With all the group members having armed themselves with various swords and spears, the group stepped out of the house, the tense atmosphere clinging to them like a second skin.
The air was heavy with anticipation and the faint scent of iron drifting from the village's outer edge.
Liebeld led the formation with a steel staff in his hand, eyes constantly scanning ahead for signs of movement.
Behind him, Leylis and Elaris moved in coordinated steps, their weapons gripped tightly, fingers pale with nervous tension.
A few paces back, Orvel walked side by side with Conrad.
Given that Conrad was the only one wielding a ranged weapon—a crossbow—it was natural for him to take the rear, where he could provide cover and stay out of melee range.
As they moved cautiously down the stone path cutting through the village, their boots crunching on loose gravel, Liebeld began to speak, his voice low but clear enough for all to hear.
"I am a Staff Fighter," he said, lifting his black-steel weapon for emphasis.
"I use steel-staff-type weapons in battle, as you can see in my hand."
Orvel raised an eyebrow, glancing at the weapon.
"Yeah, we can all see that. Didn't expect you to be the type to pick something like that. Looks heavy and unwieldy."
Liebeld chuckled, a calm and composed sound despite the tension around them.
"Staff Fighter is not just a fighting style. It's my Title—granted by the Concept I follow."
The word "Concept" made the rest of the group shift their gazes to him, curiosity rising.
While they had all seen glimpses of systems and powers unique to this world, none of them had fully grasped what Liebeld meant by "Concept," nor had the system offered any detailed explanation.
Noticing their confused expressions, Liebeld continued with a grin. "Don't worry. I can at least share this much with you." He paused a moment, then explained, "When a Concept is chosen—whether through insight, experience, or luck—it grants the individual a Title. That Title reflects one's level of understanding or attunement to that Concept."
He tapped his staff gently against the ground.
"That understanding, and the resulting Title, come with special abilities. Sometimes passive, sometimes active. If any of you survive this Trial, I'm certain you'll understand it better soon."
No one responded directly, but all of them silently acknowledged his words.
It was clear that Liebeld was only revealing what he was permitted—or willing—to share. Still, it gave them a glimpse into something much larger than their current understanding.
Suddenly, a strange, low-pitched groan echoed from their right. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like a warning bell.
All heads turned sharply toward the sound.
"Oh..." Leylis muttered, squinting into the shadows. "I was right."
Emerging from behind of the small houses, five shambling figures came into view.
Their movements were erratic, clumsy, but full of unnatural energy.
"Yeah," Orvel said grimly, gripping his spear tighter. "Looks like Melboue-Zombie's been busy."
Conrad narrowed his eyes, observing their lurching gait and the tattered clothes barely hanging from their rotting forms.
"It seems like each time Melboue-Zombie kills someone, that person turns too… into a walking corpse. A zombie."
Liebeld inhaled deeply and nodded, analyzing the figures.
"That makes sense. Usually, it's the original—that first undead, Melboue in this case—who retains the true power. The others, these lesser corpses, are usually weaker. Mindless. Dangerous, yes, but manageable. If you're careful, you can deal with them."
Without hesitation, Conrad stepped back, raised his crossbow, and whispered,
"Here goes..."
Thunk!
The bolt launched forward, slicing through the air and striking one of the zombies squarely in the forehead. A sickening crack followed as the head split open like a smashed gourd. The corpse crumpled instantly, its movements ceasing entirely.
"Nice shot!" Orvel called out with genuine admiration.
Liebeld didn't say anything but arched an eyebrow and gave a short nod. His usually composed face showed a flicker of surprise.
"He didn't hesitate," Liebeld thought.
"His aim was precise, his timing sharp... Not the kind of reaction you get from an ordinary person."
"It seems like they can be killed by destroying the head," Orvel observed, his voice steadier now.
Conrad gave a short nod.
"Exactly. A direct hit to the head seems to end them instantly."
Then he added, glancing around at the others,
"Let me take care of these small fry. There's no reason to risk getting close if I can handle them from range."
Everyone understood the logic.
Most people overestimate their combat abilities, especially in stressful situations.
Facing something human-sized that wants to kill you isn't like sparring in a training ground.
One mistake—even a small misstep—could result in death. If Conrad had the skill and means to dispatch them safely, then that was clearly the smartest choice.
They nodded, stepping back to let him work.
One by one, Conrad raised his crossbow and fired. Each bolt found its mark—splitting skulls, crushing faces, and ending the undead before they could even get within ten meters. In less than a minute, the remaining four zombies were nothing but twitching bodies on the ground.
Liebeld approached the fallen corpses carefully, eyeing them for any lingering movement.
"I'll retrieve the bolts. I'm the only one who can react fast enough if one of them suddenly jumps back to life."
The group stayed silent, understanding the caution. Conrad nodded in appreciation and watched as Liebeld retrieved the bolts with practiced efficiency.
As Liebeld returned to Conrad's side and handed the bolts back, he paused for a moment, locking eyes with him.
Then, in a low voice only Conrad could hear, he said,
"I'm sure you'll survive—so long as you keep trusting yourself... and the people around you."
Conrad nodded silently.
The others, noticing the exchange, assumed Liebeld was merely offering a compliment for his performance.
But the words had been personal—meant only for him.
Somewhere, behind those unreadable eyes of Liebeld, Conrad could sense it: a quiet approval... and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of trust.