Chapter Twenty-Two: Are You Dead?

The indomitable war song in B-flat minor carried us through our greatest peril, reinforcing our defenses just as our armor began to corrode. Under its influence, the rate at which our wounds healed barely outpaced the relentless drain upon our life, reaching a precarious equilibrium that favored us. What had begun as an excruciating battle transformed into a suspenseful but ultimately safe ordeal.

Meanwhile, on the other flank, Ding Ding the orc warlock endured a rather awkward, almost superfluous presence. As we well know, a warlock’s summoned familiar is not a living creature, but rather a magical projection—a powerful being from another realm manifesting through arcane means. It could be temporarily dispelled, but never truly destroyed. When Ding Ding’s summoning spell finally refreshed, he promptly conjured the Ice Maiden again, who fired “Ice Shard” spells from behind us, picking off the skeletal monsters at range.

The damage from “Ice Shard” was formidable, but its frequency was sluggish; in truth, the Ice Maiden did not provide much assistance. Beyond the attacks of his familiar, the warlock himself possessed unique magical abilities. These adventurers, who bartered with dark overlords from distant realms, seemed to favor the shadows. Their most notorious trick was unleashing their own shadow upon the enemy, inflicting devastating harm—the spell known as “Shadow Bolt,” powerful and insidious, difficult to defend against.

From the outset, Ding Ding chanted ceaselessly, striving to gather the shadow’s magic in his palm, and then... crushed it in his hand. Yes, he was tirelessly casting “Shadow Bolt,” but never managed to release it.

“Don’t just stand there! Attack already!” Bull Million, flaring his nostrils, shouted at the bewildered orc warlock, “Your little ghost girl is far more useful than you!”

After crushing two more shadow magic spheres, Ding Ding’s wandering, drowsy voice finally reached us: “...It’s not that I don’t want to... but the delay here is terrible... the skeletons I aim at... are already dead... no targets left...”

“Then try another skill! Stop wasting time over there! Do something useful!” Bull Million roared, his eyes bloodshot, as if he longed to swallow Ding Ding whole, spit him out, and repeat the process. I suspect this because minotaurs have four stomach chambers and, like their less intelligent kin, are prone to ruminating.

Bull Million’s angry outburst snapped Ding Ding out of his trance. He hesitated as usual, then ceased his futile attempts to cast Shadow Bolt and began murmuring a different, unfamiliar incantation. Due to the peculiar effects of “Delay,” his voice stretched into amusing, warped tones. This spell was evidently longer and more complex; though I understood nothing of the language used to summon otherworldly forces, its chilling, sinister cadence betrayed a magic far removed from benevolence.

When he finished the spell with a sound reminiscent of a sheep’s bleat, a pale green mist descended slowly from above, enveloping us. He pointed his right hand overhead—this gesture clearly signaled the completion of the spell, though such “delayed” magic was nothing new for him.

If the bard’s war song had turned the tide, Ding Ding’s spell now decisively shifted the battle in our favor. The spell, “Cloud of Decay,” weakened any enemy within its reach, sapping their vitality and defenses for the duration. Though simple and low-level, its effect on the skeletal monsters was subtle; yet, in a battle so evenly matched, it became the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

The sensation of my sword slicing through bone became oddly soft; the monsters’ rigid skeletons seemed to lose calcium in moments, stricken with a dreadful “rickets.” When my “Saber-tooth Ripper” bit into their now brittle bones, the sword’s dissatisfied screech echoed through the exhilarating friction: facing such fragile foes, this once fearsome blade no longer needed to prove its might—it was reduced to mere butchery.

Most delightfully, “Cloud of Decay” was an area spell, affecting every enemy who entered its domain, not just one. Thus, Ding Ding’s “Delay” was no longer a crippling disadvantage.

It was a wondrous thing—a basic, low-tier spell magnified our slim advantage beyond measure, granting the five of us absolute control even against foes many times our number. Before our magic and steel, the savage skeletons crumbled like broken walls, bones clattering to the ground only to be stomped into shards.

Battle is the adventurer’s nature, the fervor flowing from life’s source through their veins. Whether strong or weak, I believe that in the face of brave, clever souls, any peril can be overcome. So long as they fight, some miracle will always occur—there is no such thing as inevitable defeat.

If this battle proved anything “inevitable,” it was simply this: five are stronger than four.

With this hard-won experience, the remainder was straightforward. After a brief respite, we lured the remaining skeletons in batches and dispatched them in the narrow corridor using the same tactics. For a time, the gnome bard’s war song, “******,” soared majestically through the cavern, punctuated by the elven druid maiden’s heartfelt exclamations: “Can’t you play something else?”

