x
Rain poured steadily from the murky heavens, washing the cobbled roads and wooden rooftops of a small tavern and inn nestled along the western edge of the city known as Darkwell—a settlement famed throughout the region for its vast merchant districts and thriving trade. The city sat at the crossroads of two great highways: one that led north to the capital, the other stretching southward toward the border town of Bluewyvern.829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwRaOgtyyAN
Despite the downpour, the torches outside the tavern burned furiously, as though defiant of the storm, their flames casting flickering halos of orange and gold across the soaked stone and splintered planks. To the far right of the building stood a barn-like structure—a humble stable meant to house wagons and the beasts that pulled them. Yet it was woefully insufficient for the convoy that had arrived.
A caravan of soldiers from the capital had taken up most of the surrounding grounds. Their heavy, iron-clad wagons stood parked in disorganized clusters. Horses, dragon rhinos, and other exotic pack beasts snorted and huffed as they were led through mud and straw, many of them still being unhitched or washed down by stablehands working under lantern light.
Rain hammered the roof, and thunder rumbled distantly as more soldiers filtered through the tavern’s front doors, boots slick with muck, cloaks dripping wet.
Inside, the tavern exuded a somber warmth, dimly lit more by the roaring ovens behind the bar than by the squat hearth set into the middle of the floor. The firepit was ringed with circular stone benches where weary travelers warmed themselves. A lone bard sat beside the fire, idly plucking the haunting melody of an old dirge on an eight-stringed lute.
Though the hour crept well past midnight, the tavern bustled with life. Every table seemed occupied—some with soldiers fresh from the rain, others with cloaked merchants, mercenaries, and wanderers trading tales or coin. Serving girls wove between the tables, and the scent of roasting meat, wet leather, and spilled ale clung thickly in the air.
Even the stableyard outside remained alive with motion. A crew of nine stablehands scrambled beneath the storm, washing mud from thick-legged horses and glistening-scaled dragon rhinos. Their strained voices, barking commands over the wind and rain, echoed faintly through the open windows.
From the nearby woods, a figure emerged.
She was small—barely five feet tall—draped in a soaked, oversized brown cloak that clung to her form like a second skin. From beneath her hood, long brown locks tumbled down either side of her pale face, concealing her eyes in shadow. Upon her back, strapped with sturdy leather bindings, rested a massive two-handed greatsword, far too large for someone of her frame.
Without a word, she joined the crowd of soldiers entering the tavern and made her way through the warm, hazy interior. Past drinkers and gamblers, past tired guardsmen and traveling merchants, until she reached a side of the bar marked with an engraved wooden sign: HUNTER TRADE-IN.
Behind the counter stood a tall, bipedal wolf beastman, dressed in a clean vest and rolled-up sleeves. His fur was silver streaked with gray, and his lupine ears flicked at the sound of approaching footsteps.
The girl stepped forward and laid down two carefully wrapped bundles—both bloodstained, their cloth soaked through in spots. The smell of iron and death clung to them.
The wolfman untied the bindings, peeling the blood-wet cloth away. “Let’s see what we’ve got here...” he murmured, pulling a brass scale from under the counter. “Two solid hearts—wyvern-wyrm, no less. And thirteen fangs.”
He nodded in approval, his claws deftly folding the packages back up and sliding them into a rack behind him, which disappeared through a narrow chute in the wall.
Without another word, he knelt behind the counter and began rummaging through a chest. The clink of coins echoed like distant bells.
“Fair weight on the hearts,” he muttered. “And a decent amount of fangs too... Looks like you’re walkin’ out of here with one-hundred and sixty gold pieces, Zahra.”
The girl nodded as he stood and placed a leather coin purse onto the counter. She took it with a slight bow of her head—her face still mostly obscured beneath her hood—and moved a few stools down the bar to sit beneath the menu board etched with chalk.
Her shoulders slouched. The sword on her back rattled slightly as she settled into the stool. She leaned forward, staring up at the menu for a moment.
Before long, a man with a thick black mustache and a tall, lopsided chef’s hat ambled over. He wore a grease-stained apron and smelled of firewood and garlic.
“Evenin’, miss,” he said with a tired smile. “You ready to order anything? I’d wager a girl like you didn’t drag a sword like that through this storm for just a pint of rainwater.”
Zahra stood atop a wooden stool, just barely within reach of the tavern’s hanging menu. She pointed toward the listing that displayed a poultry and potato dinner for four, priced at fifteen copper pieces. As she stepped back down with practiced ease, the barkeep—an older man with soot-stained sleeves and an ever-watchful eye—gave a slight chuckle.
“I see you’re going with your usual tonight,” he said warmly.
Zahra responded with a subtle nod, her chin dipping ever so slightly, wordless as always. With a smile, the barkeep turned to head toward the kitchen but paused halfway.
“Would you like me to have a room prepared for the night as well?”
Another small nod. Silent, deliberate.
“Very well,” he said, disappearing through the swinging door behind the bar.
A few moments passed before he returned, setting a brass room key and a neatly folded towel in front of her on the worn counter. “Room two, second floor. Here’s a fresh towel—figured you might want to wash off. Food’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”
With a polite bow, he turned once more, already immersed in the rhythm of preparing and plating dishes to be sent to other patrons across the dimly lit tavern.
Zahra took the key and towel wordlessly and made her way toward the narrow stairwell tucked into the corner to the right of the main entrance. The wooden stairs creaked faintly under her weight, groaning in protest with each step. As she ascended, muffled voices echoed faintly from down the hall above.
“All to hide a dragon,” said one gruff soldier. “The whole town went up in flames.”
