The granite struck the nearest risen in the chest, knocking it to the ground like a ragdoll. Its ribs collapsed inward like kindling, leaving its torso caved in.

  "Better," Nydalea called out, still in cougar form as she wrestled with another risen. "But we need to pulverize them completely!"

  Clive painted another granite boulder and sent it crashing down on the grounded Risen. The rock crushed through its skull and into the cracked earth below. The creature's bones scattered, but even the disconnected pieces twitched with residual animation.

  [MP: 18/40]

  "Damn things won't stay down." Clive watched bone fragments trying to crawl back together.

  "Their heads are just decoration," Nydalea snarled, shifting back to human form. She drove her spear between two vertebrae of the nearest risen. The creature's left arm went limp immediately, though its jaw continued snapping at empty air. "Shatter their spines, break every joint."

  It was time to finish this.

  Clive replenished his MP with a materialized mana potion from his sketchbook. “Cover me,” he called out to Lucia before returning to his art.

  This time, instead of painting single boulders, Clive began working on multiple granite formations simultaneously. His brush moved in rapid strokes, stippling texture across several invisible canvases at once. Each rock took shape in the air above the battlefield—a constellation of dense stone waiting to fall.

  A Risen tried to interrupt him but Lucia threw an exploding potion at it which knocked it back.

  [Mix: Brown Granite Storm II]

  [MP Cost: 25]

  "Clear the area!" Clive shouted to his companions.

  Nydalea rolled away from her opponent. Lucia dove behind a raised section of cracked earth.

  The granite storm descended like judgment. Dozens of rocks, each the size of a man's torso, plummeted from twenty feet above. They struck the remaining risen with bone-crushing force. The sound was like a quarry collapse—sharp cracks of impact followed by the grinding of stone on bone.

  When the dust settled, the battlefield was carpeted with granite fragments and scattered bone dust. Nothing moved except for a few isolated finger bones still twitching in the dirt.

  Clive wiped sweat from his forehead. The mass casting had drained him more than expected, but the results spoke for themselves.

  Nydalea studied the crater of pulverized stone and bone before turning back to Clive with a look of respect. “Impressive. That was thorough.”

  “Are there any more?” Clive scanned the horizon

  “ I’ll scout ahead.” She shifted into cougar form and bounded ahead, keeping low to the ground as she scouted their route toward the Great Tree.

  Lucia crouched down to examine the skeletal remains. "Interesting. These bones show signs of repeated reanimation. Look at the stress fractures in the larger pieces—they've been broken and reformed multiple times."

  “Meaning what?” Clive asked.

  “I don’t want to know.” Lucia responded.

  Nydalea returned from her scouting, shifting back to human form as she approached. "The immediate path is clear, we should move now, before more Risen arrive.”

  "Right then," Clive stored his gear. "Let's go visit a tree."

  [Level Up]

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  [HP+5]

  [MP+5]

  [Power Level +5]

  [Clive Weston Stats]

  HP:145

  MP:45

  Power Level: 60

  The journey across the wasteland stretched their nerves thin. Every shadow cast by jutting rock formations looked like a crouched risen. Every groan of wind through the cracked earth sounded like approaching footsteps. But no attacks came.

  The Great Tree grew larger with each step as they approached, its withered branches becoming apparent against the purple sky.

  "This is wrong," Lucia said as they approached the final stretch of open ground. "Where are all the Risen?"

  "They should have intercepted us by now," Nydalea replied, her grip tightening on her spear. "The Warden doesn't just abandon territory."

  The base of the Great Tree lay before them, and there, seated motionless among the twisted root formations, was a single figure. Even at this distance, they could feel its attention on them.

  “The Warden,” Nydalea breathed.

