The orc raised his blade.

  The Sharps was empty. No time to reload.

  I shoved it into my left hand and ripped the Remington free.

  The first shot slammed into the orc's ribs hard enough to ripple the armor. The second hit almost the same spot—mana flared, sparks and dark blood spraying sideways. The orc staggered, confused for half a second.

  Long enough for Jayden to tear loose and jam his sword into its collarbone.

  He didn't look at me. Just shifted his stance to cover my reload, which was the Jayden version of a thank-you card.

  Behind the fountain, the shaman shifted cadence—faster now, like he had made a decision I wasn't going to like.

  Isaiah hissed, "Caster's winding—"

  Too late.

  A bolt of green-gold energy ripped across the square and hit Wade.

  The scream came first. Then I saw why—his armor smoking, warping inward like it had half-melted and was trying to crush him. He dropped to one knee, gasping, hands clawing at the corrupted metal pressing into his chest.

  "Wade!" I was already moving toward him.

  Matt shoved past Derek. "Hold still—hold still—"

  Wade couldn't hold still. His whole body was shaking, breath coming in these awful wet hitches while the armor kept squeezing. Matt's hand came up glowing, and the beam of warm light hit Wade's chest—but Matt staggered like someone had yanked half his mana out through his ribs.

  The glow crawled across the warped metal. Slowly. Too slowly.

  Wade made a sound that wasn't quite a word. His face had gone gray.

  "Come on," Matt breathed. "Come on, come on—"

  The armor stopped moving. The corruption dimmed, then died.

  Wade sucked in air like he'd been underwater. His hands were still shaking where they pressed against his chest.

  The shaman lifted his hands again.

  Isaiah's arrow was already flying—overloaded with mana, glowing that furious blue. It punched through the shaman's skull, bursting out the back in a spray of dark mist. The body dropped behind the fountain, totems clattering everywhere.

  The chant died mid-note.

  The whole square shuddered like something had just let go.

  The shield-bearers faltered—tiny missteps, tiny hesitations, but enough.

  Derek slammed into the gap. Jayden followed with a yell that sounded half pain, half fury. Beverly moved with Dawson on the left flank, controlled this time—not reckless, just efficient. Like he was saving the reckless for something that deserved it more.

  I lifted the Sharps, reloaded now, and found the last rooftop archer shifting positions. The shot took him off the edge.

  Emily cut down an orc trying to run. Leander planted his blade in another. Dawson bashed one so hard its ribs folded.

  Without the chant, the orcs weren't a formation anymore. They were just bodies waiting to hit the ground.

  Less than a minute later, they broke.

  The Commons went quiet except for the fires.

  Wade was on his feet, but the way he stood—one hand still pressed to his chest, shoulders hunched like he was protecting something that wasn't hurt anymore—told me the heal had only fixed the physical part.

  "Wade," I said. "You good?"

  He looked at me. Then down at his armor, where the metal was still warped inward—a permanent dent where it had tried to crush him. His laugh came out wrong—too high, too sharp.

  "Thought I was gonna die with my ribs in my lungs." He swallowed hard. "So. You know. Tuesday."

  Nobody laughed. Wade didn't seem to expect us to.

  Matt sat down on the cobblestones like his legs had just quit. Didn't say anything. Just sat there breathing, hands limp in his lap.

  Beverly stood apart from the rest of us, staring at the Village Hall. His jaw worked once, twice—whatever he wanted to do to that building, he was making himself wait. Making himself think. Progress, maybe. Or just saving it for something bigger.

  I followed his gaze.

  The Hall wasn't just burning.

  It was pulsing.

  Sick green light flashed behind the windows—slow, steady, rhythmic. The kind of light that wanted you to notice it.

  Morris let out a long breath. "Think we found the boss."

  My hands were still shaking. Fear wasn't leaving. I wasn't sure it ever did anymore.

  But we stepped forward anyway.

  Because the real fight was still waiting.