“Yeah,” replied another. “They said they weren’t stopping with us. Heading straight back to the capital to turn in the bounty before sunrise. We’ll be paid once we return.”
“Hmph. Was wondering about that,” the first muttered.
Zahra reached her room and slid the key into the iron lock with a click. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her, cutting off the soldiers’ voices completely. The silence inside was immediate—peaceful, but heavy.
From beneath the folds of Zahra’s hood, a blur of movement erupted as a tiny fairy—no more than six inches tall—darted into the air. She zipped about the room like a spark of green lightning before perching herself atop the dresser, where a change of clothes had been neatly folded.
“Would it kill you to order steak once in a while?” the fairy complained, her voice small but sharp. “Chicken, chicken, chicken. That’s all we ever eat. I’m sick of it.”
She turned toward the rain-speckled window, her small face scrunched in exaggerated disapproval. Behind her, Zahra removed her soaked cloak, revealing a form-fitting tunic beneath in matching black and green. The material was reinforced with carefully stitched leather padding and lightweight metal plates—armor crafted more for flexibility than brute force. Zahra moved quietly, efficiently, saying nothing.
Leaning her greatsword carefully against the wall beside the dresser, she began to unbuckle the armor sections of her tunic.
The fairy, watching from her perch, went suddenly silent. Her eyes widened as Zahra’s wounds were revealed—long, dark gashes still slowly bleeding through half-dried fabric. Deep red smeared against her pale skin, and the jagged wounds glistened under the room’s dim lantern light.
“You should’ve told me you were still bleeding!” the fairy snapped, her wings twitching with indignation. “Those cuts are deep, Zahra. Gods, you really push it sometimes.”
Zahra said nothing as she finished disrobing. She moved with the calm detachment of someone used to pain, to wounds that would fell lesser warriors. Her bare skin was marked not just with fresh wounds, but the scars of a life spent in battle—some thin as knife slits, others old and ragged.
The room’s private bath was built into the far corner, a rare luxury for an inn of such modest appearance. A carved wooden chain hung from the ceiling. Zahra gave it a firm tug.
From within the walls, a soft hiss of pressurized magic groaned to life. Water poured from the faucet, steaming as it filled the large tub with startling speed. The scent of lavender and warm stone filled the air, mingling with the rising mist.
Zahra stepped into the bath, her breath catching slightly as the heat stung her open wounds. Then—without complaint—she lowered herself into the water.
The fairy fluttered down from the dresser, landing gently on Zahra’s head like a crown.
“I swear, one of these days you're going to collapse before I can even start healing you,” the fairy muttered, closing her eyes and beginning a quiet incantation.
Green light pulsed faintly from her small hands, flowing down into Zahra’s wounds. The light shimmered over her body, soothing the angry red slashes, closing the flesh stitch by invisible stitch. Most faded entirely, leaving only damp skin behind. A few, too deep for clean recovery, would remain as faint scars—reminders etched into her back and thigh.
The fairy continued chanting, voice steady now, her irritation melting into weary affection.
Zahra closed her eyes, her expression neutral, but her voice—low and quiet—broke the silence at last.
“Thank you, Zhade.”
Zhade opened one eye and gave her a tired smile. “You’re welcome, Zahra. Just… next time? Let me know before you're half-dead.”
Zahra said nothing. She didn’t need to.
The steam continued to rise, and the night’s silence fell around them like a warm shroud, sheltering two war-weary souls from the storm outside.
The fairy looked genuinely surprised, her sapphire eyes blinking wide. “Wow,” she said, floating backward in mock amazement, “that’s the most I’ve heard you say all week. Maybe next time, you could repay me for all the healing I do by ordering some red meat for dinner.”
Zahra reclined slightly, her back sinking deeper into the steaming bathwater, the soft golden glow of the lanterns casting gentle ripples along the wooden walls.
Zhade continued, hovering lazily above her. “Also, you should really take a day off. We’ve got over a thousand gold stashed between all our mixed coins. One day won’t kill us. Might even do you some good to rest for once.”
Without warning, Zahra took a deep breath and abruptly plunged beneath the surface of the hot water—taking Zhade down with her.
The water churned violently for a heartbeat or two, silence filling the room but for the occasional crackle of firewood. Then, Zahra erupted from the water with a gasp, strands of black hair clinging to her face and shoulders. At the same time, a sputtering, indignant voice echoed out.
“What the hell, Zahra?!” Zhade shrieked, shooting up from the bath like a soaked arrow. “A little warning next time! I’m still fully clothed!”
Grumbling, the tiny fairy zipped from Zahra’s head into the main room, droplets flying off her like mist. In one rapid, dazzling spin midair, she peeled off her small clothes and flung them onto the chair where Zahra had already laid her tunic and cloak.
She raised her hands, and a gentle gust of wind swirled into being from her palms. The warm breeze intensified as she hovered over the chair, using her wind magic to dry both their garments with practiced precision.
Beneath the now-drying tunic and cloak sat some of Zahra’s essential gear:829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJyskWOvKoa
Two sleek, gauntlet-like wrist devices capable of firing a thin, diamond-woven grappling wire;829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0BvJPd544Q
A large coin purse filled with various currencies;829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0Sd0VaWwYj
A second pouch heavier still, clinking softly with rare ores and glittering gems;829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡed7Yrf1rCP
And a compact leather backpack filled with supplies.
Inside the bag: a small, one-handed pistol crossbow equipped with silver-tipped bolts; a flintlock pistol; a neatly packed medical kit stocked with potions, bandages, and antidotes; and a reinforced scroll case filled with paper talismans and magical parchment.
