Morgan jolted awake, still groggy, grabbing his sword as he stumbled after him and rushed out of the inn.
On the cobblestone streets of Duskwood, Allen's figure flashed past, the silver-gray cloak behind him snapping loudly in the wind.
Morgan lugged his heavy plate armor, panting as he ran, clearly slower than Allen.
"Where did they go?"
"Let's look. They should be to the north."
In the forest, Wren moved as if he had returned to his most familiar hunting ground, running at the very front. His steps were light, making almost no sound.
Varian followed close behind.
Stella struggled along with her short legs, panting as she trailed at the very back, her parachute already stuffed messily back into her backpack.
At the very front, Stalvan glanced back at the pursuing group, a vicious glint flashing through his eyes.
"You dare interfere with me—" his voice was hoarse and shrill, "then all of you can die!"
Ahead, a dilapidated cabin came into view. Just as Wren ran past a cluster of scattered graves in front of the cabin, Stalvan let out a sharp, piercing shriek.
Crash!
The pile of graves beside Wren suddenly exploded, dirt flying everywhere. Skeletal arms burst out of the ground, followed by skulls and torsos—more than a dozen skeletons clawed their way up from the soil.
Wren came to an abrupt stop. At such close range, a bow was useless. He flipped his grip and drew a dagger, preparing for close combat.
At that moment, a figure dropped from the sky.
Varian leapt into the air, his body spinning midair as his greatsword swept out with overwhelming force—
Whirlwind Slash!
Where the blade passed, the undead that had just crawled out of their graves were instantly reduced to scattered bones.
Stalvan slipped straight into the dilapidated cabin.
Wren fired several explosive shots in quick succession.
The arrows pierced through the windows and sank into the interior. Flames burst out from the openings, shaking the entire cabin. Splintered wood flew, smoke billowed—and then everything went still inside.
Wren and Varian exchanged a glance and split up without a word.
Varian cautiously approached the front door, while Wren circled to the window, bow raised as he observed the interior.
The moment Varian reached the doorway, Stalvan burst out like a mad dog.
"I'll drain your blood!"
Varian blocked with his left arm while his right hand swung the greatsword in a horizontal slash.
Stalvan's dagger sliced across Varian's forearm, blood spraying out.
Then he sprang high into the air with nimble agility, flipping over to avoid the sweeping blade.
Wren's arrow arrived in an instant—but just as it was about to hit, Stalvan's figure suddenly turned translucent, flickering like a reflection on water.
The arrow passed straight through his body, completely unharmed, and embedded itself into a distant tree trunk.
"What?!"
Midair, Stalvan flicked his hand, several throwing knives shooting out toward Wren.
Wren dodged quickly, but one knife still grazed the side of his leg.
Stalvan landed atop the cabin roof, raising both hands high as an eerie green, malevolent glow flickered in his palms.
He muttered incantations under his breath.
Then the ground began to tremble.
Graves around them burst open one after another. Rotting corpses clawed their way out of the earth, staggering upright before turning in unison toward Wren and Varian, letting out low, guttural growls.
More and more—endless!
Wren and Varian watched as the dead closed in from all directions, cold sweat forming on their foreheads.
Too many!
At that moment, a youthful voice shouted from afar: "Get down!!!"
Without hesitation, Varian and Wren threw themselves toward the nearest cover.
A small, round object arced through the night sky, landing precisely in the middle of the horde.
Boom!!!
The engineering grenade exploded violently, blasting the corpses into pieces. The shockwave made the surrounding trees tremble.
"Told you it would come in handy!"
Stella stood not far away, hands on her hips, her small face brimming with pride.
But the next second, a shadow suddenly dropped from the sky, lunging straight at her.
The pride on Stella's face froze instantly.
"Ahhh!!!"
She screamed, fumbling as she pressed the button at her waist.
Hiss!
Her rocket boots ignited instantly, flames bursting from the soles as they propelled her forward like a shooting star, leaving behind only her trailing scream in the night wind.
Just as the shadow tried to give chase, an arrow whistled through the air.
Wren's Frost Shot struck Stalvan squarely in the back. The magic on the arrow erupted instantly, frost spreading from the wound, covering most of his body.
His movements slowed abruptly.
The next moment, a flickering sword tip burst out from his chest.
Varian had already charged behind him—his greatsword had pierced straight through his torso.
Stalvan lowered his head, staring at the blade protruding from his chest. The madness in his eyes gradually faded.
"Tilloa…" his lips moved, murmuring faintly, "my Tilloa…"
Then his body went limp and collapsed, silent and still.
Varian panted heavily, feeling as though all his strength had been drained.
He pulled out his sword with difficulty and looked at the fallen body. He was certain he had pierced the heart—but he still intended to strike again, just to be safe.
He raised his sword, aiming at Stalvan's neck.
At that very instant, Stalvan's eyes snapped open, and he let out a shriek of utter agony.
That sound carried a cursed power—it was Stalvan's curse.
"AAAHHH—!"
Varian felt as if his head had been smashed by a heavy hammer. The pain instantly robbed him of all strength, and his greatsword clattered to the ground.
Wren also bent over in pain, his bow slipping from his grasp as his body curled up.
Stalvan's black robe tore apart, revealing his true form.
Gray, withered skin. Dried flesh. Rotting fluid hanging from the corners of his mouth.
He had long since become undead—a deathless monster!
Varian tried to pick up his fallen sword, but his limbs were numb, refusing to move.
He glanced down at his forearm—the wound from Stalvan's dagger was now turning a sinister black-purple. The poison was spreading.
It's over! The blade was poisoned!
Wren dropped to one knee as well, numbness spreading from the wound on his leg.
Stalvan swayed as he stood, those ghostfire-like eyes sweeping over them as he let out a hoarse laugh.
"You're all… going to die…"
At that moment—
"Stalvan!"
A voice rang out from the forest. "You ugly, old piece of trash!"
Stalvan whipped his head around.
Allen had finally arrived!
He stood not far away, gasping for breath. Morgan was far behind him—his heavy armor made it impossible to keep up.
Stalvan's ghostfire-like eyes locked onto Allen, hatred blazing as if it could burn him alive.
The next second, Tasha's Hideous Laughter was cast directly onto him.
[Saving Throw: Success]
What?!
The instant Allen saw Stalvan succeed on the saving throw, he felt his heart sink.
He didn't have time to think. Instinctively, he threw himself to the side—just in time for Stalvan's dagger to slash past like lightning.
Allen rolled to his feet, back turned to Stalvan, and without hesitation cast Grease beneath himself.
A thick layer of slick, greasy substance spread out instantly, covering the ground around him.
At the very least, he had to keep Stalvan nearby.
[Saving Throw: Success]
[Saving Throw: Failure]
The success was Stalvan's.
The failure… was Allen's.
His footing slipped, and he fell flat on his back onto the slick ground.
It's over.
He lay there, staring helplessly as Stalvan turned around and walked toward him step by step.
The moonlight was swallowed by dark clouds. A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the twisted undead face.
Thunder roared.
Stalvan stood over him, raising his dagger high.
Thrust—
The cold blade plunged into his chest.
Pain exploded through his body—cold and burning at once. The breath of death rushed toward him.
And then—
Time stopped.
Everything froze in that instant—
Lightning hung motionless in the sky. Raindrops suspended midair. Stalvan's twisted grin locked in place.
Allen saw a slender, flawlessly shaped foot.
A slender foot, faint violet patterns along its arch—resting lightly on his chest.
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