The world blinked.

  One second they were sprinting from a tide of corpses. The next they weren’t.

  The party stumbled out of the swirling portal and into silence.

  No undead. No rotten stench. No distant howls.

  Just… ruins.

  They stood in what had once been a city. Proper roads curved between broken towers and collapsed walkways. Stone arches rose in places, others shattered halfway. Time had buried this place in dust, but you could still feel the bones of civilization underneath, noble and dead.

  Alistair staggered once, catching his balance. “Okay. I’m dizzy. Anyone else dizzy?”

  Thessaly nodded, one hand on her temple. “I think my stomach teleported five seconds after the rest of me.”

  Brimma, still tucked under his arm like a sack of angry potatoes, groaned. “Put. Me. Down.”

  Then the pings hit.

  [Treasure Seeker – Passive: Rare loot detected nearby]

  [Direction: Northwest]

  [Direction: West]

  [Direction: Northeast]

  [Proximity: Moderate]

  [Proximity: Close]

  [Proximity: Very Close]

  Alistair's head snapped left.

  Then right.

  Then dead ahead.

  Then back left.

  He spun like a compass having a panic attack.

  “So much treasure,” he whispered.

  Brimma smacked the side of his head with her tiny fist. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU BLOODY VULTURE!”

  He didn't. He adjusted her like luggage and pointed vaguely toward a crumbling road.

  “No, we should go that way.”

  Kael squinted. “You just pointed in the opposite direction.”

  Alistair pointed again. “No, that way. Wait. No, hold on, THAT one. That’s the right ruin.”

  Thess crossed her arms. “You’re acting like a toddler with sugar vision.”

  “I am a sophisticated noble with impeccable loot instincts,” Alistair said with perfect composure while dragging the entire group in three directions at once.

  Brimma continued to punch him.

  Then without warning, reality hiccupped.

  With a sound like a thunderclap wrapped in peacock feathers, an explosion of color and wings flared in front of them.

  BOOM.

  Feathers, bright, impossible, shimmering feathers, rained down in every direction. They sparkled midair like someone had set a fireworks stall on fire inside a cathedral.

  The Herald appeared mid-flourish, hovering six feet off the ground in full ridiculous regalia.

  Alistair blinked up at him.

  “Oh great,” he muttered. “This guy.”

  The Herald’s divine presence slammed into them like a hammer made of gold and smugness.

  Power rippled through the ruins, making their bones vibrate and their teeth itch, until suddenly, mercifully, it muted.

  “Hello, friends!” the Herald beamed, feathers still drifting around him like holy confetti.

  He hovered over to Buddy.

  “Who’s a good boy?” he crooned, twirling midair like a peacock in heat.

  Buddy didn’t move a muscle.

  The hellhound sat ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead, clearly operating under the ancient predator logic of if I don’t move, maybe it’ll go away.

  Alistair stepped forward. “You know, you’re not supposed to pet someone’s dog without permission.”

  Brimma hissed under her breath. “How dare you talk to a god this way?”

  Alistair waved a hand lazily. “Nah, the Herald’s cool. Besides, I like his style. Overdramatic. Smells like burning fruit. Works for him.”

  The Herald gasped, placing a hand dramatically over his chest.

  “My heart flutters! A compliment! From the favorite!” He twirled in midair again. “Please. Please, just once. Can you say it?”

  Kael squinted. “Say what?”

  “Nothing,” Alistair said too fast.

  The Herald leaned in, hovering upside down now. “Come oooon. Pretty please? With stardust and souls on top?”

  “Forget it.”

  The Herald crossed his arms. “Then I won’t help you.”

  A standoff.

  Alistair stared up at him.

  The Herald stared down at him.

  Brimma whispered, “Are they seriously...”

  Thess muttered, “Yep.”

  Finally, Alistair groaned, threw his hands up, and bellowed:

  “KNEEL.”

  The Herald clapped wildly, feathers flying everywhere.

  “That’s the stuff!” he cried. “Oh, the divine gets what the divine demands!”

  Somewhere above, in the god-soaked heights of the heavens, massive thunderous clapping echoed down like a stadium full of drunk angels.

  The Herald gave a smug shrug, grinning ear to ear. “What the audience wants, the audience gets.”

  Then his expression sobered.

  “Now then. Business.”

  Alistair’s smirk dropped. Kael straightened. Even Brimma stopped squirming in his grip.

  “You better hurry,” the Herald said.

  “Hurry for what?” Thess asked, frowning.

  “He is coming.”

  Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell is he?”

  The Herald looked down at him like it should be obvious.

  “The Necromancer, of course.”

  Kael blinked. “Who?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Herald grinned and pointed at Alistair.

