesitant and unsteady, his eyes wide and locked on Big Chief¡¯s remains. His claws trembled faintly as he pointed at the charred body, his voice breaking when he finally spoke. ¡°Bone King is Big Chief now,¡± he said, his words trembling and sharp, as though the act of saying them cut something deep. The room shifted again. The kobolds murmured to one another, their voices low and quick, like the scrape of dry leaves against stone. Grib, of course, was already declaring victory, his movements a whirlwind of triumphant gestures. The slime jiggled in his hand, a grotesque little mascot for a battle it couldn¡¯t possibly understand. Krix stood where he was, staring at me. His eyes were wide, dark with something I couldn¡¯t quite name. Fear. Awe. Resentment. Maybe all three. I met his gaze but said nothing. Behind him, Grib was still talking, his words filling the air with a chaotic energy that made everything feel smaller, less grounded. ¡°We strongest! No one stop us! Bone King¡ªBone King leads us to victory! You see? You all see!¡± The kobolds were caught in the kind of silence that didn¡¯t ask questions. It crouched. Listened. Dared someone to speak first. Their murmurs rose like smoke, uncertain and aimless, ready to vanish the second someone breathed too loud. But Krix didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t blink. Didn¡¯t run. He just stared at me, eyes sharp, unsure if I was the kind of ruler you kneeled to or the kind you ran from. The tension stretched, thin as wire. Then, quietly and deliberately, he sank to one knee. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The room held its breath. The murmurs stilled. And one by one, the others followed. Grib whooped, his voice echoing off the chamber walls, and raised the slime high above his head. ¡°Bone King rules!¡± I didn¡¯t react. Just stared past Grib¡¯s cheers, past the kneeling kobolds, back to what was left of Big Chief. The edges of his body were still glowing faintly, like the fire hadn¡¯t quite finished making its point. The kobolds stayed where they were¡ªheads bowed, spines stiff, the posture of creatures too afraid to guess wrong. Grib¡¯s voice faded into the background. He was still declaring victory like he was narrating a parade I hadn¡¯t agreed to. Something about crushing adventurers. Something about destiny. I wasn¡¯t listening. They weren¡¯t kneeling out of loyalty. Not yet. Maybe I¡¯d earned their fear. I¡¯d used the power this world gave me, power I didn¡¯t ask for. But it didn¡¯t sit right. Big Chief had ruled with fear. With weight. With threat. That wasn¡¯t me. It couldn¡¯t be. If I was going to be their king¡ªif that¡¯s what this even was¡ªit wouldn¡¯t be because they thought I could kill them. It would be because I didn¡¯t. I raised a hand. ¡°Grib,¡± I said, motioning toward the floor, ¡°get them up.¡± Grib, bless his undead heart, turned to the group and began barking orders with all the grace of a goblin auctioneer. ¡°Up! Bone King says get up! Standing time now! Up, up, up!¡± The kobolds rose slowly, not with purpose, but with the caution of creatures who had learned that standing too fast could get you hurt. Their eyes stayed on me, sharp and uncertain, like they were waiting to see what kind of king I was going to be¡ªcruel, distant, or just another mistake. Grib hovered nearby, barely containing himself, the slime in his arms jiggling like it had already decided this was a parade. I stared at them: at their battered weapons, their scarred hides, and their wary postures. They looked like survivors of a war they¡¯d been losing for a very long time. They needed more than orders. They needed something to believe in. Unfortunately, the only thing I could think of was how desperately I didn¡¯t want to do this. But then, the words came. Fragments of half-remembered speeches from history class, late-night documentaries, and a vague sense of what leaders were supposed to sound like. ¡°We choose to defend this dungeon,¡± I began, my voice louder than I expected, ¡°not because it is easy, but because it is¡­ hard.¡± Grib gasped audibly, holding his slime higher, as if to emphasize the enormity of the declaration. One of the kobolds tilted its head in confusion, but the others were starting to pay closer attention. ¡°We shall fight the adventurers on the beaches,¡± I continued, feeling momentum build¡ªbefore pausing and glancing at Grib. ¡°Wait, do we have beaches?¡± Grib shook his head vigorously. ¡°No beaches, Boss. Just traps and rocks.¡± ¡°Fine. We shall fight them in the corridors, then,¡± I said. ¡°We shall fight them in the slightly damp corners. We shall fight them where the ceiling drips in that weird, unsettling way that makes you think about cave worms.¡± The kobolds murmured, a few of them nodding in cautious agreement. Grib was beaming. ¡°Bone King knows all the places! Good places to fight!¡± ¡°Ask not what your dungeon can do for you,¡± I said, pointing a skeletal finger at the group, ¡°but what you can do for your dungeon.¡± One of the kobolds blinked. Whispered something to his neighbor¡ªsoft, cautious, like testing the water with a toe. Another straightened a little, not all at once, just enough to suggest that something in the words had landed. The murmurs didn¡¯t break into action. But they shifted. Tilted. As if the room had leaned forward, just slightly, to listen. ¡°And what you can do,¡± I continued, the words finding their own momentum, ¡°is prepare. Adventurers are coming. Stronger and angrier than before. They¡¯ll bring their swords, their spells, their smug faces, and they¡¯ll come for all of us. For this dungeon. For your home.¡± That word¡ªhome¡ªhit them differently. The shift was subtle, but I could see it. Shoulders lifted. Eyes narrowed. Clawed hands tightened around weapons. ¡°But when they do,¡± I said, standing now, letting the throne¡¯s jagged edges frame me like a shadow, ¡°they won¡¯t find us cowering. They won¡¯t find us broken. They¡¯ll find us ready. Together, we will make this dungeon stronger than it¡¯s ever been. Together, we will make them regret ever stepping foot in here.¡± Grib howled with delight, his slime quivering in apparent agreement. The kobolds exchanged glances, their uncertainty slowly giving way to something sharper. A few began to nod. One bared their teeth in a silent snarl. ¡°And if we fail,¡± I said, letting the silence stretch before I finished, ¡°at least we¡¯ll make it very inconvenient for them.¡± The room hung quiet for a breath. Then, Krix stepped forward. ¡°We¡­ prepare,¡± he said slowly, his claws trembling but his voice steady. His eyes, wide with fear moments ago, now burned with resolve. He looked back at the others, his gaze fierce. ¡°We make strong. For Bone King.¡± The kobold ranks murmured again, but this time, it was different. Not an anxious rustling caught between instinct and fear, but something firmer. Something edging toward actual resolve. A ripple passed through them¡ªclaws tightened around weapons, spines straightened, and for the first time, they didn¡¯t look at me like like I was going to incinerate them or that I needed to die. It was, dare I say, progress. And then there was Grib. Grib, who had officially lost his tiny green mind. He took off at a dead sprint, waving his slime like a war banner, his voice climbing higher with each loop around the chamber. ¡°Bone King inspires! Bone King leads! Bone King unstoppable!¡± The slime wobbled in what I could only assume was agreement. I sighed (or, at least, made a hollow, rattling attempt at one) and leaned back against the jagged stone of the throne, my bones creaking in protest. ¡°Unstoppable,¡± I muttered under my breath. The word felt dry and brittle. But¡­ the kobolds were moving. Talking. Planning. Grib was barking orders with the confidence of a tiny, undead Napoleon, his slime jiggling ominously as though it, too, had a strategy. Weapons were being checked. Traps discussed. Even Krix was giving out instructions in a way that didn¡¯t immediately suggest a nervous breakdown. And for the first time since waking up dead, I had the unsettling realization that they believed it. Maybe I did too. The room shifted into something new¡ªa force in motion, rather than just a collection of things waiting to happen. The kobolds scattered, their murmurs rising into a focused hum, and as Grib waved his slime like a divine mandate, I let my head tilt back against the throne, staring up at the uneven ceiling. And, of course, right on cue¡ªthe system flickered into view, as sharp and indifferent as ever. ¡°Congratulations, second floor boss! Your task: Defend the dungeon. Adventurer incursion in 48 hours.¡± Chapter 15 Raising the dead is not a grand affair. There are no glowing sigils, no celestial choirs belting out a minor key anthem of doom, and certainly no applause. Instead, it is an ugly, clumsy thing. Like restarting a car that¡¯s been rusting in a swamp, except the swamp is a goblin corpse, and the rust is¡­ also a goblin corpse. The first goblin twitched, shivered, and rose, if you could call it that. Its spine bent like a question mark, one eye half-dangling where something with too many legs had been snacking. Greenish skin sloughed off in places, revealing bone that gleamed faintly in the dim light. It swayed on its feet, gurgling faintly, a sound that could have been hunger, confusion, or a posthumous review of my leadership skills. Behind it, the others followed. One by one, the goblins shuffled upright, their movements disjointed, their glowing green eyes reflecting a complete lack of awareness. Not one spark of life¡ªjust the dull persistence of undeath. It was¡­ grotesque. And yet, not once did the system prompt me to retrieve their souls, as it had with Grib. No question. No hesitation. Just Create Undead, and here they were, a gallery of decay with no inner light to guide them. I glanced at the soul counter in the corner of my awareness: 1/1. It still sat there, pristine and unyielding, as though mocking me for daring to ask if I could do what I had done before. Bringing Grib back had felt like breaking a rule I hadn¡¯t realized existed. This? This felt like following instructions. I looked at Grib now, standing a few feet away, still clutching his slime as though it were a badge of office. He was shouting something about mud and destiny, his face lit with the kind of enthusiasm that didn¡¯t come prepackaged with undeath. Grib was different. He wasn¡¯t just undead¡ªhe was alive in a way that defied the word entirely. Of all the things I¡¯d done so far, bringing Grib back was the most significant. The most impossible. And somehow, the thing I¡¯d thought about the least. Would I ever be able to do it the same way again? The thought twisted in the back of my mind. I pushed it away, unwilling to follow it where it led. There were more immediate concerns. ¡°Bone King raise best army!¡± Grib declared, punctuating his point by waving his arms like he was trying to conduct an orchestra of chaos. I looked at the swaying, slumping goblins. ¡°Best¡± was a strong word, but I wasn¡¯t about to argue. ¡°It¡¯s a start,¡± I said, brushing nonexistent dust from my skeletal fingers. Krix ran a claw over the edge of his ear, slow and deliberate, like he was weighing whether this situation merited panic or just dignified fleeing. His tail twitched the way one might fidget with a knife¡ªabsently, but with intent. ¡°Uh¡­ Bone King?¡± His voice had the careful tone of someone trying not to offend the necromancer who raised a small army of questionable corpses. ¡°Yes, Krix?¡± He gestured at the nearest zombie, which was currently trying to reattach a finger to the wrong hand. ¡°No offense, but¡­ undead are weird. Creepy. Make scales itch.¡± He scratched absently at his arm. ¡°Not saying you¡¯re creepy¡ªBone King¡¯s fine. Real good for skeleton. But¡­ them.¡± ¡°None taken,¡± I said. ¡°They are objectively disgusting. You¡¯re allowed to feel weird about it.¡± Krix blinked, caught off guard. ¡°Oh. Okay. Good.¡± His tail slowed slightly. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ kobolds don¡¯t like dead things walking. Dead supposed to stay dead, yeah? In ground. Quiet. Not¡­ gurgling.¡± Grib scoffed, planting the butt of his spear on the ground. Or rather, what had been his spear. Somewhere in the chaos of celebration and raising the dead, Grib had decided that Big Chief¡¯s mace now belonged to him. He held it with both hands, wobbling slightly under the weight, but swinging it around like a child who had just been given permission to operate heavy machinery. Possibly while drunk. The weapon had not been designed for goblin-sized wielders. Or kobold-sized. And yet there he was, twirling it with the reckless joy of someone who had never been told no. ¡°Kobolds scared of dead things,¡± Grib declared, doing his best to casually lean on the mace that was nearly as tall as him. He promptly overbalanced, stumbled, then pretended it was intentional. ¡°Weak!¡± Krix¡¯s ears flattened. ¡°Not scared. Smart. Play with cursed dead things, get cursed. That¡¯s how curses work.¡± ¡°Pfft.¡± Grib grinned, somehow recovering enough to lift the mace again¡ªboth hands this time, with a sound that suggested his spine might file a complaint. ¡°Cursed? Grib not cursed! Grib strong now! Stronger than Big Chief!¡± He puffed his chest proudly, slime wobbling in agreement from his shoulder. ¡°How are you even lifting that thing?¡± Krix muttered, eyes narrowing like the laws of physics had just been personally insulted. ¡°Dead muscles better!¡± Grib swung the mace in a slow, lopsided arc. ¡°See? No problem!¡± He immediately dropped it with a loud clang and let out a strangled ¡°oof.¡± I sighed. ¡°Grib.¡± ¡°Grib fine! Just testing gravity! Still works!¡± The slime jiggled sympathetically. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Or would have, if I still had one. ¡°Please don¡¯t brain one of the kobolds.¡± ¡°No promises,¡± he said cheerfully, dragging the mace back upright with the single-mindedness of someone who was either a visionary or a public hazard. Krix groaned and muttered something that sounded deeply unkind. But he didn¡¯t leave. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Grib, sensing an opportunity, held out the slime like a peace offering. ¡°Here. Touch. Not scary.¡± Krix recoiled slightly. ¡°Why would I¡ª¡± ¡°Is warm!¡± Grib insisted, as if that settled everything. After a beat of hesitation, Krix reached out and tapped the slime with one claw. His eyes widened. ¡°...It is warm.¡± ¡°Good!¡± Grib beamed. ¡°Now you not scared of undead anymore!¡± ¡°I¡¯m not scared of undead,¡± Krix snapped, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed him. ¡°Still think it¡¯s creepy. But fine. Whatever.¡± Grib grinned, patting the slime proudly. ¡°Bone King¡¯s army best. Even with creepy dead things. You see.¡± Krix snorted, but there was no bite in it this time. ¡°Better hope so,¡± he muttered. I watched them in silence, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the edges of my thoughts. Grib¡¯s methods were, as usual, ridiculous, but for the first time, Krix didn¡¯t seem ready to claw his eyes out. Progress. Grib turned to me, eyes shining with an eagerness that would¡¯ve been endearing if it weren¡¯t so terrifying. ¡°Boss have plan?¡± I didn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, my gaze drifted to the edge of my awareness, where the list of spells waited like tools I¡¯d yet to fully explore. Necrotic Surge. The name had always lingered there, tempting in its simplicity, but I hadn¡¯t thought much of it. Now, with everything on the line, curiosity tugged at me. I cast it. The change was immediate, a faint hum coursing through my bones, sharpening the edges of every movement. My grip on the staff felt steadier, stronger, and a subtle, rhythmic pull on my mana let me know the spell was working. It wasn¡¯t overwhelming¡ªjust a quiet enhancement, a steady thread of borrowed power. I flexed my hand experimentally. Interesting. ¡°Well,¡± I began, casting a glance at the wobbling zombie horde. One of them had started chewing on its own elbow. It wasn¡¯t the most inspiring sight. ¡°I¡¯ve never been much of an RPG player¨C¡± ¡°What¡¯s RPG?¡± Grib interrupted, his head tilting like a particularly curious dog. ¡°Never mind,¡± I said, waving a hand. ¡°The point is, we don¡¯t need to overthink this. Based on how the adventurers reacted last time, they¡¯re not expecting anything big on the first floor. Except for me, apparently. And that¡¯s our advantage.¡± The kobolds, clustered awkwardly near Krix, exchanged glances. Their postures were still hunched, their claws fidgeting nervously, but at least they weren¡¯t running. Yet. I turned toward the zombies, who had managed to form something approximating a line. Two were missing parts of their feet, so the line had a noticeable lean, like a painting hung by someone with no sense of symmetry. ¡°We¡¯ll keep it simple. Mud traps. Fake walls. That thing with the bucket and the rope you¡¯re all so fond of. Just enough to lull them into thinking this will be like last time.¡± Krix stepped forward, his voice quiet but sharp. ¡°But what if they expect more? What if they think we¡¯ll try tricks?¡± ¡°Then we disappoint them creatively,¡± I replied. ¡°If they expect something clever, we give them something stupid. And if they expect something stupid, we give them¡­ well, mud.¡± Grib nodded, looking immensely pleased. ¡°Mud! Mud never fails!¡± I didn¡¯t have the heart to correct him. The kobolds still looked skeptical, but their fear had dimmed into something quieter, something resembling resolve. I wasn¡¯t sure if they believed me yet, but at least they were starting to believe in something. ¡°And as for you lot,¡± I said, addressing the zombie goblins, ¡°try not to fall apart before the adventurers get here. I¡¯d like them to at least pretend to be impressed.¡± A low groan rippled through the group, which I chose to interpret as agreement. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, resting the staff against my shoulder. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡± Grib whooped, his slime jiggling in enthusiastic approval. Krix began issuing orders to the kobolds, his voice low but firm, while Grib directed the goblins with the fervor of a goblin who had been undead for far too long. In the chaos of goblins, kobolds, and reanimated zombies attempting to organize themselves, something tugged at the edge of my awareness. A spell. One I hadn¡¯t tried yet. Tombcarve. I remembered seeing it among my list of spells earlier, nestled between Chilling Touch and Bone Wall. At the time, I¡¯d skipped over it, distracted by the immediate need to not get flattened by Big Chief. But now, the name lingered in my thoughts, its potential pulling at me like a loose thread begging to be unraveled. If it did what I thought it did... ¡°Grib,¡± I called, cutting through his latest enthusiastic tirade about the merits of mud. ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± he chirped, spinning around, his slime companion jiggling in apparent solidarity. ¡°Keep everyone busy for a while. I¡¯m testing something.¡± Grib saluted with his spear¡ªawkwardly, but with enough sincerity to make up for it¡ªand turned back to the goblins. ¡°Boss doing magic! Best magic! Nobody interrupt or I throw slime at you!¡± The kobolds exchanged uneasy glances, then wisely decided that whatever I was about to do was far above their pay grade. They shuffled back a step, not out of fear, but with the cautious resignation of people who had seen too many things explode in ways they weren¡¯t supposed to. I ignored them and turned to the wall. Tombcarve. The magic stirred, stretching through my bones like a yawn that had taken itself too seriously. A low hum filled my skull, vibrating in a way that suggested something very old, very powerful, and possibly very judgmental had just woken up inside me. I let it build, settling into place like a second skeleton, then released it. A thin, green arc of energy crackled from the staff. At first, nothing happened. Then the wall sighed, as if it had been waiting for an excuse to collapse all along. Stone groaned. A chunk of rock peeled away in clean, sharp slats, the magic eating through it with the quiet efficiency of a bureaucratic nightmare. The fragments hovered for a moment, then settled neatly at my feet, looking far too well-behaved for something that had just been part of a solid surface. I crouched, running a hand over one of the blocks. The spell hadn¡¯t just cut¡ªit had refined, smoothing the stone into something deliberate. Something useful. I grinned. ¡°It works.¡± The hum of magic lingered, curling at the edge of my thoughts. Encouraging. I let it guide me as I reached for the next part of the plan. A shape formed in my mind¡ªsteep, jagged, curling upward. A ramp. The energy crackled again, seeping into the stone, carving out the image with agonizing patience. It was slow work. Painfully so. Each shift in the rock pulled at my mana like an old blanket unraveling, one loose thread at a time. By the time the shape took form, a dull ache had settled behind my thoughts, the subtle reminder that even magic had limits. But it was worth it. I stepped back, eyeing the result. Not perfect¡ªthere were rough edges, places where the spell had hesitated¡ªbut it was real. A structure pulled straight from my mind and into the world. My fingers tightened on the staff. This wasn¡¯t just a spell for carving pathways. It wasn¡¯t just a way to make walls slightly less wall-like. It was a tool. A weapon. I turned to my undead horde, a collection of goblin corpses held together by sheer spite. One was chewing on its own foot. Another had managed to put its head on backward. It wasn¡¯t much of an army. But it would be enough. The image of a trap unfolded in my thoughts, crisp and deadly. Something they wouldn¡¯t expect. Something they wouldn¡¯t survive. For a moment, I hesitated. Then I thought of the warrior. The way his blade had cut through Grib like he was nothing. The sound, the blood¡ª If I could still sleep, I¡¯d have nightmares. My grip on the staff tightened. ¡°Fuck them.¡± I turned toward the dungeon entrance. Chapter 16 - The Adventurers The dungeon had settled into the land like it meant to stay. Some dungeons felt temporary, like they¡¯d been slapped together overnight, half-formed, waiting for some overeager band of idiots to clean them out so they could collapse into history. But not this one. This one had roots. A wound the world had stopped trying to heal. And wounds festered. ¡°It feels worse,¡± Marielle murmured. She wasn¡¯t wrong. The air had changed. It pressed against them in a way it hadn¡¯t before, like the dungeon was watching. Like it knew they had come back. ¡°It¡¯s a lich¡¯s lair,¡± Garrick said. His voice didn¡¯t waver. The weight of his armor sat on his frame as effortlessly as his conviction. ¡°It will wither in the face of divinity.¡± Markus adjusted his grip on his shield. ¡°I don¡¯t care what it feels like. We¡¯ve dealt with worse.¡± Raven, leaning against a tree with all the ease of someone who wanted to look relaxed, gave a slow, humorless smile. ¡°Oh, absolutely. Plenty of first-floor liches in our line of work. You see one, you¡¯ve seen them all.¡± No one laughed. Then she saw it. She straightened, chin jerking toward the entrance. ¡°That wasn¡¯t there before.¡± The others turned. A sign had been planted just before the dungeon threshold. Just before the cave mouth, not quite outside, but clearly visible. The wood was warped, damp from the mist curling around the edges of the cavern. The letters had been carved deep, not written but torn into the surface with something that hadn¡¯t cared for precision. LEAVE US ALONE, OR DIE. ¡°That¡­¡± Devon finally said, flipping open his logbook. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense.¡± ¡°It makes less sense the more you think about it,¡± Markus muttered. He frowned. ¡°Liches don¡¯t warn people away.