"You—" Garrik's voice is a mix of suspicion, awe, and maybe even fear. "You can read Zeirathis script?"
"I don't know how I can understand it either."
"What the fuck do you mean by that?! Just explain it to me."
"Listen… I woke up here with no memories of my past. The only thing I remember is my name… and somehow, I can read this strange writing." I gesture toward my status window.
"Strange writing?" The kid chuckles, his steps finally resuming.
"But I need you to keep this to yourself," I warn.
"Yeah, I get it… Sorry, but there was no way I wouldn't be that shocked. Maybe you don't realize how valuable that knowledge is, but if…"
Garrik trails off, catching the uncomfortable look on my face. He seems to understand that pushing the topic further isn't the best idea.
"Right… My bad." He clears his throat. "So? Your name is?"
"Deon… Ravenheart."
"Okay. Weird name, if I'm being honest, but nice to meet you." He exhales. "Man, we have to get out of here. You and me. With your understanding of the Zeirathis script, it's not impossible for us to—"
A sickening thud echoes behind us.
It's the unmistakable sound of a body slamming into the stone floor—hard.
Garrik stiffens for the second time, and so do I.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, we turn our heads. A small figure lies sprawled across the ground, their body having tumbled violently before finally crashing into a stone pillar. Blood splatters across the path they rolled from… A lot of blood.
Judging by the deep gouges in their flesh… they've been struck by something massive. Something either spiked or clawed. Yet neither of us moves.
Neither of us speaks.
We simply wait.
Because we know—the answer is coming.
~~~~~
The sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoes through the darkness ahead.
Then, a pair of pale, milky-white eyes catch the faint glow of light emerging from the void… A hulking, four-legged beast follows. Its frame is massive, packed with thick muscle and covered in coarse, jet-black fur.
Fangs jut from its powerful jaws, glistening under the dim light.
But more than that—it's riddled with wounds.
Deep, gaping gashes line its flesh. Arrows jut from its back. Swords—two, no, three of them—remain buried in its thick hide.
Yet it still moves. Its claws scrape against the stone floor with every step, a slow, deliberate drag that sends a grating echo through the air.
And it's no lion. No bear. No wolf.
It's something worse… Three times their size, with three thick, furred tails swaying menacingly. It has the head of a lioness… or maybe a panther, with the monstrous bulk of a bear, and the lashing tails of a wolf… A grotesque, undead chimera, one that is hard to stare at.
Gladly it isn't looking at us... or anywhere, really.
But if those filthy, dirt-stained white eyes could actually see, then they're locked onto the lifeless child beneath the pillar.
"Shit…" Garrik exhales, barely above a whisper.
Slowly—painstakingly slowly—he begins tiptoeing backward, his grip tightening around my shoulder. His message is clear:
Move. Quietly. Hope our scent isn't strong enough to draw its attention.
And of course, just as we fear, the creature's nostrils flare—sniffing, searching—drawn to something far more interesting than the corpse right in front of it.
Then, without warning, its head snaps in our direction.
Instinct kicks in. Screw subtlety. My body makes the choice before my mind can—run.
For the first thirty seconds, Garrik and I run without direction—just pure, desperate flight.
Then, up ahead, we spot two options: to the left, a dimly lit battlefield where children clash against undead; to the right, nothing but darkness and a winding path leading who-knows-where.
And for whatever reason—without thinking, without questioning—we both veer toward the chaos.
Maybe we hope the monster chasing us will lose interest and target someone else. Or maybe we just pray some reckless kid up ahead will try to fight it—and somehow, miraculously, win—saving us all.
But then, in those final moments before impact, I see them.
Sigvald. Siona. Gideon. Fighting alongside the others.
And they all see us—and what's behind us.
I don't care about Gideon, but if Sigvald realizes I've intentionally led a raging undead chimera straight toward them, my image will be ruined. Worse, I remember—Siona barely has any HP left. If that thing reaches her, she's done.
Which means—I have to change the plan.
"Garrik, go left! I'll go right and lead it away!"
"Are you insane!?" Garrik yells between ragged breaths.
"How good is your accuracy with magic?!" I ask hurriedly, ignoring the brat's remark about doubting my sanity.
"This isn't about accuracy! I already told you—I don't have a single drop of mana left!"
"I just need you to cast something small!" I try to keep my words as clear as possible, though his constant doubts keep cutting me off. "If I tell you to hit its front left leg, can you do it?!"
"The left leg?"
"Or the front right! I don't care! Just one of its front legs! I said left because it's the one you'll have the clearest view of from your side!"
My voice is growing hoarse from all the shouting… But at least Garrik nods.
"Don't blame me if I miss."
"I know you can cut that thing's leg off if you want to! You're just scared of failing, that's all! Now—see you on the other side!"
I slow my pace just enough, letting my scent become stronger than Garrik's. Then, I gradually veer right—toward the darkness.
And finally, I reach the point where all I can do is wait for a miracle.
Something. Anything.
A stray pebble.
A gust of wind.
Some tiny, magical misstep that would make this monster slip and fall.
But then, out of nowhere, I hear a sharp noise—something slicing through the air at incredible speed. It's too fast to see, but in the blink of an eye, the beast's front legs are severed clean off.
The creature crashes forward, its massive body bouncing off the stone floor.
I skid to a stop, watching as it tumbles once more before slamming into the ground. That's my chance. As soon as the impact sends dust flying, I dart forward. Rolling behind it, careful not to charge in recklessly.
I take a moment to observe, convinced this is already a guaranteed victory. The way it writhes and thrashes, trying to drag itself toward me, only solidifies that thought.
So I take my time, walking cautiously, searching for the perfect opening to slit its throat—
Only to witness something impossible…
Right before my eyes, its severed limbs begin to regrow. Bone sprouts first, twisting into place. Then muscle coils around it, stretching, pulsating, before tendons and veins slither over the freshly formed tissue.
This bastard can regenerate!?
"Deon! How's it going?"
Garrik and Sigvald rush in from behind. Their eyes immediately fall on the severed bear-like limbs sprawled at their feet, their faces lighting up with hope.
But then—just like me—they look ahead.
They see it.
They see the same nightmare I'm witnessing… And in an instant, their hopeful expressions twist into the same horrified disbelief as mine.
~~~~~