I shifted my foot in the dirt. The cold air helped steady my nerves, though they still burned with danger. Letting my focus sink into the shifting grains of sand beneath me, I stepped forward, guard still held high.
When I was in range, I let out a roar and swung. The blade arced downward, hissing through the air. Every fiber of muscle in my body strained with the motion. The clash—metal on metal—was sharp, sudden, and jarring. Years of training kept my eyes open, my stance firm, my body already preparing for the follow-up. I stepped back, resetting my guard, breath coming heavier now.
But what stole that breath entirely was the thing in front of me. The skeletal opponent hadn't even flinched. My strike—one meant to kill—had landed clean… and it hadn't even phased it.
Its attack came swift. With a wave of its hand—like a casual greeting to an old friend—an orangish-green fog erupted from its fingertips. It drifted toward me, slow and controlled. I was tempted to ignore it, to stand my ground… but something deep inside warned me otherwise. I backpedaled, my boots scraping against the dirt, and one of the condemned unintentionally stepped into its path.
At first, nothing happened. But then the fog shifted—drawn to him, clinging like oil. He looked like a candle held too close to an open flame. Flesh melted. Bone softened. Even the flicker of his soul was pulled free, dissolving into a pulpy puddle on the ground.
The others watched it happen—and that seemed to finally break them. They snapped. With desperate shouts, they charged. The first man was caught mid-sprint by a single bony hand. In a blink, his flesh shriveled and cracked. Within seconds, he looked like a mummy left out in the sun too long.
The others managed to land a hit or two, blades biting into gilded bone—but it didn't matter. The lich didn't stagger. With the smallest motions—flicks of its wrist, tilts of its head—it culled them all.
What disturbed me most wasn't the violence. It was what came after. The souls of the fallen didn't drift upward. They didn't shimmer, didn't fade. They were devoured instantly. One by one, I watched every single condemned cut down, their bodies raised as shambling dead in under a minute.
Soon, it was just the goblin and me. The last two living. We didn't attack. Not yet. Self-preservation rooted us where we stood, both of us selfishly calculating, trying to plan our next move. But thinking about it now… we were fools. By waiting, we'd made things worse.
The goblin eventually seemed to decide the lesser undead were the easier targets. I couldn't disagree.
I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. Gritting my teeth, I gathered my strength and charged. My blade struck true—multiple times—but between the golden plating and some invisible force, my hits barely made a dent. It was like trying to crack a mountain with a twig.
Then came the counter. In the middle of a wide horizontal swing, the lich caught the blade mid-air—barehanded. Before my eyes, the silvery finish of my sword began to decay, the metal blackening and flaking into deep crimson rust. I tried to yank it back—but it crumbled in my hands. A worthless, rusted husk.
I dropped the ruined hilt and pulled out my hammer. It wasn't ideal—but it was all I had left. I pressed in. Blow after blow, we traded hits. My armor peeled away piece by piece. My shirt frayed and fell apart. My hammer, once dependable, showed signs of years of wear in mere minutes.
Eventually, I had no choice but to retreat. I exhaled hard, steam curling from my mouth—mingling with the vapor rising off my sweat-soaked skin. I stared at the lich. I'd managed to damage it—barely. Chunks of gold were broken off, its robe torn and unable to hide the bones beneath.
But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. And with my strength fading and no weapon left that could truly harm it… For the first time, I wondered if this was a hopeless fight.
As I stared down the lich, a voice bellowed from above—one I knew all too well.
"EDRIC—CATCH!"
I turned just in time to see a two-handed executioner's sword spinning through the air, cutting a clean arc across the sky. Kushim had thrown it—his own blade. Stupid. Reckless. Perfect. I lunged for it, and somehow my hand closed around the hilt. The crowd erupted into cheers.
I looked up, eyes locking with Kushim's just before guards seized him. They dragged him away from the upper tier, pulling him out of sight. I couldn't see him anymore. I just had to trust… that my friend would be okay.
I gave the sword a test swing. It felt different—lighter, longer, sharper. Not one of the cheap blades thrown to the desperate. This one was crafted with care. I could feel it in the balance, in the way it hummed through the air. I trusted it. And I moved in.
My first strike landed—finally cutting bone. A chip splintered from the lich's rib, and it screamed. Not with one voice—but with many. A chorus of the dead, shrieking through its hollow maw.
It turned to me, and for the first time… it looked angry. Real, human rage burned in the empty sockets. We fought. This time, I could hurt it. And the sword held true.
But each time it struck back—each time it so much as grazed me—my skin turned gray, my strength bled away. Vitality, stolen in moments. It was wearing me down, draining the fire from my limbs with every blow.
Soon, even adrenaline couldn't keep me upright. Every swing came from pure will. My arms trembled. My breath came ragged.
And just as I felt the edge of collapse… I heard her voice even with her not here. The one I had fought with earlier.
Your seal is undone.
The words echoed through my skull like a ripple in still water. It didn't make me stronger, not immediately. But something had changed. I just hadn't looked inward yet.
Backing off, I bought myself a moment—and turned my focus inward. Deep into my body. Deeper into my soul. Searching for whatever waited there… now that the seal was gone. The only sound I could hear was the faint grunts of the goblin fighting for its life.