¡± ¡°They do if they think it¡¯ll help,¡± Talia murmured, stepping closer. Her fingers hovered near the crystal of her staff, her focus narrowing. ¡°This isn¡¯t a taunt. It¡¯s a warning.¡± ¡°A warning,¡± Markus echoed, slower this time. Devon tapped his quill against the open page of his logbook, eyes fixed on the jagged letters. ¡°You don¡¯t warn people you want to kill.¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Talia said, still looking at the sign. ¡°So why warn us at all?¡± Garrick moved forward, his boots grinding against the loose stone. The others watched him like someone might watch a man poking a sleeping bear. ¡°This creature is cunning,¡± he said, calm as ever. ¡°But it is still a thing of death. An affront to divine order. It will fall like all the rest.¡± Marielle¡¯s fingers curled tighter around her holy symbol. ¡°It¡¯s already broken all the rules,¡± she murmured. w ¡°It can break as many rules as it likes,¡± Garrick said, not looking at her. ¡°It will still end.¡± No one argued. The sign stood where it had been planted, its jagged letters gouged deep, its message less a challenge and more a suggestion in the same way an open grave is a suggestion. Talia drifted forward before anyone could stop her, the hum of her staff growing stronger, responding to something unseen. The glow at its tip pulsed a faint rhythm. ¡°Talia,¡± Devon called, his voice tight with exasperation, ¡°maybe don¡¯t stand directly in front of the creepy death warning?¡± ¡°Just looking,¡± she murmured. Her gaze flicked between the rough lettering and the darkness beyond the entrance. ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel like a threat. More like¡­ a dare.¡± ¡°A dare that could get you killed,¡± Markus said, but his usual bite wasn¡¯t there. He was watching her carefully, fingers tapping against the edge of his shield. Raven muttered something under her breath, shifting slightly. Garrick exhaled sharply, irritation breaking through the smooth edges of his tone. ¡°Mage, fall back,¡± he ordered. ¡°This is what rogues are for. Let her do her job.¡± Talia hesitated. Before she could argue, Raven stepped forward with a dismissive wave of her hand. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m not detecting any traps. Magical or mechanical.¡± She moved fluidly, checking the edges of the threshold, eyes flicking between stone and shadow with practiced ease. ¡°Nothing¡¯s set. No runes, no pressure plates, no tripwires. Just a nice, welcoming entrance to a deeply cursed hole in the ground.¡± Garrick didn¡¯t look convinced, but he didn¡¯t stop her. Talia didn¡¯t wait. She reached the threshold. The glow of her staff illuminated the uneven stone floor just inside. She took another step¡ª And the ground was no longer there. Devon¡¯s scream sliced through the air. ¡°TALIA!¡± He was on his knees before anyone could stop him, one hand gripping the crumbling edge like he could anchor reality with his fingers. "Talia! Are you¡ªare you alive?¡± A groan from below, pained but unmistakably hers. ¡°I¡¯m alive, Devon. Calm down.¡± The relief was instant, visible. Devon sagged, muttering something half-prayer, half-swearing under his breath. Markus was already stepping up beside him, yanking him back before he followed her down. His shield scraped against stone as he peered over the edge. ¡°That wasn¡¯t here last time.¡± ¡°No,¡± Raven muttered, already circling the pit, knives flashing as she checked the edges. ¡°And I didn¡¯t miss it. If you¡¯re about to say I missed it, you can¡ª¡± ¡°You missed it,¡± Devon snapped, rounding on her, face pale with anger and leftover panic. ¡°You were supposed to check for traps. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here, isn¡¯t it? Why didn¡¯t your precious skills stop this?¡± ¡°Because this¡ª¡± she jabbed a finger toward the pit ¡°¡ªisn¡¯t a trap, you sanctimonious little shit.¡± Markus frowned. ¡°It¡¯s a giant hole in the floor.¡± ¡°Yeah, Markus, I can see that.¡± Raven crouched, running her fingers along the jagged edge. ¡°No triggers. No residual magic I can sense, no mechanical parts. Nothing.¡± Her frown deepened as she touched the break itself. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ stone. But it¡¯s weirdly thin right here. And this break¡­¡± she traced the edge, ¡°it¡¯s too clean. Too sharp for a natural collapse.¡± ¡°Sharp?¡± Devon¡¯s voice pitched higher than usual, disbelief threatening to tip into fury. ¡°She fell through the floor because the rocks were sharp?¡± ¡°No,¡± Raven snapped, standing up, looking frustrated. ¡°It means it shouldn¡¯t have broken like this naturally. It looked solid, but the integrity underneath¡­ it was gone. Like something hollowed it out without leaving a trace.¡± Devon¡¯s hands curled into fists. ¡°So what, the lich is a bloody stonemason now?¡± ¡°No,¡± Raven said. ¡°Just smart. Smart enough to know we wouldn¡¯t question a floor that looked right.¡± Markus exhaled sharply. ¡°This isn¡¯t what I expected.¡± His tone was quiet, grim. ¡°This isn¡¯t brute force. It¡¯s not basic traps. This is deliberate.¡± ¡°And it worked,¡± Marielle murmured. ¡°Because we¡¯re still treating this dungeon like it¡¯s following the rules.¡± Her words sat heavy between them. Garrick didn¡¯t hesitate. He drove a piton into the ground, hammering metal, into stone punctuating the silence. The rope uncoiled in his hands, looped, knotted, secured. ¡°Can you stop wasting time and get me out of here already?¡± Talia¡¯s voice rose from below, sharp with pain. ¡°Shattered ankle, in case you forgot. And if I have to listen to you all argue about rocks much longer, I will start climbing myself.¡± Garrick commanded, tossed the rope into the pit. ¡°Grab hold.¡± ¡°Easier said than done.¡± Talia gripped her staff as she pushed up. She forced herself to move, despite the sharp pain that flared up her leg like fire. Then she froze. A sound. Faint at first. A wet, clicking noise, like claws against stone. Then a groan, deep and guttural, thick with something worse than pain. Then the stench hit. Thick. Vile. The air turned heavy, humid with decay. Like meat left to stew in stagnant water. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Not just from the fall. Not just from the pain. The glow of her staff flickered against the uneven walls, casting jagged shadows. She tilted the light towards the noise and the glow caught something in the dark of the pit. Eyes. Dozens of them, low to the ground, unblinking, sickly yellow. Catching the light like shards of broken glass. Something shifted. Channelling more mana into her staff, the glow stretched further, peeling back the dark like a rotten curtain. Flesh. Or what was left of it. Stripped away in places, clinging too tightly in others. Jaws slack, twitching, teeth clicking together in a grotesque rhythm. The first one lurched forward. One milky eye swayed loose in its socket, barely held in place. The other glowed with the dull, unnatural light of undeath. Then another. And another. Eight total. Goblins. Zombies. Creeping forward, hunched and twisted, moving with the weight of death in their rotting limbs. Ruined claws scraped stone as their feet left trails of black ichor in their wake. Their eyes never left her. ¡°Talia!¡± Devon called, voice thin with panic. ¡°Grab the rope! We¡¯re pulling you up!¡± She barely heard him. Her breath had gone shallow, muscles locked, heart hammering. The zombies shuffled closer. Their teeth chattered, their groans twisted into something that sounded almost like words. ¡°Talia?¡± Markus again, voice tight. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Then the first one lunged. It¡¯s claws swiped through the air, missing her by inches, scraping the stone with a sound like knives on glass. She gasped, breath hitching into a cry, the terror clawing its way up her throat in a single, raw, instinctive scream. Above, Devon flinched. Markus¡¯s grip on the rope locked tight. Garrick¡¯s sword was half-drawn before he even finished barking the order: ¡°Pull her up. Now.¡± The scream didn¡¯t stop. It twisted through the pit, echoed in the tight walls. Chapter 17 Talia screamed. A long, tearing sound, raw enough to flay the silence apart. It went on, bouncing off the dungeon walls, distorting as it echoed back up. But even through the layers of repetition, there was no mistaking the kind of scream it was. Not fear. Not pain. The other kind. The kind that came when someone knew they were dying. Then it stopped. Not gradually. Not fading. Just gone. What came next was worse. Wet, organic. The kind of sound that didn¡¯t belong outside a butcher¡¯s shop. Snapping. Tearing. Something heavy moving through something softer. The staff''s green glow still flickered from below, but it had no direction now, only jerking and twisting between the shadows as if held in a hand that no longer belonged to its body.. Devon moved first. His hands hit the edge of the pit, gripping stone so hard his nails split, his breath ragged, frantic. ¡°Talia! Talia, hold on! We¡¯re coming! Just¡ªjust¡ªhold on!¡± As if there was anything left to hold on to. Garrick didn¡¯t hesitate. He grabbed Devon by the shoulder and yanked him back hard enough to make his boots scrape against the stone. ¡°She¡¯s gone.¡± Devon twisted against his grip, wild-eyed, like a dog about to bite the hand holding it down. ¡°No! No, she¡¯s not! She¡¯s still¡ª¡± ¡°She¡¯s dead,¡± Garrick said, flat. Neither emotion, nor hesitation in his stern voice. He might as well have been reciting the morning¡¯s weather. Devon fought against him. Tried to wrench free, but Garrick held him fast. Unshakable. The man was iron in moments like this. Not cruel. Just steady. Just unmoved. ¡°The Church will see her resurrected,¡± Garrick said, as if that solved anything. Devon froze. Something in him cracked. Like old, dried leather pulling apart at the seams. His breath came too fast. His hands curled into fists. His voice, when it finally came, was thin, stretched too tight. ¡°Resurrected,¡± he repeated. ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s all you have to say?¡± Marielle stepped forward, holy symbol catching the dim light, a priestess in all the ways that counted. ¡°Devon, she will return. I swear it. But if we break here, she won¡¯t have a party to come back to.¡± It was the only right thing to say. It still wasn¡¯t enough. Devon¡¯s chest heaved, all rage and grief stuffed into a body too small to hold it. He stared at Garrick, fists trembling, but whatever fight had been in him was breaking apart, scattering like dust in a high wind. Markus hadn¡¯t moved. He stood apart from the group, shield braced against his leg, staring into the dark. Not looking for movement. Not hoping. Just¡­staring. His knuckles were white against his sword¡¯s hilt, the creak of leather the only sign that he was still there, still listening. ¡°Markus,¡± Garrick said, sharp. No space for lingering. ¡°Form up. We¡¯re moving.¡± Markus hesitated. Barely a breath. Just enough to flick his gaze toward Devon, then the pit. Then, finally, he nodded. Stiffly. Mechanically. And hefted his shield. That was the moment. The one where it stopped being about what they¡¯d lost and started being about what was left. Garrick turned, his longsword catching a dull gleam in the torchlight. ¡°We don¡¯t have time to mourn her here.¡± A pause. Then, quieter, almost thoughtful, ¡°The lich will pay for this.¡± It wasn¡¯t a promise. It was a certainty. They followed him. Even Devon. Not because they wanted to. But because the alternative was standing there. Staring into the dark. Feeling the echoes of what had already happened. And none of them wanted that. The corridor narrowed as they moved, walls pressing in, the air thick with something unspoken, unseen. Markus took the lead, shield raised, Garrick just behind him. ¡°I don¡¯t like this,¡± Marielle murmured. Her holy symbol glowed faintly as they walked. ¡°It feels¡­wrong. More than before.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a dungeon,¡± Raven muttered, low and tired. ¡°It¡¯s supposed to feel wrong.¡± She kept to the edges, movements quiet, watching the shadows. Her daggers were already in her hands. They hadn¡¯t left them since the pit. Gray and his wolf moved in the middle, the beast¡¯s sharp yellow eyes flicking between every movement. The wolf sniffed the air. Its ears twitched. Its body went still. Gray stopped. His grip on the wolf¡¯s harness tightened. ¡°Wait,¡± he said, voice barely above a breath. ¡°Something¡¯s¡ª¡± One of the walls of the tunnel fell forward. It wasn¡¯t a cave-in. It wasn¡¯t an accident. Deliberate. In the same way the pit had been. Something had eaten the wall from the inside. A section of stone lurched outward, a deep, groaning crack splitting the silence a second before the entire mass toppled forward. Gray had just enough time to turn, eyes widening¡ªthen the weight of it slammed down. It buried him. His wolf barely had time to yelp before the rubble pinned it, limbs thrashing weakly against the weight. It snapped its jaws, more reflex than intent, but it was already stuck. Already done. Then the kobolds came. With precision. With intent. They weren¡¯t beasts. They were a unit with instructions. Figures low to the ground, barely more than shifting shadows at the tunnel¡¯s edges. Yellow eyes gleamed, crude weapons raised. Spears, jagged-edged blades, stone clubs. All held together with rawhide and bone. They moved like this was expected. Like they had done this before. Gray never had a chance. The first spear came down, piercing his side where he lay beneath shattered stone. The second followed, driving straight through, twisting. A single sharp exhale. Gray never drew a second breath. Blood seeped into the dirt, dark and final. His wolf snarled weakly, trying to drag itself forward. The nearest kobold drove its dagger through the base of its skull. And just like that, they were gone. Markus barely had time to react before the first kobold lunged for his throat. His shield came up instinctively, catching the creature mid-air and slamming it down with a sharp crack. His sword was moving before it hit the ground. The second one died fast. But there were more. They slipped through the dust, darting in and out, avoiding the heavy swings of steel like they knew exactly how far to keep their distance. They weren¡¯t attacking in desperation. They were taking control. Marielle moved toward the rubble¡ªtoward where Gray had been¡ªbut the kobolds were faster. A spear aimed for her ribs. Raven was there first. Her dagger buried deep in the kobold¡¯s throat, twisting before she yanked it free. It crumpled, a gurgling snarl escaping its lips before it stopped moving. Another kobold lunged for Devon. He wasn¡¯t ready. Its dagger was inches from his ribs when Garrick¡¯s sword came down. Hard. The creature split open from shoulder to hip, folding apart like a butchered animal. The kobolds didn¡¯t die to the last. They never planned to. The rest were already moving. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. They slipped away, their small, wiry bodies disappearing into the dark like breath into winter air, peeling off into a side corridor before any of the adventurers could stop them. No war cries, no final, desperate lunge¡ªjust silence and absence where a battle had been only heartbeats before. Markus didn¡¯t lower his sword. His shield remained raised, the sting of the spear wound in his side pulsing like a second heartbeat, but his eyes weren¡¯t on the corridor they had vanished into. His eyes were on Gray. Marielle was already moving. She hit the ground hard, barely feeling the jolt in her knees as she pressed her hand to Gray¡¯s chest. Still warm. Her breath hitched. A useless, stupid thing. Like warmth meant anything. Like warmth meant hope. Her hands were already moving before she knew what she was doing. Still warm. Marielle pressed her palm to Gray¡¯s chest, her breath coming too fast, her other hand wrapped so tightly around her holy symbol that the metal bit deep into her skin. She barely felt it. Restore. Renew. The words came easily, their rhythm beaten into her bones since childhood, the light rising on instinct, familiar as breath. Warmth. Life. Gods, please. The glow flared. Then¡ªnothing. Her stomach twisted. No. She pressed harder, whispered another prayer. Poured more into it. The glow flickered. White. Bright. Then died. Snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Again. She had to try again. She yanked at the magic¡ªharder, deeper. The kind that scraped at the edges, that left you weak and aching and afraid. She forced it forward, hands burning as the light flashed¡ªblinding, searing¡ª Then collapsed. It sank into him like water into dry earth, swallowed whole, vanishing into the void where his soul had already gone. Her throat locked. No. Her hands shook. Her chest ached with the weight of it, with the thing she didn¡¯t want to say. The sob forced its way through anyway. ¡°He¡¯s gone.¡± Devon shoved past Markus, nearly tripping over Gray¡¯s body. ¡°What do you mean, he¡¯s gone?¡± His voice shook, wild with disbelief, with refusal. His hands clenched at nothing, at air, at the impossibility of it. ¡°You¡¯re a priestess!¡± The words were more accusation than plea. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to¡ª¡± ¡°Enough!¡± Garrick¡¯s voice cut through them all, sharp and unyielding, a blade in the gut of the moment. He strode forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Deliberate. Unhurried. Like a tide swallowing the shore. He didn¡¯t even look at Gray¡¯s body. Didn¡¯t need to. ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± Garrick said. Flat. Final. ¡°There¡¯s nothing more to be done.¡± Devon turned on him, his face twisting with fury, grief, something that had nowhere to go but out. ¡°You don¡¯t get to decide that! We can¡¯t just leave him¡ª¡± ¡°We can, and we will.¡± Garrick¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. He wasn¡¯t speaking to Devon. He was speaking to all of them. ¡°The hunter is beyond saving, and lingering here will only add more bodies to the pile.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Devon¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°You¡¯re just going to walk away? Leave him here like he¡¯s nothing?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Garrick replied. No hesitation. No apology. ¡°Because he is nothing now. His soul has returned to the Flame, and his body is an empty shell. The Church will decide whether he is worthy of resurrection. Until then, we move forward.¡± Devon¡¯s fists clenched. His shoulders shook, every breath coming too fast, too hard. He took a step forward¡ªnot thinking, just moving¡ª Markus grabbed his arm. Firm. Not hard. Not unkind. ¡°Devon,¡± Markus said, voice steady, voice grounding. ¡°He¡¯s right.¡± Devon¡¯s head snapped toward him, disbelieving. Betrayed. ¡°You can¡¯t possibly¡ª¡± ¡°Gray wouldn¡¯t want us to die here with him,¡± Markus interrupted. His tone was calm, but heavy. The weight of it settled. For a moment, Devon looked at him like he might argue. Like he might swing. But then the fight drained out of him, as fast as it had flared. His anger fractured into something smaller, something brittle. He turned back to Gray¡ªto what was left of Gray¡ªthen to Marielle, who sat trembling and silent, her head bowed over the wolf¡¯s body. Slowly, Devon stepped back. His shoulders slumped. ¡°This is wrong,¡± he muttered. Markus exhaled. A slow, worn-out breath. ¡°Maybe,¡± he said quietly. His gaze flicked toward the empty corridor ahead. ¡°But it¡¯s what we¡¯ve got.¡± Garrick drew his sword in a single, fluid motion, and fire erupted along the steel. It roared to life in an instant, a golden blaze licking up the length of the blade, its heat pushing back the damp chill of the dungeon. Shadows snapped against the blood-streaked walls, twisting, clawing, caught between light and dark. He raised the sword high, his expression carved from something harder than stone. Something that didn¡¯t break. ¡°You will follow me,¡± he said, his voice steady, cold. Not an offer. A command. ¡°Or you will stay here and die.¡± The fire caught in his eyes, turning them into something unreadable. Something consuming. ¡°This lich is an affront to the divine order,¡± he continued, as if the words were a prayer carved into his bones. ¡°And I will see it destroyed.¡± Then he turned and strode forward, not waiting for an answer. For a moment, no one moved. The silence left in his wake was a heavy, aching thing. Marielle still knelt beside Gray¡¯s body, her trembling hands clutching her holy symbol like a lifeline that had already snapped. Devon stared at the ground, jaw locked, eyes hollow, his grip on his abandoned logbook forgotten. Markus adjusted the strap of his shield, his face unreadable. It was Raven who broke the stillness. She sheathed her daggers with a quiet, resigned sigh. ¡°Well,¡± she murmured, tone flat, ¡°I suppose dying in here beats starving in a tavern.¡± She followed Garrick. Markus fell in behind her, his shield raised, his sword steady in his grip. Devon hesitated, his gaze lingering on Gray¡¯s body. On the blood-matted fur of the wolf, on the pile of crushed stone that had buried them both. Finally he muttered a curse and moved to join the others. Marielle was the last to rise. Her hands shook as she whispered a final prayer. Her voice cracked on the last word. The corridor swallowed them whole as they moved on. The heat from Garrick¡¯s sword did little to chase away the darkness and cold. The fire burned high, its flickering glow throwing jagged shadows against the tunnel walls, but the light felt too thin. Too small. They walked in it anyway. The scrape of boots against stone. The soft jingle of chainmail shifting. The measured, tense breaths of people who knew they were not alone down here. No one spoke. Words felt dangerous. Like they might break whatever thin barrier was holding back the fear. Marielle¡¯s fingers hovered near her holy symbol, lips moving in silent, fragmented prayers. The faint glow of Garrick¡¯s flaming sword painted her face in shifting gold and black, her eyes dark hollows, flickering with every flame¡¯s movement. Devon walked beside her, his logbook abandoned for now, his hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his shortsword. White-knuckled. He wasn¡¯t built for this. Not the fighting. Not the dying. But here he was. Shoulders hunched, braced for the next blow. Markus led them, shield raised, his sword gleaming faintly in the flickering light. His usual calm was intact, but stretched thinner now. Taut. Frayed at the edges. He was listening too hard, watching too much, expecting something he wasn¡¯t saying aloud. Raven walked beside him, her steps soundless but not careless. Her daggers glinted in her hands, ready, restless. The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled into something colder. Calculating. Like she was already tallying their odds. Like she didn¡¯t like the numbers. And then there was Garrick. He moved with the inevitability of a storm. A tide that didn¡¯t stop. A force bound to its course, unwilling to bend. Unwilling to break. The fire on his sword still burned high, but he didn¡¯t need it to see. ¡°Don¡¯t slow down,¡± Garrick said, his voice cutting through the silence without hesitation. Raven¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Close to what?¡± she muttered. ¡°The next trap? Or the next funeral?¡± ¡°Close to ending this.¡± He didn¡¯t look back. His tone didn¡¯t invite argument. Raven¡¯s gaze flicked to Markus. He gave no indication he¡¯d heard. His focus was ahead, his shield just slightly higher than before. Whatever he thought of Garrick¡¯s certainty, he wasn¡¯t voicing it. Devon broke the silence instead. ¡°We shouldn¡¯t have left them behind,¡± he muttered, eyes on the ground. ¡°Gray¡­ Talia¡­ we¡ª¡± ¡°We didn¡¯t leave them.