The Barrow Wight inched forward across the grass.

Half its body had been severed from the ribs downward, leaving it to crawl on its fingers. A long health bar hovered over the monster, forced to appear due to the damage taken. Five percent of HP remained: a quantity that dwindled with each passing second.

Behind the Barrow Wight, the carcass of the Eldritch Leviathan lay halfway out of the bog. Smoke curled up from its blistering skin, which had broken under the assault of too much magic.

I took in the scene for all of one second before reaching for my dagger. The Barrow Wight snarled as I lumbered up to it.

“You . . .” it began.

“Don’t start speaking now,” I said and lobbed off its head.

[System] notifications flooded my vision.

You have participated in the killing of Barrow Wight LVL 26.

You have leveled up! You are now level 12.

Visit the status screen to assign your free stat points.

It didn’t stop there. I jumped two more levels, blitzing past 12 and then 13. The XP gain left me speechless and would have been even more significant had I done real damage to the wight.

The Eldritch Leviathan had borne the bulk of the heavy lifting, however, death invalidated its efforts, resulting in the loss of its share of XP into the void.

The Barrow Wight sucked ass for killing the monster. If both had been left near dead, I would’ve been able to enjoy the gains of scoring two last hits.

“I guess I should just be thankful for life,” I muttered, casting a furtive glance at the leviathan’s corpse.

It shrunk rapidly now that it was exposed to sunlight, reinforcing the terrible stench that pervaded the air. Flies surged from the ends of Dreadwood toward the stink, which wouldn’t be alleviated anytime soon now that the only one with the power to loot the corpse was dead.

Speaking of loot . . .

Do you desire to loot this monster? Y/N?

“Please, and thank you.”

The Barrow Wight withered away, leaving behind a ring, a Greater monster core, and a musty, old sheet called a Burial Shroud.

I summoned both items and inspected their properties.

Burial Shroud [Greater].

An old sheet, thick with the stench of death. This item preserves corpses and retards the onset of decay.

Requirement: None.

Ring of the Mana Conduit [Greater].

An item with a magic circuit. Useful as a secondary reservoir of mana.

Requirement: None.

Didn’t the murals back in the mausoleum depict something about a ring?

Heart pounding with excitement, I slipped the ring onto my finger. A new prompt appeared over the first.

Assign MP to ring? Y/N?

Current charge: 0/50.

No wonder the wight hadn’t run out while slinging spells. Considering that my MP currently topped out at—and I paused to check—38, didn’t that make this item overpowered? Why then had it been abandoned in the middle of nowhere?

Well, no point looking a gift horse in the mouth.

5 MP assigned to ring.

Current charge: 05/50.

The Staff of Cleansing which had been in the Barrow Wight’s possession lay broken beneath the leviathan. My Cloak of Viridian Gleam also rested somewhere within the bog. That was easily the bigger loss, but I would take a missing cloak any day over brutal death.

The last of the Barrow Wight’s ashes wafted into the wind, bringing an end to the most difficult opponent I'd faced since arriving in Vizhima.

All that was left was to decide what to do with my free stat points. I had a total of eight now, thanks to the additional six I’d gained from the triple level-up.

The most important stat for an Assassin was Dexterity, so best to focus on that. It left my status window looking like this:

Damien Njoku

Race: Dark Elf

Level: 14

Class: Assassin

Affinity: Fear

VP: 04/36

MP: 16/38

Attributes:

STR 7, PER 10, END 10, DEX 18

INT 5, WIL 10, V.F 2, MGK 3

Free Stat Points: 0

Traits:

[Born of Fear], [Against the Odds], [Migrant Soul]*

Skills:

[Map], [Identify], [Meditation], [Knife-fighting], [Stealth]

Abilities:

[Scaredy-cat], [Fear Aura], [Dark Stalker]

One more level-up would unlock the next tier of Dexterity, but I doubted it would do much good against monsters of the Barrow Wight’s ilk.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

I’d gotten off easy. Had I not managed to set the monsters against each other, it would have been me lying dead in the bog.

I needed to get stronger. Every other problem paled in contrast to that singular need.

The fetid stink from the leviathan assaulted my nostrils, making for a perfect monster repellant.

Too beat to do anything else, I settled down for a round of [Meditation].

“That’s him,” one of the women whispered. “The devil kid.”

The dramatic weeping that accompanied funerals had ended before the gravediggers could finish refilling the grave. All of those who had mourned at the top of their voices now retreated into the canopies, to engage in the two activities social gatherings like this entailed:

Gossip, and eat.

“I heard he’s responsible for the death of his mum,” a voice I recognized as Mrs. Tarkwa's said, not noticing that I was within earshot—or more likely, not caring. “He always rubbed me the wrong way back when he played with my kids.”

“But, he’s just a child,” someone argued. “How is that possible?”

“Oh, it’s possible, alright. You don’t give a child a name like that unless you’re prepared for trouble.”

I blinked past the tears that obstructed my vision and squared my shoulders against the chatter. The gravediggers grunted beneath the harsh rays of the sun, shoveling sand from a pile onto the wooden casket.

Each thunk of sand served as a biting reminder of the lasting nature of my circumstances. There was a finality to watching a coffin disappear within a grave. It served as a gut punch: One last reminder that death was very real, and an end to all fantasies of your loved one waking up again.

“Did you hear,” a woman said, nursing a plate of food, “that he spent a week with the body before a neighbor forced down the door?”

“That was my husband,” Mrs. Tarkwa answered, a touch of pride in her voice. “We had been going mad from the stink, wondering where it came from. Kelvin noticed an oddity with the lady next door; she hadn’t driven out in days.

