Follow the goblin part 3

The moment Sayo and the baby slipped safely into the shadows of the upper tunnels, Yamaba turned.

Her spirits followed.

The skeletal wraith’s cyan fire flared brighter, licking up the walls like hungry serpents.

The shy banshee hovered behind Yamaba, hands pressed to her mouth in a soundless gasp but the air around her vibrated with building power.

Yamaba inhaled once.

And then she let the fury take the lead.

Her spirit flames exploded outward.

The cavern shook.

Goblin warriors poured into the corridor, alerted by the elder’s **** scream. Bone armor rattled. Spears lowered. War drums thundered from deeper in the warren.

They surrounded her in seconds.

Yamaba’s eyes burned like twin suns.

“Just in time,” she whispered.

“I need more corpses.”

The First Clash

A wave of goblins charged.

The wraith fell upon them like a meteor.

Blue fire shredded bodies, ripping through bone and armor without slowing. Where the wraith’s claws landed, goblins burst open, collapsing in heaps of charred flesh.

The shy banshee drifted forward next.

Her glow intensified then shattered outward in a silent shockwave.

Goblin skulls vibrated.

Eardrums burst.

Several collapsed outright, bleeding from eyes and noses.

Yamaba moved through them like a storm.

A goblin swung a bone axe she caught it with one burning hand, melted the blade, and crushed his throat with the same motion.

Her foot came down on another’s chest.

Ribs snapped.

His scream became a wet gurgle.

The wraith hurled a corpse into the air.

The banshee detonated a second pulse.

Bodies fell like raining meat.

Still more goblins rushed in.

She slammed both palms into the ground.

Spirit fire surged outward in a ring.

Goblin bodies twitched.

Convulsed.

Then rose.

Zombie Variant: Plague-Jaw

The corpses stood unevenly, limbs jerking, jaws unhinged wider than natural. Their teeth elongated into dark, venom-black fangs the signature of Plague-Jaw zombies, a variant Yamaba rarely chose.

Their bites infected and spread.

Her System flared.

[WARNING: Resurrection Spell Plague-Jaw Variant Selected]

[EXP Cost: -1,000]

[Current Level: 12 → 11]

[Stat Reduction in Effect]

Yamaba felt the drain immediately.

Her limbs grew heavier.

Her mana dimmed at the edges.

The fever threatened to return.

She pushed through it with a snarl.

“Move,” she ordered the undead.

They obeyed instantly.

The zombies swarmed the fresh goblin reinforcements, biting, tearing, spreading the infection like wildfire. Every goblin they downed convulsed, died, then rose moments later to join the horde.

The warren echoed with screams.

Yamaba raised her hand three more corpses ignited in teal fire and stood again.

[-600 EXP]

[Level: 11 (5,172 / 9,500)]

Her vision blurred at the edges.

(Doesn't matter. Not yet.)

She pointed toward the deeper tunnels.

“Find Leo,” she commanded.

Half the undead turned and lurched forward, running in jerking, unnatural strides.

The banshee followed, trailing ghost light like a comet tail.

The wraith stayed with Yamaba a towering guardian with fire swirling in its bone-ribs.

More goblins filled the chamber, screaming war cries.

Yamaba cracked her neck.

A chieftain’s lieutenant rushed forward with a bone spear.

Yamaba crushed it between her palms.

He froze in terror.

She didn’t.

Spirit fire erupted from her chest, engulfing him.

His body fell smoking then rose seconds later, eyes glowing cyan.

[-450 EXP]

[Yamaba: Level 11 → EXP 4,722 / 9,500]

Her breathing hitched.

She **** it steady.

Her army grew.

Her anger grew faster.

The tunnels filled with the thunder of marching undead, the shrieks of infected goblins, the wails of the banshee’s silent shockwaves.

Every goblin that fell became hers.

Every resurrection cut deeper into her strength.

But she continued without hesitation.

Because her daughter had been **** into marriage.

Because Leo was chained like livestock.

Because Jolie had screamed for her baby.

And Yamaba was done watching people she cared about suffer.

Yamaba felt the drain hit like a hammer.

The last goblin corpse finished twitching, cyan fire settling in its eye sockets as it lurched upright to join the others. Her System flickered at the edge of her vision.

[EXP -300]

[Level: 11 (EXP 4,422 / 9,500]

Her knees nearly buckled.

(Too much. Too fast.)

She grit her teeth and stepped over a split-open ribcage, forcing her breathing to steady. All around her, the corridor crawled with movement; undead goblins slammed into the living ranks like a tide of teeth and claws. Screams bounced from wall to wall, war cries turning to panicked howls.

“Hold the tunnels,” she rasped to the wraith.