Not long after, we destroyed all the brutal skeletons in the cave and cleared the enemies around Robert Wellanster’s lost iron hammer, opening a path for our orc warlock to retrieve his quest item.

Ding Ding finally stood safely before the glowing red iron hammer. As he bent to pick it up, he froze unexpectedly, as if time itself had halted. I instinctively glanced at my palm to ensure it wasn’t some powerful “Time Stop” magic at work.

“Seriously? He’s stuck again?” Bull Million groaned in despair, storming over to Ding Ding and anxiously pinching his face. “Buddy, we risked our lives, took the long way around, killed all those skeletons and raised hell in here for you! The quest is nearly done—don’t tell me you’ll disconnect now... That would make all our effort worthless... Wake up... wake up... wake... wake up...”

When there was no response, Bull Million, still agitated, began slapping the orc warlock’s cheeks—not too hard, but enough to try and rouse him.

The minotaur’s approach proved effective. Just as his hand found its rhythm, a red flash appeared to our eyes, the iron hammer vanished, and Ding Ding’s right hand belatedly swept across the empty ground.

“Don’t... don’t hit me... I didn’t disconnect... but my face... is getting swollen...” Ding Ding’s voice suddenly sounded.

Bull Million paused, then blushed and apologized profusely. “Ah, sorry, sorry, I thought you were gone... I got carried away, just got carried away...”

“Next time... if I’m delayed... and anyone hits my... face... I’ll fight them to the end...” Ding Ding’s cheeks were—perhaps from anger, perhaps from the blows—bright red, his tone oddly distorted, as if he wished to express his outrage, but the slow cadence made him sound helpless and gentle.

Once Ding Ding secured his quest item, we all turned our gaze to the cave’s lone remaining skeleton—standing quietly at the entrance, the “Undead Robert Wellanster.”

If these soulless, death-denying decayed beings possessed any personality, then this stocky, bone-thick skeleton might have been a proud, reserved one. Throughout, he never joined the battle, ignored the chaos close at hand, and silently watched us—if he had eyes—as we shattered his companions.

During the fighting, I’d once approached him by accident while dueling another skeleton. I was prepared for an attack, but he paid me no heed. He seemed different from the others—not merely in stature, but in his eyes.

Like all bloodthirsty monsters, his sockets were empty, nothing but darkness. Yet his darkness was deeper and more profound, as if it concealed something wondrous and ineffable. It seemed to be...

...an emotion?

Can you imagine? It was only a skeleton. Oh yes, for reasons unknown, perhaps he moved, perhaps he was less skeletal than he appeared, but he was a skeleton nonetheless. And yet, I could see in those empty sockets feelings that belonged only to the living.

A complex emotion—pity, sorrow, remorse, regret—all painful sensations gathered in the void of his eyes. It seemed absurd, but I knew I saw it.

“Looks like there’s another quest here,” said B-flat Minor Night Song, pointing at the undead with casual bravado. “Who wants to talk to him?”

“I’m not going, he’s scary...” Fairy Descends Face-first shrank behind Bull Million, her face full of disgust, peeking curiously at the Undead Robert Wellanster.

“No need to be afraid, I’ll stand here and protect you!” Bull Million declared grandly to the druid girl. Though, by the sound of it, his real intent was to “stand right here.” Why not approach the skeleton? His shaky, hollow tone gave us all the answer.

“Alright, I’ll do it,” I said. As a heavily armored warrior, if anything went awry, I could endure longer than the fragile gnome bard.

Standing before the stocky skeleton, I felt a peculiar awkwardness—after all, moments ago, I’d been locked in mortal struggle with such a creature, and now I was expected to speak to him face-to-face. I truly had no idea what to say.

“Um... so... sir, are you... already dead?” I realized asking a hollow skeleton “Have you eaten?” was stupid, but my question felt even more foolish once uttered.

The others, standing ready behind me, snickered at my words.

Damn it, if you know what to say, why push me forward?

As I grumbled internally, the skeleton suddenly turned his neck toward me with a series of clicks:

“At last you’ve come, warriors from the surface. I’ve been waiting for you all—thank the heavens, the High God has heard my prayers...”

He spoke? He truly spoke?

His voice was chilling and monotone, each syllable delivered in an unwavering rhythm, devoid of the usual rise and fall of conversation. This cold, mechanical tone sent shivers down my spine. I had no idea how he produced sound, for it surely did not come from decayed vocal cords, but seemed to emanate from within—though in his current state, there was little “within” left.