His face turned pale. As his pulse weakened, nausea churned in his gut.
He could've won this fight—but he lost.
Not only that, he thought to himself, They're right. With a performance like that, no wonder I'm not welcome here.
Everyone around him looked unimpressed.
As they walked away, it felt like each step they took ripped a piece of his heart out.
His master's voice echoed in his ears—close, yet distant.
"I've taught you all I can. Go out there and save us."
Snapped out of the shock, he started looking around.
Slowly. Methodically.
Only one person remained standing over him—it was the pyromancer from before.
She avoided eye contact, her gaze fixed on the sand and dirt.
His body curled inwards, head lowering, as if trying to hide.
After that performance, he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
He wished he no longer existed.
He started walking toward his tent, every step heavier than the last—like pushing a mountain.
He arrived, barely able to lift the flap of green cloth covering the entrance.
He didn't. He just walked through it.
And collapsed inside.
Devastated.
Shaky.
Hope slipping through his fingers like dust.
As his body sank into the hard, itchy sleeping bag, he felt the bugs crawling from the gaps he forgot to close.
He didn't care.
Too tired. Too drained.
It was going to be a long journey after this. He might as well rest while he could.
Yeah, he thought. Even though I lost, I still can't die… No matter how much I want to, I can't end the journey this early.
I should probably just rest for a few hours before I get going.
And with that, he fell into a deep slumber.
Only to be ripped out of it by high-pitched screams.
The metallic taste of fear and blood hit his tongue.
He jolted upright. Am I being attacked?
No. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.
Looking around, he realized—Oh damn. It's not just me. This entire place is under attack.
Without a second thought, he rushed outside.
What he saw froze him in place.
His body shivered. Goosebumps crawled across his skin.
Tall, pale humanoids. Bone-white and all wrong.
Arms too long. Faces stretched and twisted.
Every one of them had a mouth full of jagged teeth.
Barely clothed, they were devouring everyone in sight.
Bodies littered the ground like trash.
He tried to gather himself, forced his thoughts into order.
They match the description Master gave of ghouls. That's why the attack feels so coordinated…
Ghouls have intelligence. Almost like humans.
Before he could think further, the Voice of Truth boomed inside him:
"FIGHT. THIS IS YOUR CHANCE. YOU HAVE TO FIGHT. IT'S NOW OR NEVER."
That voice had never led him wrong—and he wouldn't fail it now.
So, he ran.
Ran like his blood was on fire.
Bodies everywhere. But in a sick way, they bought him time.
Time to think. Time to move.
Adrenaline surged through his veins, giving him the strength to breathe, to run, to act.
He saw it all—blood sprayed like paint, bodies torn open, clothes shredded to ribbons.
The smell of iron, the taste of it—it was all around him.
His stomach churned, bile rising from everything he saw.
Rotting flesh. Gnawed corpses. It was too much.
But then—finally—he found it.
The sword.
The same one that had been flung from his grip. Still lying in the dirt.
Untouched.
As always, luck was on his side. Just barely.
He picked it up, hand trembling, eyes scanning the chaos.
And then—he saw her.
The pyromancer… she's still fighting?
Surrounded.
Five towering, pale ghouls circled around her like vultures.
She was alone, her spells weakening, bouncing off their pearly, hardened skin.
She was losing.
And he was scared.
But his body moved on its own.
Before he knew it, he was behind one of them.
He hurled his blade—clean, perfect, aimed at the neck.
He threw his entire weight into the strike.
And it hit.
Blood sprayed as the blade cut through flesh and bone.
And then—the ghouls froze.
One of them collapsed.
Its head hit the ground with a dull thud.
Dirt flew up, speckling its lifeless eyes.
I… I did that? he thought.
Blood erupted like a crimson fountain from the neck.
And the body dropped like a landslide.
The pyromancer seized the opening—her hands flaring with magic.
Flames. Divine and unforgiving.
They consumed another ghoul.
Orange and red fire turned its snowy skin to ash.
Its claws melted. The heat singed Meurum's skin even from afar.
A screech followed. One that echoed across the wasteland.
The same kind of scream that had awakened him—but this time, it wasn't human.
It wasn't fear. It was rage.
And pain. Unbearable, animal pain.
A terrifying, beautiful sound.
But there was no time to admire it.
Three more ghouls remained.
And the fight was far from over.