Resting on the floor were Zahra’s high leather boots, worn nearly to her knees. Each had hunting knives seamlessly integrated into their side stitching. The right boot also bore a discreet wand sheath, which cradled a slender wand made of aged magicwood, embedded with glimmering stones—amethyst, sapphire, and jade—worked into the hilt.
By the time their clothes had dried, Zahra stepped out from the washroom wrapped in a plain white towel. Her dark eyes scanned the room methodically. She approached the chair and began the ritual of dressing, adjusting her armor, belts, and holsters with the calm precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times before.
Above the chair, Zhade performed a graceful flip, donning her freshly dried clothing in a swirl of shimmering motion. As Zahra began wiping the faint bloodstains from her tunic with a rag soaked in cleansing solution from her medkit, the strong scent of alcohol and clove filled the air. Most of the stains faded under her diligent scrubbing, though a few rust-colored patches remained as silent reminders of earlier violence.
Once fully geared, she packed her belongings away—scrolls slotted, weapons sheathed, coins hidden—and tossed her cloak over her shoulders. Zhade fluttered up and disappeared into the shadowed folds of Zahra’s hood.
They exited the room quietly.
The guards who had been stationed in the hallway were gone, their absence explained by the raucous noises of laughter, grunting, and moaning leaking from the nearby room. Zahra passed it with her usual stoic expression, unfazed as a woman shrieked with theatrical delight inside. The door rattled slightly with each bump of the bed against the wall.
Descending the staircase, her boots soft on the wooden steps, Zahra emerged into the tavern’s common floor.
It was even more crowded than before.
The scent of spiced mead, sweat, smoke, and roasted meats thickened the air. More soldiers had arrived—likely reinforcements or travelers returning from nearby skirmishes. Tavern patrons shouted for more ale. Laughter and crude songs boomed from the back near the hearth, where a trio of bards were plucking wildly at mismatched instruments.
Somewhere in the commotion, a drunken voice howled a raunchy sea shanty.
Zahra stepped forward, unbothered by the noise, the clamor, or the leering stares of men who quickly looked away when met with her silent, death-marked gaze. She moved with the quiet weight of experience—graceful, calculating, dangerous.
The man from before, still wearing his soot-stained apron, called out cheerfully from behind the bar, “Ms. Zahra! Impeccable timing—your meal’s almost done. Just a few more minutes!”
He placed four mugs of frothy ale along the polished oak counter where she had been seated earlier. Zahra stepped forward, propping her longsword gently against the bar’s side before sinking back onto her stool with the weight of someone who had seen more blood than rest. Reaching for the nearest mug, she downed the entire sixteen-ounce serving in a single, thunderous gulp and slammed it back on the counter with a satisfied exhale.
Without moving her head, she cast her gaze across the tavern, eyes sweeping over the dimly lit room like a hunting cat scanning its territory. Most tables were occupied by soldiers clad in the dark steel and crimson sashes of the Valmosian capital. A few seats were taken by unfamiliar faces—wandering merchants, travelers, or perhaps mercenaries of lesser renown.
Tucked in the shadowed corner of the room sat four peculiar patrons: a female human paladin dressed in pristine white armor that shimmered faintly with enchantment; a Leporidae demi-human with more human softness than beastly sharpness; a squat, muscular dwarf with brown hair and beard; and a hulking green orc demi-hume who guffawed with unrestrained glee. They were laughing among themselves, speaking too quietly for Zahra to overhear. Their table overflowed with platters of meat, bread, and half-finished mugs—and there was one empty chair.
The tavern now echoed with the harmony of several bards strumming lutes and plucking harp strings in unison around the circular chimney fire pit. Melodies danced up into the thatched rafters, blending with the crackle of flame and the occasional clap from drunken patrons.
Soon, the bartender returned, four plates expertly balanced along his arms, which he set down with practiced grace in front of her. Without a word, Zahra began to devour her meal with startling speed, tearing into each dish with the kind of fervor that left no doubt she'd been starving for hours.
Zahra nonchalantly held small bits of food near her neck every so often. Hidden in the folds of her hood, the diminutive fairy Zhade plucked them away with careful hands and nibbled in the privacy the hood provided.
As she ate, her gaze slid back toward the corner table—the group still laughing, the paladin now gesturing animatedly. Still too far to hear.
Zahra reached into the folds of her cloak, withdrawing a few gleaming gold coins, and placed them beside one untouched plate on the counter.
“You really know how to put that away, don’t you?” came a voice from a few stools down, casual and amused.
Zahra glanced sideways with a mouth full of roasted potatoes, eyes locking onto a shorter man dressed in all black. A red bandana tied around his forehead gave his otherwise grim ensemble a flash of color. He sipped casually from his mug of ale, posture relaxed.
She looked back to her food, chewing deliberately.
Before the man could speak again, a quiet voice—one that seemed to be Zahra’s—said between bites, “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be some kind of compliment… but piss off, please. I’m eating.”
Unfazed, the man raised his mug slightly in mock salute. “Name’s Vlad,” he said, still smiling faintly. “Nice to meet you too.” He turned to face forward again, the light from the hearth casting half his face in shadow. Despite the grin, his eyes carried a weary flicker, like someone too used to being unwelcome.
His black cloak fell in elegant folds behind him, and two long daggers hung sheathed at opposite hips—well-maintained and clearly well-used.
Zhade, still perched on Zahra’s shoulder and nestled deep within the cover of the hood, chewed with her mouth open and muttered dryly, “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m just hungry. And not in a talkative mood.”
Vlad’s expression softened into something more genuine. “It’s all good. Late night. Storm outside. Hunger takes precedence, I get it.” He gave a small shrug. “Just figured I’d try my luck chatting with a pretty lady.”
