Ronald turned toward the towering King cobra, his figure small but unwavering beneath the beast's looming shadow. The air around him pulsed with resolve—palpable, intense. Not bravado. Not bluff. Real.
I remained at the side, fists clenched, cheering him on.
Every line of his posture was taut, every breath drawn with discipline. Then—he moved.
A flicker.
A breath.
His fist shot forward like a bullet.
BOOM!
The first impact struck the cobra's scaled body dead-on. A pulse of force burst outward, shockwaves warping the air. The cobra's body recoiled mid-charge, stunned, halted in place by that single, clean blow.
Time dilated.
In that suspended second, Ronald surged.
He didn't stop.
Another strike. Then another. A flurry of fists that danced the line between technique and pure instinct. Each punch landed with surgical precision, powered not by brute strength—but the unyielding fire of training, fear, and sheer will to protect.
The cobra shrieked—a guttural, broken hiss. Its coiled muscles convulsed under the barrage.
From where I stood, it was like watching a boss monster take critical hits on repeat.
"That old man sure taught him well," I murmured, eyes wide.
And then came the final blow.
Ronald's fist arched upward and crashed into the cobra's skull with earth-shaking weight. A bone-deep crack echoed in the air as the serpent's massive head slammed into the floor, unmoving.
Victory.
And then—collapse.
Ronald turned toward me, pride flickering across his expression… right before his knees gave out beneath him.
"Ronald!" I bolted forward.
I caught him just in time—well, more like he crashed down and I softened the fall. Barely.
Thud.
"Oof—!" My breath whooshed out, the weight of his body slamming me into the floor. The room spun. For a heartbeat, I lay dazed, blinking up at the ceiling with the wind knocked out of me.
"My back…" I groaned, voice muffled under the sheer mass that was Ronald. "What do they feed this guy?"
But the grumble faded. Worry settled in fast.
He wasn't moving.
His skin had gone pale. His breathing? Shallow.
"Ronald…" I shifted him gently into my arms, cradling his limp form. The weight of the moment bore down on me, the adrenaline fading just enough for fear to sneak in.
"Ronald, are you okay?" I asked, voice tight. "Hang in there, alright?"
For a moment, silence.
Then—he stirred.
"I… succeeded on my first attempt, Master…" he whispered, lips curled in a faint smile.
"Eh?" I blinked. 'His first attempt...?'
A bead of sweat rolled down my cheek.
'Our lives were riding on his first try?!'
Before I could process that blunder of a revelation, Ronald suddenly coughed—hard. Blood sprayed against the ground, bright crimson against the stone.
"Ah! Ronald!" I fumbled with my inventory, yanking out the med kit. My fingers moved fast—no hesitation, no room for error.
Emergency pill. Popped it open.
I brought it to his lips, easing it into his mouth. "Come on… come on…" I whispered, eyes never leaving his face.
Time slowed. Seconds ticked like hours.
Then—his breathing leveled out. Not fully healed, but better. Stable.
His eyes fluttered open.
"Llyne? The King cobra… It's…"
"Don't worry." I exhaled, smiling faintly. "While you were out, I tied it up and laced it with some numbing poison. It won't move for a while."
Relief washed over him, softening the tension in his face. "Ah. I'm glad."
"You were awesome, Ronald." I gave him a thumbs-up. "The best."
His smile grew, quiet but full of pride. "Thanks, Llyne."
I dug back into my inventory and handed him another pill. "Eat this."
"What's this?" he asked, inspecting it.
"Recovery pill," I replied. "Oddly enough, my Master knows how to make boosting pills too. I always thought she specialized in… y'know… poisoning and torture."
"…"
He stared at me silently, but there was a warm smile there. One I didn't mind seeing.
With a nod, he swallowed the pill and then glanced toward the immobilized King cobra.
"What do we do with it?"
"I was thinking of cooking it… but I noticed something was off. Its organs were… decayed. Like rotting from the inside."
"You're saying…"
"It's a zombie." I shrugged. "Wanna see?"
I climbed on top of the cobra's body with practiced ease. "I haven't finished dissecting it yet. You can come over and take a look at its intestines."
"…No thanks." Ronald instinctively covered his mouth.
"Suit yourself." I jumped back down and dusted my hands. "You know what? Let's just leave it. I don't want a zombie cobra in my inventory. And you probably don't either."
He nodded quickly.
"So what's our next move?" he asked.
A memory clicked into place—the ghost's voice echoing in my head: "You are supposed to listen to my commands…"
'If he's the owner of this house… could he be commanding the zombies too?'
I pulled out the diary from my inventory.
"Let's find a secure place where we can read the rest of this."
"Got it," Ronald said.
But fate, once again, had other plans.
Before we could take five steps, the moaning began.
"Graw! Graw!"
Zombies.
Dozens. Maybe more.
They surged toward us like a tide of decay, filling the hallway behind us. Faces rotting, eyes soulless. Their hunger? Endless.
"Argh! Gimme a break already!" I shouted, turning heel.
"I hate this haunted house so much. Hiks!" Ronald whimpered.
We ran.
Again.
Twisting through the corridors, dodging outstretched claws, retaliating when we could. But it was like fighting the ocean. The more we struck down, the more they came.
Then—there.
Hidden beneath a thick curtain of cobwebs.
A rusted iron door.
I threw it open.
Creeeeaaak—
Inside—dark, quiet. But... safe.
"Here, Ronald!"
He darted in after me. Together, we slammed the door shut.
The iron groaned. Dust fell. But the noise from outside? It continued.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Moaning. Scratching. Screams of hunger clawed at the door.
The zombies slammed against the door like a battering ram.
But they couldn't get through.
And—finally—slowly—the sound faded.
We were alone.
"Oui… I feel so tired from all that running." I leaned against the door, eyes sliding shut as I exhaled, letting the weight of everything settle in.
"Me too…" Ronald collapsed beside me, sliding down until his back hit the wall. He was breathing hard, his clothes soaked in sweat.
The adrenaline that had kept us going evaporated, replaced by the dense fog of exhaustion.
But for now, we had shelter.
For now… we had the diary.
And outside, somewhere in the haunted dark, the ghost's plans were still unfolding.