  * * *

  The inside of the Village Hall felt wrong the second we crossed the threshold—too tight after the open chaos of the Commons, too dark in ways that had nothing to do with the lack of windows. Smoke crawled along the ceiling beams like it was looking for a way out. I knew how it felt.

  We cleared the first floor in maybe ten minutes. Quick, ugly work. An orc trying to shove a spear through a door that wasn't there anymore. Another one that... I don't actually know what it was doing. Dying, mostly. Reed took a slash across the thigh from one that should've been dead already—Elena threw a heal his way while he tried to pretend it didn't hurt.

  The chanting started somewhere above us. Not loud at first. Just this pressure that made my teeth ache and the hair on my arms stand up like static before lightning.

  At the top of the last stairwell, the hallway bent left, and there they were. The doors. Massive doubles that pulsed with green light in time with my heartbeat. Or maybe that was the other way around.

  Morris looked at me. Just a flick of his eyes that meant ready?

  I nodded because what else was I going to do? Say "actually, I'd like to go home now"?

  He pushed the doors open.

  The room was... God, I don't even know how to describe it. Big in the way that made you feel small. Cathedral ceiling, broken furniture shoved against walls like a giant's tantrum, and that green light coming from everywhere and nowhere. The air tasted like copper and ozone.

  The Chieftain stood on a raised platform at the far end.

  I'd been wrong about what "big" meant.

  This thing didn't just take up space—he owned it. A scar ran from his jaw up through one milky eye and over his skull like someone had tried to split his head in half and failed. His armor was made from things he'd killed. I could see a human breastplate hammered into one shoulder piece, the metal still showing someone's family crest.

  We were the first ones in here. The System had just... made that. Given him fake trophies. Fake kills. Like backstory mattered to a thing that existed to murder us.

  Above him, on this sketchy loft that shouldn't have been able to hold weight, hunched the Shaman. Bone totems rattled around him like wind chimes made of teeth.

  I was still processing all this when Derek decided to start the party.

  Or maybe the Chieftain started it.

  Hard to tell.

  One second Derek had his shield up, the next he was sliding backward across stone like someone had hit him with a truck. The sound—that sound. Like something heavy and wrong connecting with metal.

  Everything happened at once after that. Jayden and Jamal rushed to fill the gap. Emily darted forward. Morris shouted something.

  Adds came from the sides—six or seven orcs I hadn't even seen. Hadn't shown on my tactical overlay until they were already attacking, which meant either they'd been shielded somehow or the System was cheating. They moved too fast. Coordinated. Nothing like the ones outside.

  I shot the closest one. Watched him fold. Shot another.

  Vincent stepped forward to get a better angle.

  The hatchet took him under the jaw.

  I've seen people die before. Seen the light go out of their eyes, seen bodies hit the ground in ways that meant they weren't getting back up. But there's something different about watching it happen to someone you know. Someone who, twelve hours ago, pressed jerky into your hand and said "my mom's recipe" like that mattered, like there would be time later to talk about mothers and recipes and all the normal things people used to care about.

  Vincent's hands came up—confused, grasping at nothing—and then he was falling, blood sheeting down his chest before he even understood what had happened.

  The orc that killed him stepped through the blood. Actually stepped in it, left red bootprints on the stone, coming straight at Wade and me like Vincent had been nothing. Just an obstacle. Just meat in the way.

  I got the Sharps halfway up before he slammed into me.

  The rifle went flying. My elbow hit stone. Everything went bright white for a second.

  The orc's weight crushed down on me, trying to get his blade free from where it had caught in the wood. His breath stank like spoiled meat. I got my hand on the Remington but the angle was wrong—couldn't draw it, could only hold the grip while we rolled through Vincent's blood. Still warm. I could feel it soaking through my pants.

  "Caden's down!" Wade yelling.

  I finally got my knee up, levered the orc sideways. The Remington came free. Point blank into his ribs. He dropped across my legs, twitching.

  I shoved him off and crawled toward the Sharps, hands slipping in blood that wasn't mine. Vincent hadn't moved. Still had that confused look frozen on his face—his last thought trying to understand what went wrong.