Zhade snapped back without hesitation, “I’m not one of your tavern wenches, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Vlad stood slowly, downed the last of his ale in a practiced tilt, and placed a few copper coins on the bar with a clink. “Didn’t say you were.” He stepped closer—just close enough that his voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned toward Zahra’s hood.
“Next time,” he said, a sly glint in his eye, “maybe let you do the talking instead of your little friend.”
With that, he turned and walked across the room, boots thudding lightly against the tavern floor. He approached the peculiar party in the corner and slid effortlessly into the vacant chair, the others greeting him with familiar nods and casual smiles.
Zahra said nothing. Her eyes lingered on the group as she picked up her untouched plate and pulled it closer. A long silence passed as she chewed slowly, her thoughts drifting to the strange man and stranger company he kept.
Zhade, after a few moments, leaned closer to Zahra’s ear and whispered with her mouth full, “He smelled like trouble.”
Zahra didn’t respond.
She just kept chewing.
And watched.
As he sat down, everyone at the table erupted with laughter as the dwarf shouted, “Turned down again?” The table continued to roar while Vlad sat with a look of humiliation painted across his face.
Across the room at the bar, Zahra and Zhade exchanged the same look of surprise—shocked that Vlad could see straight through their charade.
Zhade muttered through a mouthful of food, “Only way he could’ve known I was here is if he’s either a peeping tom and looked through your window while you were bathing... or a stalker. Or both.”
Zahra’s face flushed bright red. Abruptly, she stood and stormed over to where Vlad sat. He looked up at her in surprise, and before he could utter a word, Zahra slapped him clean across the face. In a low, monotone voice, she hissed, “Pervert. Stalker.” Then, without another glance, she turned on her heel, walked back to the bar, sat down, and continued eating as if nothing had happened.
The orc and the dwarf burst into more laughter, cheering, while the other two women at the table remained dead silent—staring with wide-eyed expressions of disbelief.
The dwarf cried out, “Vlad really has a way with the ladies, doesn’t he?”
Vlad groaned, rubbing the side of his face. “It’s like a never-ending curse.”
The Leporidae demi-hume girl grinned. “Maybe you should try going after some males for once. Might be your cup of tea.”
Vlad replied, clearly irritated, “Shut up. If I felt that way about another man, I’d have gone that route already.”
The orc chimed in with a gravelly chuckle, “Looks like another lonely night of pounding your pecker till you pass out.”
Vlad fired back instantly, “Shut up, Torgan. Like you won’t be doing the same thing.”
Torgan smirked. “Unlike you, my daily existence isn’t driven by the sole purpose of procreation.”
The female paladin abruptly cut in, her tone sharp. “You two know you’re still in the presence of two women, right?”
The dwarf laughed. “Come on, Avry. Don’t be such a prude. It’s not like you don’t fancy a man or woman now and then.”
Avry glared at him. “My romances are none of your concern, dwarf. And they’re certainly not dinner table conversation.”
The rabbit girl, Aurora, giggled. “I don’t know, Avry... Morak might be on to something. You don’t seem to have trouble pulling anyone you lust after. Maybe you should give Vlad some tips on romance.”
Avry sighed. “Not you too, Aurora.” She downed a full mug of ale and muttered, “I don’t see you with a man or woman of any kind. So, what’s your deal?”
Aurora smiled. “I simply don’t crave that kind of attention from anyone to enjoy my life. Just being alive, watching the planet spin, is enough for me.”
Morak grinned. “Is that so? Even with the way I’ve seen you gaze at Isaac and Vyncent—like you’re buttering them up for supper.”
Aurora’s expression turned to horror. “You shut your mouth, dwarf. Or your fate ends here.”
Everyone at the table erupted into laughter just as one of the bards, having finished his song, rose with a graceful bow. Slinging his lute in its case across his back, he made his way to the tavern’s front doors. With a casual push, he disappeared into the storm-lashed night beyond the swinging wooden doors.
Moments later, a blood-curdling scream split through the noise of the storm—sharp, abrupt, and unmistakably human. The tavern fell instantly silent, all laughter choked into stillness as heads turned toward the door.
Then came the sound of splintering wood and crashing stone. The wall to the right of the entrance erupted inward as two massive troll-like beasts smashed through it. Their hulking forms flattened the table nearest the breach, crushing the soldiers seated there into mangled heaps of blood and shattered bone. Behind them, a swarm of goblin-like orcish creatures stormed the breach, pouring into the tavern with jagged weapons drawn and bloodlust in their eyes.
The unarmed and the slow were cut down instantly. Limbs flew, torsos were split open, and heads were cleaved as the horde tore through tables of stunned patrons. One monstrous creature charged the chef behind the bar, raising a rusted cleaver high above its head. The chef froze, eyes wide, his scream caught in his throat.
A split-second before the blow could fall, a gleaming diamond-threaded grappling hook whistled through the air and punched through the monster’s skull with a sickening crunch. The creature was yanked violently to the side just as a blur of motion crossed the tavern.
Zahra stood at the end of the bar, one grappling hook extended from her gauntlet, her other hand gripping a towering two-handed greatsword. In a blink, she surged forward, her sword slicing in a brutal arc that cleaved the charging beast clean in half at the waist. Viscera sprayed across the nearby barrels and floorboards as the top half of the monster flopped to the ground in twitching ruin.
Before the two halves even hit the floor, Zahra’s wire retracted with a metallic hiss. Without pause, she raised her opposite arm and fired her second grappling hook into the skull of another creature that had leapt onto the bar. The impact sent the creature sprawling backward, and Zahra yanked hard, pulling it violently off the bar. It slammed to the floor, dazed. The chef, having recovered his senses, vaulted over the counter with one hand and an iron paddle in the other. With a cry, he brought the paddle down on the creature's head, crushing it into a wet pulp.
