With his brothers’ return to the team, they cleared several bands on the outskirts one after another. They found a few relics along the way and earned some mana shards, but they kept their focus on securing a path towards the inner circle. They picked and hunted the territorial undead. Once they killed the one that had marked a territory, the area would fall into chaos until the next owner took over. Because that chaos kept the rest of the wandering undead busy, the Aether brothers were able to secure a path that connected their advance to the safe zone.
Weeks passed like this. Weeks of measured pushes and controlled retreats.
? Old wounds reopened under strain, then sealed again under spellcards. Quin still favored the arm that had nearly been torn from him, even when he pretended otherwise. Clay slept lighter than before, waking at every distant shriek. And Thorin counted every fight they survived, remembering the one they almost hadn’t.
The battlefield changed as they advanced. The fog thickened, no longer drifting but pressing low and heavy, muting sound instead of carrying it. Wandering undead grew scarce. Those they did encounter no longer stumbled blindly but lingered at the edges of their vision, retreating when pressed instead of charging mindlessly.
As they moved closer, the enemies they faced became stronger and stronger. Unlike last time, however, when his brothers jumped headfirst into reckless battles to save his life, they prepared before each engagement and used their synergy to its fullest.
Clay controlled the field and the movement of the undead; Quin became the vanguard and shouldered their aggression; and Thorin finished them off with the variety of his attacks. His chained blades and his other spells shined amid the dark mist and the parched earth, but his undead shone even more. Vraak reaped one undead after another with his soul-based shocks, and Enya stunned them in place with her screeches. Their patterns were simple, almost crude, but repetition had sharpened them into weapons. Monotonous, but they played vital roles in the frays.
After weeks of carving a path through the battlefield, they eventually reached the edge of the inner circle with all their limbs intact. Here, a familiar type of undead awaited them again. The type that pushed them to their limits and almost cost Quin his arm.
A Ghoul.
But this time, there were two of them.
The first moved restlessly atop a tall mound, pacing in short, sharp bursts. The second remained still, crouched higher, its black eyes tracking every step they took.
Thorin felt its cold stare. It wasn’t hunger or rage but observing.
They were well aware of the speed with which the Ghouls snapped and changed their directions. They’d felt it in their flesh. So, the moment they spotted the pale undead, as the dark mist swirled around them, the three brothers triggered their defensive spellcards. The
A blink-of-an-eye later, one Ghoul vanished from the mound.
And in the next blink, it slammed into Thorin’s fiery sphere with a growl.
Heat surged back through the spellcard and into Thorin’s chest, a sharp feedback that made his teeth clench. As the seller had promised, the spellcard held against the undead. The Ghoul screamed and recoiled, its claw seared black and trembling.
“It’s stronger than last time,” Clay said immediately.
“You two handle that one,” Quin said, readying his claymore. “I’ll handle the one on the mound.”
“No.” Thorin rejected it, sending his chained blades out, forcing space. Clay agreed without hesitation. “Deal with this one until the other one comes down. When it does, we surround them both and end it by numbers.”
Even though the mana tester screamed red for the Ghouls, Thorin was confident in their coordination. It wasn’t arrogance, just pure assessment. They’d tested it against enough enemies to know where their limits lay.
“I wanted payback,” Quin growled and charged at the Ghoul fixated on Thorin’s fiery barrier. He deliberately showed his back to the one on the mound, glancing over his shoulders.
But it didn’t bite. The Ghoul simply watched.
“If you’re not coming,” Clay muttered, casting
The spell took hold for barely a heartbeat. The Ghoul stuttered mid-lunge, then corrected itself. Its movement didn’t just return; it refined with inhuman agility.
? The chained blades slithered and snapped through the fog, missing by inches. Vraak had trouble locking it for his soul attacks. Quin’s swings slashed stones and dirt instead of bones.
The Ghoul landed cut after cut. Quin bled. He adjusted his footing, then adjusted again, each correction coming a fraction too late. The Ghoul’s claws scraped along his ribs and shoulders, tearing flesh. Every hit pushed him closer to collapse.
Vraak surged forward once, then stopped himself. It was too early. He didn’t have an opening. Thorin felt the tension ripple through the bond, felt the undead strain against restraint.
Another blow landed, and Quin staggered, boots carving furrows through ash-choked soil. Blood followed him, dark and wet against the grey. The ground darkened beneath him. His breathing roughened with grunts and blood in his exhales. Each miss cost him another scrape, another rent in flesh.
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? This wasn’t a duel. It was attrition, and the Ghoul was winning it.
