The journey back to Whisper-Rock is done in a daze. The outside world, with its noises, its smells, its chaos, seems bland and loud after the perfect, ordered silence of the library. Every step on the uneven forest floor reminds me that I have returned to a reality where the laws of physics are more stubborn than those of pure magic.
I was in the ruins for nearly three days, though it felt like only a few hours. The physical hunger, held at bay by the ambient energy of the library, returns with renewed force. My body needs fuel.
I hunt on the way back. A wild boar crosses my path. The fight is brief, almost mechanical. My Dagger Mastery is more instinctive, my Night Vision clearer, my Camouflage more natural. The knowledge I have acquired is not just abstract; it has already begun to infuse my existing skills, optimizing them.
When I finally reach the hamlet, night has fallen. The warm glow of the Silver Trout Inn is a welcoming beacon. As I push open the door, I am met with a sudden silence. All eyes turn to me. Mam Anya, Elric, the lumberjacks... they are all there.
Their surprise is palpable. It is the look one reserves for a ghost.
"By the ancestors..." Elric murmurs. "He's back."
Lyra is the first to break the silence. She runs toward me and stops a few feet away, her eyes wide. "You're alive! Grandma said you wouldn't come back!"
Anya approaches, wiping her hands on her apron, an expression of relief and disbelief on her face. "Reinhardt. We thought... everyone thinks the ruins took you."
"The ruins are generous if you ask politely," I reply with a faint smile. Fatigue weighs on my features, but I feel more alive than ever.
That night, I am the village's unexpected hero. I am offered the best seat by the fire. I am served a double portion of stew, and even a mug of ale that I can only half-finish. I do not tell them what I saw. I do not speak of the Guardian, nor of the library. I simply say that the ruins were empty and that the real threat lies in the forest. It is a lie that reassures them, and that is all that matters.
I spend the night in my room, but sleep is difficult. My mind is too active, circling around what I have learned. The ritual. The evolution. The Soul Ore. I must return to Kryndal. That is where the deepest entrances to the sewers are, where the Undead Miner performs its eternal task.
I leave Whisper-Rock the next morning, despite Lyra's protests that she wanted me to play Rock-Serpent-Bird with her. I promise to return. I don't know if it's a promise I can keep, but in making it, I feel that a part of me sincerely wants to.
The journey back to Kryndal is swift. I know the way, and my body, strengthened by Level 5 and the experience of the forest, covers the distance effortlessly.
Entering the capital again is a shock. The smell, the noise, the crowds... it all feels oppressive. The city is a cage of stone and ambition, and I wonder how I managed to survive here for so long.
I do not return to the Guild. Not yet. I find a discreet room in a cheap inn, far from the center. I must prepare for my expedition.
I spend the day observing. Kryndal has not changed. The nobles are still arrogant, the poor still miserable. But my perspective has changed. I no longer see oppressors and victims. I see potential sources of power, skills to be acquired, experience to be harvested. It is a cold, terrifying thought that I push to the back of my mind. I must not become that. Balance.
At night, I prepare. I don my basilisk leather armor. I check the edge of my dagger. I eat a hearty meal, knowing I will need all my energy.
Then, I return to the sewers.
The familiar stench greets me like an old acquaintance. Thanks to my improved Night Vision, the tunnels are almost as clear as day. I do not waste time with the Shadow Rats. They are a distraction.
I follow the descending tunnels, the ones I discovered during my escape. I follow the memory in the air, the echo of that stagnant energy. I am a ghost returning to the place of my birth.
After an hour of progress, I find it again. The sound. That rhythmic, obsessive clinking. The pickaxe of a dead man striking rock.
I approach the cavern with infinite caution. I melt into the shadows, my Camouflage making me nearly invisible. He is there. The Undead Miner. Still the same, performing his endless task. He has not moved, he has not changed. He is a constant in this subterranean world.
Name: Undead Miner
Level: 5
Status: Focused
Level 5. Same as me. Last time, he was an insurmountable monster. Today... he is an opponent within my reach. The sack at his feet is even fuller than last time.
I am not going to try to steal it. That is a rat's mistake. Today, I am a wolf. And the wolf does not steal its prey. It takes it.
I observe him, analyzing his pattern, as Elric taught me to do over the game board. He strikes, he bends, he turns. His right flank is exposed for a second and a half in each cycle. His head is always focused on the vein. He is predictable. His strength is his weakness.
I prepare my attack. I activate Precise Strike. I wait for the perfect moment.
He strikes the rock. The sound covers the whisper of my footsteps.
He bends to pick up a fragment.
I emerge from the shadows.
My dagger strikes, not his bony body, but the joint of his right knee, a weak point I spotted in his repetitive movements.
CRITICAL!
A sharp crack, like a dead branch snapping. The Miner's leg gives way. He collapses to the side with a clatter of bones. He made no sound, but I feel his surprise, his confusion. His millennia-old routine has been broken.
He turns to me, his blue eye sockets burning with a cold light. He raises his pickaxe, no longer as a tool, but as a weapon.
I do not give him time to readjust. I am already on him. I am no longer a frightened, fleeing boy. I am a Level 5 predator, equipped for silence and death.
He swings his pickaxe in a horizontal arc. I duck, the metal whistling over my head. I dive forward, inside his guard, and plant my dagger in his ribcage. The blade gets stuck between two ribs.
He grabs me with his free hand, his bony fingers closing around my arm with incredible force. It's like being caught in a stone vise.
HP: 55/55 → 48/55
I am trapped. He begins to squeeze, and I hear the bones in my arm protest.
I do not panic. I release my dagger, leaving it embedded in his chest, and with my free hand, I grab his head. My thumbs find his empty eye sockets.
And I push.
There is no flesh, no eyes. Just the two blue flames that are the anchor of his soul. My touch seems to inflict a pain on him that no physical weapon could. The life force in my fingers, however faint, is an assault on his undead nature.
He lets out his spectral scream, that otherworldly moan, and releases my arm.
I use the second of respite to wrench my dagger from his chest and leap back.
The fight is not over. He drags himself across the floor on his one good leg, his pickaxe sweeping in front of him, forcing me to keep my distance. He is wounded, but still dangerous.
But I have seen what I needed to see. I know his weak point. It is not his bones. It is the spirit that animates them. Those two blue flames.
I have to extinguish them.
I circle around his attacks, waiting for another opening. The rat has become a wolf. And the wolf knows when to wait for the perfect moment to go for the throat.