Near the entrance, soldiers scrambled to hold the breach, battling the giant trolls with spear and steel. One soldier, bloodied and desperate, raised his spear overhead and roared, “Don’t let them leave here alive! For the Empire!”
“For the Empire!” the remaining soldiers echoed in thunderous unison.
One of the trolls swung its massive club and crushed a soldier into the tavern wall with a sound like a melon being stomped. Another soldier retaliated, plunging a spear into the beast’s wrist, severing tendons and causing the brute to drop its weapon. It screeched in fury—just before a warhammer came spinning through the air like a divine executioner’s judgment. It struck the troll’s head with a deafening impact, exploding the skull in a shower of gore and bone. The beast collapsed with a groan, and Morrak stepped through the carnage, retrieving his hammer with a grim nod.
Beside him, a mage clad in padded armor extended his staff and muttered an incantation under his breath. Fire erupted from the tip in a blazing stream, engulfing the troll’s twitching corpse in flame until nothing remained but cinders and scorched bone.
By the firepit, a bard had fallen backward while dodging a strike, scrambling in terror on the floor. A snarling goblin loomed over him, weapon raised to impale. Just as it prepared to thrust, an arrow whistled from the rear of the tavern and buried itself in the creature’s back. It let out a shriek—then burst violently from the waist up. Blood, organs, and sinew painted the hearth, dousing every nearby table in a five-meter radius with steaming viscera.
Atop one of the few untouched tables, Aurora stood tall, her bow humming with magical energy. With deadly precision, she fired another shot, and another, cutting down enemy after enemy. Her enchanted arrows struck with terrifying force, each one detonating with a flash of arcane power.
Beside her, Avry and Vlad held the line. Vlad spun with his twin daggers, dancing between strikes, each motion a blur of speed and lethal accuracy. Avry stood firm with sword and shield, cutting down anything that got too close to Aurora, her shield deflecting blades, claws, and arrows alike as she fought back-to-back with her companions.
The attack had come without warning—swift, unrelenting, and merciless. So sudden was the onslaught that there had been no time for questions, no time for orders, no time to think. Only to survive.
The tavern floor had become a warzone.
The creatures weren’t formidable by themselves, but they came in waves—feral, gnashing, clawing, howling. So many flooded in that a single misstep meant certain death. Blood painted the stone floors in thick strokes. Viscera steamed against overturned tables and broken mugs. The air was thick with rot and steel.
A massive troll-like beast, towering over the rest, let out a guttural roar and swung its crude wooden club in a wild arc. Several soldiers were caught mid-charge—their torsos torn from their waists in an explosion of entrails and bone. Their screams were brief.
With a bellow of rage, the creature flung its blood-soaked club across the room, straight toward Zahra.
"Zahra, look out!" cried Zhade, her voice raw with panic.
Zahra turned—her eyes glowing with something deeper than anger—and raised one hand toward the incoming projectile. She didn’t even utter an incantation. No gesture, no verbal command—just pure will.
A surge of electric plasma erupted from her palm, arcing like a violent web of lightning across the room. The blast struck the oncoming club mid-air, vaporizing it instantly before crashing into the beast behind it.
The creature never had a chance to scream.
Its upper half was gone—burned from existence—leaving only twitching legs, a smoking waist, and two thin charred strips trailing up toward what used to be shoulders. Its remains collapsed, falling forward into a broken table with a sickening crunch before slamming to the ground in a steaming heap.
Across the blood-slick tavern floor, Vlad and Avry paused mid-swing, both stunned by the sheer raw force of Zahra’s incantation-less spellwork. Vlad’s dagger wavered in his hand as he stole a glance toward her.
What the hell pissed her off that much? he thought, blinking away a drop of blood that had spattered across his brow.
Zahra, for her part, wasn't thinking about combat. Her mind burned with one thought alone: My dinner. My paid-for, well-earned, halfway-eaten dinner.
That unholy rage was now painted across the tavern in smoldering bodies.
All around them, the tide of the battle began to turn. With each breath, fewer creatures remained. Tavern patrons, guards, and adventurers alike rallied, cutting down the rest in brutal fashion. Severed limbs littered the floor. Black ichor pooled with red blood in a mingling dance of horror. Most of the tavern's original guard had been slaughtered, but a few stood victorious, weapons slick with gore, breathing heavily.
From above, another squad of soldiers descended the stairwells, hacking their way down from the upper floors to reinforce those on the ground. Their boots splashed through the carnage as the last shrieks of the attackers died off.
Silence fell—briefly.
Smoke coiled from the shattered remains of overturned furniture. The once-lively music stage now held only the mangled body of a bard, his lute still clutched in broken fingers.
Zahra stood frozen, eyes locked on the plates of food still sitting on the bar counter. They were splattered in blood—both human and monstrous—ruined beyond recognition. The last of the meat soaked in crimson broth, dripping slowly onto the floor like the final sand in an hourglass.
The moment was broken by a thunderous BOOM—then another, and another.
Explosions erupted outside the tavern. Screams followed—shrieks of terror, wailing, the sound of flesh being ripped apart.
The surviving soldiers, eyes wide, surged toward the ragged hole in the tavern’s wall—the one the beasts had burst through when the nightmare began. Zahra and the others followed, bloodstained and weary, weapons still gripped in white-knuckled hands.
What they saw turned their veins to ice.
The city was ablaze.