¡± Garrick didn¡¯t hesitate. His voice was steady and sharp, cutting through Devon¡¯s doubt before it could grow roots. ¡°They are martyrs now. The Flame will honor them.¡± Devon stopped walking. His head lifted, his eyes burning with something not yet anger, not yet grief, but the raw place between. ¡°Martyrs?¡± His voice wavered. ¡°That¡¯s what they are now?¡± Beside him, Marielle flinched at the word. Martyrs. She said nothing, but her hands tightened on her symbol until her knuckles paled. Her lips moved faster now, the words of her prayer spilling out in a quiet, trembling rhythm. ¡°They died in the service of a righteous cause,¡± Garrick said, tone firm, final. ¡°They returned to the Flame.¡± No one answered him. They rounded the final corner¡ª And stopped. The corridor ended. Where the entrance had been, there was only stone. Smooth. Unbroken. As if the opening had never existed. No rubble, no seams, no sign that anything had changed at all¡ªjust an unyielding wall of solid rock where the dungeon had simply decided there should be one. Markus was the first to move. He pressed a hand against the stone. Solid. Not an illusion. His brow furrowed. ¡°This wasn¡¯t here before.¡± ¡°No shit.¡± Raven was busy running her hands along the wall, searching for hidden mechanisms. Devon took a step back, blinking hard, like he could force the sight in front of him to make sense. ¡°But¡­ it was right here. We saw it. We¡ªYou¡¯re telling me it built a wall while we were gone?¡± Markus didn¡¯t react to that. He was already thinking ahead, already shifting. ¡°Devon,¡± he said, steady, sharp. ¡°Can you bring it down? I know your magic is slow, but you¡¯re the only offensive caster we have left.¡± Devon hesitated, his fingers twitching toward the pouch at his belt. ¡°I¡ªI think so. I have a spell that should¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± Markus cut him off with a raised hand. ¡°Not yet.¡± His eyes stayed on the stone, watching it like it might shift again the second they looked away. ¡°If this lich is playing games, then every move it makes is bait. We don¡¯t break this wall until we¡¯re ready.¡± ¡°Ready for what?¡± Raven¡¯s voice was flat. ¡°Another wall? A bigger one?¡± Markus¡¯s gaze flicked to her, unreadable. ¡°Anything.¡± No one liked that answer, but no one argued. Without waiting for a response, he turned to Marielle. ¡°Start protection spells.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. ¡°We don¡¯t know what¡¯s on the other side, and I don¡¯t want to find out unprepared.¡± Marielle¡¯s fingers trembled as she reached for her holy symbol, the silver warm against her palm. ¡°I¡ªI can try.¡± ¡°You can,¡± Markus said, quieter now. Almost gentle. ¡°Just focus.¡± She nodded, swallowing hard as she lifted the symbol, her voice barely a whisper at first. The glow of divinity flickered against the stone, hesitant, as if the dungeon itself might smother it before it could take hold. Then the wall moved. A sound rumbled from behind it. Not the grinding shift of stone, but something deeper, something alive. It started low, a guttural tremor that vibrated up through their boots, setting teeth on edge. Then it grew. The air thickened. The vibration deepened into a roar¡ªnot a sound, not really, but a force that tore through the stillness and filled every breath with the promise of something coming. Marielle¡¯s voice faltered. The glow in her hands flickered. The wall trembled violently. And then it exploded. Chapter 18 - Edgar The fireball hit exactly as I¡¯d intended. Fast, brutal, and impossible to ignore. Fire and stone tore through the chamber. The blast punched outward, jagged debris slicing through the air, heat rolling through the boss chamber in waves that left an uncomfortable memory of sensation in bones that could no longer feel. Smoke and dust swallowed everything. I tightened my grip on the staff, already looking past the wreckage. And, of course, they were still standing. The adventurers who had torn through my dungeon like it was a minor inconvenience before were bloodied now, but intact. Some of them, anyway. The cleric was pale, her holy symbol flickering weakly at her chest. The shield-bearer was already moving, setting his stance like a wall given purpose. Behind him, the rogue flickered in and out of view, her daggers glinting as she picked her openings. The other mage clutched his logbook to his chest as if it might do something useful, his free hand pressed to a wound at his ribs. And then there was the knight. That was new. He strode through the wreckage with terrifying purpose, his sword wreathed in golden fire. He wasn¡¯t running. He didn¡¯t need to. His every step was measured, steady, like he was claiming the ground beneath him. The blade hummed, a low, resonant sound that curled against my senses like a whispered threat. ¡°Now,¡± I said, low and sharp. The kobolds surged forward. Grib was first, because of course he was. He moved like a sprung trap, small and fast, his jagged mace an extension of his fury. The weapon glimmered faintly in the firelight as he swung, a relentless storm of momentum and sheer goblin tenacity. Krix was behind him, low and fast, his spear glinting like the promise of something sharp and inevitable. Their voices rose into a crescendo of snarls and war cries as they collided with the enemy. The shield-bearer planted himself firm, meeting them head-on. His sword flashed once. Quick and brutal. The first kobold dropped, but Grib was already there, his mace slamming against the adventurer¡¯s shield in a burst of sparks. Again. And again. Each strike heavier than the last, forcing him back step by step. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Krix darted in at his flank, his spear angling for the gaps in armor, a predator¡¯s precision in every movement. The adventurer twisted, catching the blow just in time, but the rhythm was shifting. The cleric struggled. Two kobolds had pinned her near the wall, their claws raking at her staff as she swung it in frantic arcs. The holy glow of her symbol pulsed weakly, pushing them back for a breath, but not enough. Not for long. The rogue flitted between the chaos, quick, efficient, leaving kobolds crumpling in her wake. But she wasn¡¯t fast enough. For every one she cut down, two more closed in. And then there was the knight. He didn¡¯t fight through the battle¡ªhe simply moved through it, like the world had decided he was going to win, and everything else had to get out of the way. His sword cut the air with an ease that suggested it had always been the way things were meant to be. A kobold lunged at him, and it was over before it knew it had started. Another tried to close in. And he turned. Just a shift of weight, a flick of the blade. And it was gone. Unstoppable. Holy fire rose around him, bright and terrible, casting long shadows across the battlefield. He wasn¡¯t fighting. He was ending things. I stepped back, my staff trembling slightly in my grip. The kobolds were holding their own, but it wouldn¡¯t last. The cracks were forming. The exhaustion bleeding into their movements, the steps that came a second too late. Grib and Krix were relentless, but they were slowing. The knight was inevitable. And he was coming for me. I felt it¡ªthe weight of him, the sheer certainty that no matter what I did, he would reach me. That I was an obstacle, not an opponent. That he had done this before, and he would do it again. I didn¡¯t want to feel this way. Didn¡¯t want to be torn between fight and flight, between instinct and logic. But it wasn¡¯t about me anymore. It was about them. The kobolds who had chosen to fight at my side. Who believed in me. Who saw something more in a pile of bones than even I did. Like the goblins before them. The memory hit like a blade to the ribs. The first adventurers had cut down Grib before. Cut him in half. I had been powerless then, watching as they carved through the only allies I had. Not this time. These adventurers were strong. Skilled. They had trained for this, practiced, honed their weapons and their faith and their belief in their own right to stand here. But they had come to kill. To destroy. And if it was them or me and the kobolds¡­ I already knew my answer. The knight stepped forward, slow and certain, his sword wreathed in fire, casting flickering light across the cavern walls. I wasn¡¯t a hero. Maybe I was the villain. But I knew one thing. I was still Edgar. And I wasn¡¯t leaving without a fucking fight. The knight¡¯s sword rose. I stood my ground. ¡°You want me dead?¡± I said. ¡°Then let¡¯s get this over with.¡± The knight didn¡¯t hesitate. Chapter 19 - Markus The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Chapter 20 - Edgar The warrior was gone. Slipped into the dark like a bad promise. The others¡ªthe mage, the rogue, the priest¡ªwere down. Not dead, I hoped. Just motionless in that particular way that meant the fight was over, whether they liked it or not. I didn¡¯t have time to feel anything about it. Not relief. Not guilt. Just the shift in air pressure that announced someone very powerful and very certain had entered the room. The Holy Knight stepped through the wreckage like it wasn¡¯t even there. Splintered stone, broken bodies, scorched bone. All treated with the same level of interest as a rug pattern. His blade burned like it was angry to be held, that bright, holy heat pushing back against every shadow I¡¯d ever called mine. Grib stood beside me, knuckles tight around his mace. Krix was crouched low, eyes tracking, claws twitching against the stone. Ready. Loyal. Suicidal. ¡°Stay back,¡± I said, holding up a hand. Grib¡¯s head snapped toward me. ¡°But¡ª¡± ¡°No.¡± My voice cut through him, and for once he didn¡¯t argue. ¡°That¡¯s an order.¡± They hesitated, torn, but pulled back. I could feel it¡ªthe question in the air. Why not fight? Why not now? Because this wasn¡¯t their battle. It wasn¡¯t a skirmish or a misunderstanding. This was something else entirely. And this man wasn¡¯t here for them. He was here for me. He stopped a few paces away. The light from his sword painted the cavern in sharp, brittle lines. Burning across the walls, the floor, the fallen. His gaze fixed on me like I was something he¡¯d already decided to hate. Not in anger. Just in certainty. ¡°So,¡± he said. His voice was low and steady, like a verdict. ¡°You¡¯re the one they call the Bone King. The abomination that walks in mockery of life.¡± I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. The green in them pulsed, soft and cold. ¡°That¡¯s not what I call me. But sure. Let¡¯s go with that.¡± He didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I am Sir Garrick Draemir, Knight of the Holy Church. I burn the rot. I break the cycle. I cleanse the unclean.¡± His sword flared, the flames biting at the air like they were starving for contact. ¡°And you,¡± he said, pointing the blade at my chest, ¡°are unclean.¡± I gripped my staff, forcing my voice not to shake. ¡°Is this where you say something dramatic about justice, then try to take my head off?¡± ¡°There¡¯s no need,¡± he said. ¡°Judgment was passed the moment you drew breath you didn¡¯t earn. This is only the sentence.¡± I let that sit for a beat. Then I breathed in, not air, not really, just the memory of it. I let the stillness settle. ¡°Right,¡± I said. ¡°And here I thought we were going to have a conversation.¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°You think this is a negotiation?¡± ¡°I think this is my dungeon. I think you¡¯re standing in it. And I think if we¡¯re about to kill each other, we might as well do it without the sermon.¡± The temperature climbed. Not heat, exactly. Not fire. Just pressure, holy and absolute and crushing. His presence was the kind that filled every space it entered and demanded the rest of you leave. ¡°You speak like a man,¡± Garrick said, ¡°but you are not one. You are a shadow in stolen shape. A desecration.¡± I didn¡¯t argue. What would be the point? Instead, I watched him. Watched the way his grip tightened. Watched the flicker of movement in his shoulders. Watched the blade rise. And then he lunged. The light surged forward like a tidal wave of judgment, and I moved without thinking. My staff came up, magic already spinning around it. Familiar now. Instinctive. The bolt formed fast, jagged and dark, snapping from my fingers like a thrown accusation. It hit him center mass. It didn¡¯t stop him. But it slowed him, just enough. His sword arced wide, slicing through air where my skull had been a second before. The heat from it still found me, an aftershock of righteousness. I stepped back. Felt the stone under my feet. Felt the magic building again. This wasn¡¯t a duel. This was survival. And whatever else I was now, I wasn¡¯t done. The air turned on me. Every step Garrick took made it heavier. Hotter. Like the dungeon itself had decided I wasn¡¯t worth keeping cool anymore. His sword burned brighter with each movement, casting jagged shadows across the stone that flickered like warnings. The pressure of him, of what he was, pressed down like weight. Not metaphor. Not poetry. Just weight. And I was starting to crack under it. My fingers locked around the staff. No time. I raised it and pulled the mana into me. Magic Bolt surged up, fast and raw, spiraling into sharp green arcs. I fired. The first bolt vanished into a flare of holy light just before impact, consumed entirely. He hadn''t moved, just let the aura around him do the work. The second came faster, lower. His blade swept down in a contemptuous arc, not blocking, but slicing the bolt apart mid-flight. The energy dissipated like smoke. The third, I put everything I had into it, shaping it tight and fast. It screamed past his guard as he stepped forward, striking sparks off the stone near his feet, and slammed into his side, just below the ribs where the plate met scale. Green-black energy flared against his armor. A direct hit. Garrick didn''t pause. Didn''t grunt. Didn''t even break stride. The holy light radiating from him flickered for a microsecond, then burned steady again, maybe even brighter. He simply continued his advance as if he''d brushed against a curtain. I took another step back, the stone suddenly feeling much colder beneath my feet. "Right," I breathed, the sound barely audible even to myself. "Not even a scratch." Or worse, he didn''t care if it scratched. Panic tried to break through. I could feel it at the edges of my thoughts, scraping at the walls. But I pushed it down. Forced focus. I didn¡¯t need finesse. I needed something. I reached for Chilling Touch. The air dropped. Frost bloomed across the staff. I lashed out. It hit. And then it didn¡¯t. The mist curled around his blade like it was trying to make a point before vanishing with a hiss. Steam filled the air. The temperature snapped back to burning. He didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t pause. Just kept walking. . I stumbled back another step, the staff clutched tight in both hands. ¡°Oh, come on.¡± He was too fast. Too strong. Too close. And I was out of time. The words surfaced without permission: Necrotic Surge. I hadn¡¯t meant to cast it. I¡¯d barely thought about it. But the spell grabbed hold the moment I did, and everything lit up¡ªbones, joints, nerves I wasn¡¯t even sure I still had. Power flooded me, hot and ragged and wrong, like my body had been turned inside out and lit on fire just to see what would happen. And still, it wasn¡¯t enough. His sword came down in a blinding arc. I brought the staff up just in time to catch it. The impact cracked the world open. The vibration shook every inch of me. I felt the wood splinter. I shoved back¡ªnot with strength of my own, but with whatever the Surge had turned me into. He stepped back half a pace. Just enough. ¡°You think this will save you?¡± he said, low and bitter. "Resistance is just... noise. The unholy impulse fighting its own end. It changes nothing. You fracture. You cease. That is the order." ¡°I¡¯m not here to debate theology,¡± I grunted, parrying his next swing. The staff groaned in protest. ¡°But thanks for the sermon, Father Irony.¡± Another strike. Faster now. I ducked, brought the staff up hard¡ªsloppy, awkward, barely in time. The air around his blade shimmered with heat. My vision blurred with each flare of light. I was holding off a landslide with kindling. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. He came again. I pushed back, speed the only thing the Surge had given me in enough supply. I moved before I could think, before I could hesitate. Dodge. Strike. Block. Dodge again. The spell kept me moving. Kept me alive. But it was burning through me. I could feel it unraveling at the edges, pulling thread after thread loose while I begged it to hold just a few seconds longer. ¡°Your existence is an error.¡± he said, and this time his voice was calm. Not angry. Certain. ¡°You are nothing. A shadow wearing a shape.¡± ¡°If I¡¯m nothing,¡± I rasped, parrying another blow, the staff vibrating in my hands, ¡°Why does it take so much to erase me?¡± He didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Vermin aren¡¯t significant for their disposal. This is just the necessary work of the faithful.¡± And with that, he came again¡ªsword raised, eyes cold, light crashing toward me like the end of a sentence I didn¡¯t want to hear. His sword came down again, and this time, the staff nearly gave out. I felt the wood splinter beneath my grip¡ªenchanted, reinforced, battle-tested, but it was at the end of its rope. So was I. I shoved back with what strength I had left, stumbled two steps, and forced space between us. The Surge was still burning through me¡ªmore drain than boost now, eating away at everything I had left. But stopping wasn¡¯t an option. Not with Garrick still moving like judgment made flesh. Not with every swing of his sword spelling out the same message: This ends with you gone. I wasn¡¯t fighting anymore. I was enduring. And as I looked into his eyes¡ªflat, fixed, absolutely certain¡ªI felt it hit me like a cold blade: he thought he¡¯d already won. Not hoped. Knew. This wasn¡¯t a battle. It wasn¡¯t a contest. To him, it wasn¡¯t even personal. Just a ritual. A cleanup. And the worst part was, he might have been right. For a moment, neither of us moved. His sword pressed down against the staff again, the heat curling the air between us, warping it. My arms shook. The Surge clawed at my spine. I couldn¡¯t hold him off much longer. My thoughts were slipping, everything spinning too fast. ¡°Think,¡± I whispered, half to myself. ¡°Think.¡± Most of the spells left in my arsenal were pointless now¡ªflashy, finicky things that might¡¯ve impressed someone in a duel but wouldn¡¯t make a dent here. But then something surfaced. A name I¡¯d skipped over more than once. A utility spell I¡¯d written off as a joke. Arcane Snare. I didn¡¯t hesitate. No time to second-guess. I cast it. The mana responded like a tired mule, sluggish and spiteful, but it moved. Light flared beneath Garrick¡¯s feet. Tendrils of magic snapped upward, coiling around his arms and legs like ropes made of pure will. He staggered. Just slightly¡ªbut it was the first time he¡¯d moved like anything other than inevitability. His sword paused mid-swing. His body twisted against the pull, muscles straining, the blade¡¯s flame guttering for half a second. ¡°Clever,¡± he said, voice low and tight with effort. ¡°But delaying judgment isn¡¯t the same as escaping it.¡± ¡°Not trying to escape,¡± I muttered, stumbling backward, each step a conscious effort. ¡°Just buying time. For... you know. Regret.¡± He roared, and the sound cracked off the stone like it had weight. The snare flickered under the force of it, the magic straining as he tore one foot free. I didn¡¯t wait for the second. ¡°Everyone back!¡± I shouted. I threw out a hand, gathering what I had left into one last, glorious middle finger. Fireball built fast¡ªtoo fast. The heat rolled off it in waves. The cavern lit up in red and orange, shadows warping and running for cover. Kobolds scattered. Grib vanished behind a broken pillar. Krix sprinted for the shadows, tail low. Even the undead ducked. For a breath, just one, I felt control return¡ªfragile, borrowed, mine. And then the system prompt hit. Error: Insufficient mana for Fireball. I stared at the notification like it was a joke I didn¡¯t get. Another flashed underneath. Necrotic Surge active. Mana drain: 0.6% per second. ¡°Of course,¡± I muttered. The fireball sputtered out like wet kindling, gone before it even launched. I gripped the staff tighter, jaw clenched, as frustration slammed into me¡ªsharp, bitter. I¡¯d overreached. Again. I hadn¡¯t accounted for mana drain. I hadn¡¯t accounted for any of it. Behind me, the Snare was unraveling. Its glow dimmed like a dying filament, and Garrick broke free, piece by piece. The light of his sword surged back to full strength, and when his eyes found me again, there was no tension in them. Just focus. ¡°You run out of tricks, skeleton?¡± he asked. Calm now. Collected. The voice of someone who¡¯d stopped seeing you as a threat. I kept backing up. The staff was heavier now. My body felt wrong¡ªtight and loose at the same time, the Surge feeding power and stealing everything else. My limbs lagged. My thoughts slipped. This wasn¡¯t a matter of winning anymore. This was just finding more ways not to die. And yet I met his eyes. Forced the words out. Not strong. Not defiant. Just... mine. ¡°No tricks,¡± I rasped, ¡°But you¡¯ll still have to clean me up.¡± He lunged, and I twisted away. My bones creaked under the strain, the Surge pulsing faintly through me¡ªjust enough speed to dodge the edge of the blade, not enough to matter. Not enough to win. I needed a way out. Now. His footsteps thundered behind me, too heavy, too sure. I searched the room, pushing every scrap of focus toward anything that could turn this around. But all I saw was the narrowing of options, the cold, narrowing funnel of inevitability. Mana draining away like water through cracked stone. The silence stretched between us¡ªthin, brittle. Broken only by the soft groans of dying kobolds and the low, steady hum of holy fire. Garrick¡¯s pace never faltered. Slow. Controlled. The kind of slow that didn¡¯t need speed to kill. His sword lit the chamber in sharp, flickering shadows. Then my back hit stone. End of the road. I clutched the staff tighter, forcing my thoughts past the rising static of panic. I had one spell left. Not a solution. Not even a good idea. Just a bad one that might work if I timed it perfectly and got very, very lucky. And I wasn¡¯t exactly drowning in luck. Tombcarve. The shape of it bloomed in my mind, sluggish and heavy. The spell stirred like something old being asked to wake too soon. I cast upward. The stone above Garrick¡ªrough, uneven, jagged¡ªwas perfect. If I could carve it right, I¡¯d bring it down. On him. On me. Whoever stayed under it longest. I just needed time. ¡°Wait,¡± I rasped, the word scraping out like a dragged chain. ¡°Can we¡ªtalk for a second?¡± Garrick stopped. His eyes narrowed, head tilting. The firelight caught the edge of his armor and turned him into something mythic. Not a man. Just purpose, wrapped in steel. ¡°Talk?¡± he repeated. Flat. Disgusted. ¡°Yes,¡± I said, feeding every scrap of focus into the spell while my mouth did its best to stall. The ceiling trembled faintly¡ªdust and grit trickling down like early rain. ¡°You seem reasonable.¡± He laughed. No mirth in it. Just sharp edges and finality. ¡°Reasonable. You¡¯ve desecrated the dead. Stolen life. Turned this place into a nest of rot. And now you want to talk?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t ask for any of this,¡± I snapped. ¡°I didn¡¯t choose to be bones and borrowed fire. You think I wanted this? You think I woke up one day and said yes, please give me a body full of spells and no pulse?¡± ¡°You chose to fight.¡± ¡°I chose not to die,¡± I shot back. ¡°I chose to protect what was left. Them.