“He paid a courtesy call and found the boy sitting transfixed by her corpse. Chilled him down to the bones, I tell you. He’s had trouble sleeping since.”

“My god. Why didn’t the child shout for help?”

“’Cos he’s a devil child, that’s why. I know what the coroner said, about her wounds being self-inflicted. But, the less I see of that boy, the better. I’ve already warned my kids to stay away . . .”

I drowned out the rest of their words, willing it so with a clench of my teeth. My fingernails dug into my palms, hard enough to draw blood.

The stupid adults didn’t know anything. Why did they keep talking—?

“Damien,” Dad said, resting his hand on my shoulder.

I hadn’t heard him approach over the clamor in my ears, but a familiar chill ran down my spine at his presence. Despite myself, I leaned into his touch, if only to forget the whispers I had heard.

Dad regarded me from behind glassy eyes, nestled within a solid face that rarely broke into laughter. His matching black suit and dress shirt were stained with grime, courtesy of the sun beating down on his head.

“You will clean your tears,” he said, wiping at his balding head with a handkerchief. “You are not a little boy anymore; it is time to grow up. The days of hiding behind your mother’s skirt are over.”

I tried to pull away from his side, but his large hand kept me in place.

“You will clean your tears,” he repeated.

A lump formed in my throat at the warning in his voice. And, so I wiped my face, which just made me cry harder until I dripped with snot and salt.

Dad’s hand clamped on my shoulder like a vice grip, a far cry from the embrace I needed.

By the time I got the tears under control, the gravediggers had shoveled the last of the sand. Dad nodded at them in approval.

“Mabel has agreed to take you in,” he said, referring to my stepmom. “It wasn’t easy for her, considering the rumors about you. You will thank her when we return to your seat.”

The last thing I wanted to do was share a house with my stepmother, but I had enough intelligence to realize that it would be suicidal to say.

Dad plowed on, seemingly oblivious to the tension in my shoulders. “The alternative, of course, was sending you off to live with your cousins, but no child of mine would be reduced to depending on others. Your stepsister is nine, about a year younger than you. I expect you both to get along.”

“Can’t I just return to mom’s?” I stammered, and at that moment, I realized my mistake.

Dad’s brows furrowed so tightly, that I actually heard them crack. “Let me repeat. Mabel is making this sacrifice out of the benevolence of her heart. You will thank her, and you will mean it.

“As for the house, we’ve decided against keeping it. The stench of decay has pervaded all that it touched. We’ll put it up for lease and pray some unlucky fool ignores the rumors. If that doesn't succeed, well, I have no problems tearing down the house.”

I shot him a confused look, stunned at his hostility. Dad and mom hadn't been on the best of terms, but he didn't need to speak with such hatred.

“I’ve done you the favor of packing your things,” Dad said, putting away his kerchief. “They are waiting in the car. The rest will be discarded or put up for sale. We don’t need any reminders of her . . . personality. We’re all better off without that baggage.”

By ‘the rest’, he meant mom’s possessions. Ours. The little ornaments we'd gathered over the years to beautify our home.

Dad steered me away from the graveside toward the row of canopies reserved for family. Mabel occupied a spot at the center table, shooting us a glare.

Dad pretended not to see it. “The loss of your mom pains me more than you can imagine. But, I always knew she was headed for this kind of end.”

I clenched my fists.

“You don’t suffer the kind of mood swings she does,” he continued, “without being addled in the head. What was she thinking doing that in front of her son?”

I blinked away the memory of that night. Of the tears. Of the gurgles. Of the final smile on her face.

None of them knew jack about what happened, about the issues mom had been dealing with. What right did they have to speak negatively about her?

“Things would start looking up now that we are here,” Dad said with an air of certainty. “You might not realize it in your current state, but in time, you would appreciate being rid of her influence. I should never have left you for so long with her. Look how bad you almost turned out—”

I slapped his hand off my shoulder and yelled something to the effect of ‘Shut up!’.

Everyone turned to look, from the guests to the master of ceremonies and even the musicians. A silence descended over the gathering, piercing through the roaring in my ears.

Dad regarded me with stoic eyes, the perfect picture of calm. However, his rage was evident in the angle of his shoulders, and in the way his lips didn’t so much as quiver. He raised his hand in a placating gesture—a promise of peace now and terror to come. “Damien . . .”

“Take it back,” I said. “Take back everything you said.”

“This isn’t the time—”

“Take it back!”

Dad frowned and squatted to my height. The musicians resumed their playing, in the hopes of diverting attention. But, I no longer cared for any of it.

I hated them all. Hated the gossip. Hated the ceremony. Hated the fact that I had to dress up and look pretty for strangers to sigh at my sadness.

“I don’t think you understand,” Dad said, “how delicate your situation is. I have sacrificed everything for you, yet this is how you repay me. Do you think you can survive by yourself out on the streets?”

The tears resumed in full force, clouding my vision.

“I will forgive your tantrum just this once, but I’d expect you to behave if you wish to continue in my good graces.” He rose to his feet. “Maybe, the rumors were right: you killed your mother.”

And, with that final word, he signaled my aunt, making it look like he needed help getting me under control.

I woke from my trance a moment later. All my renewables had refilled, returning me to prime condition. The stench had repelled monsters as I’d predicted, but I could have done without that very vivid flashback.

Twilight approached, casting dark shadows across the forest. [Meditation] wasn’t ideal for relaxing, if it could conjure memories I’d long since buried. I returned that particular memory to a tank within the depths and sealed it tightly with a lid.

Mom was best remembered for the brilliant way she'd lived and not the gruesome manner of her death.

An endless sea of trees sprawled ahead of me. I gathered my wits and continued to Skeelie.