  “He knows him.”

  All eyes turned to Alistair.

  Alistair raised both hands in surrender. “What the very helpful deity means”, he shot a glare at the Herald, “is that I’ve come across the necromancer. That’s all. I don’t know him.”

  Kael’s brow furrowed. Then his eyes widened.

  “Oh. Right. That guy.”

  He shivered. “Yeah. That guy.”

  The Herald's eyes gleamed with too much mischief to be holy.

  “Time is short,” he said, tone suddenly serious. “This is the final Cleansing.”

  The words hit like frostwater.

  “Tomorrow,” he added, floating a few inches higher, “is the finale.”

  From somewhere high above, beyond the dust, past the broken towers, a deafening BOOM echoed like the sky had cracked.

  “Oh,” the Herald said cheerfully, glancing upward. “Someone didn’t like me telling you that.”

  He shrugged. “No matter.”

  His gaze swept the group.

  “Forget everything else. Alliances, loot, clever schemes. Grind. Kill as many minibosses as you can. Level up. This is your last chance.”

  Thessaly’s lips parted. Her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Tomorrow is… the last day?”

  She looked at each of them in turn. Brimma’s brow furrowed. Kael’s hands curled into fists. Even Buddy let out a low, uneasy growl.

  They all felt it.

  The unspoken truth.

  Only one of them could claim the [Founding Crystal].

  The others?

  Dead.

  Just thinking about turning his weapons on Thess or Kael or Brimma sent a twisting heat through Alistair’s gut. His bond to them wasn’t just magic. It was marrow-deep. Soul-stitched. The idea of watching one of them fall by his hand...

  No.

  The thought rippled through him, quiet but fierce.

  He would not.

  The Herald clicked his tongue. “Oh, don’t be so gloomy!”

  He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Maybe… just maybe…”

  He let the sentence hang like a knife over a string.

  Then the second BOOM came, louder than the first. It rattled the broken stones beneath their feet and sent dust falling from every ledge.

  “Right, right,” the Herald muttered. “Time’s up. Good luck, champions! And please Bloodstain Keep us entertained.”

  He winked once, then vanished in a cascade of silver and smoke.

  The moment he was gone...

  “I cannot believe,” Brimma snapped, “the indignity I just endured. Being held like a sack of potatoes in the presence of a god?!”

  Alistair smirked, brushing soot from his shoulder. “Next time I’ll swing you like a censer. Very ceremonial.”

  She looked ready to hex him on the spot.

  Alistair finally set Brimma down with exaggerated care, as if placing a priceless artifact or a particularly angry cactus.

  “There. Safe and sound. No gods in sight. No more aerial sack races.”

  Brimma immediately stomped on his foot.

  “Worth it,” he muttered, hobbling forward.

  He grinned, trying, really trying, not to think about tomorrow. Not to think about blood. Or crystals. Or how the system didn’t care about bonds, only outcomes.

  “Let’s go,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Before Captain Skeleton and his Dead People Parade catches up.”

  They started moving through the ruined city, debris crunching underfoot. Alistair followed the subtle tug in his chest, the steady hum of his [Treasure Seeker] trait growing warmer, brighter.

  Left. Around a fallen statue. Then right, past a crumbled bathhouse.

  Thessaly walked beside him, silent for longer than usual.

  Finally, she said, “Are we going to talk about it?”

  “No,” Brimma said immediately, not breaking stride. “We’re not.”

  Thess frowned. “But...”

  “What will come,” Brimma said, “will come. Worrying about it will only make you clench your jaw harder when the time arrives.”

  Alistair pointed at her. “I’m with the old, wise lady.”

  Brimma didn’t even look at him. “Flattery won’t save you when I turn your blood into soup.”

  “Still worth it.”

  Kael, who had been quiet up to now, finally spoke, his voice low and serious.

  “I’m more worried about what the Herald said. The grind. If we’ve been wasting time…”

  He glanced around them, at the buildings, the ruins, the silent streets.

  “What if the other champions are ahead of us? Or what’s waiting in the finale makes that necromancer look like a warm-up?”

  Alistair opened his mouth.

  Then the ping hit.

  [Treasure Seeker – Ping Proximity: Extreme]

  The trait nearly screamed in his skull. Like a compass that had finally found magnetic north.

  His head jerked toward a half-collapsed building, the bones of what might’ve once been a shrine, or a manor, or a vault. Hard to tell. Half the roof was gone. One wall slanted like it had melted.

  “There,” he said, pointing with absolute certainty.

  The inside of the building smelled like dry rot and dusted iron.

  Alistair stepped through the crumbling archway first, eyes sweeping the interior. The ruined walls stretched up like cracked ribs, half the roof caved in. Light filtered down in pale shafts, catching on dust motes and shattered beams.