¡± I gestured toward the kobolds¡ªwhat few still breathed, huddled behind stone and shadow, waiting for this to end. ¡°They followed me. Trusted me. And now they¡¯re dying for it.¡± Garrick¡¯s lip curled, not quite a sneer, more a statement of fact. ¡°Protection? For things born of shadow and dirt? You gathered blight, skeleton. Like attracts like. Their end is merely a consequence of proximity to your corruption. It holds no significance.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t lead them anywhere!¡± I shot back, the cracks above groaning faintly. ¡°They came because your kind burns first and asks questions never! You think I¡¯m a monster? Fine. But they were just trying to live.¡± Garrick¡¯s tone remained utterly level, untouched by the heat of my words. ¡°Existence is not inherently sacred. Not for the shadows, nor the beasts, nor the rot that festers in places like this. The Light permits; the Light purges. Their fate, like yours, is subject to that divine calculus, nothing more. You use them as fuel, as shields. That is their purpose in the presence of darkness.¡± ¡°And what do you do?¡± I hissed, forcing focus back to the spreading cracks. ¡°How many ¡®insignificant¡¯ lives have fed your holy fire?¡± His face was impassive stone. ¡°Enough. The tally is kept by the Light, not by the darkness. The world is made cleaner with every shadow scoured.¡± I laughed, a dry, rattling sound. ¡°Cleaner. You mean emptier.¡± He took a step forward, the light from his sword pulsing, momentarily blinding. ¡°Righteousness is not a matter for debate with the damned,¡± he stated, his voice resonating with absolute conviction. ¡°It is the force that unmakes you.¡± ¡°Because you¡¯ve never had to question it yourself,¡± I countered, buying precious seconds. He didn¡¯t flinch. His certainty was armor thicker than his steel. ¡°My judgement awaits in Solanna¡¯s holy light,¡± he said, eyes fixed on me, dismissing the trembling ceiling. ¡°Yours is here. Now. Delivered by my hand.¡± I kept my gaze locked on the fractures above him. Almost. Almost. ¡°Right,¡± I muttered, the word scraping out. ¡°Hope Solanna appreciates the thoroughness of the extermination. Bet it looks good on the divine report card.¡± He didn¡¯t answer. He moved. Faster than I could think. One heartbeat he was still; the next, his sword was a line of fire cutting toward my skull. I jerked back, raised the staff, knew it wouldn¡¯t hold. Finish. Just finish. Mana flickered¡ªthin as breath. The spell teetered on the edge of collapse. Do something. Anything. I didn¡¯t want to die again. That was the truth under all the snark and scraps of pride. I didn¡¯t want to be ash in the back of some self-righteous knight¡¯s throat. I didn¡¯t want to be bones in a box, remembered only as something that almost mattered. I wanted to live. That wasn¡¯t strategy. That wasn¡¯t calculation. That was the one clean, unvarnished truth I still had left. I¡¯d spent my whole life dead inside. Coasting through a world that never felt like mine, waiting for something to change and calling that hope. But here? In this rotting hole with monsters at my side and fire at my back? I realized something. I felt alive. And I wasn¡¯t ready to lose that. Not yet. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse. Grib, crouched behind a large stone. Krix beside him, breathing shallow, his spear cracked in half. Both of them staring at me like I was the only thing standing between them and oblivion. I barely knew them. Not really. But they¡¯d needed something to believe in. And somehow, that had ended up being me. I wasn¡¯t sure what the hell that said about any of us. But I knew one thing. If this bastard was going to take me down¡ª He was going to choke on the rubble. Instinct kicked in. Minor Poltergeist. The ability lashed out like a twitch. Random and wild. Like spectral fingers desperately grasping until I found something. Metal and wood whipped off the ground and flew through the air. It hit Garrick dead center in the chest with a hollow clang. A dented, blackened bucket. He froze. Sword raised. Looked down at the bucket like it had insulted his ancestors. ¡°...Really?¡± he said. I raised a hand. Wiggled the fingers. Then pointed up. He looked. The ceiling came down. The crack of stone giving way was a sound that filled the entire world¡ªlouder than shouting, sharper than thought. Dust, rock, light all collapsed in a single, impossible instant. The last thing I saw before the dungeon buried us both was the flare of his blade. And then darkness. Chapter 21 Notice: You are immune to non-magical weapons. Well, good for me, I thought, as several tons of rock held me down like a clingy lover who didn¡¯t understand the concept of personal space. The system prompt hovered in my vision, smug and useless, like it had just won an argument I didn¡¯t remember starting. Immune to weapons, sure. But not to gravity. I wasn¡¯t in pain¡ªnot exactly. Pain needed nerves, and I didn¡¯t have those anymore. What I had was pressure. Crushing, unrelenting pressure that pushed into every part of me. My ribs creaked faintly as I shifted, and the sound was... uncomfortably educational. Bones were not designed for this kind of stress. So I lay still. The dust had begun to settle, drifting through narrow shafts of light that filtered down from somewhere above. It painted the ruin in soft gray layers, quiet and deceptively peaceful. The kind of calm that only comes after chaos has had its way and left everything broken behind it. How many were gone? Kobolds. Adventurers. Krix. I hadn¡¯t seen who got out when the ceiling came down. Just noise, motion, and then this¡ªburied, alone, waiting for an answer I couldn¡¯t get. The silence was wrong. Too deep, even for this place. No clatter, no shouts. Just stillness and the faint hum of magic fraying at the edges of my mind. And yet, somehow, this felt inevitable. I hadn¡¯t been here long. Not long enough to belong. But long enough to care. And now, pinned beneath the rubble of my own dungeon, I couldn¡¯t shake the thought that maybe none of it had ever been mine to hold in the first place. Then a stone shifted¡ªloud, sharp, jarring. Light broke in around it, harsh after the dark. For a second, I thought it might be him. That Garrick had survived. That he was here to finish what he started. But it wasn¡¯t a knight. It was a goblin. Grib¡¯s face appeared through the dust, wild grin in place, teeth sharp and far too numerous for comfort. ¡°Boss!¡± he cried, voice full of manic relief. ¡°Boss alive! Boss not squish!¡± I blinked¡ªwhatever passed for blinking¡ªand couldn¡¯t speak for a moment. Seeing him alive, breathing, still somehow smiling... it hit harder than I was ready for. ¡°Grib,¡± I managed, voice rasping from somewhere low and hollow. ¡°You¡¯re alive.¡± ¡°Uh-huh!¡± he chirped, slime wobbling cheerfully on his shoulder. ¡°Grib strong! Grib clever! Ceiling no stop Grib!¡± Relief hit me in a wave. Not graceful. Just raw and heavy. ¡°Good,¡± I said, though my thoughts were already racing. If Grib was alive, maybe the others were too. Maybe Krix. Maybe¡ª ¡°What about the kobolds?¡± I asked. ¡°And the adventurers?¡± Grib¡¯s grin twitched, just slightly. ¡°Some kobolds alive,¡± he said carefully, clawed hands already working another stone loose. ¡°Some... squished. Not many.¡± ¡°And the knight?¡± My voice tightened. ¡°Garrick?¡± That brought the grin back in full force. He crouched lower, eyes shining. ¡°Knight... splat.¡± ¡°What?¡± I tried to sit up, but the weight wouldn¡¯t let me. ¡°Grib, I need more than that.¡± He pointed, urging me to look. ¡°There, Boss! See?¡± I twisted my head, following the line of his finger. At first, it was just debris. Shattered stone, jagged angles. Nothing special. And then I saw the blood. Thick, dark, pooling beneath a slab of rock large enough to have crushed a bear. It was seeping outward in slow rivulets, thick as oil, glistening faintly in the light. ¡°Are you sure?¡± I asked. ¡°Absolutely sure he¡¯s¡ª¡± Grib made a very enthusiastic squishing motion with both hands. ¡°Very sure! Knight squish good!¡± He nodded proudly. ¡°No more fire sword. No more shouty man. Just... splat.¡± I stared at the pool of blood, half-expecting the knight to rise from it like some unholy phoenix. But he didn¡¯t. The blood stayed where it was. Dark. Thick. Unmoving. For the first time in what felt like hours, I let myself breathe. Or at least simulate it. Garrick¡ªwhatever he¡¯d been¡ªwas gone. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. I didn¡¯t know whether to laugh or collapse. Instead, I looked at Grib, still grinning like he¡¯d just won a prize. ¡°Good work, Grib,¡± I said, voice steadier than I felt. ¡°Really... good work.¡± Grib puffed out his chest, slime jiggling in approval. ¡°Boss smart too! Ceiling crush¡ªbest plan!¡± I didn¡¯t have the energy to correct him. He started pulling rubble away, piece by piece, wiry limbs moving with manic purpose. Krix joined in not long after, claws swift and precise. The remaining kobolds followed slowly. Hesitant, but obedient. Together they worked, a strange blend of desperation and care. When I finally stood, my bones ached. Not pain, exactly. Just the kind of deep stiffness that says you shouldn¡¯t be alive right now. I leaned on my staff and let the quiet hum of its enchantments settle through me. Around me, the kobolds waited. Wide-eyed. Silent. ¡°I need to see him,¡± I said. ¡°The knight. I need to be sure.¡± Grib nodded, already motioning for the others. ¡°Boss check knight splat! Grib help!¡± He didn¡¯t seem to notice the weight in my voice. Or maybe he did and didn¡¯t know what to do with it. Either way, he barked sharp commands, and the kobolds scrambled to clear the rubble. I followed. The room was chaos¡ªcracked stone, twisted beams, the stench of dust and old magic clinging to the air like smoke. The kobolds peeled back the wreckage with practiced claws, exposing dark streaks of blood smeared across the floor. Thick trails led toward a mound of stone too large to ignore. My chest tightened. Not fear. Just pressure. Like the air didn¡¯t want me breathing it. ¡°Here, Boss!¡± Grib called, stepping back from the blood-soaked corner of the chamber. He gestured grandly, like unveiling a gift. ¡°Knight go splat! Grib right!¡± I approached slowly. The staff tapped hollow against the stone. The air here felt heavier, as if the fight hadn¡¯t finished echoing yet. Magic still clung to the walls in frayed threads that twitched at the edge of perception. The kobolds fell silent. Watching me. Watching the blood. The blood was real. No question. Thick and black-red, spreading deep into dust and stone. Garrick had been here. The ceiling had come down. It should¡¯ve been enough. But where was the body? I crouched. Ran skeletal fingers along cracked stone, tracing fault lines that should have broken bones. I should be looking at twisted limbs. Bent steel. The stillness of death, clear and final. But there was nothing. Just blood. Dread crept in slowly. I reached deeper. Brushed aside debris. Hoping for armor. Bone. Anything. Grib crouched beside me, confused. He slapped the rubble like it owed him something. ¡°See? No more fire sword. No more yelling. Just splat.¡± I didn¡¯t answer. My fingers closed around something smooth, half-buried in the dust. I pulled it free. A shard of deep blue crystal. Unnaturally shaped. Faint light still pulsing at its core. The moment I touched it, something shifted. That cold flicker in the back of my skull. Deathly Perception stirred. Teleportation Crystal (Used) I went still. For a long moment, I just stared at it¡ªthe faint glow pulsing from the crystal¡¯s broken edge. Understanding didn¡¯t hit all at once. It sank in slowly, like a stone disappearing into deep water. Not splat. Not crushed. Not dead. Gone. Somewhere out there, he was alive. A sound slipped from me. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a growl. I squeezed the crystal fragment in my grip until I felt it grind against my bones. Garrick had been here. Broken. Bleeding. But he¡¯d planned for this. Grib tilted his head. Still grinning. Still oblivious. ¡°Boss? Why face like that? Knight extra dead, yes?¡± I exhaled, long and slow, and forced my fingers to unclench. ¡°No, Grib. Not extra dead. Not dead at all.¡± Grib¡¯s grin twitched. He squinted at the shard, his face shifting from victory to something smaller. Slower. ¡°Oh.¡± Krix stepped forward. He hadn¡¯t said a word until now. His claws flexed at his sides. His tail flicked once behind him. ¡°Then... he coming back?¡± His voice was careful. Like he already knew the answer and didn¡¯t want it confirmed. I didn¡¯t take my eyes off the crystal. ¡°Yes,¡± I said. Colder than I meant to. ¡°One day.¡± Everyone was quite for a long moment. And then Grib let out a sharp puff of air, shoulders slumping. ¡°Pfft. Cheater.¡± I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I turned from the blood, from the wreckage, and looked at what was left of my kobolds. They were watching me. Waiting. For orders. For reassurance. For something I wasn¡¯t sure I had. So I said nothing. Just looked. The chamber was a shattered thing. Jagged stone and drifting dust. The air thick with scorched earth, blood, and the bitter tang of burned magic. The dead were still where they¡¯d fallen¡ªsome buried, some curled around broken weapons and crumpled limbs. But we were still standing. The kobolds had fared better than I expected. Not unscathed, but not destroyed. A few dozen remained upright. Limping. Bloodied. Bandaged in whatever scraps they could find. But alive. Still here. Krix stood among them, spear in hand, body coiled like he didn¡¯t trust the silence. I couldn¡¯t blame him. Grib, for once, didn¡¯t speak. His mace hung loosely at his side, his wide goblin eyes scanning the chamber with something almost like calm. Not grief. Just inventory. I made myself do the same. It wasn¡¯t regret I felt. Not exactly. Just weight. Something heavy and nameless, lodged beneath my ribs. But as I looked at those who remained¡ªthose who had fought and not fallen¡ªI knew one thing with absolute clarity. This was the first time I¡¯d won. Not survived. Not endured. Won. The thought had barely taken shape when Grib raised his mace high in both hands, his voice breaking through the dust and silence. ¡°For the Bone King!¡± It echoed off the stone. Raw, but certain. The kobolds took it up. First a few. Then more. Louder. Stronger. ¡°For the Bone King!¡± Krix hesitated. Just a second. Then his spear lifted too. The chant rose, rebounding through the ruined chamber. It filled the space where fear had been, where silence had settled. And for the first time, I didn¡¯t feel like a skeleton pretending to matter. I raised my staff. The soft glow of its enchantment pulsed in my grip like a heartbeat. ¡°We¡¯re not done yet,¡± I said. The words cut clean through the chant. ¡°Where are the other adventurers?¡± Chapter 22 The chamber was quiet now. It wasn¡¯t peace. Peace didn¡¯t feel like this. This was the silence of something unfinished. A breath held. Waiting for what came next. The cleric¡¯s body was dragged across the stone, her robes streaked with dust and blood. The mage and the rogue knelt where they¡¯d been left, wrists bound. No weapons. Nothing left that made them dangerous. I should have felt victorious. I didn¡¯t. I looked at them. The rogue was tense but still. The mage was shaking from exhaustion, his fingers twitching like they were trying to reach for a spell that wasn¡¯t there. Neither of them looked at me. They stared at the ground, or at the kobolds shifting nearby. Waiting. They weren¡¯t fighting anymore. They had lost. And for one long, quiet moment, I thought about how easy it would be to end it. I didn¡¯t have mana. No reserves. But if I waited a few hours... I¡¯d have enough. Just one fireball. One incantation, and it would be over. No more threats. No more adventurers. No more wondering if they¡¯d come back with reinforcements and finish what they started. Or I could let the kobolds do¡­ well, whatever it is kobolds do with humans. I could kill them. Maybe I should. But I was tired of endings. Tired of rubble and blood and everything breaking just to keep the lights on. I let out a slow breath. ¡°Cut them loose.¡± Krix hesitated. His tail flicked. His claws curled. He didn¡¯t like it. None of them did. The kobolds shuffled behind him, anxious, their yellow eyes flicking between me and the prisoners. Waiting for me to change my mind. I didn¡¯t. Krix moved first. He sliced through the rogue¡¯s bindings with a flick of his little talons. She didn¡¯t react. Just let her arms fall into her lap, like she was waiting for a trick. He did the same to the mage, who rubbed his wrists, wincing as circulation returned. ¡°You are not welcome here,¡± I said. My voice was quiet. Final. ¡°Neither is anyone who comes here to kill or steal.¡± The rogue finally looked up. Wary. Sharp. ¡°And if we come back?¡± I met her eyes. Empty sockets to guarded brown. ¡°Then I won¡¯t be so forgiving.¡± She held my gaze a moment longer, then gave the smallest nod. I turned to Krix. ¡°Gather the dead. Put them at the entrance.¡± The rogue flinched. Barely. A small shift of her shoulders. But I saw it. Neither of them spoke. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Slowly, they stood. The mage was stiff. Limping. Careful. They turned toward the exit, their footsteps soft and measured. They didn¡¯t make it far. ¡°Wait,¡± I said. The rogue stopped immediately. Her whole body tensed. Her breath shallowed. Like a trapped animal, waiting for the snap. It was strange, seeing someone look at me like that. Like I was something dangerous. I walked over. Took her hands. She didn¡¯t resist, but her expression turned wary¡ªsomething caught between fear and disgust. I removed her gloves. There, on her finger, was the ring. Grib¡¯s ring. She¡¯d taken it from his body. Souvenir or trophy, I didn¡¯t know. I touched it. Felt the soft hum of the enchantment still clinging to it. ¡°This doesn¡¯t belong to you.¡± ¡°By all means,¡± she said, holding her hand out. I slipped the ring free. Stared at it for a moment. My grip tightened. She didn¡¯t move. I looked up at her. Then back down. ¡°Now,¡± I said, voice flat. ¡°Please. Get the fuck out.¡± She didn¡¯t hesitate this time. Once they were gone, I let myself breathe. Metaphorically, obviously. I found a discarded bucket in the rubble. Flipped it over. Sat down. It wasn¡¯t a throne. But it would do. And this wasn¡¯t the kind of sitting that meant bracing for the next attack. Or recovering from the last one. For the first time since I¡¯d woken up like this, there was nothing chasing me. The adventurers were gone. The knight was... someone else¡¯s problem. For now. The dungeon was mine. Two full floors of it. And I was still here. The kobolds were already moving. Clearing rubble. Checking wounds. Doing whatever kobolds did after surviving a fight they had no business surviving. A few just sat, stunned. Still trying to understand they were alive. And then there was Grib. I barely noticed him until he was standing in front of me. Looking up. That same manic, impossible energy radiating off him. Still undimmed, even after death. The slime on his shoulder wobbled gently, pulsing in the low light. Grib stared at me for a long moment, like he was weighing something very serious. I sighed and held out my hand. ¡°Here.¡± He blinked. I dropped the ring into his palm. For a second, he didn¡¯t move. Just stared at it, face unreadable. Then his expression cracked wide open into a grin. All sharp teeth and unfiltered joy. ¡°Boss find Grib¡¯s ring!¡± he crowed, spinning it in his fingers like it was some kind of sacred relic. His eyes gleamed as he slid it back onto his bony green hand. ¡°Grib knew Boss was best!¡± ¡°I literally took it off a thief five minutes ago.¡± ¡°Boss still best,¡± he said, absolutely certain. I snorted and shook my head. He just grinned harder, practically vibrating. Then, with a strange kind of solemnity, he held out the blob of sentient goo. ¡°Boss look tired,¡± he said. ¡°Here. Hold slime.¡± I blinked. I stared at the wobbling mass in his hands. It jiggled. Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached out and took it. It made a faint, wet blorp as it settled into my palm. Warm. Soft. Heavier than it looked. I had no idea what to say. Grib nodded like I¡¯d just been entrusted with a sacred duty. The silence stretched. ¡°¡­Right,¡± I said, resting my free hand against my skull. ¡°That¡¯s... exactly what I needed.¡± I smiled. Couldn¡¯t help it. Grib beamed, satisfied. I let out something close to a sigh. The dungeon was still standing. The kobolds were alive. Grib was alive. It wasn¡¯t quiet anymore. Not exactly. Water still dripped in the distance. Stone shifted. Kobolds murmured to each other in low, tired voices. But the noise didn¡¯t put me on edge this time. It wasn¡¯t something sneaking up on me. Not adventurers. Not overgrown brutes with one eye. Not choices I didn¡¯t want to make. Just life. Or unlife as it were. Side Stories - Rurik and the Slimes & A Slimes Story (Optional) Rurik and the Slimes Rurik liked slimes. Slimes, as a general rule, didn¡¯t yell at you. Didn¡¯t slap you upside the head. Didn¡¯t tell you, ¡°Rurik too big, too slow, too stupid for tribe.¡± Slimes just were. They glided around the caves, glowing soft blues and greens, like they¡¯d swallowed a bit of sky and were saving it for later. Rurik watched them now, chin on his knees, scales dull in the low light. A slime oozed close to him, quivering slightly, and he nudged it with one big clawed toe. It jiggled in response, and he grinned, a little flash of fangs. ¡°Good slime,¡± he muttered. ¡°Rurik!¡± His mother¡¯s voice echoed down the cavern, soft but insistent. ¡°What you doing? Come home.¡± ¡°Watching slimes,¡± he called back. ¡°Slimes boring,¡± she said, appearing from the shadows, her arms full of mushrooms. She paused when she saw him sitting there, too big for his own body, his long tail curled around his feet, the curve of his horns catching the dim light. She smiled. ¡°But not to you, eh?¡± He shrugged, narrow shoulders rising beneath scaly skin. ¡°Slimes nice.¡± ¡°Slimes are slimy,¡± she teased, sitting beside him. ¡°But if you like them, then good.¡± She put a hand on his shoulder ¡ª clawed, like his ¡ª the quiet, familiar comfort of one kobold to another. ¡°Still, no more slime-watching today. Your father¡¯s waiting.¡± The smile slid off Rurik¡¯s face like a dropped stone. ¡°For what?¡± Her voice softened, but not enough to hide the worry. ¡°For sparring.¡± ¡°I hate sparring.¡± ¡°I know.¡± She stood, brushing cave dust from her knees. ¡°But better to spar with him than fight him, no?¡± Rurik didn¡¯t move. The slime nudged his foot again, as if encouraging him to stay. ¡°Rurik,¡± his mother said gently. ¡°Come now. Be good boy.¡± With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, claws clicking lightly on stone. The slime jiggled, like it was waving goodbye, and Rurik gave it one last nudge before following his mother out of the cavern. Rurik followed her through the tunnels, his steps slow, dragging, like the weight in his chest had sunk into his feet. The slimes were behind him now, their soft glow swallowed by the dark. Ahead, the torchlight flickered, casting jagged shadows on the stone walls carved by generations of claw and fire. The air grew hotter, the scent of sweat and iron pressing against his snout. His mother adjusted the mushrooms in her arms. ¡°Don¡¯t drag feet,¡± she murmured. ¡°Makes you look like prey.¡± Rurik scowled but straightened, spines along his back bristling slightly. ¡°I hate sparring.¡± ¡°I know.¡± She stood, brushing cave dust from her knees. ¡°But better to spar with him than fight him, no?¡± Rurik didn¡¯t move. The slime nudged his foot, as if encouraging him to stay. ¡°Rurik,¡± his mother said gently. ¡°Come now. Be good boy.