The ashen walkers were patient.

They shifted, swayed, clearly paid close attention to Harald, but they didn’t make a move.

Instead they formed their horrific wall of half-slurried paper flesh, malformed heads twisting to and fro as if listening for the sound of his heart, and waited.

“Well then,” said Harald, propping his blade upon his shoulder. “It looks like we’re at a stalemate, gentlemen. The ten of you, myself, and our haunt. Whatever shall we do?”

The ashen walkers, shockingly, made no response.

Harald grimaced and raised his scale lantern once more. The golden rays scaled the heights of the walls, but revealed nothing useful. He was in a dead-end hallway.

“There’s a lesson to be learned here,” he told the walkers. “Don’t assume a fancy archway means an exit. Even if its at the far end of a dubiously constructed hall. It could just be the entrance, to a, what, exactly?”

And he twisted about to peer into the recessed room once more. It was barren, built of the same poorly fitted flagstones, the wall damp and mossy, but for the shelf at the back.

Harald frowned at the skeleton.

Now that he thought about it, that was a first. Not a cache of scales, not a warren, not a blind alcove.

A tomb.

With a strange green-bladed sword lying down its length, as if the dead man—or woman—had held it down the length of their body, hilt upon their sternum.

He turned back to the walkers. They seemed to be watching him more closely.

“Who’s that, then?” He gestured to the inside of the tomb. “Friend of yours? No? Fine. Don’t tell me.”

If he stepped into the alcove, the walkers might take the chance to swarm through the azure light and flood into the safe zone, pushing into the alcove and swamping him.

Then his back would be against the wall with no exit and ten angry ashen walkers wanting a word.

“Damn it,” he muttered. Somehow the lethality of the situation had remained sky high while the urgency had greatly dulled. He licked his dry lower lip and considered his options. Worst case scenario he could simply camp out here and hope Sam would show up eventually with Vic and Nessa.

That would be a tidy solution, though Sam would probably want a word after.

But there were four paths they could take from the portal. What were the odds Sam would retrace their steps to this particular spot?

Harald flared his fingers on the hilt of his warped and brittle blade. His Aura of the Aching Depths wasn’t activated. Either the walkers were just out of range, or his power somehow knew not to waste its proverbial breath. Could he project his aura, perhaps funnel it at one distinct target, and in doing so force that particular walker back so he could run through?

“Damn it,” he muttered again, then shook his head ruefully at how limited in variety his commentary had been thus far.

“The way I see it, you lot are used to standing around. You’ll just watch until given your opportunity. So it’s my call as to what happens next. Am I right in guessing that?”

No answer.

Harald glanced back into the tomb and raised his lantern once more. The green blade glimmered darkly, as if glimpsed at the bottom of a pond.

“Not very regular, finding green swords. Or skeletons. A fallen raider, you think? Or a fixture of the dungeon?”

The ashen walkers were proving to be terrible conversationalists.

“It is, however, the one variable at hand. Though this being the 4th Level, there’s a limit on how powerful it could be. Better than my current blade, that’s sure.”

Harald bit his lower lip. Fear simmered just beneath the surface. Fear of dying here, alone in a forgotten corner of the 4th Level. The sheer intensity of being alone with ten monsters who were patiently waiting to tear him apart was like a constant pressure.

A pressure that would have reduced him to a pleading wreck before, but that was when his Ego was 3.

It was now 20 points higher.

Which meant he was able to enjoy a wicked clarity of mind and continued focus even as existential dread sought to scramble his thoughts and make him holler for help.

“Right. Blade inside. I move to fetch it, you all come swarming across. The moment I leave your line of sight, I reckon. Ten ashen walkers, eager to test my new sword. But sitting here talking to myself isn’t getting me anywhere. So let’s give this a go, shall we?” He raised his brows and stared expectantly at the walkers. “I’m going to grab the blade. You all come get me. We clear on our roles? Then let’s do it.”

And Harald set his lantern by the base of the archway to dart into the tomb, grabbing hold of one side of the arch with his hand as he did so.

But he didn’t race to the back of the tomb. Instead he skidded to a stop, whipped around, and counted to two.

It took every ounce of his newfound will to do so carefully and slowly.

One.

The slap of feet on the haunt-lit floor.

Two.

Then he stepped back out, light on the balls of his feet, energized by terror, gut doing its manly best to climb up between his lungs.

The ashen walkers were hurling themselves through the searing blue light, arms outstretched.

Coils of black smoke were already forming where the illumination was brightest.

“Hello, assholes,” said Harald, raising his blade high above him into the Roof as the Aura of the Aching Depths flooded the air with the absolute nullity of the abyss.

The walkers, ten in number, were smart. They instantly realized they’d been fucked with. Half their number clutched at the others as they sought to push off and back, while the rest stumbled and came at Harald, committed.