  Get up. Get up. Get up.

  The Sharps found my hands. Or I found it. Same thing.

  The fight had moved while I was down. Derek was back on his feet but favoring his left side. Jayden held the center, that massive two-hander keeping the Chieftain at bay through sheer reach. Emily wove between strikes like water, her rapier hunting for gaps in that scavenged armor.

  The Shaman's chant changed—faster, meaner. Green light cracked across the ceiling like the room was coming apart at the seams.

  Then the pulse hit.

  It was like getting punched by air itself. The Chieftain's armor went white-green at the edges, and he got bigger. Not physically bigger, but... bigger. Like he was taking up more space in the world than he should.

  Derek took the next hit straight on. The crack when he hit the pillar made me swallow bile. Jayden stepped into the gap, shouting something that was probably heroic but mostly sounded scared.

  More adds. Fresh ones. Coming from a side passage I hadn't noticed.

  Jamal intercepted them.

  His arm was fine. Matt had healed it hours ago—muscle and bone and nerve all knitted back together like the damage had never happened. That's what magical healing did. Fixed everything physical.

  But bodies remember.

  Every time something hit his shield, I'd watched him flinch. Just a little. Just enough. His arm worked perfectly, but some part of his brain kept expecting the pain, kept bracing for damage that wasn't coming anymore. The orcs had figured it out somewhere in the village—started targeting that side, hammering the same spot over and over, not because they could see the old wound but because they could see him react to it.

  The first orc hit his shield and he absorbed it. Barely. That tiny flinch opening a gap that shouldn't have existed.

  The second orc found it. Not a killing blow—just a cut across his thigh that made him stagger.

  The third orc didn't hesitate.

  His blade went through Jamal's guard like it wasn't there. Under the ribs. All the way through—I saw the tip come out his back before the orc ripped it free.

  For a second, Jamal stayed standing. Shield still up. Blood already spreading across his stomach. Eyes wide and confused, like he couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.

  Then his knees hit stone. The shield slipped from his fingers with this hollow clang that I can still hear when I try to sleep.

  He fell sideways. Quiet. No last words. No dramatic goodbye.

  Just... gone.

  The System didn't even pause. Didn't acknowledge that one of our own had just stopped existing. The adds kept coming. The Chieftain kept swinging. The Shaman kept chanting.

  I put a round through the skull of the orc that killed him. Watched his head come apart. Felt nothing.

  Fuck that thing. Fuck this dungeon. Fuck the System for making any of this happen.

  "Focus!" Morris's voice cut through the red haze. "Stay in the fight!"

  Right. Fight. Because people were still dying and I couldn't afford to stop.

  Isaiah had repositioned to get a better angle on the Shaman. Smart—kill the healer, kill the buffs, kill the boss. Basic dungeon tactics. He drew back, mana gathering at the arrowhead in that blue glow that meant he was putting everything into it.

  The Shaman saw him.

  Their eyes met across the chaos—the orc shaman with his bone totems and ancient malice, and Isaiah with his glowing arrow and desperate hope.

  Isaiah loosed.

  The Shaman's hand came up, green energy crackling between his fingers.

  They passed each other in midair.

  Isaiah's arrow took the Shaman in the shoulder, spinning him backward with a shriek. The Shaman's blast took Isaiah's bow arm at the elbow.

  Not a clean cut. Not a wound. Just... gone. One second his arm was there, drawing the bow, and the next there was a ragged stump where his elbow used to be, blood spraying in arterial pulses, and Isaiah was screaming—this raw, animal sound that didn't have any words in it.

  His bow clattered to the ground. The part of his arm that was still attached to it landed beside it.

  Wade saw it happen. Made a sound that wasn't quite a scream, wasn't quite words. Just noise that meant everything was wrong.

  "Elena!" Matt was already moving, golden light building in his hands. "I need backup!"