¡± With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet. The slime jiggled, like it was waving goodbye, and Rurik gave it one last nudge before following his mother out of the cavern. Rurik followed his mother through the tunnels, his steps slow, dragging, like the weight in his chest had sunk into his feet. The slimes were behind him now, their soft glow swallowed by the dark. Ahead, the torchlight flickered, casting jagged shadows on the walls. The air grew hotter, the scent of sweat and iron pressing against his skin. His mother adjusted the mushrooms in her arms. ¡°Don¡¯t drag feet,¡± she murmured. ¡°Makes you look like prey.¡± Rurik scowled but straightened. ¡°I hate sparring.¡± She sighed. ¡°I know.¡± They stepped into the sparring pit, where his father stood waiting. Thick arms, jagged blade, eyes like flint. He barely glanced at Rurik before turning his glare to his wife. ¡°Too late,¡± he growled. ¡°Boy slow. Weak.¡± Rurik stiffened, but his mother just tilted her head, unconcerned. ¡°Boy was helping me.¡± His father scoffed. ¡°Helping. Helping is excuse for weaklings.¡± Without warning, he snatched a small rock from the ground and hurled it at her head. She moved like lightning, ducking to the side. The rock sailed past, clattering against the cavern wall. She bared her teeth at him, eyes flashing. ¡°You throw things at me now?¡± she hissed. His father smirked. ¡°If you slow, you deserve to get hit.¡± Rurik¡¯s fists clenched. His mother just exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. She turned to Rurik and reached up, patting his arm, a small touch, barely anything, but it said I see you. I¡¯m here. Then she walked past his father without another glance, her tail flicking behind her. His father turned back to Rurik. ¡°Pick up spear.¡± Rurik swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words stuck in his throat. The slimes would never treat him like this. ¡°Fight,¡± he barked. Rurik raised the spear hesitantly, his grip awkward and loose. ¡°Wrong!¡± his father snarled. He lunged forward, slamming the flat of his blade against Rurik¡¯s spear so hard it clattered to the ground. ¡°Too slow! You like slime, weak, useless!¡± Rurik scrambled to pick up the spear, heart pounding. ¡°Not useless,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°What you say?¡± ¡°Slimes not useless,¡± Rurik said louder, gripping the spear tighter now. His father roared with laughter. ¡°Slimes not useless? You idiot boy. Slimes no fight. No hunt. No kill. Just goo!¡± He lunged again, the blade flashing in the dim light. Rurik barely blocked the blow. The impact sent vibrations through his arms. ¡°Slimes don¡¯t hurt nobody!¡± Rurik shouted, his voice cracking. His father sneered. ¡°Exactly. Slimes do nothing. And you wanna be like them? Then you useless too!¡± He feinted left, then slashed right, the blade catching Rurik¡¯s face. Pain shot through him, sharp and blinding. He dropped the spear, clutching his eye as warm blood dripped between his fingers. His father stood over him, blade resting on his shoulder, shaking his head. ¡°Too soft. You no chief. You no fighter. Just big slime.¡± Rurik didn¡¯t cry. Not in front of him. But later, when he was alone in the cavern, the slimes gathered around him, pulsing softly in the dark. He let the tears fall. The problem with being big was that it didn¡¯t mean you couldn¡¯t feel small. It¡¯s just that everyone else thought you couldn¡¯t. Rurik stumbled through the tunnels, unfamiliar walls closing in around him, his hand still pressed to his face where the blade had caught him. The pain was sharp, deep, but the ache in his chest was worse. His father¡¯s words sat heavy in his ribs, settling there like stones. Too soft. Too slow. Too nothing. Blood dripped between his fingers, warm and sticky. He ignored it. The air changed. It wasn¡¯t the stale damp of the deep tunnels or the cool stillness of untraveled paths. No, this was something else. The kind of wrong you didn¡¯t notice at first, not until you realized your body had been tensing for minutes without you meaning to. The stone here was slick, but not with water. Something darker. Something fouler. Then a groan. Low, wet, bubbling. Rurik¡¯s breath hitched. He turned toward the sound. What was he expecting? A wounded tribesman? A stray beast? Something that belonged? But nothing about what stepped into the torchlight belonged. It had been something once, but it wasn¡¯t anything anymore. Its body was twisted, hunched, as if it had forgotten how to stand properly. Skin hung from it in wet, yellow-brown sheets, loose where it should have been tight, torn where it should have been whole. The lower half of its face was missing. Torn away. What remained was worse: blackened flesh, a tongue dangling uselessly, twitching like it was still trying to form words. And its eyes. Its eyes. Red. Bright. Burning in the dark like coals that refused to die. It saw him. And then it ran. Rurik barely had time to throw his arms up before it slammed into him. It was fast. Faster than it should have been. He hit the wall hard, breath leaving his lungs in a rush. Claws scraped against his arms, his chest, searching for something soft, something vital. He struck back, one solid punch into its ribs. Something cracked beneath his knuckles, but it didn¡¯t react. Just pushed harder, its fingers tightening like it had already decided he wasn¡¯t a person, just meat. Rurik¡¯s panic sharpened. He had never fought like this before. His father trained him, sure, but training had rules. This didn¡¯t. This wasn¡¯t about proving something. This was dying or not dying. He tried to twist free, but it was stronger. Faster. He could feel it pressing him down, feel the heat of its ragged breath against his neck, smell the stench of rot and bile. Then a wet plop. The creature stilled. So did Rurik. Something small and round wobbled at his feet. A slime. It hesitated for only a second. Then, with the slow, determined movement of something that didn¡¯t know it should be afraid, it climbed. Up the creature¡¯s leg. Up its back. And then onto its skull. The hiss came first. Then the sizzle. The thing shuddered. A horrible, rattling sound rose from its ruined throat. Its flesh, already loose and rotting, peeled away beneath the slime¡¯s touch, burning, dissolving. Smoke curled from where the little creature clung tight. Rurik didn¡¯t think. Didn¡¯t hesitate. He drove his fist into the ruined, melting section of the thing¡¯s skull. It screeched, a high, strangled sound, half-breath, half wrong. It thrashed, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, but Rurik didn¡¯t stop. He struck again. Again. Again. Bone cracked beneath his knuckles, then gave entirely. The thing collapsed. Its body twitched once. Then nothing. Silence. Rurik¡¯s breath came in ragged gulps, his chest heaving. He looked down at his hands, shaking, covered in something far worse than blood. And then he looked at the slime. It pulsed faintly, still resting on what was left of the thing¡¯s head. Rurik swallowed. His throat was dry. ¡°¡­Good slime,¡± he muttered. The slime jiggled, like it agreed. Rurik ran. His feet pounded against the stone, heart slamming against his ribs, the wet, awful mess of his face barely registering in the rush of panic. He had no idea how far he had gone, only that the dark was behind him, and the tunnels of home were ahead. He wasn¡¯t sure when he started yelling. ¡°Something in the tunnels!¡± His voice echoed, cracking against the walls. ¡°Something¡¯s down there!¡± Shapes flickered in the firelight as he burst into the main cavern. Kobolds turning, eyes glinting in the dark. The sound of work slowed. Hushed voices rose. His father stepped forward from the sparring pit, arms crossed, already scowling. ¡°What this?¡± Rurik heaved in air, struggling to breathe, to think, to make them understand. ¡°I¡ªsomething¡ªit attacked me!¡± he gasped, still shaking. ¡°Not¡ªnot a beast, not a person¡ªsomething else. It ran at me, grabbed me, it¡ª¡± He faltered, suddenly realizing how insane he must sound. He looked around, eyes darting to the others. ¡°It was rotting! Its face was gone, and its eyes¡ªthey were red, burning¡ª¡± His father snorted. ¡°Pah. Just skeleton.¡± Rurik¡¯s stomach dropped. ¡°No,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°No, it¡ª¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. His father waved him off with a sharp gesture. ¡°You make big fuss over nothing. You see bones move and run like scared hatchling?¡± He spat on the ground. ¡°No son of mine this weak.¡± A few chuckles rose from the others. Rurik felt something cold curdle in his stomach. He turned to the crowd, desperate. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a skeleton,¡± he pleaded, looking at anyone who would listen. ¡°It¡ªit was fast! It was strong! It nearly killed me¡ª¡± No one moved. No one believed him. No one except his mother. She wasn¡¯t laughing. She wasn¡¯t scoffing. She was watching him, her eyes sharp and knowing. ¡°You sure, Rurik?¡± she asked quietly. He swallowed, nodding. Her hands tightened around the basket she held, claws flexing against the woven reeds. ¡°Then we listen.¡± His father scoffed, stepping closer, towering over both of them. ¡°We do not listen,¡± he said. ¡°We fight. If he saw something, then we kill it. Simple.¡± Rurik clenched his fists. ¡°You don¡¯t understand¡ª¡± His father jabbed a clawed finger at his chest. ¡°What I understand is that you come running, whining, shouting, instead of fighting.¡± His lips curled, baring teeth. ¡°Weak. Just like¡ª¡± Rurik nearly hit him. For a second, just a second, the urge boiled inside him. His father¡¯s sneering face, his words, his complete refusal to listen, to see him. It all twisted up inside Rurik like a storm, and he almost let it loose. But he didn¡¯t. Because he was still scared of him. His father must have seen something in his face, because he snorted, stepping back. ¡°Hmph. Thought so.¡± Rurik¡¯s chest burned. Then a sound. A long, rattling moan. It echoed from the tunnels. The laughter died. Kobolds turned toward the dark, ears flicking, tails stiffening. Another groan. Wet. Thick. Then the smell hit. Rot. Rurik barely had time to breathe before something lurched from the tunnels. Not one. Not two. More. Too many. Their bodies shambled forward, hunched and broken, pieces of them missing. Skin blackened and peeled. Red eyes gleamed in empty sockets. Mouths, some missing jaws, twitched, as if still remembering what it was like to chew. They rushed. Screams erupted. Rurik barely had time to think before one slammed into a kobold near the entrance, knocking him flat. Claws tore through scales. Teeth sank into flesh. Blood hit the stone. His father roared. Rurik moved. The first one hit him hard, and Rurik barely managed to keep his footing. It was fast. Strong. Not alive, but not bones, either. He grabbed its arms, its flesh sloughing off beneath his grip, and for a moment, they wrestled like animals. Its breath stank like something long buried, but its strength was real. He threw it off, sending it sprawling into the cavern wall, but before he could catch his breath, another one rushed him. He fought back with his fists. His claws. His teeth, when he had to. They weren¡¯t like the beasts of the caves. They didn¡¯t stagger when hit. They didn¡¯t bleed like things that were supposed to be dead. His blows landed, but they never stopped. His father roared, cutting through them like a warlord of old, his jagged blade carving deep into rotting bodies. He moved like a creature that had waited his whole life for this kind of fight. No hesitation. No fear. Just raw, relentless power. But even he could only hold them off for so long. They overwhelmed him, pouring over him like a wave, clawing, snapping. Rurik heard him grunt, a sharp, short sound of surprise as the weight of them dragged him down. That was it. No scream. No last words. Just a sound, and then he was gone beneath them. Something twisted in Rurik¡¯s stomach, but he didn¡¯t have time to feel it. His mother was still fighting. She was fast, moving between them with a hunter¡¯s grace, her spear darting in and out, striking before they could touch her. She didn¡¯t fight like his father. She fought like someone who knew she couldn¡¯t take a hit. So she never did. Until her foot slipped. She had just run one of them through, twisting the spear to make sure it stayed dead, when another caught her from behind. Not a full grab, just a hand at the back of her neck, but it was enough. She jerked, lost her balance for just a breath. And when she turned. Teeth tore into her throat. There was no time for her to react, no time to stop it. Her spear dropped. Her body sagged. Her hands lifted to the wound like she could press the life back in. Rurik saw it all, and his body locked up. It didn¡¯t feel real. His father dying had felt inevitable. Expected, almost. It was always going to be like that with him. Swinging until something finally swung back. But not her. Not the one who had sat with him in the dark, who had believed him when no one else did. She gasped once. Not a scream. Not even pain. Just surprise, like she hadn¡¯t realized she could die until now. Then she collapsed. And something in Rurik broke. The moment stretched, long and distant, like he was watching from far away. Then something touched him. A hand. A claw. His vision blurred red. He moved without thinking. His claws sank into something soft, and he pulled. Hard. The thing in front of him tore in half like wet paper. He didn¡¯t stop. He surged forward, his fists breaking bones, his claws tearing flesh. He ripped them apart, one by one, scattering limbs, crushing skulls. He smashed through them like they were nothing, like he had never been afraid in his life. By the time he stopped, the cavern was silent. His breath came in heavy gasps, his whole body shaking, covered in something thicker than sweat. Then he turned. She was still there. Still. He stumbled to her side, his hands reaching, hesitating. ¡°Mom,¡± he said. Quiet. Almost stupidly. She didn¡¯t answer. He touched her shoulder, shaking her just a little. Too gentle. Like she was only sleeping. Her head rolled limply. Her throat, gods, her throat, was a ruined thing, and he could see the last breath that would never come. The world shrank. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn¡¯t stop the burning in his chest. Didn¡¯t stop the scream clawing its way up his throat. And then, finally, it came. Raw. Shaking. Ripped from his ribs like something dying inside him. His mother was gone. And so was the part of him that had needed to be anything else but this. Rurik didn¡¯t know how long he walked. The battle was behind him, but it had sunk into his bones, into his chest, into the cut across his face and the dried blood between his fingers. He felt the weight of it in every step. His mother¡¯s body, still and silent. His father¡¯s last words, as much a command as they were a farewell. The way the others had looked at him when the fighting was done. He didn¡¯t want to see them anymore. So he kept walking, through the tunnels, deeper, until the heat of the battle was gone and the air was cool and damp again. Until he was surrounded by something softer. The slimes. They pulsed and jiggled in the darkness, moving with that slow, unbothered calm, glowing faintly like swallowed bits of sky. Rurik stopped, staring at them. He dropped to his knees. He didn¡¯t mean to. His legs just gave out beneath him. Too much, too heavy, too everything. The slimes bobbed gently, unafraid. One of them wobbled closer, stopping just at the edge of his vision. Another followed. Then another. He let out a breath, shuddering, and closed his eyes. His mother should be here. She should be the one telling him everything was okay, even if it wasn¡¯t. She should be patting his arm, telling him, Good boy, Rurik. But she wasn¡¯t. His father¡¯s voice echoed instead. You chief now. Big chief. And he hated him. Hated him for never listening. For never seeing him. For making him spend his whole life clawing for approval that would never come, until it was already too late. But¡­ Rurik¡¯s fingers curled against the stone. But his father had smiled at him. At him. Like he had done something right. Like, in that last moment, Rurik had finally been enough. A sound built in his chest, raw and aching, but he didn¡¯t have the words for it. His face was wet. He hadn¡¯t realized he was crying. The slime in front of him jiggled, shifting closer, nudging at his knee with a quiet, slow patience. And for a moment, he let it happen. He let them crowd around him, glowing soft in the dark, the only things in the world that had ever just been there for him, without asking for anything back. But then something inside him snapped. His hands clenched into fists, his breath came hard, and his father¡¯s words hit him again, Big Chief no need slimes, and suddenly it hurt to look at them. ¡°No,¡± he said, voice thick, hoarse. He shoved at the slime nearest to him, sending it wobbling away. ¡°No, no, go away.¡± The slimes wiggled, uncertain. ¡°I said go!¡± His voice cracked. His tail lashed behind him. His breath was uneven, shaking. ¡°No more slimes! No more stupid, weak things!¡± They didn¡¯t understand. But they understood him. One by one, they began to glide away. Rurik sat there, breath ragged, fists tight, shaking as the last of them disappeared into the dark. And when he was finally alone, he curled his arms around his knees, pressing his forehead against them, and didn¡¯t move.
A Slime¡¯s Story The slime was. This was, by all accounts, a very good thing to be. It had not always been, and it would not always be, but for now, it was. It wobbled happily in the damp, dim tunnels, where the stone was cool and the air hummed with the slow, endless drip of water from somewhere above. It moved. Moving was good. It ate. Eating was also good. It did not think, not in the way bigger things thought. It did not wonder where it came from, or where it was going, or whether life had meaning beyond dissolving things that could be dissolved and going around things that could not. But it did know one thing. It knew Rurik. Rurik was big. Rurik was warm. Rurik had been kind. Rurik had touched slime, and slime had liked that. So when Rurik was in trouble, when not-good had attacked him, slime had done the only thing slime could do. It had moved. It had burned not-good. And Rurik had lived. That had been the best thing slime had ever done. But then, later, Rurik had made sounds. Loud, sharp, wrong sounds. Go away. Slime did not know what go away meant. Not in the way Rurik did. But it had understood the way Rurik felt when he said it. So it had gone. It had wobbled away into the tunnels, and Rurik had stayed behind, and that was that. The dungeon was vast. Bigger than big. Big in a way slimes did not need to understand. It found things. Mushrooms, mostly. Those were easy. A soft, slow dissolve, spreading warmth through its body in the way that meant good, good, keep doing this. Sometimes, eggs. Frog eggs, tucked away in damp corners. Those were harder. More delicate. They wobbled like slime wobbled. But they were not slimes, and slimes did not think too hard about the things they ate. Other times, adventure-shoes. Adventure-shoes were dangerous. They stomped. They squished. Slime had learned this the hard way. One day, while happily sliding across the stone, it had encountered one such adventure-shoe. A large one, heavy, moving fast. It had stepped on slime, pressing down with an awful, impossible force. This had been very bad. But slimes were small, and slimes were quick (when they had to be), and before the adventure-shoe could press hard enough, slime had found a crack in the stone and gone. That had been close. Slime did not want to meet adventure-shoes again. And yet, as time passed¡ªdays, months, years, none of which slime counted¡ªit felt something. Something not good. Slime did not have words for it. If it did, it might have called it lost. Or maybe lonely. It found food. It found water. It found places to hide. But it did not find Rurik. It wobbled, and it moved, and it was, but it was not the same. And then, one day, something new happened. Something picked slime up. It had been moving along as it always did, dissolving a particularly plump mushroom, when claws¡ªsmall claws, but firm¡ªscooped it up and held it aloft. Slime jiggled, confused. ¡°Boss!¡± A sound. A new sound. Slime did not understand sounds, but it knew tone. And this tone was excited. ¡°Look! Tiny slime!¡± The hands holding slime wobbled it in the air. Slime did not like this. ¡°That¡¯s... great, Grib,¡± said another voice, drier, lower, like it had already given up on something it had yet to define. ¡°Grib think slime has potential,¡± the first voice¡ªGrib¡ªannounced. Slime wobbled uncertainly. Grib squinted at slime, tilting it from side to side. ¡°Maybe fight?¡± he mused. Slime did not fight. ¡°Maybe friend?¡± Slime did not know what friend was. Grib licked his lips. ¡°Maybe... snack?¡± Slime knew snack. Slime wobbled very hard in protest. The hands holding slime did not let go. Slime wobbled, uncertain. It was not used to being held. Slimes did not hold. Slimes did not get held. Slimes simply were, and being was very rarely an event that involved being picked up. The not-big-but-not-small thing holding it¡ªGrib¡ªfrowned. His ears drooped, his grip slackened, and for a brief, wonderful moment, slime thought it might be going back to the floor, where all sensible slimes belonged. But no. Grib¡¯s grip firmed. His face tightened in an expression slime did not have words for, but if it did, it might have been ¡°Decision Face¡±. Then, with a solemn nod, Grib did something entirely new. He tucked slime into his tunic. Slime made a faint, wet squelch as it was squished between fabric and goblin, settling against the new, unfamiliar warmth of Grib¡¯s chest. This was¡­ different. Not bad, necessarily. Not good either. Just different. Slime had never been inside a thing before. Slime had been on things, near things, around things. But this was inside, pressed against warmth that was not Rurik but still warm. Grib patted the lump where slime now rested. ¡°Grib keep slime,¡± he announced, sounding very sure of this fact. ¡°Slime good for morale.¡± Slime did not know what morale was. Slime did not know what keep was, either. But slime knew warmth. And this was warm. The second voice¡ªthe lower, already-tired one¡ªsighed. It was a sound that was long and dragged out, much like the way Rurik had once sounded when asked to do things he did not want to do. ¡°Fine,¡± it said. ¡°Just don¡¯t let it eat anything important.¡± Grib made a new sound¡ªsharp, loud, confident. ¡°Grib won¡¯t! Grib is responsible slime owner!¡± Slime jiggled at the words. It did not know what an owner was. But it had warmth again. And warmth was good. From the Compendium of Relics and Remembrances by Isenvael, Scribe of the Fallen Halls (Optional) Staff of the Forgotten Arcanist It is unclear whether the staff was wrought or simply found¡ªif it was ever truly made at all. A length of twisted, darkened metal, its surface bears no marks of hammer nor chisel, only jagged etchings that shift when studied, as though unwilling to be understood. Some say it was the tool of a scholar who defied the limits of his own existence, a mage whose knowledge was deemed too dangerous to be remembered. Others whisper that it is not a staff at all, but a remnant¡ªsomething left behind when a mind could no longer be contained within flesh, its final thoughts burned into the shape it left behind. The claw at its peak clutches a fractured gem, dull and lifeless, yet pulsing ever so faintly¡ªlike a breath yet to be drawn. In the presence of magic, it stirs, sensing the flow of mana before the wielder even knows it is there. To hold it is to feel the air shift, to glimpse the Weave just beyond the veil. But there is a reason the Arcanist is forgotten. Knowledge has a cost, and debts do not go unpaid.