  The creature looked like something dredged from nightmare. The air around him carried the stench of grave soil and rotting flowers. Tattered robes hung from his skeletal body, the fabric rotted to mere threads. His skin was pale, too pale to be human. Beneath the hood lay two orbs of solid purple eyes. In one bony hand, he gripped a lantern that cast sickly purple light. The other hand held a massive hook on a length of spectral chain, the metal stained with dried blood.

  “The midnight blossoms,” Lucia whispered, pointing toward the tree's base.

  Clive squinted at the corrupted soil. Among the roots were small patches of midnight darkness. The midnight blossoms clustered around the Warden's feet, as if drawn to the aura of death it projected.

  The Warden rose to his feet, his lantern pulsing with malevolent light. “Little shapeshifter,” he rasped. “How thoughtful of you to deliver fresh souls to my collection.”

  Nydalea stepped forward, her spear leveled at the creature's chest. "No more taunts, no more games, Warden. Your reign ends today."

  "Such confidence. Remind me, how did that work out last time?" The Warden's hook scraped against stone as he walked forward to face them.

  Nydalea’s grip on her spear wavered slightly as her hands began to tremble. “This time is different," she whispered.

  “Is it? Do you still remember those hunters?” Purple mist leaked out of his lantern.

  [Warden used Aura of Dread II]

  “How many brave souls followed you into my domain, believing your promises of victory? Where are they now?”

  Nydalea’s body loosened. Her spear wobbled, its tip lowering.

  “The hunters are dead. Your people lie beneath this soil. Do you still wake screaming their names, shapeshifter? Why is it that you alone survived?”

  "Stop," Nydalea whimpered. She pressed her free hand against her temple, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid.

  “You led them to slaughter, little kitty... You’re a jinx. Everyone around you dies, and now you brought two more lambs to the slaughter. So, tell me again. Why do you think this time will be different?”

  Nydalea's legs buckled. The spear slipped from her shaking fingers and clattered against the stone. Her shoulders hunched inward as if trying to shield herself from the weight of every death the Warden laid at her feet.

  [Nydalea is afflicted with fear]

  [Nydalea is unable to move]

  Clive watched her crumble under the psychological assault. He recognized the tactics, the same kind of intimidation used by the suits at Maxwell Pharmacueticals. Shift the blame, isolate the target, strip away their sense of self-worth until they questioned every decision they'd ever made. It wasn't the company's fault that their drugs caused liver damage, it was the patients who didn't follow instructions. The Warden was using the same playbook. He wouldn’t let him succeed.

  "She has us with her now. That's why it'll be different." Clive stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  Nydalea turned to look at him, her eyes still wide. But something in Clive's steady gaze seemed to anchor her. Her breathing slowed, and she straightened slightly.

  “You survived for a reason,” Clive said. “Show the Warden what that reason is.”

  "You're right," she whispered, bending to retrieve her spear. Her grip was steadier now, still shaking but determined.

  He withdrew his brush while Lucia pulled out her throwing knives. Nydalea raised her spear, its point steady once more.

  "This ends today, Warden. No more running," Nydalea declared.

  The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, a united front against the ancient evil in front of them.

  "Three against one," Lucia said. "I like those odds."

  The Warden tilted his head back in laughter. "Three against one?" He raised his lantern higher, and purple mist flooded out of it. "Rise."

  The cracked earth around them began to vibrate. Skeletal hands punched through the hardpan soil. The smell of death and decay rolled over them in waves as Risen crawled out from graves around. At least a hundred of them. The patrol they'd been expecting had been waiting beneath their feet all along.

  "I'm afraid," the Warden said as his army assembled around them, "you are the ones who are outnumbered."

  The Risen charged at them.

  Do you know what I treasure most about heroes? Their hope. It burns so brightly when they arrive, all righteous fury and noble purpose. But hope makes the most exquisite fuel when properly extinguished. Each one who falls beneath my tree feeds the roots with their shattered dreams, and in death, they serve me with the same devotion they once gave their cause. The irony is... delicious.

  —The Warden of the Dead, carved into the bark of the Great Tree