The system interface hung in the air, its glow casting a harsh blue light over the crimson sand.
[OBJECTIVE UPDATED]
[Defeat Skeleton Warriors (0/100) to secure the altar.]
Evan stared at the number. One hundred. In a video game, that was a grinding session. In reality, with the smell of dry iron in his nose and the weight of a stone egg on his back, it felt like a death sentence.
His hand went to a side pocket, fingers brushing against cold, textured metal. He pulled out a collapsible tactical baton.
He could almost hear her voice—the perfect blend of "genius-level intellect" and "big-sister bossiness." He flicked his wrist. With a satisfying clack-whirr, the baton extended and locked. It felt solid. Balanced. A piece of the old world meant to break things in the new one.
Behind his sternum, the egg thrummed. It wasn't the slow, rhythmic pulse from before; it was frantic, insistent. It felt like a heartbeat drumming against his own. Go, it seemed to say. Win.
Evan looked toward the altar at the base of the massive blood-wood tree. If he won, if he reached that altar, he might finally see what was inside this stone shell. He might actually have a partner in this hellscape.
"Alright," Evan whispered, his voice steadier than he felt. "High risk, high reward. Let's see if that military training was worth the bruises."
He reached for his water bottle. It was light—terrifyingly light. He unscrewed the cap and drained the last of it, the tepid liquid barely wetting his parched throat. He dropped the empty plastic; it hit the sand with a hollow thud.
There was no more time for caution. The twin suns were mocking him, and the army of the dead was waiting.
Evan descended from the rock formation, his boots crunching on the glass-flecked grit. He didn't run. Running would waste energy he didn't have. He walked with a measured, deliberate pace—the "calm under fire" his parents had drilled into him.
He was fifty yards from the perimeter of the village when the first skeleton shifted.
Its skull tilted. A dry, rattling sound—like a thousand dead leaves skittering over pavement—echoed from the base of the tree. Then, the silence broke.
The hundred skeletons didn't scream; they simply moved. It was a wave of white bone and rusted scraps, a singular, collective intent to stop him from reaching the altar. They began to charge.
Evan steeled himself. He planted his feet, knees slightly bent, shifting his center of gravity.
The first one reached him—a shambling thing with a cracked ribcage and a rusted sickle. It swung with a clumsy, overhead arc. Evan didn't panic. He saw the opening, the slow telegraphed movement. He stepped inside the guard, snapping the baton upward.
The metal struck the skeleton's forearm with a sickening crack. To Evan's surprise, the bone didn't just break—it shattered. The arm spun away into the sand. Before the creature could tilt its head in confusion, Evan brought the baton back around in a horizontal sweep, connecting squarely with the temple.
The skull disintegrated into white powder. The rest of the body collapsed into a pile of senseless sticks.
[Defeat Skeleton Warriors (1/100)]
Evan exhaled, a surge of adrenaline washing away his fatigue. "They're brittle," he breathed.
They had numbers, but they lacked the density of living bone. They were echoes of warriors, weakened by time and the very heat that had preserved them.
But the surge didn't stop. Ten more were closing in.
Evan knew better than to stand in the open and get surrounded. This wasn't a movie; if three of them cornered him, he was done.
He turned and bolted toward the nearest standing structure—a half-collapsed stone building that had likely been a storehouse. The doorway was narrow, barely wide enough for one man.
"Come on then," he grunted, backing into the shadows of the ruins.
The skeletons crowded the entrance, their bones clacking against the stone frame. Because of the narrow opening, they could only funnel in one or two at a time.
It was a meat grinder—or a bone grinder.
Crack. A skull vanished.
Thwack. A spine snapped.
(5/100)
(12/100)
(21/100)
Evan's arm began to ache. The baton was light, but the repetitive motion of striking was draining. Sweat stung his eyes, and the air inside the ruined building was thick with the dust of pulverized bone.
He used his left shoulder to shove a headless skeleton back into the crowd, creating a momentary gap. He took the second to breathe, his lungs burning.
He moved to the next building as the first one began to groan under the weight of the skeletons climbing the walls. He used the village layout like a chessboard, sectioning the army into manageable chunks.
By the time he reached a small courtyard near what used to be the well, the tally in his vision flickered again.
(30/100)
He stepped over a pile of ribs and slumped against a wall, his chest heaving. His knuckles were white where he gripped the baton. He looked out at the remaining seventy. They were still coming, their movements patient and tireless, but the fear that had gripped him at the rocks was gone.