Fragment of the Death God''s Grimoire This is not a book. It is a scar. Blackened leather, cracked and worn, yet warm as though something beneath still breathes. Its pages are brittle and thin, rough as old skin, and the text¡ªsharp, unnervingly precise¡ªglows with a colorless light that should not exist. The runes shift when left unread, bleeding into one another like ink on water, waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be understood. No complete version of this tome has ever been found. Some claim it was never whole to begin with. Others believe it was shattered deliberately, fractured to keep its truths from being known. What is certain is this: even a single page is enough to mark its bearer. The spells within are not learned but remembered, as if they have always been there, waiting in the quiet places of the soul. Its origin is lost, its purpose unclear. But those who have held it too long speak of echoes in the dark, of whispers that do not fade. Of something watching.
Big Chief¡¯s Mace A thick length of blackened steel, heavy as judgment, worn smooth where countless hands have gripped it. No engravings mark its surface, no flourish mars its form¡ªonly the weight of each swing, the certainty of impact. It was wielded by Rurik, known in the end as Big Chief. A warlord. A scourge. A name that sent the unworthy scurrying. But before war, before blood, he was a boy who was too slow, too soft, too kind for the world that made him. His father beat the gentleness out of him, carved the hesitation from his bones, until nothing remained but strength. In the depths of the dungeon, he led his kin against horrors that should have swallowed them whole. He fought not for glory, nor power, but because there was no one else left to fight. And when his blows landed, they struck harder than they should have¡ªas if something unseen wished to see them fall. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Now, the mace remains, its magic simple, inexorable. Each strike carries more force than the last, each blow landing heavier than the one before. Some call it enchantment. Some call it fate. But those who know its story understand the truth: It was never just strength that made Rurik¡¯s blows land harder than they should.
The Church of the Eternal Dawn From the Treatise on the Origins of the World by Isenvael, Scribe of the Fallen Halls To speak of the Church of the Eternal Dawn is to speak of contradiction. It proclaims itself the light against the dark, the hand of mercy in a world of cruelty, the guiding fire illuminating the path of the lost. Its doctrine preaches warmth, renewal, and the endless cycle of life granted through the Divine Light of Solanna, their radiant goddess of the sun. Her followers declare her the source of all life, the one true deity who lifts souls from shadow into salvation''s embrace. And yet, for a faith devoted to life, the Church has carved a staggering trail of death across the ages. It is an empire unto itself, though it claims no land in the manner of kings and queens. Its dominion spreads through conviction, through dogma enforced as law, through the slow, inexorable tightening of chains disguised as prayer beads. Its heart pulses not from conquered territory but from the gilded halls of the Holy See, a central seat of power from which its influence radiates. The faithful do not see chains, nor an empire''s grasp; they see purpose, order, illumination. It is their sacred duty, they claim, to purge the darkness¡ªto burn away heresy, monstrosity, and any shadow that defies the ordained light. I wonder if they have ever truly considered what festers in the shadow cast by their own brilliance. I do not dispute Solanna¡¯s existence. Even the Ilvaari, the Firstborn, acknowledged a vast presence arriving long after the true Three had ceased their shaping of the world. But the first sin of the faithful is mistaking power for divinity. The Three demanded no worship. They hungered for no temples, craved no praise etched in stone. They were existence¡ªtheir will the Weave, their breath the sky, their silence the turning of time. Solanna is not of them. She is something lesser, something hungry, something that needs to be worshipped. She does not grant life; she merely takes credit for what already pulses. She has never created¡ªonly consumed. She guides her followers not toward wisdom, but toward obedience. Perhaps that is why her Church thrives where true understanding falters. Unlike the Three, she speaks. She commands. She punishes. The Three cared little if they were followed or forgotten¡ªbut Solanna is a jealous entity, and the sun tolerates no shadows. She demands fealty, and in return, she grants her chosen champions power. That power is real. I have seen it, felt its scorching touch. Her Celestials¡ªbeings twisted by divine radiance until they forget their origins, reflections perhaps of the Firstborn yet beholden to her light¡ªare undeniable proof of her reach. But power does not make a god. If it did, then my Master, too, would sit upon a divine throne. I do not write this to sway the devoted. Words hold no weight against absolute belief. But for those who still harbor doubt, who dare to question the blinding light¡ªconsider this: If the Church is consecrated to life, why is death its most favored instrument? If the Church brings illumination, why must it incinerate all that lies beyond its narrow beam? If Solanna is truly divine, why does her godhood depend so utterly on your belief? That is the question they fear most. That is the question they seek to bury beneath the ashes of any soul brave enough to ask it aloud. Book 2, Chapter 1 - Isenvael

POV - Isenvael

The boot caught me between the shoulder blades, hard enough to drive me forward but not enough to knock me off my feet. A calculated blow¡ªnot meant to injure, only to remind me of my place. "Move it along, Elf," one of them muttered. The cavern stretched ahead¡ªstone walls slick with condensation. The air was thick with mold and something fouler beneath it¡ªthe rot of things long dead. I let my breath out slowly, reaching for the thread of magic coiling in the air. It found me easily, as it always did: thin, weightless, brushing the edge of my senses like silk. No threats nearby. Behind me, the warriors trailed at an easy pace, their boots heavy against the stone. They were comfortable here. Too comfortable. "You think we¡¯ll find something worth a damn in this hole?" ¡±Doubt it. Last place, all we got was a cursed knife and a pile of bones." "Still sold the knife." "Yeah, after we lost Rory. Took his hand clean off, that thing." Laughter. A slap on the back. The sound of men who thought they were safe. I listened. And didn¡¯t. This was how it always went. They talked like I wasn¡¯t there¡ªas if I were nothing more than a lantern. A tool. Something to light the way. I¡¯d long since stopped expecting otherwise. A break in the stone opened ahead. I stepped over it, bare feet finding purchase on the slick rock. The passage narrowed, curling inward like a throat before widening into darkness. Magic shimmered there¡ªsoft, present. Not new. Not fresh. Old enough to fray at the edges. I hesitated. "Something?" I nodded. "Faint. A ward, but old." "Trip it?" "It¡¯s nothing." A hand clamped over my shoulder. "Good boy." A shove followed¡ªlighter than the kick, but just as dismissive. I stepped forward, crossing the threshold. The air stirred, rippled faintly against my skin... but nothing struck. Whatever had been here was gone. They followed. The first floor stretched wide and empty. No surprise. The bounty on this dungeon had drawn in everyone greedy or desperate enough to try their luck. Most hadn¡¯t come back. The ones who did spoke of twisting corridors, walls that shifted when you weren¡¯t looking, and shadows that watched from places you didn¡¯t dare stare at too long. Fungi clung to the walls¡ªpale growths casting a thin, sickly light. Not bright enough to see clearly, just enough to make you think you could. The glow flickered, turning empty air into shapes that swayed when you blinked. Illusions. Tricks meant to catch the eye, pull you off balance. The lich that ruled this floor? Rumor said it was gone. Faded. Weakening. They were wrong. Power doesn¡¯t abandon its domain. I could still feel it here: undead mana thick in the air, subtle but inescapable. Like breath warm against the back of your neck. Like something standing just out of sight. Waiting. I¡¯d been in dungeons before. Hated every one. Different walls. Same truth. Mana pooled in them like stagnant water¡ªstill until you stepped wrong. Then it moved. Twisted. To humans, dungeons were vaults. Treasure to claim. Experience to hoard. Crystallized mana to sell to the highest bidder. To my people? They were scars. Wounds carved so deep in the fabric of the Weave that the world forgot how to heal. You felt it in the walls. In the air. In every breath that dragged the weight of old, dead magic, of old, dead elves, into your lungs. But this place... wasn¡¯t like the others. It didn¡¯t hum with violence soaked into the stone. No lingering screams clawing through the mana. It felt like standing beside a beast, asleep¡ªbut breathing. Not dead. Not dying. Aware. That was worse. The second floor brought crystal in place of fungi¡ªjagged veins threading across stone walls, refracting cold light in sharp, splintered patterns. The corridors stretched out deliberate, paths carved not by tools, but by something older and patient. Magic didn¡¯t just exist here¡ªit shaped. The warriors shifted uneasily. Their bravado wore thin with every step. "Wasted trip," one muttered, dragging his hand along the smooth stone. His breath curled in the cold air, a small, fleeting ghost. "Anything good¡¯s been stripped clean." "Unless it¡¯s deeper." Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Silence stretched. The third floor had stories attached to it. Most of them didn¡¯t end well. But if the lich was gone...? Temptation has a way of sounding louder than common sense. I didn¡¯t speak. Didn¡¯t tell them what settled cold and heavy in my bones. The descent into the third floor came with a change in the air. tdrier now, edged with dust and that faint metallic tang of old blood that¡¯s long since dried but never left. The tunnels opened wider, the neat lines of corridors giving way to streets. Or what had once been streets. This wasn¡¯t a cave. Not some twisted dungeon hallway. The stone beneath my feet shifted¡ªno longer smooth. Pavement cracked, bricks shattered into uneven rubble. Murals clung to the walls in faded streaks, colors leached away by time. Statues stood broken at crossroads¡ªfaces worn to hollow suggestions. Guardians without purpose. It was quiet. Not like before. Not the alert kind of silence that fills the space before something strikes. This was different. Abandonment. A quiet that didn¡¯t wait for you to speak¡ªit just was. No bodies. No bones. No remnants of whoever had called this place home. Just ruins upon ruins, layered thick like the dungeon itself wanted to forget. Or maybe wanted you to. We turned a corner. The street emptied into a vast chamber. Ceiling arched high above, sections collapsed to let in fractured shafts of cold, pale light. Dust hung suspended, lazy in the beams. Somewhere, water dripped¡ªsteady. The kind of sound that measured out time until you forgot it mattered. That was when I felt it. Something shifted. The air pressed tighter. Like lungs filling. Like something noticing. The doors behind us slammed shut. Steel rasped out of sheaths. Boots shuffled on stone. Breath quickened¡ªmine included. Movement flickered above. A shape. Small. Wiry. Perched on a crumbling balcony. Eyes gleamed in the gloom. A goblin. But not a goblin. I could feel the mana radiating from his body. He dropped down. Landed light despite the iron mace strapped to its back¡ªtoo large for something its size. Should¡¯ve been unwieldy. But he gripped the weapon, lifted it like it belonged in his hands. And then he smiled. But the orcs struck first. They came from the side passages, from the alcoves above, dropping into the fray with heavy steps and heavier blades. They moved through the ruins like they had lived in them for years. Their strikes were brutal but controlled¡ªhoned by experience, not mindless aggression. One of them, larger than the rest, brought his axe down in a sweeping arc, forcing the nearest warrior to stumble back. Another orc followed up, hammering the man¡¯s shield with the flat of his sword, forcing him further off balance. Kobolds slithered between them, darting through broken doorways and vanishing behind toppled statues, their knives flashing in and out of sight. One leaped onto a fallen column, kicking off with startling agility before driving a dagger down into an exposed throat. Another slid low between an orc¡¯s legs, using the larger fighter¡¯s reach as cover before slashing at a warrior¡¯s hamstring. The warriors barely had time to react. I stepped back, my senses reaching¡ªsearching for magic, for traps, for anything¡ª A blur. Too fast. A kobold darted past me, barely more than a flicker of movement. Not like the others. It was faster, its short spear, more of a sword, aimed low as it cut across the battlefield in perfect tandem with the goblin. A quick, clean slice against the back of a warrior¡¯s leg, cutting deep. The man stumbled. That was all the goblin needed. The mace came down like a hammer against an anvil. A crunch. A scream. Then silence. One down. The second warrior swung, heavy and desperate. The goblin slipped beneath the blow, the movement effortless. The faster kobold was already moving behind him, pressing the attack, forcing the man to turn, overextend¡ª Another strike. The goblin¡¯s mace took him in the ribs. A sharp, wet sound followed as the warrior crumpled. Nearby, an orc caught a sword strike on his bracer, snarling as he rammed his opponent backward with sheer brute force. A kobold at his side took the opening, clambering up the man¡¯s chest and driving its knife into the gap beneath his chin. Something slammed into my side¡ªbroad, heavy, all muscle and momentum. The impact sent me sprawling. My shoulder struck stone, pain jolting through me as I hit the ground. The fight continued without me. I tried to push up, but my vision spun. Blood in my mouth. The taste of dust. I turned my head in time to see the last warrior fall. The kobold¡¯s blade had found his throat. The goblin¡¯s mace had found his skull. And now they turned to me. The goblin cocked his head. His grip on the mace was easy, casual. Too casual. A creature that small should not have been able to swing something that heavy, let alone with the kind of precision I had just seen. And yet, there he stood, utterly unconcerned. The kobold wiped its blade clean with practiced efficiency. No urgency, no nerves, just a methodical swipe across the fabric of a fallen warrior¡¯s cloak. Not a sound in the chamber but the distant drip of water on stone. I was the only one left. And I had nothing. A heavy silence settled over the chamber. The scent of blood clung to the air, but neither the goblin nor the kobold seemed to care. They had killed, and now, just as easily, they had stopped. No celebration. No gloating. Not even menace. Just the stillness of creatures who had done many times before. The goblin tilted his head at me, squinting. Then, in a slow, deliberate voice, he said, "What that?" The kobold let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. "It elf, numbskull." The goblin¡¯s frown deepened. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he inspected me like a puzzle. "What elf?" The kobold threw up its clawed hands. "Pointy ears! Tall! Thinks it better than us!" The goblin made a thoughtful noise. His yellowed eyes swept over me again, slow and assessing. Not like a predator. Just... curious. "It big goblin?" "It is not big goblin!" The goblin ignored him. Instead, he beamed at me, showing a mouth full of sharp teeth. "Hi, pointy ears. Grib take you to Bone King now. Don''t be scared." He held something out to me. Something small. Round. "Here. Hold slime, make feel less scared." I looked down. A tiny blue slime wobbled in his outstretched hand. It let out a faint, gurgling noise. I took it. Though, I¡¯m honestly not sure why. The little creature was warm to the touch and jiggled like one of those human desserts I¡¯d seen when forced to work in the kitchens. Neither sick, nor clammy like I imagined. Blue and gentle as an ocean wave. I looked back up to the goblin. Grib? Then I looked back to the slime wobbling gently. What in the name of the goddesses had just happened? I was thoroughly, completely, baffled. Book 2, Chapter 2 - Edgar

POV - Edgar

Somewhere deep in a dungeon, an orc was on fire. Regrettably, that was not a metaphor. That somewhere was here, and that orc¡¯s name was Ulthar. The fourth floor was not like the ones above. It was not a cave, not a ruined city, not stone corridors. It was a sepulcher. A tomb. A place built for the dead, where you could almost hear their voice whispering in the walls and stone arches curved inward like a beast¡¯s ribcage. All burial niches and bones stacked from floor to ceiling. It should have been unsettling. But it felt quite cozy, really. In fact, after two months here, it felt a bit like home. More importantly, for the first time in days, it was quiet. Rare, fragile silence. But silence in a dungeon is like a strange cat on your lap¡ªyou enjoy it, knowing full well it¡¯s going to end in claws and betrayal. I let my skull rest against the back of my throne, allowing myself exactly one moment to appreciate it. Then I pushed myself upright. If I had learned anything, it was that peace never lasted long down here. I was already rising when the shouting began, bouncing through the corridors of my new home, the sound ricocheting off the alcoves carved into the walls. That was about the time Ulthar arrived, still on fire. He came barrelling into the room like a walking technical difficulty, flailing arms spreading the scent of scorched leather and Orcish regret in his wake. ¡°BONE KING!¡± he bellowed. ¡°I AM BURNING.¡± I folded my arms. ¡°Yes, I can see that, Ulthar.¡± Ulthar, in turn, could not see much of anything, given that his eyebrows were currently missing and his entire upper half was dusted with a faintly glowing orange powder¡ªthe unmistakable residue of Blisterblossom Spores, one of the dungeon¡¯s more temperamental flora. ¡°IT SPREADS WITH AIR¡ªDO NOT FAN THE FLAMES,¡± Ulthar gasped, before wheezing dramatically and toppling forward onto his knees. I leaned slightly to the left. "Maybe," I said, "you should stop flailing like a drunken windmill." Ulthar froze, processing this. His remaining brain cells held a quick internal conference. Then, with deep, begrudging effort, he forced himself into stillness. The smoldering subsided slightly. Progress. I tapped my fingers against the armrest of my throne. "Weren''t you supposed to be training with Gorthor on how to not set yourself on fire with those things?" Ulthar made a strange, distressed humming noise in the back of his throat, like an overworked kettle about to burst. ¡°Ah. Yes. However. It appears¡­ I have learned incorrectly.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡± Ulthar shuffled. ¡°In my defense, the demonstration was fast. Gorthor very¡­ efficient.¡± I sighed. Gorthor was my actual head of orc security. Unlike Ulthar, he had an IQ higher than that of a well-trained dog and did not routinely set himself on fire. Gorthor had been overseeing weapons training for my less intellectually gifted warriors, which, unfortunately, included the handling of Blisterblossoms¡ªa truly horrendous flower that grew in these deeper levels of the dungeon and, when agitated, exploded. Apparently, the learning curve was steep. I gestured vaguely toward the exit. ¡°Go to the cistern. Jump in. Not too deep¨CI really don¡¯t want to deal with the Dweller again. And for the love of my continued patience, stop playing with the exploding flowers, okay?¡± Ulthar looked vaguely offended at the implication. "It was not playing! It was training!" ¡°Uh-huh,¡± I said. ¡°And how¡¯s that working out for you?¡± Ulthar considered the question, his shoulders slumping deeply. Then, solemnly: ¡°I burn.¡± I waved him off. ¡°Cistern, Ulthar.¡± "YES, BONE KING." And with that, he fled, leaving behind only the scent of scorched dignity. I let my skull thunk back against the headrest of my throne, the sound rattling faintly through the tomb. The ceiling stretched high above, an endless vault of dark stone, its pillars curling inward like fossilized ribs. The blue torches along the walls flickered uneasily, casting shadows that slithered over the arches. Probably just a trick of the light. Probably. My robe shifted against me¡ªsoft, familiar now, though I refused to acknowledge how long it had taken me to bother putting something on in the first place. Didn¡¯t need it. I still felt cold and heat and pressure, but didn¡¯t really experience it the same way since I became a Lich. That wasn¡¯t the point. The point was that I¡¯d been naked since I woke up without ever really thinking about it. Even in undeath, there were standards. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The smell of burned orc finally started to fade, leaving only the dungeon¡¯s usual cocktail of old bones, damp stone, and the faintest whiff of something I had yet to identify and was increasingly certain I didn¡¯t want to. The quiet settled in again. A rare kind of quiet¡ªthe kind that had weight. The kind that felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something. I shut my eyes. Just once, it would be nice if it was waiting for someone else. Two months. Two entire months. Two months of playing dungeon manager to creatures who still thought fire was an interesting and complex new discovery. Two months of rationing food, dealing with kobolds hoarding said food, and breaking up fights between orcs and goblins over who got to sit in the nice corner of the tomb. Two months of reinforcing defenses that adventurers inevitably smashed to pieces anyway. I had beaten adventurers. I had faced down a holy knight. I had killed a kobold warlord. And yet, here I was. Resolving fire-based disputes between orcs and questioning my entire existence. And, because fate had a deeply twisted sense of humor¡ª That was when Grib arrived. Bounding in like an enthusiastic dog with something horrible in its mouth. Dragging an elf behind him. ¡°Surprise!¡± Grib declared. I stared. Grib beamed. The elf, bound and looking distinctly unimpressed with his current life choices, remained silent. I turned back to my nonexistent gods. "Why." Grib shoved the elf forward like he was unveiling a grand prize. ¡°Gift!¡± ¡°Gift?¡± ¡°Yep! Found tall goblin sneaking near tunnels. Not dangerous.¡± I snapped my gaze to him. ¡°Tall what?¡± ¡°Goblin,¡± Grib said matter-of-factly. ¡°Big ears. Long limbs. Too clean. But sneaky.