Joar kicked the door open, dragging barely moving Nannik by his arm like a child. He knew time was not on his side, as the symptoms of the Ghoul Fever were already showing. The peddler’s face was as purple as an Islastar mushroom while his limbs were so numb it should’ve belonged to a corpse. Weren’t this a dire moment he’d be laughing his ass off at the dumb look on the man’s face.

“Get on the bed.” He ordered, hurrying as if it was his life that was in danger.

His shack was small and uncomfortable. The floor was bare, dusty and in places sticky. Leftovers of food, random daggers and other sharp objects littered the ground. One had to constantly be on the lookout for something to trip on, as the windows were so tiny barely any light got through in the day. The bed was small, to the point where his legs must’ve dangled when he slept, not to mention it was as hard as a rock. Books, large chests and dusty paintings were shoved at the far corner of the room, collecting dust. A single candle that previously rested on a creaky old chair, now was in the hand of Joar, dimly lit up the shadows. Nannik’s arm bled like a fountain, removing any possible whiteness from the already dirty sheets.

“I’m done…aren’t I.” Nannik spoke with incredible sadness in his voice. “After a lifetime of struggle, this is how I’ll end up?” He indicated with his eyes, dimming in their color, at the wound on his arm. The flesh seemed to be rotting, as indicated by the puss and a putrid smell emanating from it.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Rosa will live on. . . forgetting about me. . . happily ever after. . .” He blabbered in a daze, unable to see anything in front anymore. “Wish I. . . told her how much I. . . if only I could see her. . .”

“Get a grip, man.” Joar pushed him down onto the bed and Nannik’s body fell like a leaf. He then went to the far corner and opened one of the chests, looking for something.

“Joar. . . let me see her. . . I have to. . .” His fingers dug into the sheets as he tried to move himself with all the might he could muster, but he rose no further than half a centimeter before falling back down.

Inside the chest hid a variety of items from Joar’s adventuring days, even the golden plate was still there. Joar the Barbarian, it said, dazzling with the golden shine and intricate runes etched onto its surface. Moving an axe of intense resonance, it literally bent the world around it waiting for its power to be unleased, to the side, he pulled out a leather bag where a strange vial of white liquid hid.

“I’m leaving. . . take me with you, oh the blessed virgins of He-” “Shut up and drink this,” Joar forcefully shoved the vial into the man’s mouth. Soon an acidic smell arose together with white fumes from the insides of Nannik’s throat.

“Shit,” he coughed blood as saliva dripped uncontrollably. “What the hell did you do?!”

“Don’t move,” said Joar, holding Nannik by his shoulders. “It’s a silver extract. Supposed to help fight the ghoul’s curse.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner…” he sighed with relief, albeit still blood dripping from both his arm and mouth.

“You need to see a doctor as fast as possible though. The silver is a sure way to death of its own, especially with that dosage.” Joar added, this time taking out an old bottle of what seemed like wine. The letters on it were unreadable, but the date suggested it was from a century ago.

“Drink this and don’t move. I’ll patch that arm of yours.”

As a veteran adventurer Joar knew this and that about treating wounds, even a little of surgery, but when he inspected the arm up close his grimace changed multiple times, leaving one of certainty.

The cut was so deep you could see the bone if you really wanted to. He figured it cut an artery, as blood spilled in waves rather than a constant flow. That on its own proved lethal, but he was also sure all of the rotting wasn’t natural and may have caused an infection, a yet another death card for the man. There was only one possible solution towards saving the man’s life…

“I’ll have to amputate.” He said, grabbing the resonating axe from the chest. The candle reflected eerily off its blade.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Amputate?! Are you insane?!” He tried moving but still couldn’t.

“It’ll only take a second. It’s this or death.”

“No, no, no. I’m perfectly fine!”

Joar didn’t listen to the man. He already seen people bleed out within moments of such injuries and wasn’t keen on risking it. It was already a miracle he survived this long. Had the village a doctor there would be hope, but there wasn’t one.

“No! Please, don’t! Don’t!” Nannik begged, squirming around, but his exhausted self couldn’t budge much against the enormous man.

Joar raised the enchanted axe high into the air, practicing a few strikes beforehand, making sure not to miss. He focused on his mind, imagining the arm not belonging to the man, but it didn’t work. He had to rely on the old tactic of thinking it was firewood, that too wasn’t very helpful.

He grit his teeth and did what had to be done.

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With a whistling sound the axe cut through air, within seconds reaching the arm. There was barely any sound, only a *cthunk*. The axe was that sharp. Just like cutting meat for dinner the fleshy arm detached a few centimeters below the shoulder. Blood flew with an intense stream, covering anything in its way. Joar’s ears boomed from the heart-wretching scream that came out of the poor man. Methodically, his stump was bandaged and taken care off, albeit quite poorly as the one who did it possessed overly large hands, making such intricate things hard to do.

“I’ll stay with you, don’t worry,” said Joar, drinking from the bottle as he listened to the man moan in pain.

Drinking into the cold night, all he could do was think. It was his adventurer instincts kicking in. Always think and think, find the solution to the impossible.

