I carried them.
One after another.
Like a cursed Disney princess hauling three grown people with the muscle mass of medieval soldiers.
First, I dragged Coffi. Slapped her gently. The girl weighs like a sack of potatoes who eats OTHER sacks of potatoes.
Then Henry. My arms were screaming the entire time.
And Joff—oh my god, Joff. He was dead weight AND floppy. He made it ten times harder by folding like a wet towel.
"Why," I grunted as I carried him, "are you all built like war horses but have the stamina of dried noodles?!"
I dumped each of them by the carriage door, sweat on my forehead, lungs questioning their contract with my body.
Then they started waking up one by one.
Slap.
Slap.
SLAP.
Not too hard—just enough to bring them back to the land of the living.
Coffi jolted like I electrocuted her.
Henry gasped dramatically.
Joff screamed like a goat.
And all three immediately began babbling:
"Milady, the darkness!"
"The mana drain!"
"The curse—"
"The wraiths—"
"The—"
SLAP.
They all shut up.
"Listen," I said, hair messy, lantern still flickering like it had anxiety, "if you faint ONE more time, I swear to every god in this realm I will tie you three together like sausages and drag you home."
They gulped. In unison. Like scolded puppies.
"Milady… perhaps… perhaps we should return to the mansion first," Henry suggested, trying to sound calm but his voice cracked like a teenager in puberty.
"Yes," Joff nodded frantically. "Regroup! Regather! Re… reevaluate… life choices!"
Coffi just pointed back at the mine and whispered, "Never again…"
I stood there for a full five seconds, internally debating whether to abandon them and adopt a new supporting cast.
But fine. Whatever. My arms felt like noodles anyway.
"Okay, FINE," I said, throwing my hands up. "We go back."
They sagged with relief like I announced their death sentences were canceled.
We climbed into the carriage—me exhausted, them traumatized—and as the horses began to pull us away, I glanced back at the mine.
The cursed mine where I casually strolled, picked up a probably-cursed ring, touched nightmare-level artifacts, and felt NOTHING.
But these three?
Fainting like Victorian brides on corsets too tight.
Mana drained. Traumatized.
I shook my head and whispered to myself:
"This realm better be ready. Because I sure am not."
*****
A few hours ago, deep inside the mine, the shadows shifted, hissing and twisting like snakes, the air thick with dark magic so potent it could rot a man's soul in seconds. The wraiths stirred restlessly, whispers of curses and maledictions echoing against stone walls slick with age and mildew. At the center of it all, the High Priest, now little more than a wraith with glowing void eyes, screeched in disbelief.
And why? Because a human had just waltzed in.
Not just any human. No, this one was massive. Fat as a cow, if one were to be brutally honest. Her steps were bold, almost jaunty, as if she had walked straight out of a bakery and into the heart of darkness just to check if they had cookies.
And here's the kicker: she wasn't scared. Not a flinch. Not a whimper. She didn't scream. She didn't drop to her knees. She didn't even gasp dramatically like someone in a horror story. She just… walked.
The wraiths tried everything. Curses flung like hail. Shadows poured over her in waves, thick and suffocating, clawing at her skin. Explosions of dark magic shook the walls and rattled the stones. The air around her shimmered with death intent. Even the High Priest, desperate and shaking with what passed for panic in his ghostly form, hurled his Shadow Sword—the most powerful item any wraith could wield—toward her.
It didn't even nick her.
She walked. Through darkness. Through magic. Through the most sophisticated killing tools a wraith could dream up. And she didn't even breathe hard. She didn't even look bothered.
The High Priest staggered, spectral fingers clutching the hilt of his weapon like it might explain this impossible human. "What… what is this abomination?!" he hissed. "Why is she not afraid? Why—why doesn't the magic even work?!"
Meanwhile, she casually lifted a tiny, sad-looking ring off a dais—one that was supposed to be the ultimate offering to the Lord of Darkness, the Ring of Curses. The Ring of Dark Magic. The Ring of Doom. It had taken centuries to forge, imbued with all their collective power. Only a being of immense dark energy could touch it.
And this human? She slid it onto her finger like it was a decorative piece from a bargain bin. She even smirked, probably thinking, cute, shiny, red stones… I'll take it.
The High Priest tried to snatch it back, to reclaim the glory of his precious artifact. His skeletal hand hovered, trembling with rage and desperation. But the moment he touched it… the ring sucked out every ounce of his mana and magic. He dropped to the floor, trembling, his eyes hollowed, powerless. Two months of recovery would barely bring him back to functional wraith level—and that was if he didn't collapse again.
And the human? She twirled her finger. Checked her nails. Smiled. Didn't feel a thing.
The shadows recoiled. The curses faltered. The other wraiths who had been pouring their collective malice into the mine felt their power draining—weakening, as if the ring was a battery and the human was sipping their energy like it was a latte.
"What… who… how…?" The High Priest hissed, voice breaking. "She… she's—she's nothing like us. She… she—she's mortal. HOW? HOW IS SHE MORTAL?!"
But of course, she didn't answer. Humans don't explain themselves. Especially humans that don't give a damn about centuries-old dark magic and existential horror.
Step by step, the wraiths realized their position: they were slowly losing. Draining. Their carefully constructed curse network, their invincible mine of terror, all crumbling around them. They could feel it in their bones, and not the good kind—more like the "oh crap, I'm about to get fired from being evil" kind.
And there was nothing they could do. They had no choice but to retreat. Escape. Find another territory to haunt. Another cursed mine, another poor soul to terrorize. Anywhere but here, because the fat human with the impudent smirk and zero mana had just rendered their century-long reign of darkness… completely impotent.
The High Priest growled, hissing as he retreated, the shadows lashing like whips. "This isn't over!" he bellowed. "We will return! We will—"
But, the human? She had already flicked the dust off her hands, adjusted her hair, and started walking deeper into the mine, humming a little tune to herself. Maybe thinking about breakfast. Maybe thinking about nothing at all. Definitely thinking about how ridiculous these wraiths looked freaking out over a cheap ring.
And honestly… she wasn't even slightly concerned.
The curse was lifting. The shadows were weakening. The wraiths had officially met their match.