The skeletal spirit tilted its skull in acknowledgment. Cyan fire flared along its spine as it dove back into the melee, shredding a cluster of archers before they could take aim.

The shy banshee hovered at Yamaba’s shoulder, hands clasped anxiously. Ghost-light wavered around her like a nervous aura.

“Go,” Yamaba told her, pointing down one of the side passages. “Drive them away from the upper tunnels. My daughter is there.”

The banshee’s hollow eyes widened. She nodded once, then streaked away, leaving a comet-tail of teal afterimages behind her.

That left Yamaba alone with the dead.

Good.

She lifted one hand.

Charred bones, scattered across the floor and embedded in the stone, jerked as if yanked by invisible strings. Rib cages, arm bones, shards of shattered skulls all tore free from the gore and whirled together in a spiraling storm. The air buzzed with mana her spirit flames flared bright enough to sting her own eyes.

“stellatal construct,” Yamaba whispered.

The bones snapped into place around her body.

A braced cage along her ribs. A layered spine along her back. Plates clamped over her shoulders, forearms, thighs. Each piece seared itself into alignment with a hiss of spectral fire, becoming an external skeleton of burnt white and cyan flame.

Weight settled onto her limbs.

Strength followed.

[Skill: Grave-Forge Armor – Temporary Construct Created]

[Penalty Mitigation: Physical Strength +20%, Stability Restored]

Her muscles stopped shaking. The worst of the level loss’s weakness receded to a manageable throb.

Far down the main tunnel, she felt the zombie horde begin to spill toward Brightburrow proper toward the markets, the painted walls, the children who had pointed and giggled and called strangers “mommies.”

Yamaba closed her eyes.

For a moment, she saw small green hands clutching at her clothes years ago. Wide, trusting eyes. Little voices calling her mama.

She opened her eyes again and faced away from the village.

“I gave this hole a chance once,” she murmured. Her voice was flint. “They chose what to do with it.”

She turned her back on the distant screams and limped down another tunnel, following the old, familiar airflow. The stench of sweat, fear, and old blood thickened with every step.

The breeding pits were exactly where she remembered.

They always were.

The entrance was a rusted gate bolted into stone. Two guards stood there, laughing about something, spears resting on their shoulders.

They never finished their joke.

Yamaba’s wraith erupted from the floor beneath them, impaling one on its claws and tearing the other in half with a sweep of its burning arm. Their bodies hit the ground already smoldering.

Yamaba stepped over them and pushed the gate open.

The smell hit like a physical blow.

Rot. Metal. Old smoke. Unwashed bodies. The sour, clinging stink of fear that never had time to fade.

And under it, a note she knew too well stale lust, sweat, and jizz left to dry on skin that no one bothered to clean.

The chamber beyond was carved in tiers. Chains hung from rings in the walls, some taut, some slack. Women lined the stone humans, elves, Chimeran, a few species she didn’t recognize. Most were naked or in torn scraps of clothing, skin marred by bruises, bite marks, and ritual carvings.

Several had swollen pregnant bellies, taut and strained others were rail-thin, eyes sunk deep into purple hollows. A few had stumps where arms or legs should have been, the wounds cauterized crudely or bandaged with filthy rags. One woman’s eye sockets were empty pits of scar tissue, her head bowed as she rocked silently.

Every movement in the room was small.

Flinches. Tremors. Tiny attempts to curl away from the sound of the opening gate.

Goblins were here too.

Some lounged against the walls, half-armored, leering. Others were in motion, fucking girls breeding the next generation.

Yamaba saw herself in every one of them.

Her vision tunneled. The roar in her ears became a howl of old terror and older rage.

She didn’t bother with a warning.

Spirit flame erupted from her in a sheet.

The nearest goblins had half a second to scream before fire swallowed them, burning flesh down to blackened bone. One turned toward her with a snarl, drawing a knife.

She ripped the knife from his hand with a flick of mana and drove it through his skull.

Another tried to grab a chained woman as a shield.

Yamaba snapped her fingers.

His arm combusted. He shrieked and dropped, clutching the smoking stump.

Her wraith crashed down through the ceiling, scattering stone and cinders. It waded into the remaining guards, tearing and smashing. The banshee appeared at the far end of the chamber, her glow sharp as a blade. She opened her mouth in a soundless scream.

The air rippled.

Every goblin in the pit clapped hands to their ears, blood streaming between their fingers. A few dropped outright.

Yamaba ignored them.

Her focus was on the chains.

She swept one arm sideways. Spirit flame burned through metal links without touching flesh; manacles fell open in a cascade of clattering iron. Women slumped as their weight sagged, some sobbing, some simply staring.