And ran right into his aura.

Harald could intuit what they felt the second they hit it.

That initial disorientation as they ran into the subtle shift of perception, sound seeming to muffle, the air feeling thicker, as if they moved underwater. That would turn unease into dread; whatever minds they possessed would recognize how wrong the dungeon had become, some primal survival instinct warning them away from the abyss’s energy, seeing it as an existential threat.

But the abyss sapped at their will, mired them in doubt. Fear would flare up even as their ability to handle the situation dropped, eroded by an inexplicable sense of futility and despair.

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The shadows around Harald would deepen, move of their own accord, and faint whispers would sound from no discernible source. The icy chill of the haunt light would grow even more frigid, and every ounce of their being would know that this wrongness, this danger, this threat, came from one source and once source alone: Harald.

Then they were on him, panicked, made clumsy by the Aching Depths, flailing and seeking to rend him limb from limb.

But Harald was ready.

Four converged on him, and he slashed a wide overhead stroke, his classic opener, and the Abyssal Attunement ran along his sword, darkness limning its edge.

Cool calculation allowed him to swing at just the right moment and then continue swinging as he flowed through the Dungeon Square. His black blade swung diagonally down, cutting off two hands and cleaving through half a forearm, the chill of the abyss blackening stumps and poisoning the wound, but even as he gave ground his blade sang back up, a glorious arc of nullity that cut through the paper flesh with ease.

All the while his aura deadened and panicked the walkers, drove them back.

They tried to force their way out of the light. Two others dithered behind them, pushing and pulling at their shoulders in their efforts to leave the haunt’s domain.

Harald couldn’t give up too much ground. The archway was wide enough for them to come at him three abreast. So he forced himself to stop stepping back and simply swung faster, not even trying to hit any particular foe, just forming a wall of jet-black steel, each blow delivering a pulse of energy as it stole it from the wounded walker.

Just a few seconds more.

Both hands on the long hilt, Harald fought for balance, for poise, his mind detached enough to remember Vic’s barked instructions, Nessa’s pointers.

Shoulders back.

Chest out.

Stance wide, but shifting, side to side with each swing, adding speed and force to the revolving blows.

It was impressive how fast you could swing a blade with a little practice, especially if you weren’t intent on hitting anything specific.

The two walkers in the back gave up on pushing through and instead simply exited the light to line up against the back wall in the two-foot-wide penumbra.

Because the haunt had finally manifested.

It arose behind the four like a slow-moving vortex of shadow, a humanoid form intimated within, all long arms, hunched shoulders, and long hair concealing the sketched in face. But its claws. Its claws were pure business, each six inches long and so dark they matched the hue of Harald’s blade.

The darkness of the abyss.

The darkness of death.

The haunt descended upon the four walkers in a blind fury.

Who wheeled, sought to strike back, or simply raised their arms to protect themselves.

Harald didn’t waste the opportunity. He stabbed and slashed, trying to maintain control, to not get sloppy, to not lose himself to the mania of the moment.

The haunt made short work of the four, tearing them apart with a horrifying ferocity. Their bodies flew apart, and then they were all dead.

But for the two sidling along the wall toward Harald, walking the dark path just outside the haunt-light’s radiance.

This Harald could handle.

“Gentlemen,” said Harald, raising his blade in a salute, and then he lunged and stabbed the first in the chest. The point of impact immediately blackened, tendrils of shadow leaching out as a kick of energy flowed into Harald—just as his sword flexed and then broke.

“Shit,” said Harald, holding the blade up as the wounded walker scrabbled at its chest wound.

He had about a foot of sharp steel remaining above the hilt.

Not good.

Harald resisted the urge to throw the ruined weapon at the walker in an act of hollow defiance, and instead darted into the tomb proper. This time it was no feint. He ran all the way to the back and hesitated for but a second.

“Apologies,” he whispered, then snatched up the longsword from where it lay amidst the old bones.

Only then did he drop his ruined one, turning as he raised the new sword before him.

A bronze coin formed the pommel, emblazoned with what looked like a crude pictogram of the sun. The crossguard was minimal, also of bronze, inlaid with some pattern or image he didn’t have the time or illumination to catch.

But the blade.

It wasn’t verdigrised copper or bronze as he’d imagined. It was a strange new metal, and even in the faint light of the lantern he could see how the light shimmered down its length as if it were subtly scaled, or patterned with endless wave-like patterns.

A message appeared before him as his fingers closed about the ancient hilt.

Artifact Acquired: Verdant Dawnblade

Quality: Common

Special Ability: Dawn's Retrace

That’s all he had time to read before the next ashen walker was upon him, having shoved its wounded fellow aside.

