Darian reached into his inventory and pulled out one of the iron longswords stored within.

“Here!” he tossed it to Gorm. The half-orc had left his axe behind to better support Darian, but he needed a weapon.

The undead had fully emerged now, some carrying blades, others bows. Half the group targeted Gorm and Darian while the rest moved to surround Jorg, Carver still slumped atop his back.

All of Darian’s summoned creatures were slain, and so it was up to Gorm to fight back the undead attacking Jorg.

“Go,” Darian commanded. “I’ll hold them off here.”

Gorm’s face was covered in blood, his left eye gone, but the warrior didn’t show any signs of pain or weakness. He twirled the sword in his hands and marched forward, blade arcing through the undead.

Those that came for Darian were met with alternating blasts of [Shard] and [Flare]. The spells were weak, but enough to soften up Darian’s foes. And reaching out, he activated [Blood Shield] on Victoria’s body. Using the shield to block incoming arrows, Darian’s sword collided with the first skeleton to reach him.

It went down after a single blow, but more formed up behind it, their blades stabbing out. Darian knocked aside one thrust, but limited to one leg, he just barely stumbled back from the second. He slashed, a neck snapping under the powerful strike. Then he ducked, an arrow slipping past his floating shield to crack into the wall above him.

Gorm was with Jorg now, doing his best to hack down their attackers. But more of the ceiling was falling, chunks of earth and stone crashing to the floor, crushing the undead. Darian limped back, the open tunnel right behind him.

“Hurry!” he yelled, more out of desperation than anything else.

Gorm grunted, his sword knocking away strikes aimed at Jorg. But they were close now, only a few shamblers between them and the tunnel.

Then Jorg fell, an arrow jutting from his thigh.

Carver rolled across the ground, his body leaving a trail of blood. His eyes flickering open as two skeletons raised their blades. Darian pushed his attacker back, bursting the monster’s ribs with a hard slash. But Carver was too far away.

Gorm threw one thrust wide and kicked the other skeleton, sending it crashing to the bone covered ground. He grabbed Carver by his sleeve and pulled him forward until they reached Darian. Then he turned to batter the horde, trying his best to clear a path for Jorg.

Darian pushed another sword back, the tip of Sparkblade leaving a searing line down his opponent’s bony chest. Then he tore its head free of its shoulders, his sword smashing the skull apart. With the immediate area clear, he looked down.

Carver was cut along the shoulder and the stomach, the smell of his blood thick in the air. The wounds are deep. More arrows rained down, Darian’s blood shield covering Carver as Gorm helped a limping Jorg to the tunnel.

“Go!” Gorm commanded, thrusting Jorg into the passage. “Get moving you useless Justicar!” Gorm lowered and hefted Carver onto his back.

Darian followed them, the undead in pursuit. Despite his leg injury, Jorg was leading them. The tunnel itself was wide, but it slowly began to narrow. There were broken support beams along the way, slashes and dents across their surface from where someone had damaged them intentionally.

Gorm panted, the battle and his injuries sapping his strength. But they couldn’t afford to slow. The undead marched behind them, their steps echoing in the dark.

Darian stumbled, then cried out as he tried putting weight on his bad leg. A large section of his lower calf was gone, the muscle exposed, his blood freely leaking. If his body wasn’t naturally tough and pain resistant, the pain would have made him faint.

At the rate he was going, they would catch up to Darian before long. Think! There has to be something I can do. He flipped through his skill menu, finding nothing of particular use. Then he opened his inventory, despair gripping him. But then he saw the purple icons. The charged Nether Crystals from the Lich Cult’s camp!

He stopped, pulling crystal after crystal from his inventory. Gorm, who was some distance ahead, turned.

“What are you doing?” the half-orc asked, huffing as he sprinted to Darian’s side.

“You said these are volatile, right?” Darian asked, arranging the crystals on the ground. “Will an explosion from them be enough to collapse the tunnel?

Gorm looked around. “Perhaps.” He frowned. “But you’ll need a blunt force to break them. Do you have any spells remaining?”

“I have Shard and Flare. Will they be enough?”

“I’m not sure.”

Carver stirred, pushing on Gorm’s back. “Let me down,” he said, his voice weak, blood still leaking from his lips.

“I let you down and you’re dead.” Gorm turned to advance down the tunnel, but Carver continued to fight.

“I’m already dead.”

Darian looked down, his chest tightening. Even if no one said it, with how deep Carver’s wounds were and without healing magic, he would bleed out and die in only a couple of minutes.

“I’ll break the crystals,” Carver said, Gorm gently laying him on the ground. “You get Darian out of here.” The young huntsman laid a bloody hand on Darian’s arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Thank you for trying to save me, but with this, my honor can be restored,” he said, his face growing pale. But he smiled. “You’re a good man, Darian. And don’t let anyone, even Argus himself, tell you otherwise.” He coughed, blood specking Darian’s cheek. “Now go...please.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Darian stood, Gorm rushing to assist him. “Goodbye, Carver,” Darian said. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you didn’t die a coward.”

The undead were close, and so Gorm pulled Darian away. But he looked back and saw Carver take one of the crystals and raise it over his head. Still shuffling forward as fast as they could, Darian watched as Carver smashed the crystal into the others, the tunnel flashing deep purple before the explosion.

***

Darian’s eyes opened slowly, his head feeling like someone took a sledgehammer to it.

“He’s awake,” he heard Gorm say, then he felt cool grass against his skin.

“What?” Darian said, looking around with blurry eyes. “Happened?”

“A rock knocked you on the head,” Gorm said. “Put you out. I had to carry you here.”

Jorg stooped, laying Darian’s sword on the ground. “And the stupid half-breed decided to carry your sword out with you. Had the damned thing held by his teeth.”

