Three Zelk sprint toward us.
Even while running full tilt, they move with a strange grace—almost angelic in their speed and posture. But there's nothing divine about them. One wields a curved sword, another hefts a massive axe, and the third—smaller, faster—carries twin daggers that glint with poison-green light.
I tighten my grip on my blade and raise it. I've already chosen my target—the axe-wielder.
He lifts his weapon overhead for a brutal swing.
[Reinforcement].
Strength floods into my limbs. I move faster than my fear, slicing forward as the axe begins its descent. My blade tears through both of his arms and neck before he can even blink.
His body collapses. Black blood spurts in rhythmic arcs, and his head hits the stone with a wet thunk.
Beside me, one of the burly adventurers—don't know his name—slams a Zelk into the wall. Another, a sharp-eyed woman, plants an arrow square in the chest of the dagger-wielder before it can reach our casters.
Good.
But it's not over. Not even close.
"RUN TO THE STATUE OF THE HERO!" I yell.
They obey. The adventurers tighten formation around me, forming a shifting wall of bodies and steel. They know what I'm carrying.
All around us, Zelk pour in from alleyways and rooftops. Too many to count. But they're not just attacking at random—they're focused. Hungry. Their eyes keep flicking to the glowing crown above my head.
Fantastic. Just what I needed. I really hope this damn crown is worth all the blood it's getting us into.
We push forward. Cutting a path through the chaos.
[Wind Swipe]. [Fireball]. [Shield].
My wind slash digs into the neck of an antlered freak. Black ichor sprays over my shoulder.
So far, so good.
Then I see it—one of the rogues. A Zelk assassin, slipping through the chaos like smoke. It darts around a frontline fighter and makes a beeline for me.
Too fast.
A shield spell flares around me, but it's already mid-slash.
I pivot hard, raising my blade and triggering [Reinforcement] just in time to block the incoming dagger. The impact rattles my bones. I counter, but it's quick—too quick. I'm losing ground.
I need sword training, I think grimly. Or at least a damn decent combat art.
It slashes again. Blood trickles down my arm.
Fine.
I drop [Reinforcement] and funnel all my focus into a single [Shield] cast—this time, not around my body, but around my throat.
The rogue's blade darts in again. It hits the barrier with a sharp clang, rebounding just enough for me to ram my sword through its chest.
The Zelk hisses.
I twist. Push. Slice upward.
It collapses.
I breathe, scan the battlefield.
It's worse.
Several adventurers are down. Screams echo between buildings. Blood—red and black—pools on the stone streets.
But I'm still alive. Still standing.
And I'm fighting better than I should be.
The memories I gained from the past Amit are still echoing through my body. He may not have been enthusiastic about it, but his father had basic combat training beaten into him. And apparently, that legacy still knows how to swing a sword.
THUMP.
A deep, heavy stomp shakes the ground.
I scan the field—and there it is.
A massive Zelk, easily seven feet tall, striding toward me like death made flesh. Its greatsword drags behind it, leaving sparks across the stone.
I throw a Fireball.
It swings its blade—cleaving the spell in half.
I hurl a [Wind Swipe].
Same result.
"What the fuck is this thing?"
[Water Geyser].
Blocked.
Its sword is an immovable wall. A fortress of steel.
One of the burly adventurers intercepts it—brave, maybe stupid—but the Zelk sidesteps with terrifying speed and lunges straight at me.
The greatsword rises, then crashes down like a guillotine.
I leap, casting [Flight], barely escaping the arc of death.
And then—I go off script.
I do something I've only ever theorized.
I pull together every spell I can:[Fireball], [Wind Swipe], [Water Geyser], [Flight], [Reinforcement], [Shield].
But I don't cast them in sequence. I tether each construct to a line of aether and bind them to me directly. Thin, glowing threads extend from me like spider silk, pulsing with energy—each thread linked to a floating spell, orbiting like satellites.
My head feels like it's going to split in half.
But it works.
I can cast almost instantly now—just by feeding aether through the threads.
I channel energy into [Flight], zipping upward again as the Zelk's sword tears through the space where I was.
It follows.
The adventurer from earlier slams into it, buying me a moment.
"GO ON!" he shouts.
I fumble through my pouch. My fingers find a familiar stick. A red button.
The detonator.
I press it.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Explosions erupt in rapid succession. Buildings collapse. Flames race across rooftops. Smoke billows thick and black into the sky.
I land, half-running, half-falling, near the statue.
And that's when I see him.
A Zelk, completely still. Silent. Not charging. Not fighting.
Just watching.
He's different.
Taller. Broader. Crowned with massive antlers—twisted and branching like dead roots. His presence radiates pressure, like the entire world is holding its breath.
My stomach sinks.
No mistaking it.
This is the Zelk Captain.
And he's waiting.