Harald dismissed the message, raised his blade into the Tower, and then stepped forward to meet its rushing attack with a straightforward chop.

Abyssal Attunement caused the green of the blade to swirl; black pulses like smoke flooded up the length of the sword but didn’t engulf the malachite green completely.

Still, his ability proved true: the sword cut with preternatural sharpness through one hand and diagonally up the other forearm.

Nessa’s lessons proved their worth; Harald stepped forward and to the side as he struck, turning so that the walker’s momentum carried it past him and into the stone shelf. Even as it sought to turn, Harald reversed his blow and clove its head clear off its narrow shoulders.

The head actually sailed through the air, trailing dust. The body collapsed, dragging down half the bones and the dark cloth with it as it swiped blindly with one arm.

Harald danced back, already turning to the archway.

The wounded walker was staggering toward him, the abyss’s touch having blackened its chest and leached its life force. It hit his aura, slowed further, deprived now of half or more of its pack’s intelligence boost, and then swiped a claw clumsily at him.

Harald swayed back. The claw missed by inches. It was a simple matter to chop its arm off, reverse the strike, and upswing its chest completely open.

The walker fell back to collapse upon the floor.

Only then did Harald realize he was panting furiously for breath. Blinking away sweat, he stepped up to the archway where his lantern yet burned brightly, and surveyed the scene.

The haunt was fading away, still swirling around and around its domain as it raged.

Four ashen walkers remained on the far side, but now they paced restlessly, bumping into each other, clearly disturbed.

Possibly even upset.

Harald took a deep sucking breath. Six down. Four to go.

He just watched, taking advantage of the respite till the haunt had completely faded from view, and summoned the Verdant Dawnblade’s description again to finish reading it.

Artifact Acquired: Verdant Dawnblade

Quality: Common

Special Ability: Dawn’s Retrace

Activation: Once per day, invoke the blade to reveal the ghostly trail of your last vanquished foe. Witness their steps unwind back to the previous dawn, allowing you to follow their path through time. Pursue at your pace, and their spectral echo moves accordingly, leading you to origins unseen.

+2 to physical stats if wielded at dawn

Limitation: The spectral trail dissolves with the first light of the new dawn; the pursuit is bound by the cycle of day and night. Your chase is a solitary quest; only your eyes can perceive the phantasmal passage.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Harald, admiring the malachite sword. He felt a moment’s awe. This was a genuine Artifact, a creation of the Fallen Angel, a miracle. It was rare to find one, but not unheard of. That it was Common was to be expected; he was only on the 4th Level after all. Once it had been almost expected to find Common or Uncommon Artifacts on the first dozen floors, but those glory days were long past. Just as most the caches of scales had been scoured, so had the frequency of Artifact discoveries dropped.

And this was a beautiful find.

He’d never bound an Artifact to himself, but had heard of how simple the process was: you simply willed the Artifact to bond with your Cosmos, and then… it did.

Harald wanted to close his eyes, to dive into his Cosmos, to commune with the Artifact, to make some manner of ceremony out of this moment, but there was no time.

So instead he simply willed the Artifact to bond with him, and felt its presence meld with his own spirit, sinking deep into his being.

And like that, the Verdant Dawnblade became his.

“Well then,” he whispered, lowering his sword to consider the remaining four Ashen Walkers. “Shall we?”

The approach was at once simple and obvious. He’d roll the flank. Once he was absolutely sure the haunt was gone, he took a deep breath and darted along the left wall, right beneath the burning blue light to emerge on the radiant bubble’s far side, wall to his back.

The walkers reacted swiftly, but not as quickly as before, and the first to assault him ran straight into his aura and staggered as if slapped.

Harald stepped out wide to the left, away from the haunt-light, and clove through the first walker’s shoulder and out its chest, Abyssal Attunement poisoning the mortal wound even as a pulse of vitality rushed into him.

He moved to the next, and cut it down with one blow. Another rush of energy filled him, easing the aches and exhaustion.

The third leaped at him, so Harald simply ducked and dodged it to run at the fourth, which crouched as if frozen with fear.

His aura washed over his foe and he clove through its upraised arms, the first few inches of his green blade slicing cleanly through its warped face.

It was a lethal blow. He didn’t need to see it die. Fresh energy filled him and he spun to see the remaining walker charging him.

Harald rose from his crouch and sidestepped at the last second, turning to cut through its neck with a wild slash.

The last Ashen Walker collapsed to the floor, slid a few feet, then lay still.

Harald stared about himself. The hall was empty. Husks of his foes lay strewn about as if torn by a toddler having a tantrum.

Slowly, scales rose from each corpse to hover and glitter.

“Damn,” whispered Harald, thrilled, amazed, stunned.

He could only shake his head.

Somehow he’d done it.

Somehow he’d killed all ten and not taken a single wound.