Even now, with age gnawing at him, Zenith radiated the blood-soaked aura of a seasoned killer. The sheer pressure of his presence made Charles's pulse spike, despite his own tally of battles.
After all, in the game, this castle was a dungeon recommended for a full party of sixth-level adventurers. Zenith himself was a boss meant to challenge players of that caliber—and Charles was only fourth level. Worse, after casting multiple spells, his reserves had dwindled to a mere eight spell slots.
The odds were dire.
As Charles bolstered his defenses, Zenith's hesitation lasted less than a second before he charged. Despite the weight of his armor, the warlord moved with terrifying speed, like a grizzly in full sprint, barreling into the cramped chamber.
Trapped in the confined space, Charles had no room to retreat or unleash Eldritch Blast. He could only brace behind his shield, sword poised to counter.
"Hexblade's Curse!"
Dark energy surged from the Shadowfell, twisting into a cursed sigil upon Zenith's flesh. A signature ability of the Hexblade, it amplified damage—though its hour-long cooldown meant it was a one-time gambit.
Charles didn't delude himself into thinking he could solo the grizzled warlord. His goal was simple: buy time until Sephera finished the priests or Ruth dealt with the Dark Elf. Victory hinged on survival.
Until then, he had to survive Zenith's onslaught—whether through spells, intimidation, or sheer stubbornness.
Before he could strategize further, Zenith was upon him. The curse did nothing to slow the warlord's advance. Towering over Charles by a full eight inches, Zenith thrust his longsword straight for his face—
Charles jerked his shield arm up while slashing low at Zenith's legs. Yet the hobgoblin, clad in heavy plate armor, reversed his momentum instantly. He withdrew his blade and sidestepped, evading the counter before lunging again—this time aiming for Charles's chest!
It was astounding—this grizzled warrior's body still housed such explosive power!
This was a duel of steel, and from the first clash, Charles was outmatched. Zenith's experience was overwhelming; even amidst the haze of magical light, he'd pinpointed Charles's position and struck with lethal precision.
No choice—time for magic.
As Charles began the incantation for Shield, chaos erupted.
"Aaaaaaaagh—!"
A shrill, piercing wail tore from the pale-pink diamond ring on his left hand. Even though Charles wasn't the target, the sound stabbed his eardrums like needles.
Zenith, however, froze mid-charge. His eyes bulged, limbs locked as if gripped by paralyzing terror.
But the scream was merely the prelude.
A female specter—pale, shrouded in tattered white robes, her inky long hair obscuring her face—burst from the ring. She latched onto Zenith's head, bared needle-like fangs, and sank them into his neck.
"Gah—!"
Agony twisted the old warrior's face as his vitality drained. He roared, swinging his sword at the specter's throat—but the phantom flickered and vanished, retreating into Charles's ring.
Now's the chance!
Warmth flooded Charles's weary body as the ring pulsed. Seizing the moment, he lunged, aiming for Zenith's throat—
Shink!
The hobgoblin staggered back, avoiding a fatal blow. The blade only grazed his chest, leaving a deep gash but no mortal wound. Still, the specter's ambush had left Zenith reeling.
Both combatants retreated, gasping. Charles glanced at the diamond ring on his finger, and suddenly—everything clicked.
So that's it. I understand now.
The female ghost who had slaughtered the cave full of goblins—Agatha—had been bound to this ring all along. Sephera, untrained in necromancy, had missed her presence.
And on that first night, when Charles had purified the nightmare, he hadn't just dispelled her malice—he'd claimed her loyalty.
That was why Ruth and Sephera's nightmares had ceased, while Charles enjoyed deep, revitalizing dreams—though he couldn't recall them, their lingering euphoria was undeniable.
And now, Agatha had intervened, shattering Zenith's focus with her scream, feeding on his life force, and channeling it back to Charles.
Hah.
This was like having a free Vampiric Touch—no mana cost, no concentration required. A third-level spell at his fingertips, healing him mid-combat!
In that case…
Charles's gaze locked onto Zenith—the hobgoblin warlord the tales warned was a challenge for a level-six party, best faced with allies.
But now?
Killing him alone… might just be possible.
Ambition blazed in Charles's chest, his eyes burning with newfound fervor as he stared down his foe.
Across the battlefield, Zenith's eyes remained fixed on Charles. He had anticipated many scenarios, but never had he imagined his opponent would be accompanied by a spectral —one that could turn the tide so decisively.
Hss… This complicates things.
Still, if the boy commands a wraith to fight for him, then he must be as ruthless as any necromancer.
In that case…
"So, boy," Zenith rasped, his Common Tongue rough but deliberate, "you're a necromancer after all." He exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on his weapon. "There's no need for conflict between us."
"Listen well. Join me, and I'll grant you corpses, spirits—whatever dark servants you desire. And if it's flesh you crave, we'll take it by force."
Unbeknownst to him, Charles had already marked him for death the moment he infiltrated the warlord's stronghold.
The offer drew a faint smirk from Charles. The audacity of this bastard—thinking I'd ever side with him.
Then, a surge of fury and resentment erupted from the ring on his finger, its wrath directed squarely at Zenith.
Ah. So Agatha has a score to settle with this hobgoblin too.
Perhaps he's the one who ended her life.
Good. Vengeance will be served for all his victims.
"Dream on, old man," Charles sneered. "Time for you to pay the toll."
Zenith didn't grasp the phrase, but the refusal was clear.
With a sigh, the warlord shook his head. "Arrogant whelps like you? I butcher them by the dozen every year." His stance shifted, his movements deceptively fluid for his bulk—like a bear dancing toward prey.
"See those wretches behind you?" He jerked his chin toward the mutilated figures. "Every one of them was a prodigy—far greater than you."
"And yet, here they are. Reduced to that."
His voice dropped to a growl as he lunged. "You're next."
Charles met the charge without flinching. With Agatha's aid, his confidence blazed as fiercely as his sword. "Come on, then!"
The second clash erupted, steel ringing against steel. But this time, despite his bravado, Zenith fought cautiously. No longer the relentless predator, he now wove a defensive dance—testing, probing, waiting for the spectral ambush or the inevitable misstep from his inexperienced foe.
He's stalling. Charles gritted his teeth. He knows my Blur won't last.
Two minutes. That was all the extended spell would buy him. If he couldn't break Zenith's guard by then, even Agatha's presence wouldn't save him from being dismantled.
I need to end this. Now.
Abruptly, he disengaged, dismissing his longsword. In one fluid motion, he drew the Storm Warhammer from his hip, channeled his magic into it, and hurled it forward.
BOOM—!
The detonation rocked the chamber, the enchanted blast reverberating off the walls like thunder. But Zenith—damn him—had raised his shield in time. The metal buckled, fissures spiderwebbing across its surface, yet the warlord held firm, skidding back but unbroken.
He blocked it. Cold dread settled in Charles's gut as the warhammer returned to his hand. What now?
Zenith lowered his shield slowly, his face a mask of grim triumph. The arm beneath trembled, but his voice was steady.
"Last chance, boy." He bared his teeth. "Your spells are spent. Your tricks have failed. You cannot pierce my guard."
"Surrender, and I'll make your end quick. Fight on, and you'll join the broken behind you."
Charles ignored the taunts, his mind racing. Then, like a spark in the dark, a memory surfaced—Anno's training. The way she'd shattered his defense with a shield technique, leveraging precision over power.
That's it.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the angle of her stance, the sequence of muscle and motion.
One last gamble.
This ends now.
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