Then the blood reached critical mass.
Quin roared, pain twisting into momentum as his strength spiked. He leaned into the damage instead of pulling away, accepting it as fuel. He closed the distance in a blur and brought his claymore down in a killing arc.
“Enya!” The Whitehair-Banshee peeled herself from Thorin’s shadow, her form rippling with restrained fury. She had watched the Ghoul claw at Thorin’s shield. She had watched it break from Quin and turn on Vraak.
Thorin held her for half a breath longer. The second Ghoul hadn’t moved yet. Its gaze never left them. Enya was the weakest link. If she overextended now, she’d be exposed. If she screamed too soon, the opening would close just as fast. Thorin counted the Ghoul’s rhythm, the cadence of its strikes, and waited for the moment it committed too far to pull back.
“Quin! Watch the mound!”
“Clay. Now!”
The sound ripped through the fog, freezing the Ghoul mid-strike. That was enough. Sticky white filaments cascaded down, tangling limbs and locking joints. The Ghoul howled and thrashed, tearing free a few strands, but more piled on. Its speed died under weight and restraint.
“Vraak! Finish it off!”
The undead surged forward. Soul-force cracked as Vraak phased through its chest, his claws raking its face in raw, personal violence. Vraak finally settled the debt. The Ghoul’s resistance collapsed as its movements lost coherence. The attack on its soul unraveled from the inside out. Vraak lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, claws biting deep before withdrawing. He enjoyed his revenge.
His bond with Thorin shuddered with grim satisfaction then steadied after a heartbeat. Enya screamed once more for certainty, while the brothers covered their ears.
A moment of quiet washed away the chaos on the field. The Ghoul collapsed, dissolving into embers.
The second Ghoul remained atop the mound, watching. Its companion turned into ashes under its unblinking gaze. For a moment, none of them moved. Quin stood ready to charge,
The Ghoul stayed where it was.
“It’s your turn next, you pissface,” Quin said, grinding his teeth, his eyes bloodshot. He was rising high on the
Yet, the Ghoul shook its head and zipped away. It vanished, streaking deeper into the inner circle, leaving the Aether brothers dumbfounded. They had their plan and their attacks ready, but they lost the target now.
……
“What was that?” Clay asked about the Ghoul.
“Did it just…judge us?” Quin muttered, panting as the spell’s effect drained away from him.
“What does pissface mean?” Thorin asked instead.
“Is that what’s important right now?” Quin gaped at him.
“It is,” Thorin said, recalling his chained blades to inspect their condition. “If you must use profanities, use better ones. Words that will rile the enemy up. Else, you’re just wasting your breath. What does pissface mean? I don’t even know how someone’s face can look like piss. How is it supposed to make someone angry, let alone a Ghou—”
He froze before he snapped. “Damn son of a whore!” The crack in his chain had covered all the links now. If he pushed it with such intensity once more, it would shatter mid-battle.
“Motherfucker just wasn’t enough to express what I felt in the moment,” Quin said. “I might use son of a whore next time though.”
“And pissface was?” Thorin quipped then tossed his chained blades at Quin. “Fix this for me.”
“How the fuck do I do that?” Quin asked. “I don’t have a blueprint or any materials. What do you expect me to use for it?”
“Use whatever, just prevent the crack from spreading,” Thorin said and waved it off.
Quin scowled at him as his nostrils flared.
“Stop wasting time,” Clay butted in and stopped their squabble while he scanned the area. The undead didn’t own or keep any treasures in their territory, but the brothers made it a habit to check anyway. Well, Clay did. Just for a ‘what if?’. And a ‘what if’ happened today.
The mound trembled. Its base collapsed, revealing a stone gate buried beneath. Murals covered its surface, depicting the rise and fall of a general, ending in an Adarow kingdom’s burial rite reserved for honored military dead.
In this case, it was the burial of one of the highest honors with titles and riches.
Yet Thorin felt no reverence, just unease. The battlefield around the tomb bore no sign of honor. The dead here hadn’t fallen as a soldier. Whatever rested beneath that stone was buried with ceremony, not consequence.
That disparity made Thorin’s skin prickle.
This was a relic site. A Magus’s tomb, masquerading as a general’s grave. That of a stronger Magus since it received a general’s treatment, but a relic site, nonetheless.
“That bitch was sitting on some good treasures,” Quin said, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and excitement.
“Inner circle can wait,” Thorin said, eager to explore the tomb as well. The Ghoul’s retreat lingered in his thoughts. “Let’s check this out first.”
They pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
?