Infernos consumed entire rows of buildings. Smoke rose like funeral pyres into the black sky. Flames licked up the sides of homes, casting flickering shadows of horror. In the firelight, unholy things moved—beasts not born of any natural world. Twisted creatures of flesh and bone, gnarled claws and open maws. Hulking, wretched horrors dragged civilians from their homes, tearing them apart in the streets. Some creatures feasted on bodies—half-eaten children, headless parents, townsfolk whose screams still echoed even after they had died.
The caravans and wagons parked near the tavern were obliterated—crushed under monstrous feet, set alight, or overturned. The animals? Dead. Ripped apart. Their handlers lay beside them, eyes wide and glassy, throats torn open.
A soldier fighting in the chaos outside turned and shouted toward the tavern survivors:
“Protect and save as many townsfolk as you can!”
A tide of twisted creatures surged toward the tavern's patrons, many of whom were still frozen in stunned disbelief as chaos overtook the city streets. Without hesitation, Morak and Torgan braced themselves, their war hammers raised high. With brutish strength and precise fury, they smashed in skulls and shattered limbs, their strikes turning bone to dust and sending viscera splattering against the blood-slick cobblestones.
Panic erupted as patrons scrambled toward the tavern’s front doors. They spilled into the street, only to find the perimeter overrun. The night was alive with shrieking abominations and monstrous silhouettes lurching from alleys and ruins alike.
In an almost defeated tone, Vlad muttered, “How could this have all happened without us hearing it... until now?”
The city had become a slaughterhouse. Hulking, unrecognizable beasts trampled through once-familiar streets, leaving ruin in their wake. The last of the town’s soldiers desperately tried to shepherd any remaining civilians to safety—but it was a losing battle.
With grim certainty, Avry replied, “I hate to say it, but this city is beyond saving.” Her grip tightened on sword and shield, knuckles whitening. “We need to stay together—and get back to the caravan. Now.”
As Morak and Torgan crushed wave after wave of enemies with violent precision, the earth trembled behind them. A monstrous form—half rotted, half skeletal—smashed through the remnants of the tavern wall. It was a Giant, its immense frame wrapped in sinew and exposed bone, wielding a massive, rusted double-bladed axe. Its swing came down in a terrifying arc, the mere force of it causing a shockwave to ripple outward like a thunderclap.
Aurora and Avry barely escaped the crushing blow, hurling themselves in opposite directions as the axe buried itself deep in the earth. But Vlad, moving with uncanny agility, leapt into the air. He flipped over the falling blade, landing with perfect balance on the flat of the weapon and sprinting up the handle toward the beast’s head.
The Giant roared in fury, trying to wrench its axe free, but Vlad was too quick. He jammed one dagger deep into the creature’s eye, twisting violently as blackened pus spilled out. With his other hand, he buried a second blade at the base of the Giant’s neck, causing the beast to stagger.
But the Giant wasn't done.
With a furious bellow, it snatched Vlad mid-swing, flinging him like a ragdoll into the smoldering remains of the tavern. He crashed through a support beam with a sickening crack, his body disappearing beneath the rubble.
The beast let out a maddened howl, clutching at its ruined face—until a streak of silver flashed through the air. A towering greatsword, swung with devastating force, cleaved clean through the Giant’s neck. The severed head hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, and the rest of its colossal body followed, crashing down like a fallen monument.
Zahra landed nimbly atop the corpse, the momentum of her killing blow carrying her forward in a fluid, deadly arc.
Avry climbed onto the Giant’s collapsed chest. Her voice rang clear as she raised her sword above her head. “Your soul will not leave this world corrupted!” With a sharp cry, she drove the blade down into its heart. Purple light surged along the runes engraved in the blade, glowing brighter until the entire sword pulsed like a beacon. That light surged into the crystal embedded in the hilt, then extinguished, sealing the Giant’s spirit within.
From across the street, Vlad stirred beneath scorched timber, pushing himself up to one knee. Ash smeared his face, his ribs screamed in protest, and his vision blurred at the edges.
He spotted Avry and Zahra standing triumphantly, but his gaze shifted beyond them—where Morak, Torgan, and Aurora were still locked in brutal combat against a swarm of goblin-like beasts, hacking and cleaving as the tide grew thicker by the second.
His limbs trembled as he whispered bitterly, “Why am I always the first one to take damage...?”
He took a step forward—and froze.
A strange, ethereal light—faintly pink and purple—began to glow from the corpses of fallen soldiers littered near Aurora. At first, he thought it a trick of the smoke and fire. But then... the bodies began to twitch.
One by one, the dead began to rise, twitching erratically. Missing limbs. Hollowed torsos. Half-eaten skulls. And yet, they stood.
The strange light faded, leaving behind only the stench of decay and the glint of lifeless eyes.
Vlad opened his mouth to scream a warning, but nothing came out. His breath caught in his throat—his body too battered, too broken to muster a shout.
Then—
FWUMP.
An arrow whistled past his ear and detonated behind him, splattering gore across the nearby wall. A soldier’s corpse, now missing most of its torso, collapsed beside him in a wet, crumpled heap.
His eyes snapped back toward Aurora. Her voice reached him in fragments, muffled by the ringing in his ears. She was screaming—desperately trying to reach him.
He could just make out the shape of her lips.
"YOU NEED TO MOVE!"
He turned, heart dropping into his gut.
A towering troll-like creature, nearly three stories tall, was mid-swing—its grotesque, jagged blade dripping with blood as it arced downward toward him. Its eyes gleamed with malice, its maw twitching into a grin as the weapon fell toward him like the hand of a vengeful god.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Zahra again. She was mid-flight, her grappling hook buried in the beast’s flesh, pulling herself upward with incredible speed.
But even as she surged toward them—he knew.
She wouldn’t reach him in time.