¡± He pantomimed each feature as he spoke, little goblin arms flailing about. I turned to Krix, my resident kobold strategist and the closest thing I had to a functioning brain cell. "Explain it to him, please," I muttered. Krix let out a long-suffering sigh. "He is an elf, Grib. Tall, pointy-eared, not one of ours." Grib gasped like this was the most shocking revelation of his life. ¡°Tall goblin is not goblin?!¡± "Yes.¡± Grib stared at the elf with newfound awe. ¡°Tall goblin is elf¡­¡± I decided not to correct him. I turned to the elf. "Alright, pointy-ears, you¡¯ve made it farther into my dungeon than most people manage without dying. Care to explain why?" The elf did not, in fact, care to explain why. I tapped my fingers against the armrest. "You were with three others. Adventurers." Nothing. Grib piped up instead. ¡°Slime like him.¡± I blinked. "I¡¯m sorry. What?" Grib nodded sagely. ¡°Slime like him.¡± He gestured to the tiny, wobbly blue creature currently jiggling on his shoulder. ¡°See?¡± The slime made a smug little gurgle. I turned back to the elf. "Great. You''re officially slime-approved. Doesn''t mean you get to leave." Still nothing. I exhaled through my teeth. ¡°Standard guild contract, or something more interesting?¡± Silence. I frowned. This was¡­ unusual. Usually, adventurers fell into two categories: the ones who charged in screaming and died, and the ones who charged in screaming and then ran away. This was my first time dealing with one that just stood there. I sat back. "Your friends didn¡¯t have much going for them. Just the usual¡ªmercs, sellswords, some poor idiots hoping to hit it big. That about right?" More silence. I squinted at him. He wasn¡¯t scared. Not in the normal way. There was no pleading, no struggle, no frantic attempts to escape. No anger, either. Just a slow, steady kind of quiet, like he¡¯d already decided the best way to survive this was to do absolutely nothing at all. Grib squinted at him. ¡°Elf broken?¡± He turned to Krix. ¡°He look broken.¡± Krix studied Isen with mild disinterest. ¡°No, he¡¯s just refusing to speak.¡± Grib frowned. ¡°Why?¡± Krix shrugged. ¡°Dignity, maybe.¡± Grib tilted his head. ¡°Maybe he shy?¡± Krix gave him a flat look. ¡°He¡¯s not shy, Grib.¡± Grib considered this, then nodded sagely. ¡°Maybe he thinking real hard.¡± I sighed. ¡°Or maybe he¡¯s just being difficult.¡± Grib scratched his chin, then grinned at Isen. ¡°Thinking real hard and being difficult.¡± I pinched the bridge of my nose. ¡°Sure. Let¡¯s go with that.¡± Isen didn¡¯t react. Which, honestly, was becoming an impressive commitment to the bit. I leaned forward slightly. "Alright, fine. Let¡¯s start small. What do I even call you?" A pause. Then, at last¡ª ¡°¡­Isen.¡± One word. Even. Careful. Like he was handing it over one piece at a time, just enough to keep things from getting worse. I nodded. ¡°Well, Isen, congratulations. You¡¯re officially a prisoner. Try not to enjoy it too much.¡± Silence. I turned to Krix. ¡°Do we even have a jail?¡± Krix blinked. ¡°A what?¡± ¡°A jail. A room to keep prisoners in.¡± Krix frowned. ¡°Why keep prisoners?¡± ¡°So they don¡¯t escape and murder people.¡± Grib perked up. ¡°Oh! Like shiny room?¡± I stared at him. ¡°What?¡± ¡°For treasures,¡± Grib said proudly. ¡°Elf not treasure?¡± Krix sighed. ¡°We got storage rooms. Empty ones.¡± I exhaled. ¡°Good enough.¡± Krix and Grib hauled Isen toward his new, deeply unglamorous cell. As they left, I turned back to my throne, letting my head thunk back against the stone. Two months ago, I didn¡¯t have prisoners. I didn¡¯t do prisoners. People came into the dungeon, people tried to kill me, and I either let them go or turned them into decorations. Now? Now I was keeping elves in storage like leftovers. ¡°Just what I needed,¡± I muttered. ¡°Another mouth to feed.¡± A pause. Then, from somewhere in the distance¡ª ¡°BONE KING! CISTERN NOT ENOUGH. I AM STILL BURNING.¡± Sigh. Book 2, Chapter 3

POV - Edgar

One of my zombies was trying to leave. This was new. Zombies, in my experience, were very stupid and very loyal¡ªmuch like an exceptionally well-trained but deeply confused dog. They did what they were told, stayed where they were put, and never, under any circumstances, tried to make independent life choices. Yet here we were. One of my kobold corpses was wandering toward the exit with the lazy, absentminded shuffle of a man who had just walked into a room and forgotten why. Another had decided that a section of the wall had deeply wronged it and was now battering its forehead against the stone with the persistence of an exceptionally stupid woodpecker. A third was attempting to walk in two different directions at once, shifting from foot to foot and turning his head each direction with a determination that only the truly stupid possess. And the fourth, a goblin, had just latched its tiny teeth into the arm of a very much alive orc. The orc, one of my boss room guards, let out a startled bellow and flailed, trying to shake it off like a man who had just discovered a very aggressive raccoon attached to his sleeve. When that failed, he did the only reasonable thing left¡ªhe hurled the zombie clear across the room. The goblin corpse hit the ground with an unceremonious thud, twitched, and immediately got back to its feet. It swayed there for a moment, as if reorienting itself. Then, without a sound, it simply wandered off in a completely new direction. The orc stared after it. I stared after it. Grib, meanwhile, had been watching the fight with his hands on his knees, occasionally throwing little punches in the air like a spectator trying to coach a brawl only he understood. At the sound of his name, he perked up and turned. ¡°Yes, Boss?¡± I gestured at the mess. "How long has this been happening?" Grib scratched his chin. ¡°Mmm. Since¡­¡± He squinted at the nearest zombie, as if it might provide an answer. ¡°Maybe two meals ago?¡± I frowned. "You haven¡¯t eaten a meal since I brought you back to life." Grib nodded solemnly. ¡°Right. So¡­ someone else¡¯s two meals ago.¡± I stared at him. "Who exactly are you measuring time by?" He pointed at one of the orc zombies, which was currently chewing on its own hand with no real interest in stopping. Behind him, the goblin zombie twitched. Not the usual random nerve spasm¡ªsomething off-time, something that didn¡¯t fit the pattern of magical reanimation. Like a clock that had just skipped a second. A slow, creeping itch settled at the back of my skull. Something was off. Something I didn¡¯t like. I let out a slow breath. "Is it just these four?" Grib hesitated. Then: ¡°Maybe little bit.¡± Which, as I had come to learn, meant "absolutely not just these four." I sighed. One problem at a time. A loud, frustrated yell echoed from the lower halls. I turned my head. Grib perked up. "Ah. Food fight." I stared at him. Grib nodded solemnly. "Not fun kind." Right. The other problem. Starvation. The one that, apparently, was now escalating into violence. I turned back to the pile of zombies, two still tangled together, one still trying to exit reality, and one dedicated to fighting the wall. I sighed and crossed my arms. "Alright. Sit." Nothing happened. "Sit," I repeated, with the kind of patience normally reserved for people trying to reason with furniture. The goblin zombie, mid-wriggle, twitched and¡ªagainst all odds¡ªplopped itself onto the floor with a boneless sort of compliance. The kobold zombie beside it wobbled for a second and then did the same, mostly by falling over. I narrowed my eyes. "...Good zombies?" They stared back with dull eyes in response. ¡°Alright, then.¡± They didn¡¯t move again. Didn¡¯t try to wander off, didn¡¯t keep gnawing on each other, just¡­ sat. If you ignored the decay, the twitching, and the occasional vacant stare, it almost looked like obedience. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Not exactly comforting. But it was something. Lately, that had been happening more. Magic working without me digging through the System¡¯s clunky UI. Most of them, I just focused and it went. No menu, no prompts. The System used to chime in regularly. Now it barely whispered. I wasn¡¯t sure if that meant it was breaking, settling, or just giving up on me¡ªbut honestly, I didn¡¯t miss its smug little popups. [System Notification] Helpful Hint: Did you know? Zombies do not require sleep! I stared at the floating text. "...Thanks," I sighed. "Deeply relevant." Maybe I¡¯d overextended. I still couldn¡¯t bring back more than a single soul, but I¡¯d been bringing all of our fallen back as zombies. Maybe there was some sort of inherent limit? But that was a problem for future Edgar. Poor son of a bitch. For now, there was a much more immediate one. The Sepulcher stretched out around us, all dark stone and cold, silent alcoves filled with the bones of people long forgotten. Blue torches flickered in their sconces, casting skeletal shadows across the chamber floor. It might have been eerily beautiful if not for the fact that it currently contained a very large, very angry orc holding what looked like the last piece of dried meat in the entire dungeon. Rugar, the largest and loudest of the orcs, stood in the center of the chamber, gripping the food like someone had just tried to rob him at knifepoint. Opposite him, a cluster of kobolds bristled, tails flicking, baring their teeth. Krix, the closest thing to a reasonable leader the kobolds had, stood at the front, arms crossed. "This unfair," he snapped. "Orcs eat more than share." Rugar rolled his shoulders. "We bigger." Krix¡¯s tail flicked. "And?" Rugar frowned. "We bigger," he repeated, as if that should have ended the conversation. "We need more food." Krix hissed, but before he could say anything, I raised a hand. "Alright, let¡¯s back up. Clearly, this is a matter of perspective." I took a measured step forward, voice even and businesslike¡ªthe same tone I used when explaining why a customer¡¯s expired coupon could not, in fact, be used to purchase a lawnmower. "On one hand," I gestured to Rugar, "yes, orcs need more food. That is a biological fact. On the other, if you eat everything, the kobolds will starve, and dead kobolds don¡¯t find food." Rugar frowned. "Then we eat them." Krix lunged. I raised a skeletal hand just in time, catching Krix mid-pounce with a pulse of magic that locked him in the air. He hung there, snarling, feet scraping against nothing. "I swear to whatever dark gods are still listening," I said through gritted teeth, "if anyone else tries to kill someone before we solve the problem, I will be replacing my throne cushions with corpses." The room fell into tense silence. I lowered my hand, letting Krix drop not-so-gracefully to the ground. "Better," I muttered. Then, in the same calm, customer-service-friendly voice that once prevented me from strangling a man over a return policy, I turned back to Rugar. "So, let¡¯s try again," I said. "How much food do we actually have left?" A kobold in the back, scrawny and nervous, hesitantly raised a claw. "Enough for¡­ maybe two days?" "Three, if we ration," another added. "One, if orcs eat first," Krix snapped. Rugar growled. "We bigger. We need more¡ª" I slammed my staff against the stone. A wave of mana rushed outward, bright and electric, sending up a storm of sparks that flickered in the cold air. The torches flared violently, shadows stretching long and jagged along the walls. "Enough!" The word boomed through the Sepulcher, rolling through the air like distant thunder. The mana in the room pressed in, sharp and heavy, curling at the edges of every living thing. For one, perfect second, no one moved. The orcs flinched. The kobolds froze. Even the zombies stilled, heads subtly turning toward me, as if something in the magic had reached into whatever was left of them and pulled. And then, I saw Krix. His ears were low, his claws clenched. Not bristling, not snarling. Just watching. He¡¯d been with me almost from the beginning. Not as long as Grib, but long enough. Long enough to have fought for me. Long enough to have believed in me, even after I¡¯d turned his chieftain into a smouldering tower of kobold barbecue. And for the first time since that moment, he looked at me the way he must have once looked at Big Chief. The magic recoiled back into my bones. The weight of it lingered in the air, thinning like smoke after a fire. Beside him, Grib pressed a slime to his cheek. Not looking at me. Not looking at anyone, really. Just idly smushing the creature against Krix¡¯s face like that would somehow fix things. Krix didn¡¯t react. His eyes were still locked on me. I had scared him. I had scared all of them. All except Grib. Grib, who still saw his boss and not¡­ whatever the others saw. That wasn¡¯t what I wanted. I just... needed them to stop. I hadn¡¯t meant¡ª Damn it. "Look." It came out quieter this time. Steadier. "I get it. Everyone¡¯s hungry. Tempers are high. But fighting over what little we have isn¡¯t going to fix it. We need actual solutions." A long silence. Then, from Grib: "Maybe we take food from humans?" I turned to look at him. "...What?" Grib shrugged. "Raid humans. Steal food. Easy." I stared at him. "Grib, we¡¯re in a dungeon." Grib nodded eagerly. "Yes!" "We can¡¯t leave the dungeon." Grib blinked at me. Then, very slowly, he tilted his head. "Bosses can¡¯t leave dungeon," he said, as if speaking to a particularly dim child. "We not boss." I opened my mouth. Paused. Closed it. Opened it again. ¡°You¡¯re telling me¡­ You can leave the dungeon?¡± Grib stared at me, unblinking. "Yes?" I ran a skeletal hand down my face. "Okay. Hold on. Let¡¯s¡ªlet¡¯s walk this back a second." I pointed at him. "You. Undead goblin that you are." "Yes," Grib said proudly. "You¡¯re telling me that you can just... walk out?" Grib nodded. "And the reason I¡¯ve never thought of this before is because¡ª?" Grib shrugged. "Dunno. You never ask." "I never asked." I had tested it. I knew I couldn¡¯t leave¡ªthe system had made that very clear. But I¡¯d never considered sending anyone else. Why? The thought sat uneasily in my skull, like a puzzle piece I should¡¯ve noticed was missing. I exhaled. "Fine. Show me." Book 2, Chapter 4 - Gorthor POV - Gorthor Gorthor had always liked words. Not in the way scholars liked them. Twisted into riddles and stacked high in books no one actually read. No, he liked them for what they were. Blunt. Honest. A good word, like a good axe, had weight. Weight that carried itself through life and history in a way that he didn¡¯t fully understand, but he felt. He traced a thick finger along the top of the parchment in front of him, enjoying the feel of real paper that the Bone King had given him. Taken from one of the latest party of adventurers to mistake their dungeon for a treasury. The ink was still wet, glistening in the cool torchlight. "Blades dull, shields crack..." He exhaled through his nose, staring down at the words with the same quiet scrutiny he once gave to weapons before battle. A lifetime ago, his thoughts had been simpler. How sharp is the blade? How strong is the armor? How many warriors will I lose today? Now, his worries were different. He tapped the quill against the parchment, thinking. "Blades dull, shields crack¡­ but names remain." Yes. That was better. Names lasted. Songs lasted. The dead lived on in the speaking of them. Gorthor sat by the cistern, the sepulcher quiet around him, all stone and shadow and the kind of stillness that settled into your bones. Pillars rose into darkness, too tall to see the top, too old to remember their purpose. Blue torchlight licked at the carvings on the walls, picking out moss and dust in the cracks. The water didn¡¯t move. It didn¡¯t need to. It was quiet here. Not the fragile quiet before a battle, but the kind that settled deep in old places, where time slowed and memories pressed in at the edges. He liked this spot. It reminded him that the dungeon had always been here, long before him. It would be here long after. A warlord might carve his name in blood, but the stone did not care. Gorthor let out a slow breath, stretching his tired shoulders. Once, he had been a floor boss. A leader of warriors. It had been a brutal, thankless thing¡ªendless cycles of killing, dying, and struggle. Each time, he had fought because that was all there was. Because that was all the dungeon allowed. Then the Bone King came. And suddenly, there was something else. The thought made him huff a quiet chuckle. No one¡ªleast of all himself¡ªhad expected a talking skeleton to change everything. The orcs were still warriors, but they were more than that now. They trained, they built, they argued about rations like old human soldiers reminiscing about past wars. For the first time in Gorthor¡¯s long memory, there was something beyond the next fight. He looked back at his parchment. "Blades dull, shields crack¡­ but names remain." Yes. He liked that. Not perfect, but good enough. He tapped the quill, watching ink gather like it might write something on its own if he waited long enough. No such luck. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaled slow. His thoughts had drifted again, the way they did when things got too quiet. But it wasn¡¯t a bad thing. Just part of being alive. Still alive. Funny how easy that was to forget, sometimes. That he¡¯d made it this far. That the war was over, at least for now. He had made his peace with that fact a long time ago. It wasn¡¯t dying he had feared, back then. It was dying for nothing. And that was why he had surrendered. The warlords of old would have called it cowardice. To them, a good death in battle was the best thing an orc could hope for. He had never agreed. He had always thought living was the better thing, the harder thing. The stronger thing. Gorthor smirked, shaking his head. He had spent years fighting because that was what was expected. What was needed. And now here he was, training orcs instead of leading them, scratching poetry onto parchment instead of carving up adventurers. It was strange, this new life. Even stranger was the fact that he liked it. His gaze drifted to the dark water, still and silent, beneath the steady flicker of the blue torches. This was where The Bone King, Edgar, had stood against the fourth floor boss. A golem. A nightmare of yellowing bone and grave dirt. It had no anger, no arrogance, no will of its own. It was not a tyrant, not a warrior, not even a predator. Just a thing, sitting motionless in the center of the chamber, waiting for something to kill. That was the dungeon¡¯s way. No words. No hesitation. Just the next fight, and the next, and the next, until something stronger finally ended you. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Edgar had stood before it, staff in hand, staring up at its massive form. He could have attacked immediately. That was what Gorthor would have done. What everyone else would have done. But Edgar had spoken. It wasn¡¯t a challenge, not exactly. It wasn¡¯t even a question. Just a simple, maddening offer. "You know, we really don¡¯t have to do this." The words had been laced with sarcasm, of course. Gorthor knew that. But even beneath the mockery, the irony, the tone¡ªthere had been something else. A flicker of truth. A question his world had never bothered to ask. And for just a moment, Gorthor had wondered if the golem had heard it too. The creature had attacked anyway. Because that was the way of dungeon life. That was what it was built to do. And Edgar had destroyed it anyway, fire and arcane fury reducing it to splinters and dust. But Gorthor remembered the moment before that¡ªthe silence. The impossibility of it. As if the golem, for the first time in its existence, had heard something other than an order or a challenge. That was the difference. Gorthor didn¡¯t have a way with words. He never had. He had led with action, because action was all he knew. Edgar was different. It wasn¡¯t that he always chose the right words. He stumbled over them sometimes, spoke too quickly, hesitated when he shouldn¡¯t. But there was a belief behind them. Gentle. Steady. Contagious. Even now, after everything, Gorthor still felt it. That quiet, impossible feeling that things might not have to end in blood. He looked back at the parchment. ¡°Blades dull, shields crack¡­ but names remain.¡± He ran a finger over the words, slow and deliberate. Letting them sit. First time in a long while he¡¯d had something worth writing down. First time it felt like more than just scratching symbols onto a page. And the first time¡ªmaybe ever¡ªhe¡¯d actually had the time to do it. Gorthor rolled his shoulders. The old stiffness was there, same as always, creaking through bone like it owned the place. He set the quill down and breathed out through his nose, studying the parchment with the quiet focus of a smith eyeing the first pass of a blade. Not perfect. But it¡¯d do. His gaze wandered toward the cistern, where dark water lay still as stone beneath the cold flicker of blue torchlight. Hunger stirred at the edges of his thoughts, a familiar pull. He ignored it. Hunger was just part of the landscape now¡ªlike dust, or damp, or the sound of steel being sharpened in the dark. They had survived worse. The orcs grumbled, the kobolds hoarded, the undead simply stood where they were placed and rotted at the appropriate pace¡ªbut Edgar was doing something about it. He wasn¡¯t just waiting for the next raid, the next fight. He was thinking, always thinking, like the solution was out there if he just looked hard enough. And maybe it was. Gorthor rubbed his jaw, staring into the torchlight. A thought kept circling back, one he hadn¡¯t found a place for yet. Two days ago, while making his rounds, he had seen an orc hand a scrap of meat to a kobold. It should not have stood out. And yet, even now, he could see it as clearly as if it were happening in front of him. The way the orc had torn the piece free, holding it out without fanfare, without expectation. The way the kobold had hesitated, tail flicking, before snatching it quickly, as if it wasn¡¯t sure the offer was real. It was nothing. A passing moment, a bit of food, something he would have walked past without a second thought in another time. But the thought remained. And with it, a quiet, unfamiliar feeling. He wasn¡¯t sure what to call it. So he let it sit. And for days, the memory would resurface as it did now. He took up his quill again, pressing it to paper, when a sound echoed through the chamber. Deep. Hollow. Not quite a drip, not quite a breath. It settled into the stone, fading into the stillness. Gorthor glanced up. Probably a frog. He liked the frogs on this level. They had the right idea. No battles, no worrying about what came next. Just sitting in the dark, munching on grave beetles, waiting for whatever it was frogs waited for. Taking things slow. A good way to live. Somewhere in the distance, a scream rang out. Muffled by stone, stretched thin by distance, but unmistakably the sound of a warrior who¡¯d just lost a fight with something very small and very flammable. Gorthor chuckled low in his chest. Blisterblossom training. About that time. Ulthar had many strengths. Subtlety wasn¡¯t one of them. He¡¯d once tried to punch a firebomb into obedience. It had, with all the dignity of a proper explosive, disagreed. Gorthor had tried explaining that precision was just as important as power. Ulthar preferred lessons taught by fire, repeated until the screaming stopped. With a grunt of effort and no small amount of creaking, Gorthor rose. His knees popped. His back voiced its protest. He answered with a wry grunt and a lopsided smile, like the aches were old drinking companions come calling again. He dusted his hands on his thighs and glanced down at the parchment beside the cistern. Still there. Still waiting. A better response than most things in life. Maybe he¡¯d come back to it later. And then something settled against his neck. A pressure. A wrongness against his spine like the weight of a hand light on your shoulder that you weren¡¯t expecting. His body locked. The world tilted. And then he fell. For a brief, absurd moment, he thought he had only stumbled. His balance thrown, his stance uncertain, a misstep in his old age. A slow, weightless moment as his body gave out beneath him¡ªno, not beneath him¡ªaway from him. The stone floor turned in his vision, torches spiraling, the blue light flickering as his head dropped from his body, turning, twisting¡ª And then impact. Cold stone. The blurred smear of the ceiling above. His vision swayed, the torchlight cutting strange angles into the chamber¡¯s shadows. In front of him he saw them. His feet. Still planted. Still standing. He watched the slow trickle of blood down his own legs. The realization came slow, creeping in at the edges of his fading thoughts, not as fear, but as understanding. He had survived so many things. But not this. He would not be around to see what happened next. Not for his people. Not for Edgar. His vision blurred, shadows bleeding into the torchlight. The darkness folded in. A brief sadness lingered in his fragmenting mind. He had wanted to see how the story ended. To see where they might wind up. Something other than life and death measured in moments of blood. A someday that he would never get to feel. As the world darkened and the last of him faded, Gorthor had a final thought. Blades dull, shields crack¡­ but names remain. Book 2, Chapter 5 - Edgar