  Elena broke from her position, sprinting toward Isaiah while Matt's healing hit him first—sealing the wound, stopping the blood loss, keeping him alive in the most technical sense. Isaiah's screaming dropped to this horrible whimpering as shock started to set in.

  He'd live. Probably. But he'd never draw a bow again.

  The Shaman was wounded but not dead. He clutched his shoulder where Isaiah's arrow had hit, bone totems scattered across the loft, trying to gather enough focus to cast again.

  "Shaman's interrupted!" I called out. "Push now!"

  Emily found a gap. Her rapier slipped between plates near the Chieftain's ribs, drew blood, made the monster stumble just for a second. Not a killing blow, but it opened something—a weakness in that patchwork armor.

  Kyle saw it too.

  I watched him draw. Slow. Careful. Like we had all the time in the world instead of none. His form was perfect despite the exhaustion, despite everything.

  The Chieftain saw him too.

  Everything slowed down.

  Kyle's fingers released. The arrow flew true, heading straight for that gap Emily had opened.

  The Chieftain's blade came up impossibly fast and swatted the arrow out of the air like it was nothing. Like Kyle was nothing.

  The arrow spun away, useless.

  And the Chieftain was already moving.

  Three steps. That's all it took. Three massive strides that covered the distance between them before Kyle could even lower his bow.

  The blade came down.

  Kyle tried to dodge. Almost made it. The sword caught him across the chest instead of splitting him in half, but "across the chest" with a blade that size meant the same thing, just slower.

  He didn't scream. Didn't have the air for it. Just made this small, surprised sound—like he couldn't believe it was happening, couldn't understand how this was the way it ended.

  His bow fell first. Hit the stone and bounced. Spun away in a lazy arc while Kyle's knees buckled.

  Three and a half rotations. The bow spun three and a half times before it stopped.

  I counted them. Don't know why. Just did.

  Kyle hit the ground, and something in Emily broke.

  The sound she made wasn't human. It was grief and rage compressed into a single note that could have shattered glass, and she threw herself at the Chieftain with absolutely no regard for tactics or survival or anything except making it hurt.

  "Emily, NO!"

  Jayden tried to cover her but she was moving too fast, too wild. Her rapier flashed—once, twice, three times—each strike driven by something that went way past training into pure animal desperation.

  The Chieftain pivoted, almost amused. He had just killed her brother and she was... entertainment. A nuisance. Something to swat aside before finishing the rest of us.

  His blade came down.

  Emily got her rapier up to block—barely—but the force was obscene. The impact drove her to her knees. Her guard beaten aside. She hit the ground flat on her back, rapier spinning away across the stone just like Kyle's bow had.

  The Chieftain raised his blade for the killing blow.

  Everything stopped.

  My hands moved without my permission.

  The cartridge already had thirty mana in it—my standard load, enough to punch through most armor at range. Without thinking, I pushed everything else I had into it. All of it.

  The Sharps got hot enough that the stock should have been smoking. The cartridge glowed blue-white through the metal of the chamber.

  Emily was about to die.

  I fired anyway.

  The recoil slammed into my shoulder harder than any shot I'd ever fired—not wrist-breaking, but enough to make me stagger. The sound was sharper too, angrier, like the rifle knew I'd asked it to do something it wasn't designed for.

  The round hit the gap Emily had opened and punched through.

  Not just through the armor. Through whatever was behind it. The Chieftain rocked backward like he'd been kicked by a draft horse, blade faltering inches from Emily's face. Blood—black and thick—sprayed from the exit wound in his back.

  He didn't go down. But he stopped. Swayed. The green energy crackling along his armor guttered and died.

  My mana pool read zero. My vision swam at the edges, that hollow feeling of complete magical exhaustion hitting all at once.

  Worth it.

  The Shaman shrieked from his loft—not a spell, just rage. His hands came up, trying to channel something through the pain of Isaiah's arrow still lodged in his shoulder.

  Too slow.

  Beverly was already moving. He shoved a broken table against the wall and climbed, Dawson right behind him. The Shaman saw them coming, tried to redirect whatever power he had left.

 

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