Without warning, Avry crashed into Vlad, tackling him violently out of the path of death. In the same breath, the creature’s towering blade came cleaving downward. It tore through her shield like wet parchment, then raked across her upper chest. It didn’t stop. It sheared through skin, sinew, and bone—slicing from beneath her left shoulder, crossing diagonally through her ribcage, and exiting by her right hip.
The scream that rose in her throat died before it could escape.
Her body didn’t just fall—it spilled apart. Her shield arm hit the ground first, severed cleanly at the bicep. A heartbeat later, her body dropped in two grotesque halves—one collapsing sideways, the other flopping forward like a butchered carcass. Her entrails uncoiled from the split torso and splayed across the soaked cobblestones like glistening ropes of glazed red and violet, steaming in the cold rain.
The world around them froze.
Everyone stood in stunned silence, eyes wide, mouths agape as they stared at the broken remains of their comrade. The storm above raged on, thunder echoing the horror below.
Zahra’s grappling hook hissed through the air as she propelled herself forward. Her eyes held no emotion—just frigid purpose. From her boot, she withdrew her wand, flicking it up with a snap of her wrist. “Die,” she said, her voice as calm and dead as winter wind.
At the tip of the wand, a red-and-black talisman flickered into view, pulsing like a heartbeat. One of the crystals embedded in its hilt shattered to dust, and then—
A pulse.
A single flash of blistering crimson light exploded from the wand. The concussive force warped the space around it, distorting air, sound, and color. A hairline ripple like cracked glass tore through the battlefield, ripping through the creature’s massive body and disintegrating everything in its path. A corridor of gore erupted fifty meters behind the beast, painting the battlefield with dissolved corpses, chunks of ash, and bone shrapnel.
The monster was no more. Nothing was left but mist, blood rain, and scorched earth.
Vlad scrambled to his knees. His face was soaked—not just with the rain, but with the blood of the woman who had just saved him. Tears welled in his eyes as he croaked, “Avry…?”
His voice trembled, full of dread. “What… just happened?”
Zahra slid her wand back into its boot holster, her lips pressed into a flat line. She muttered her crystal count under her breath. Four left.
Vlad’s sobs cut through the silence like a knife. “Fuck!” he screamed, smashing his fists against the mud. Tears streamed down his face, tracing paths through the blood splattered on his cheeks.
Zahra didn’t hesitate. She stormed toward him, grabbed him by the collar, and slapped him hard enough to stagger him upright.
Zhade landed beside them, floating just above the ground. “I know she was your friend, but she died to save your life,” she barked. “Snap out of it. If you want her death to mean anything, stand up!”
She reached out and began casting a healing spell, golden light pouring from his hands into Vlad’s battered form.
Morak and Torgan roared with fury. Fueled by vengeance, their warhammers fell like meteors, smashing skulls, ribcages, and spines. They crushed the risen corpses beneath them until there was nothing left but crimson paste and shattered bones. Blood drenched their armor, their eyes alight with wrath and grief.
The tavern behind them was now little more than scorched ruins and cracked stone, but the courtyard was clear. No more enemies were advancing—for now.
Morak’s hammer burst the skull of the final monster in range. He turned, bloodied and heaving, to where Vlad still knelt beside Avry’s remains.
Aurora collapsed beside Avry, her tears joining the rain, soaking into the mud. She reached for her friend’s severed hand but couldn’t bring herself to touch it.
Torgan called out urgently, “We don’t have much time! Something else will come. We need to move—now!”
Morak grunted. “We’ll carry her. Give her a proper burial. Somewhere safe.”
Vlad stood up slowly. His hand trembled as he reached for her blade—Chronos, Avry’s mythic sword. Its soulgem pulsating softly in its hilt.
“This is my fault…” he whispered. “She died because of me.”
A voice, theatrical and shrill, echoed from the wreckage of the tavern. “Oh, how deliciously tragic!”
Atop the last burning beam of the structure stood a man cloaked in soaked brown robes. A twisted smile split his pale face, and a jagged staff rested in his hand.
“I must say, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this performance,” he cackled, prancing in circles atop the crumbling roof. “Watching you scramble, hearing you scream, seeing you burn! Ah! A joy unmatched!”
Then his voice dropped—cold, cruel, composed. “But alas… curtain call.”
He raised his staff and chanted in an alien tongue. The sky responded with a pulse of sickly purple light. A blast shot upward, splitting the clouds, before hurtling back down with hellish force and striking Avry’s remains.
Red lightning crackled from the point of impact. Her torso convulsed violently as necrotic energy arced across her bones. The nearby corpses—friend and foe alike—began to twitch.
Arms, legs, heads, ribcages—bits of burned, shattered remains lurched toward Avry’s body like metal to a magnet. Limbs twisted unnaturally as they dragged through the mud. They slammed together—fusing. Sinew re-knitted with sinew, bone locked into sockets that didn’t belong, torsos melded to spines, the faces of monsters merged with townsfolk.
The monstrosity forming at the center of the blast was not Avry. It was something else.
A grotesque amalgam of flesh, fur, armor, and steel, breathing with a wet, bubbling noise. Its spine writhed. Its face screamed silently with three mouths stitched from different corpses. And at the center, Avry’s head and severed torso. Her eyes opened and blinked—just once, bloodshot and glassy—before vanishing beneath a mass of gnarled tissue.
Everyone stepped back.
No words.
No breath.
Only the hum of necrotic power still churning, still building.
Zhade’s voice came first—barely more than a whisper. “Gods…”
Morak readied his hammer. “We destroy it,” he said grimly. “No soul deserves this fate.”
The storm grew quiet.