“You’re free,” Yamaba said, her voice hoarse. “If you can walk, move to the back wall. If you can’t, crawl. I’ll cover you.”

A few actually obeyed.

Most just stared, too deep in shock to process it.

She moved on.

More chains, more locks, more goblins trying to scramble toward weapons and dying before they got there. She stepped over a woman with a swollen belly and shackles on both ankles, her legs mottled with bruises.

For a heartbeat, Yamaba froze.

Years ago, that had been her.

She reached down, fingers surprisingly gentle, and snapped the chains with a flare of heat.

“Can you move?” she asked.

The woman shook her head, tears streaking down her hollow cheeks. “I… I don’t have… my legs…”

Yamaba’s gaze flicked down both feet were gone, hacked away above the ankle.

Punishment. For running.

Rage twisted through her again, white-hot. She gestured to the wraith.

“Carry her,” she ordered.

The spirit scooped the woman up in careful skeletal arms, its fire dimming where it touched her.

All around, the chamber descended into controlled chaos.

Some captives screamed. Others prayed. A few simply stared at the ceiling, lips moving silently as if they couldn’t quite believe any of this was real.

Yamaba moved through them like a knife, peeling goblins off bodies, incinerating those who tried to flee. One by one, she cut down chains and guided the freed toward the back wall, where the banshee’s aura wrapped around them in a protective cushion of ghostly light.

And then she saw her.

Alice.

She was slumped farther in, half-hidden behind a fallen support beam. Chains pinned her to the wall at wrist and ankle or what was left of them.

Her right arm ended above the elbow in a crusted bandage of cloth and dried blood. Her left leg was gone from mid-thigh, stump wrapped in rough, stained wrappings. Bruises marred her skin, along with smeared symbols and filthy handprints that made Yamaba’s stomach flip.

Alice’s head hung forward, eyes catching the dim light. Her hair clung damply to her face. For a horrifying second, Yamaba thought she was dead.

Then Alice twitched.

Her remaining hand clenched.

She lifted her head slowly, eyes unfocused then sharpened when they found Yamaba.

“Y… Yamaba?” Her voice was shredded. “You look like shit.”

Relief hit so hard Yamaba almost laughed.

Instead, she stepped forward and burned through Alice’s chains.

Up close, she could see the faint black pulse of the rune beneath Alice’s collarbone, glowing through her torn shirt.

The Oathbreaker’s Ring on Alice’s finger was cracked now overused, its runes spiderwebbed. The curse mark on her chest throbbed in sync with her heartbeat.

(So that’s what kept you on your feet, idiot girl.)

Yamaba caught Alice as the last manacle fell. Alice sagged into her, too light, muscles trembling with exhaustion.

“Can you stand?” Yamaba asked.

Alice blinked down at her missing leg. “Uh. Not… super well,” she croaked. “I’ve had better days.”

Even half-dead, she tried to smirk.

Yamaba set her jaw.

“Hold still.”

She snapped her fingers.

Bones stirred all around them from piles of corpses, shattered ribcages, discarded skulls. They rose in a swirling cloud and converged at Yamaba’s side. She shaped them with tight, precise gestures; each movement sent a lance of pain through her dwindling mana, but she ignored it.

[Grave-Forge: Temporary Construct – Limb]

[EXP -400]

Segments of bone fused together, reinforced with ribbons of cyan fire. A forearm took shape, then a hand fingers jointed with small, floating shards that moved like real knuckles. Next, a leg: femur, shin, layered plates that curved to form a knee and ankle.

Yamaba pressed the skeletal forearm to Alice’s stump.

Spirit flames surged, knitting bone to flesh without piercing skin. The construct locked into place with a sharp, tingling jolt. Alice gasped as sensation flickered along the new limb, not pain exactly more like pressure and heat.

She flexed her new fingers.

They obeyed.

“Woah,” she whispered.

“Don’t push it,” Yamaba warned. “It’s mana-bound. You’ll feel it as long as I’m conscious.”

She moved to the missing leg and repeated the process.

Another System alert flickered at the edge of her vision.

[EXP -600]

Her heart stuttered.

Her breath went thin.

(Keep moving. You can crash later.)

The bone leg grafted into place. Alice grunted, gripping Yamaba’s shoulder hard enough to bruise as the construct synced with her balance.

Then, slowly, she planted the new foot on the ground.

It held.

She swayed, then straightened, leaning heavily against Yamaba.

“Not gonna lie,” Alice rasped. “This is metal as hell.”

Yamaba snorted once, a humorless sound. “Try not to fall apart. We’re not done.”

All around them, the freed captives huddled behind the banshee’s shimmering field, wide-eyed and shaking. The moans from the deeper pits were fading now, replaced by the distant roar of undead and goblin screams as the infection spread.

