"We're almost there… Now—jump!"
With zero hesitation, I hurl myself forward, body twisting midair before I plunge into the murky depths.
Garrik, meanwhile, glances back—just in time to see the monster lunging. With no other choice while still refusing to jump into the water, he snarls out a single-word spell.
"Vorthar!"
A blast of air erupts from his hand—too close to himself, since the monster's right there as well—launching both him and the creature in opposite directions. Clearly, the boy's at the peak of his panic as he crashes into the water right beside me, vanishing beneath the surface before resurfacing with a gasping breath.
I smirk. "So, turns out you were brave enough to jump in after all."
He coughs, shaking his head. "Urgh… I didn't mean to. I just got caught in my own damn spell. And what the hell was that plan!? What if the monster jumped in here with us!?"
I blink, putting on a mock-surprised expression, pretending to consider his concern. "Huh... Good point," I say casually.
"...Seriously?"
A sudden splash of loose gravel and sand smacks against my cheek… So I freeze.
The monster had landed right at the edge of the pool, its claws digging into the stone floor, nostrils flaring as it strains to catch a scent—one that clearly infuriates it but remains just out of reach somehow.
And since its ears are far from deaf, we keep completely silent—waiting, barely even breathing—until it finally gives up and goes searching for another scent.
"Damn… it actually worked. You think the Karthmere did this on purpose? Made the water reek like this?"
"No. I'm pretty sure it stinks just because it's contaminated—with corpses and whatever else is in the soil around here," I reply, already reaching for the bars to climb back up.
Where Garrik and I haul ourselves out of the water, drenched and reeking, just in time to see the others in the distance. The children—rather than fleeing—had chosen to fight. And among them, one stands out. His footing's steady, barely shifting even under the monster's relentless assault. Each swing of his blade sends its claws recoiling, steel meeting flesh with perfect precision… The Solmarian boy.
"…What's his name, anyway?"
I ask, feeling a little guilty for never bothering to find out.
"Orion Drayven. I heard from the others—he was a senior commander in Solmaria's royal army. And apparently, he once fought and won against a Vryssalith dragon."
"…A what?"
"Oh… my bad." Garrik swings his mace, slamming an undead back before continuing. "Vryssalith is one of the strongest dragon species you'll find in the Realms of Shadow. Draevenhol's signature breed. That's where he earned his title."
"A fucking realms of Shadow?"
The more strange terms that kid throws around, the more lost I feel in this conversation.
"Man... Just how much of your memory did you actually lose?"
"Oh, speaking of memory loss," I say, shifting my weight as we walk. "Can you recite some of the magic words you're able to remember?"
Garrik glances at me with a skeptical look, then lets out a small chuckle. "Ah, right. I almost forgot you can somehow read Zeirathis script... I mean, I don't mind telling you the spells I know because of it, but you really shouldn't say that so casually to any sorcerer you meet."
"Why?" I ask.
He adjusts his grip on his mace, scanning the dim surroundings as we keep moving. "Because knowledge is power," he says matter-of-factly. "And, well… sorcerers, spellcasters, they tend to have a lot of pride in what they know—especially when others don't. But don't worry, I'm not like them."
His expression then darkens slightly. "I'm speaking from a bitter experience of asking my seniors the same kind of question."
I raise a brow. "But Siona told me everything she knew without any of those problems."
Garrik sighs, as if he already knows where this is going. "Okay, now let me ask you—is Siona even a sorcerer?"
"Uh... No?"
"And what exactly did she teach you?"
I hesitate, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed under his gaze. "...Maybe Tzeryn? And Vythros. Then there's… Zareth? Ignirath… Draevun."
A strained snort escapes Garrik, and he barely holds back a laugh. "Even five-year-olds know those basic words," he mutters, shaking his head. "And what else? Voz? She taught you that word too?"
"Alright, I get it. At least she was willing to help me."
The boy raises his hands in surrender, his grin still lingering. "Hey, I didn't mean anything bad by it. It's normal. And I never said I wouldn't help you, did I?"
"You sound like you're about to say 'but' any second now—"
I shoot Garrik a knowing look.
"But listen… If the two of us make it out of here alive, I'd like you to stay with my family for a while—to help translate some ancient books we have."
I let out a dramatic sigh, already expecting something like this. "Figures…"
And before I can complain further, a sudden roar of cheers erupts from ahead. I snap my head toward the noise, just in time to see the monstrous creature collapse—its severed head rolling across the bloodstained ground.
Someone had finally put it down. At least for today.
Orion… The Solmarian boy.
He gives his greatsword a sharp flick, sending black blood splattering onto the ground. His stance remains firm, his breathing measured, conserving his strength.
I see for the second time how the severed head twitches, then jerks as a spine extends from its base, stretching and twisting. Muscles wrap around the exposed bone, pulsing as they shape into limbs and a tail. Just as the raw form begins knitting itself back together, Orion steps forward without hesitation and drives his blade down once more, severing the head before the feet can even lift its own body off the ground.
And with his comrades taking turns to guard the severed head, the process repeats over and over—perhaps more than ten times—yet the damn creature keeps regenerating, refusing to die.
But beyond the relentless cycle, something else becomes clear—something I hadn't even thought to question until now…
What happened to the rest of its body that didn't regenerate like its head?
I had assumed they were dragged away by the undead or even by the Karthmere themselves, but the truth is far stranger.
The flesh and severed limbs slowly emit wisps of white smoke, as if burning from within. Bit by bit, they wither away, leaving only brittle bones behind—bones that crack, crumble, and gradually turn to white dust.
Then, as if some unseen force continues to erode them, the dust darkens—gray at first, then black—until even that, too, fades into nothing.
And all that chaos unfolds far ahead, beyond where Garrik and I stand. Here, we fight with far less urgency, cutting down the endless undead that keep emerging from the darkness at the far end of the massive chamber. Like the few other scattered groups, we aren't in the thick of it—we're just holding the line, keeping the middle ground clear so the others can focus on stopping that damn creature from fully regenerating.
But I won't lie—I'm actually enjoying this role… No longer being chased by that thing, just fighting undead that are at least within my league. Sure, it doesn't have the same thrill, the same fun adrenaline rush that gets my blood pumping, but after an entire day of barely clinging to life, I figure I can use this as a brief respite.
If there's one thing that annoys me, though, it's watching those near the monster's corpse rack up another level-up while we, stuck fighting undead farther away, haven't gotten a single one.
Wait… is that going to be a problem?
Like if they keep leveling up ahead of me every single day, widening the gap until I'm lagging behind by two levels or more, wouldn't that mean—
Shit.
~~~~~