Before anyone could fully comprehend what they were witnessing, the grotesque abomination began to truly take shape. Avry’s high-pitched, inhuman shriek tore through the air, splitting the night like shattered glass. The unnatural wail seemed to empower the distant horrors still ravaging the city, as if her soul had been hijacked to serve as their darker master.
The creature—once Avry—ballooned to half the size of the obliterated tavern. From its rapidly mutating form, hundreds of corpse-laden tentacles erupted, writhing in every direction. They impaled nearby bodies—fresh and rotting alike—and reeled them into its mass, stitching together a flesh tapestry of screaming mouths and twitching limbs, feeding its grotesque evolution.
There was no time to scream, to react, or even to think—it all happened within mere heartbeats.
A flurry of tentacles lunged toward the group, black sinew and bone spiraling like harpoons of rotting death. At the last second, Zhade threw out a vortex of wind, the gale so fierce it sent everyone flying in opposite directions, narrowly avoiding the piercing flesh-spikes.
Zahra landed like a phantom, her boots barely touching the earth before she broke into a dead sprint—straight at the monstrosity. Tentacles tore through the air around her, but she was faster, her momentum carried by corkscrewing flips and aerial somersaults. One tendril grazed her boot—another was cleaved clean through by her blade, the stump spraying congealed black ichor across the cobblestones.
Without pause, she fired a grappling hook into the creature’s chest, the line yanking her forward like a spear thrown by the gods. Mid-flight, she drew the wand from her boot. A tentacle, massive and jagged, snatched her by the ankle and whipped her downward—toward a gaping, dripping maw opening from the abomination’s torso, lined with teeth like rusted scythes and shattered bone.
As it began to lower her in, Zahra’s eyes were glassy and unblinking. She whispered, flat and mechanical: “Die.”
The wand sparked. A red and black emblem glowed, the gem at its base detonating into dust as a near-invisible concussive blast punched a three-foot-wide hole clean through the creature’s body. A roar of agony exploded from it as it hurled Zahra into the air.
Grappling hook whistling through the wind, she latched onto the crumbled frame of the tavern—aiming for where the mystery man had once stood before vanishing. As she reeled upward, she saw it—the wound regenerating. Flesh stitched together like melting candle wax, grotesque and fast.
A jolt of dread hit her. That blast should have reduced anything living to pulp, and yet it lived.
On the ground, Morak raised his warhammer, voice booming with fury and sorrow. “Come on! We can’t let her bear this alone—for Avry’s soul!”
He and Torgan charged the beast, shoulder to shoulder.
From a distance, Aurora calmly swapped crystals in her enchanted quiver. The new gem shimmered blue with frostfire essence. She drew three arrows, set them, and fired.
The first ignited with electric flame, burning across the monster’s skin.
The second shattered into a spike of frozen shards.
The third detonated mid-flight, sending tendrils of flame licking up its neck. It screamed again, more ethereal than anything mortal.
Vlad bent low, tears smearing soot down his cheeks. He opened a small satchel at his waist, retrieving several glowing crystals. Removing the gem from Avry’s sword, he replaced it with a different faintly glowing purple one.
To Aurora, who stood nearby, he murmured, voice raw, “I need an opening… I must reach her. We can’t let her soul… depart like this.”
He clutched her sword in both hands—and ran.
Tentacles whipped toward him like bone-tipped whips, but he sliced through them with surgical precision.
Zahra, watching from the roof, was frozen.
Zhade screamed, hovering beside her in the storm-torn wind, “What the hell are you doing?! They’re going to die if we don’t act!”
Down below, Vlad reached Torgan just in time.
“Torgan!”
Torgan didn’t need details. He swung his hammer like a trebuchet, Vlad leapt onto the arc and was launched high into the air.
As Vlad ascended, tentacles darted from all directions.
Two were blown apart mid-air by Aurora’s arrows.
One remained.
Vlad braced for impact.
But before it could hit him, Zahra’s grappling hook exploded through his leg and yanked him violently off course. He screamed, not in pain, but in disbelief.
As he tumbled, he saw Zahra fly past him—a streak of motion—snatching the sword he had dropped from mid-air.
The abomination, still focused on Vlad, hadn’t prepared for her.
Zahra landed atop the writhing beast, right above where Avry’s torn remains still fused grotesquely with its chest.
Without hesitation, she plunged the sword through Avry’s heart. The gem pulsed with purple light, briefly igniting the arcane symbols embedded across its blade.
She yanked the blade free and, with her wand in the other hand, aimed it directly at Avry’s remains.
“Die.”
The wand flared. The blast tore another three-foot hole through the creature—but this time, it didn’t regenerate.
It went rigid, tendrils twitching, spasming like dying roots.
And then—it collapsed sideways with a sickening crash, flesh bursting and unraveling as it hit the mud-slick street.
Zahra leapt down, landing in a roll.
Morak, panting, stepped forward. “Young lass,” he rasped, “what’s your name?”
Zahra moved to Vlad—still groaning where he’d landed—and carefully unhooked the grappling line from his leg, pouring a blue vial onto the wound. It hissed, flesh stitching rapidly as steam rose.
Vlad winced. “That was a very unorthodox way to save a man,” he groaned, “but thanks.”
Zahra opened her mouth to respond—then stiffened.
A sharp pain burned through her lower abdomen. Her eyes went wide.
She looked down. Blood—thick and dark—was pouring freely beneath her tunic, running down her leg in hot rivulets. She wavered. She wanted to say her name.
But all she managed was a whisper:
“…Pervert. Stalker.”
Then she crumpled forward into the mud and rain, face-first—unconscious, barely breathing.829Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQ9x1ZLL6LB