“I’m lucky the enchantment only works when you make an attack,” Gorm said, helping Darian to his feet.

Then he remembered. “Carver…”

Jorg frowned. “Stupid boy should never have come.” He stepped past them, his body rigid. “I met the boy’s father, before we left. Did you know that?” he turned, his eyes wet. “Made me promise to look after him. I didn’t think much of it then. I’m used to making such promises. But I thought, foolish as it seems now, that I could keep this one.”

“Such is the life we lead, Justicar,” Gorm said, frowning. “You should know better than most victories are often bitter. This forest has claimed many lives, including those of my friends. But it is over now.”

Darian looked over his shoulder. The sky above was clear, the stars bright. The branches swayed, the chill of winter on the wind. Morning would arrive soon, and he needed to find shelter.

“Are we close to the town?” he asked.

“I believe so,” Gorm answered. “Can you move?”

Looking into the man’s empty eye socket, Darian wondered how Gorm himself could stay upright.

“With a little help, sure.” Darian placed Sparkblade into his inventory, then leaned on Gorm for support.

The three of them continued down the muddy path, the goblin’s town soon appearing down the hill.

***

Oliver crushed Hyalm’s head, the old warrior’s skull turning to powder with a rather satisfying crunch.

Lora was the last one. She clutched the Soul of Damnation to her skeletal chest, her back pressed to a tree. Pasitus and Nalmar lay beneath her. Killing them had been far easier than he expected, even with the sun weakening them.

“You will suffer for this,” she rasped.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he said, dashing forward, his rapier going right through Lora’s skull, the tip piercing the tree behind her. “Won’t be the last.”

He snatched the purple gem from the air as Lora’s body crumbled. The only bit of her to remain upright was her skull, pinned to the tree. Oliver rather liked the look of it.

Despite the battle being over, no screen appeared to doll out XP. It seemed the notification about Victoria’s death had been true. And with her death, Oliver lost his access to the system. But at least he kept the levels he'd gained in her service. And with her gone, he was free to travel back to the west. The old empire would be a great—and warm—place for him to spend the winter.

“Oh my, how impressive,” a scratchy voice said, the sound seeming to come from everywhere at once.

Oliver pulled his rapier from the tree, Lora’s skull rolling across the ground as he spun.

“Killing such weak prey, does it not bore you?” the voice asked.

“Never,” Oliver replied, slowly lowering his rapier as he recognized the voice. “And here I thought I was free of you.”

Azlar dropped down from the trees above, rays of sunlight spreading across the ground as the sun continued to rise over the mountains.

“You sold your soul to me, Oliver,” he said. “You are mine for eternity.”

“Still.” Oliver shoved the gem into his coat pocket. “Figured I deserved a break.” He walked over and sat atop a rather unusually round rock. “I figure you’re here because you know of Victoria’s fate?”

Azlar stalked forward, each step silent. The black tattoos across the demon’s red face swirled and shifted, forming around his crimson eyes. “My master sent me as soon as he realized.”

“Got here rather quickly now, didn’t you?” Oliver smirked. Teleportation was one of the rarest forms of magic, but if anyone was capable of it, it would be the demon god. “And how is your lord father Atarax these days?”

“He is well,” Azlar answered. “Our armies will soon wash over Lonelen. Then those pompous fools in Vizzera will fall beneath our banner. The rest of Aelor will come after.”

“That all sounds very tiring.” Oliver sighed. “So, what exactly do you want from me now?”

“Two other Aspirants have been discovered in Lonelen. One has created a cult called the Followers of Light, but the other…he is an enigma. Tracking him has been difficult.”

“And you think I can do better?”

Azlar laughed, the sound stinging Oliver’s ears. “Hardly, but Lonelen is difficult for us to operate in. A human like you will have a much easier time getting information for us.”

“Well then, do you have any leads?”

“My father believes the Aspirant is behind the recent epidemic in Lonelen. Sickness and disease spread throughout the nation’s cities like wildfire. The fey would never do such a thing, and the dragons do not have that kind of power. He believes it is an Aspirant, one with command over illness.”

“And if I find this aspirant, do I kill them? Befriend them?”

“Neither. Simply speak into this stone when you discover them. We will handle the rest.” Azlar reached into his inventory and produced a solid sphere of darkened stone.

It tingled Oliver’s skin when he touched it, so he quickly pocketed the item. “And what about the other Aspirant?”

The tattoos on Azlar’s face stretched franticly, the demon snarling before regaining his composure. “He is not to be touched. Not by you, or the others.”

“Alright…” Oliver stretched, the sun warming his face. “I suppose I should be off. Would you mind teleporting me to—” But Azlar was already gone.

Oliver’s shoulders slumped. The bastard could have at least directed him to where in Lonelen he should begin his search.

“Oh, and by the way,” he said to himself. “There’s another Aspirant here. Name of Darian Carmine.”

Oliver looked around, but the demon was truly gone. He could have told Azlar about Darian, but he was rather tired of this forest. The demon probably would have commanded him to kill or follow the red-eyed stranger. But, though it was hard to admit, Oliver didn’t figure he’d survive another encounter with him. They probably figured the Justicars had finally done Victoria in, and he aimed to keep it that way. Best to let the demon god discover this one on his own.

He stood. “But a plague?” he said with a shudder. “How exactly am I supposed to keep from getting sick?” But Azlar had Oliver’s putrid soul, and so he was forced to march forward, his eyes set on the distant peaks. Silverbridge would be past them. And even if he didn’t learn anything there, at least the taverns would welcome him.

He walked down the hill, giving one last parting glance to the forest that had become Victoria’s grave. Then he put her out of his mind, his thoughts focused on the journey ahead.