Of course there was no impossible here, just a simple fact that a ghoul roamed the wilds. He was sure that killing the beast wouldn’t be impossible, for him at least, but luring the creature was the main problem. They were smart, some said as smart as humans when it came to plotting or tormenting. With a sight rivaling that of an eagle and the perfect night vision they were at the top of the pyramid when it came to undead. Perhaps not as strong as a lich though, not on equal grounds at least.

“Fuck…” moaned Nannik, finally awoken from the shock he experienced.

“Glad you’re alive,” Joar passed him the bottle.

Nannik frowned as if insulted when he realized he still had no arm even after waking up.

“Can’t believe you chopped it off,” he grabbed the bottle. “Were you trying to kill me?” He topped it, chugging on the contents.

“I saved you.”

“Saved me? You?” He voiced out in agony. “No, no. You doomed me,” he gulped, swallowing words harder than the world itself. “How am I going to work like this? I am not a man of talent, nor wisdom. If I had that I would’ve saved up. I’m done for.”

Living a life armless was hard, not many jobs one could do like that. And Joar knew Nannik needed money, he already noticed during the past few years him sending it somewhere, avoiding unneeded spending, even fasting every week just to save any extra no matter how little it was.

“Don’t worry. I know people who know someone with access to grand scale recovery magic.”

“Oh so you know people who know people. Thanks, that’s what I need right now.” Nannik knew he was full of spite, but couldn’t hold himself back from saying these things. He felt betrayed by the already cruel world.

“And even if you do, that’s not something done for free. No matter who you know and how much of a friend you are to them.”

“That’s not a problem,” Joar threw a leather bag onto the red sheets. It dropped with a metallic twang and shiny golden coins spilled out.

Nannik’s eyes glittered at the sight, slowly widening as he gulped in anticipation.

“Take it.” Joar had no need for money, and he did chop the man’s arm off, even if to save him.

“Than-” “Joar!” suddenly someone from the outside shouted, interrupting Nannik who was on the verge of tears.

“Joar!” The shack’s doors slammed open, letting the breeze inside. It was Silver, breathing heavily. He must’ve ran all the way here. His usually boring face had worry written over it, which Joar picked up on immediately.

“What the hell is it…? Is it the ghoul?!” It was unusual for one to be so bold.

The unexpected guest spared a moment to take in the scene before his eyes. Bloody sheets, a pile of golden coins, a man whose arm rested on his knees, wrapped in a cloth seeped with blood, an axe visibly unusual and ancient. His intuition told him that it was better to not ask questions, not right now.

“No. A carriage is coming.” He said, skimming through the rest of the room expecting to see more body parts or treasure.

“So what?”

“It’s…strange. You must see it.”

***

The dark carriage moved into the village, barely fitting through the small entrance, and rode up to the center where a large group of people waited. They all had lanterns or torches, while their drowsy and annoyed looks suggested that they just woke up. The skeletal skull inside the carriage nodded with approval, checking on the time on his watch and scribbling something down inside a black notebook.

Among the people stood Iphis, a beautiful woman with raven hair. Next to her was Rene, the ruler of the village. A sword hung on his hip, as he had the right of doing so even when in presence of nobility. With a nod of his head two elderly women came to him preparing presents for their guest. It was mostly foodstuffs, but a personal gift from Rene was also in there.

Soon Joar and Silver also came, but their faces suggested they weren’t here to be hospitable. The giant man mostly stared at the horses pulling the carriage, only he saw through their true nature. Silver mostly worried about the armed guard of the black carriage. They looked like knights, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Canus was not here.

Whispering something into Rene’s ear Iphis began walking towards the carriage. Joar eyed her carefully, he felt suspicious that the woman became friends so quickly with the man known to be hard to please.

The demoness gently opened the door of the carriage and slipped inside, allowing none to see the person hiding in there.

***

Magus was writing something with illusionary eagerness, sparing no glances at the woman who entered. The silver mask hid his ivory skull.

“So. What now?” She spoke first, sitting down opposite of him. Having gone through all this trouble it was only fair to know what was going on in that empty skull of his.

“Hmm? Nothing.” He said as if it was obvious. “They’ll just die.”

“Look…” she sighed heavily. “How many times will I have to tell you? Piling up bodies won’t do any good in the long term.” She already spoke this dozens of times, mainly trying to weasel her way to freedom. “Do you ever listen to me?”

“Listening is for the living.” He pointed at her, then at the people outside, finally at himself. “I take note.”

“Then make them listen.” She said without thinking.

The skeleton under that robe shook in response, placing his bony palm onto his mask, pondering. Shaking his leg up and down, up and down, he thought, restlessly.

“Make them. . . make them. . . listen?” He stilled, turning into a statue. “Make them listen!” He jumped up, his notebook fell from his knees, and he grabbed the door’s handle, flinging the door open with surprising vigour.

He jumped like a child onto the snowy surface, his robe flowing like a river against the air. Like a professional dancer he landed, adding a spin at the end. The people were confused as to why was there a fool like this here and why they had to ruin their precious sleep to bother greeting him.

With overwhelming confidence Magus walked towards the closest person to him - an old man - and reached to shake his hand. The innocent villager, not expecting anything of it, took the hand, only to realize the horrific feeling of touching bare bone of an undead.

Magus leaned closer to the man who was about to scream his lungs out.

"Human," he whispered, with a teeth grinding tone. "What makes you listen?"