  It had once been a city armory. You could feel it, even if most of the structure was rubble and ash. Weapon racks lined the far wall, empty. A few rusted spearheads poked out from beneath debris. Crates sat at the back, stacked in unstable towers, their wood swollen and ready to fall apart if you so much as sneezed.

  Treasure Seeker pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat.

  “Somewhere in here,” Alistair murmured, eyes locked on the crates.

  Then...

  Screeeeee

  A sound like a rusted hinge and a dying scream all in one.

  Thessaly froze, one foot atop a dislodged stone.

  Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

  [Miniboss Identified: Vault Warden of Isykar]

  Race: Caelari (Extinct)

  Level: 28

  Class: Sentinel of the Shardhold

  Status: Bound to Site – Treasure Guardian Protocols Active

  A shimmer of blue-green light coalesced behind the crates.

  Then it stepped forward.

  Humanoid, but wrong in ways no living race was. Its features were smooth, almost statuesque, with gleaming skin that looked like chiseled obsidian laced with faint runes. Glowing threads pulsed beneath its surface like veins. A face too calm for something long dead. Its eyes burned pale white with twin pupils that rotated slowly, like gears.

  Ancient armor fused to its body. One arm was a segmented blade; the other, a gauntlet carved with forgotten glyphs.

  “A Caelari…” Brimma breathed. “Haven’t heard that name before.”

  “Because they’re gone,” Kael muttered, already jumping up onto a broken pillar, nocking an arrow.

  The Warden took a step forward.

  Then another.

  Alistair’s heart picked up.

  “Formation,” he ordered, voice low.

  Brimma didn’t hesitate. She raised her staff and pointed at him.

  [Stonehide Bark – Cast]

  Rough bark burst across Alistair’s skin, wrapping around his torso and arms in shifting plates of stone-flecked protection.

  Thess took position to his right, her own passive blooming to life. Her skin shifted, rough, bark-like thorns growing across her shoulders and down her arms. Her stance widened. Her eyes sharpened.

  Kael stood poised above them all, already tracking the Warden’s movements.

  And Buddy, sweet, horrifying Buddy, padded silently to Alistair’s side. His maw glowed from within. Fire licked past his fangs. A low growl rumbled up from his belly like a volcano ready to burst.

  Alistair reached for his belt and unsheathed his redcrystal sword.

  The blade sang.

  It was a high-pitched whine, like blood and steel and anticipation all at once.

  “Well,” Alistair muttered, squaring up as the Warden raised its weapon arm.

  “Let’s see if you’re still guarding anything worth dying over.”

  Alistair moved.

  [Ethereal Phase – Activated]

  He dissolved into smoke and shadows, a whisper of presence slipping past the Warden’s blade.

  He reformed behind it in a blink.

  [Imbued Strike – Triggered]

  Redcrystal steel blazed with mana as he slashed downward, cutting across the Warden’s segmented spine with a flash of crimson fire.

  Critical Hit! – 164 Damage.

  The Warden jerked from the impact, runes flashing wildly across its obsidian skin.

  Above, Kael released an arrow streaking with green light...

  [Tangle Shot – Landed]

  Movement speed reduced – 40%.

  A half-second later, Brimma raised her staff and fired a blast of emerald energy straight into its chest.

  [Direct Hit – 58 Earth Magic Damage]

  Alistair grinned. “Beautiful teamwork. Let’s...”

  [System Notification: Arena Protection Deactivated]

  Time Remaining Until Final Cleansing: 11h 59m

  Warning: You are now vulnerable to enemy champions. Proceed with caution.

  His heart dropped.

  Then the world groaned.

  Not figuratively, actually groaned. A deep, wet, tectonic sound that rolled through the floor.

  The ground shifted beneath his boots.

  Alistair staggered, instinctively pressing a hand to the wall. Dust rained down. Wooden beams cracked. Pebbles and ceiling stones began to trickle from above.

  The armory shuddered, as if something massive was dragging itself beneath the city. Something vast. Hungry.

  The sensation crept up his spine like cold fire.

  He felt it. Not just physically but spiritually. Like the world was no longer a flat map. Like everything in the Arena was being dragged toward something horrifying.

  The Maw had started to move.

  Alistair turned his head slightly, just slightly, to track the sound.

  It was enough.

  The Warden surged.

  A piston-punch slammed into his chest like a warhammer. Alistair flew backward, stonehide armor cracking as he smashed through a table, hit the wall, and slumped to the floor.

  –91 HP.

  He gasped.

  “Still breathing,” he muttered, wincing as he pulled himself up, ribs aching.

  “Barely.”

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