POV - Edgar

I had tried to leave this dungeon once before. The first time, it had been desperation that drove me. Not curiosity, not strategy¡ªjust raw, mindless rage. I had slammed my fists against an invisible wall while the system sat back and politely reminded me that I was, in fact, trapped forever in this rotting underground tomb. That had been the day Grib died. And, technically, the day he came back. Now, months later, I stood in almost the exact same spot. Only this time, I wasn¡¯t alone. Grib fidgeted beside me, shifting his weight back and forth in the way that usually preceded a disaster of some kind. "Boss sure?" "Absolutely not," I muttered. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder¡ªand burned the spell. Teleportation wasn¡¯t something I used lightly. Something I picked up from the system after killing Big Chief. Any floor I wanted. Any time. It was fast. Reliable. And iIt also cost more mana than reanimating a small army and made my bones hum like a tuning fork. So I barely used it. But today? Today I didn¡¯t feel like walking. The magic hit like a punch to the ribs. The air folded, the floor disappeared, and for exactly one horrifying second, I existed in a state of wrongness¡ªas if I had been deconstructed into a pile of bones and flung across the void like an extremely poorly packaged parcel. Then the impact. I landed hard on the damp stone, swaying slightly as my vision adjusted. The jagged tunnel stretched out before me, the distant glow of fungal light flickering against the cavern walls. And in front of us, barely ten feet away, was the entrance. The edge of my world. The place I had never been allowed to cross. I let out a breath and turned to Grib. "Alright," I said, stepping aside. "Go." Grib hesitated for all of half a second before bounding forward like a dog let off its leash. And then¡ªhe stepped outside. Just like that. No resistance. No recoil. No system alert screaming at him to get his reckless little goblin ass back inside. He turned back, ears perked. "Boss come?" I had already stepped forward before my brain fully caught up. And slammed straight into the wall. Not a real wall. Not something I could see or fight. But the same invisible force I had felt the first time. The unyielding, soul-crushing finality of a rule I had never agreed to and still could not break. I took another step. Notice: You are not allowed to leave your assigned dungeon. The words hovered in the air, calm and detached, as if this were a friendly reminder and not a goddamn prison sentence. Grib¡¯s ears twitched. He hopped back inside. Then back out. Then back in. Then back out again. I watched, slowly curling my fingers into a fist. "Grib." "In! Out! In! Out!" "Grib." Grib paused mid-hop. "Yes, Boss?" "Stop. Doing that." Grib nodded solemnly. Then, ever so casually, stepped back outside one more time. I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers against my skull. Alright. Alright. Deep breath. What did we just learn? I could not leave. That much, at least, was not new. My minions could. That was. The system did not care. No penalties. No warning messages telling me that Grib had been deleted from existence for violating dungeon law. Which meant¡­ I clenched my jaw. I had always assumed that the dungeon itself was the prison. That every creature bound to it was just another piece on the board, unable to move beyond its walls. But no. The only thing trapped here were floor bosses¡­ And then, for just a moment, a thin, cold thread of fear curled around my ribs. Floor bosses? Or just me? The realization settled in slowly, pressing against me like a weight I hadn¡¯t noticed until it shifted. I had spent my entire undeath defending this place. Fighting, building, keeping things running. It had felt... inevitable. Like the rules of the game had already been written, and all I could do was play my part. But now? Now, I had minions who could leave. Who could go beyond these walls. Who could do things I had never even considered possible. And that¡ª That changed everything. Grib, blissfully unaware of my full-body existential crisis, picked up a small rock and tossed it over the threshold. Then he clapped, very proud of himself. "Boss look! Rock outside!" I sighed. "Yes, Grib. Rock outside. We¡¯re making incredible progress." And then, because the universe refused to let me have even one serious moment of contemplation, Grib gasped dramatically, as if struck by divine inspiration. ¡°SLIME GO OUTSIDE.¡± Before I could stop him, he grabbed the tiny, wobbly blue creature from his shoulder, gently placed it onto the grass, and then¡ªbecause apparently we were doing this now¡ªpicked up a stick and threw it. The slime did not move. Grib clapped his hands excitedly. ¡°Go get, slime!¡± The slime, utterly unimpressed, gave a slow, wet blurble and jiggled in place. Grib stared at it. Then at the stick. Then back at the slime. His face scrunched in deep betrayal. ¡°Slime¡­?¡± Another slow, moist wobble. Grib picked up another stick and threw it harder. ¡°FETCH.¡± Silence. The slime jiggled once, as if considering the request, then gave a very deliberate, very dismissive blurble. Grib collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest like a man who had just been personally wronged. I dragged my hands down my face. "Yes, Grib. That''s because it''s a slime.¡± ¡°But¡­¡± He looked down at the little blob of jelly, his expression crumpling as he scooped it into his arms. ¡±What if¡­ Slime no like Grib?¡± He held it close, shoulders slumping as he turned back toward the dungeon entrance. I sighed. ¡°It¡¯s okay, Grib. Slime likes you.¡± I reached out and gave him a pat on the back. Too quick, too stiff, the kind of gesture that said I care but also please don¡¯t make a thing out of this. He didn¡¯t say anything. Just hugged the slime a little tighter and walked off, steps a bit slower, a bit lighter. I watched him go, and for once, didn¡¯t try to analyze it. It was enough. My most loyal, most emotionally fragile minion aside¡­ right now? I needed to talk to someone whose entire personality wasn¡¯t held together by impulse decisions and goblin enthusiasm. Gorthor? For a second, I considered it. Gorthor was, objectively, one of the smartest orcs I¡¯d ever met. He¡¯d adapted to life under my rule faster than anyone¡ªstepping down from warlord to become something else entirely. A trainer. A tactician. A leader who didn¡¯t need the title anymore. And despite our less-than-ideal first meeting, I¡¯d come to respect him. Maybe even like him. But he had enough on his plate already¡ªkeeping his orcs from tearing apart kobolds, training them not to explode, managing food politics with the delicacy of someone who could crush a man with one hand. Besides... there was another reason. A quieter one. Apparently Gorthor could¡¯ve left the dungeon. Same as Grib. Same as Krix. Nothing stopped him. Not the system. Not a rule. Not some magical leash I didn¡¯t know about. He just never had. Because I¡¯d never told him to. And Gorthor¡ªblunt, disciplined, quietly loyal¡ªhad never thought to ask. That thought sat uncomfortably in my skull. Krix? Krix was sharper than he let on. Less a scavenger, more a strategist with a hoarding problem. He planned ahead. Thought in layers. Always looking for angles. Which was... exactly the problem. If I told him that my minions could leave the dungeon, he wouldn¡¯t be thinking about metaphysics or social implications or what this meant for dungeon-kind as a whole. He¡¯d be thinking about raiding. And not in an abstract, theoretical way. No, Krix had a very specific fixation: sweet rolls. I didn¡¯t know when it had started¡ªonly that, at some point, it had transformed from passing interest to full-blown obsession. These days, he spoke of them the way a man might speak of a lost homeland. Or a dead lover. I already knew how that conversation would go. "Krix, I made a major discovery today." "How many sweet rolls?" Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. That left¡­ I turned to Grib. He was still sitting cross-legged, planted dead center in the dungeon threshold, staring out at the world like it had personally offended him. The slime jiggled faintly in his lap, letting out the occasional thoughtful blurble, but for once, Grib didn¡¯t seem entertained. His ears twitched. His sharp little teeth worried at his lower lip. He looked like he was trying to think. That was always the danger zone. Yeah. No. I hesitated. Just long enough to know what I didn¡¯t want to do. Then my gaze shifted toward the deeper tunnels. Isen. Still locked away. Still an unknown. But whatever else he was¡ªslave, cynic, elf with the emotional affect of a dying lightbulb¡ªhe was observant. Sharp in a way that cut without showing the blade. And more importantly? He¡¯d been outside. He¡¯d lived out there. Walked roads. Slept under stars. Knew what the world actually looked like beyond bounty posters and adventurer boots. I turned back to Grib. ¡°Come on,¡± I muttered. ¡°We¡¯re talking to the elf.¡± Grib perked up instantly. ¡°Ooooh! Interrogate time?¡± ¡°No.¡± He scrambled to his feet and followed anyway, holding the slime aloft like it had been chosen by prophecy. ¡°Grib bring intimidation.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Grib say nothing. Just stare. Real slow. Very scary.¡± ¡°Still no.¡± A pause. ¡°Maybe Grib tie elf to slime. Psychological tactics.¡± I kept walking. ¡°Or¡ªGrib build fake door. Say, ¡®This way out.¡¯ Elf walk in, just closet. Very sad.¡± I walked faster. Maybe Grib wasn¡¯t coming after all.
The storeroom door was open. It wasn¡¯t supposed to be open. It was supposed to be locked. Wasn¡¯t it? I frowned, running back through my memory. Had I explicitly told Krix to lock it? Or had I just assumed he¡¯d understand that when one captures a prisoner, the standard procedure is to keep them inside? A pit settled in my stomach. Oh no. I stepped forward and pushed the door open the rest of the way, already bracing for the worst. Just an empty room, a loose pile of rope, maybe a smugly missing elf-shaped outline in the dust. But no. The elf was still there. Sitting. In fact, it looked like he hadn¡¯t moved for hours. No pacing. No testing the walls for weaknesses. No attempting to tunnel his way out with a spoon he had carefully sharpened against the stone. Just sitting. His back rested against a crate, one knee bent, hands resting loosely on his legs. He didn¡¯t look startled to see me. He didn¡¯t even look particularly interested in seeing me. If he had been any more at ease, I might have assumed someone had swapped him out for an elaborate painting. I squinted. ¡°You do realize the door¡¯s been open this whole time, right?¡± Isen blinked up at me, expression unreadable. ¡°Yes.¡± I waited for an explanation. Nothing. Honestly. I wasn¡¯t sure how to respond to that. I opened my mouth to say something. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Isen watched this unfold with the mild indifference of a man eating a bowl of lukewarm canned soup. He spoke before I did. "You don¡¯t seem much like a lich." I squinted. "Excuse me?" Isen exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. But close. I had assumed his silence before was defiance, that he was keeping his cards close, refusing to engage. Maybe even planning something. But now that I was really looking at him¡­ he wasn¡¯t scheming. He wasn¡¯t resisting. In fact there was almost nothing there. He just looked tired. Not in a physical way¡ªnot slumped with exhaustion, not on the edge of passing out. This was something deeper. A kind of quiet, settled weariness. It took me a second to recognize it. I used to see it in the mirror every morning before work. Not tired like no-sleep tired. Not even burnout. The kind of exhaustion that came from knowing this is it. That tomorrow wouldn¡¯t be better. That the line didn¡¯t move. Not for you. A flicker of something settled under my ribs. Sharp-edged. I shifted, clearing my throat. ¡°Well,¡± I said, ¡°I am a lich.¡± It came out more defensive than intended. ¡°Last time I checked.¡± Isen tilted his head. ¡°Are you?¡± That gave me pause. ¡°...Yes?¡± A long silence stretched between us. He studied me¡ªexpression distant, but not empty. Then, without much ceremony, he looked away. ¡°If you say so.¡± Something about that stuck. Not because it sounded like an insult. Because it didn¡¯t. I let out a breath, slow and steady, and rubbed a thumb over my knuckles. Bone on bone. ¡°You should¡¯ve left.¡± Isen didn¡¯t move. I nodded toward the open door. ¡°You could have. No guards. No chains. You knew that. And yet... here we are.¡± He glanced at the doorway. Not with longing. Not with fear. Just acknowledgment. Like a man noting the weather through a window he wasn¡¯t planning to open. Then he looked back to me. ¡°And where exactly would I go?¡± His voice was even. Measured. Not bitter. Not self-pitying. Just¡­ exhausted. ¡°Up there. Down here. One cage or another. At least in this one, you might kill me outright.¡± The words settled like dust in the room. Heavy. I didn¡¯t know what to say, so I didn¡¯t. I¡¯d never met an elf before. Thought they¡¯d be more... mystical. Ancient wisdom, timeless grace, a touch of tragic nobility. Instead, I¡¯d apparently captured an existential crisis in high cheekbones and passive resistance. ¡°Well,¡± I said after a moment, ¡°since you¡¯re not leaving... maybe you can help.¡± Isen studied me. Long and level. Then unexpectedly he nodded. ¡°Very well.¡± I blinked. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± I rubbed the curve of my jaw. Not skin, not stubble, just memory of the motion. ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s start simple. What¡¯s out there? The world, I mean.¡± Isen didn¡¯t rush to answer. He just sat with the question a moment. Like someone who used to care about accuracy, but no longer believed it made much difference. Then finally, quietly: ¡°What do you want to know?¡± Most people, when given an opening, just started talking. Isen didn¡¯t. I folded my arms. "Let¡¯s start simple. What¡¯s actually out there? The area outside the dungeon." Isen exhaled through his nose. "A few villages. Small, self-sustaining. Farmers, hunters, people who don¡¯t want to live under a noble¡¯s rule. The closest large settlement is Braedon, three days west." I frowned. "And large means what, exactly?" "Relative to everything else," he said. "It¡¯s not a city. No walls. No central ruler. Just a lot of people trying to survive." I tapped my fingers against my ribs. "Who¡¯s in charge?" Isen gave a slight shrug. "Depends who you ask." That was interesting. A place where power shifted, where no single force held all the strings. Not lawless, but not orderly either. "And the guild¡¯s there?" "A small branch. Enough to handle contracts and bounties." I let out a slow breath. "And this dungeon?" Isen studied me for a second before answering. "The third floor has a clearing contract." I gave a dry chuckle. "Does it now?" Isen didn¡¯t react. "No one has completed it." I tapped my fingers absently against my ribs. "No one¡¯s getting past the third floor." "You would know." "Yeah," I muttered. "I would." I¡¯d spent months reinforcing that floor. Gorthor¡¯s orcs, Krix¡¯s kobolds, the undead, the traps¡ªa relentless, grinding gauntlet. No one had gotten through. But the guild hadn¡¯t escalated. No elite parties. No full-scale mobilization. Just¡­ a bounty. I shook my head, refocusing. "What about the church?" Isen¡¯s head tilted slightly. "Broadly?" "Specifically," I said, leveling a look at him. "Are they coming for me?" Isen didn¡¯t answer right away. He tapped a finger absently against his knee, considering. "I don¡¯t know," he said finally. I waited, but he didn¡¯t elaborate. I exhaled sharply. "So they just aren¡¯t acting?" Isen¡¯s fingers flexed slightly, like he was sorting through details in his head. "The guild reported a lich here months ago. The church sent a knight to investigate." I leaned forward slightly. "And?" Isen met my gaze. "And nothing. The knight entered the dungeon," he said. "The church never followed up." I didn¡¯t know much about the church. But Draemir¡­ Him I would never forget. Steel and righteousness, stepping into the room like my obituary had already been written. Pompous. Vain. And utterly convinced that his divine mission was already accomplished. And for most of that fight I had been convinced of it too. People like him didn¡¯t forget. And they didn¡¯t let go. The church wasn¡¯t ignoring me. They were controlling the story. I exhaled, shaking my head. "One last thing. I¡¯m going to start raiding humans. Any thoughts?¡± His expression didn¡¯t shift. "No." I squinted at him. "No?" "No." "I would imagine most people have some kind of moral objection." "Why would I care what happens to humans?" ¡°Great point. Counter point: why wouldn¡¯t you care what happens to humans?¡± Isen didn¡¯t answer right away. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, slow, thoughtful, more reflex than intention. Then, finally, he sighed. "I have been a slave for two hundred and eighty-three years." The way he said it¡ªflat, matter-of-fact¡ªmade it land heavier than if he had spat it with venom. "Before that, I had a proper name. A home. A purpose." His head tilted slightly. "Then one day, a man put chains around my wrists, and I became something else." I shifted, unsure what to do with that. Isen wasn¡¯t looking at me anymore. His gaze had drifted to the far wall, eyes unfocused, like he was seeing something much older than the room we were in. "I have spent centuries in human cities," he said. "Watching their kings rise and fall. Their wars. Their gods." His fingers flexed slightly against his knee. "And through it all, nothing really changes." I frowned. "Nothing?" "They take. They destroy. They build again on the bones of what came before. They call it progress." His voice wasn¡¯t bitter. It was just stating a fact. He exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured breath. "Slave to humans. Slave to a lich." He finally met my gaze. "What¡¯s the difference?" I cleared my throat. "Well. First off¡ªuh¡ªnot a slave." Isen arched an eyebrow. "No?" I sighed and rubbed the back of my spine. ¡°Look,¡± I said, ¡°it¡¯s not like I¡¯ve got a pamphlet titled So You¡¯ve Been Kidnapped by a Dungeon Boss: Now What? But I¡¯m fairly confident it doesn¡¯t open with ¡®Congratulations on your exciting new career in unpaid labor.¡¯¡± Isen didn¡¯t respond. Not with words, anyway. His expression hovered somewhere between ¡°mildly bored¡± and ¡°strategically blank,¡± which I was beginning to suspect was just his default setting. I shifted again. Not out of defensiveness. Not exactly. Just that same old bone-deep feeling that someone had asked a question you didn¡¯t have a good answer to¡ªand the only way out was forward. ¡°I mean, sure. I run a dungeon. I¡¯ve got orcs, kobolds, zombies, the whole... dungeon hospitality package.¡± I folded my arms. ¡°But we kill adventurers because they come here to kill us. That¡¯s the deal. They step through the door with swords drawn and greed in their eyes, and we try not to get turned into loot drops.¡± I hesitated. The words sounded thinner out loud. ¡°But you¡ª¡± I stopped. Tried again. ¡°You ended up here the same way I did. It wasn¡¯t choice.¡± That got a reaction. He didn¡¯t flinch or gasp or do anything dramatic. He just shifted. Like a sword sliding a fraction out of its sheath. Posture tighter. Eyes sharper. All the weariness still there, but suddenly with teeth. ¡°You¡¯re not from here.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. I blinked. ¡°I mean¡­ Yeah. I¡¯m¡ªyeah.¡± ¡°You¡¯re unmoored.¡± ¡°What the hell does that mean?¡± ¡°An outsider,¡± he said. ¡°Someone from another world.¡± ¡°That sums it up pretty well.¡± And then he laughed. Not a smirk. Not the sad little chuckle of someone too dead inside to do it properly. This was full-throated, shoulders-shaking laughter. Abrasive, involuntary, and somehow older than either of us had any right to be. He leaned forward, bracing an arm on his knee like the sheer weight of irony had finally buckled him. I stared. ¡°Okay,¡± I muttered. ¡°Not the reaction I was expecting.¡± He kept going. Shaking his head, wheezing slightly, laughing like someone who¡¯d just lost a very long bet with the universe. It took a while for him to come back down. When he finally straightened, there was something behind his expression that hadn¡¯t been there before. Like he¡¯d just heard the punchline and it was me. ¡°You,¡± he said, exhaling, ¡°were left hanging when the goddesses tied your knot in the weave, weren¡¯t you?¡±