Alice glanced around, taking in the chains, the mutilations, the hollow faces.

Her expression changed.

The exhaustion didn’t vanish, but something else slid in over it: a cold, furious stillness she almost never wore.

“They did this,” she said quietly.

“Over and over,” Yamaba answered.

Her voice was ice.

“They made men watch. They laughed when we begged. They called it worship.”

Alice’s hand clenched around the grip of her weapon, knuckles white.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Yeah. No more second chances.”

Outside the pits, another goblin alarm horn started to blow high, frantic, cut short halfway through by something that sounded like tearing meat.

Yamaba turned toward the entrance, bone armor creaking, eyes blazing.

“Stay close,” she told Alice. “Protect the ones who can’t move. I’ll clear the front.”

Alice rolled her new bone shoulder experimentally and flashed a sharp, humorless grin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alice took one step and her stomach lurched.

Too many smells at once. Blood. Smoke. Old sweat. The ghosts of things she refused to name.

The world swayed.

(If I lose it now, I am going to faceplant in front of everyone and that will be the cherry on top of this whole nightmare.)

She swallowed hard.

Something caught in the back of her throat. Not just nausea. A weight. A shape.

Alice froze.

Her eyes widened as memory punched through the fog. The moment before the goblins dragged her away. The frantic grab for her belt. The tiny hard object she had palmed and shoved down her own throat because there had been no time for anything else.

The Core capsule.

She dropped to her knees.

Yamaba startled, half turning toward her. "Alice?"

Alice clenched her jaw and jammed two fingers into her mouth.

Her body tried to revolt, but she **** it. Gagging, ****, she dug past the slick taste of her own breath, nails scraping tongue and throat until she hit something solid and smooth.

Her eyes watered.

(Out. Get out. Come on, come on, come on.)

She jerked her hand back.

She heaved.

The capsule came up with a wet cough, bouncing once on the stone floor and rolling away in a smear of goblin jizz. Alice slumped forward, coughing, spitting until the bitter taste in her mouth faded to something she could ignore.

Her new bone hand trembled as she snatched the capsule before it could roll into a crack.

A few of the freed women stared, horrified. One flinched back as if she expected something monstrous to crawl out of Alice along with it.

Alice wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, breathing hard.

"...yeah," she rasped. "I am never doing that again."

She thumbed the tiny rune on the capsule.

It clicked.

A seam split down its center and light spilled out, expanding in a rush. The capsule unfolded in midair, panels snapping aside like petals, until the familiar weight of metal dropped into her waiting hands.

The Battle Forged Greatsword hit the stone with a heavy thunk.

Even here, under pit torches instead of guild mage-lights, the blade seemed to drink in the glow around it. Nicked edges, dark metal, the suggestion of old battle cries humming just under hearing. It was nearly as tall as she was, wide enough that her fingers barely wrapped the grip.

[Item Retrieved: Battle Forged Greatsword (D Rank)]

Alice braced, put both hands on the hilt, and hauled.

This time, with the bone leg under her and the ring’s curse still burning in her chest, the weight came up clean. Her muscles screamed, but they obeyed.

Energy rippled off the blade in a faint shimmer, stirring dust and loose chains nearby.

Behind her, a few of the captives flinched, then stared with something like hope.

Yamaba watched in silence.

Alice planted the greatsword point-down for a second, leaning on it like a crutch while she caught her breath. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. Every bruise and cut ached in a chorus.

She looked up at Yamaba.

The necromancer did not just look tired. She looked carved out.

Her hair was a wild, tangled river that fell almost to her ankles, streaked with ash and blood. Spirit flames crawled along the strands like ghost-light caught in seaweed. Her skin, always pale, had gone to a color that made marble look sunburned.

The exoskeletal armor of blackened bone wrapped her from throat to shin. It clicked and creaked when she moved, ribs and spines interlocking in patterns that were half art, half atrocity. Cyan fire leaked from the gaps, licking along the edges, making her seem less like a person and more like a walking shrine to wrath.

Her eyes were the worst.

Molten amber, bright enough to hurt. Just focus, hot and lethal, aimed at the tunnel outside as if she could burn a path with hatred alone.

For the first time since she woke chained in this hole, Alice felt something cut clean through the fog of what had been done to her.

Fear.

Not of the goblins.

Of Yamaba.

Not because Yamaba would hurt her. That idea did not even land. It was the scale of the fury, the way it filled the elf up from toes to teeth. Like standing next to a volcano and realizing you had been treating it like a campfire.

Alice straightened slowly, lifting the greatsword into a ready stance. Her new fingers locked around the grip with mechanical certainty.

(You do not have time for this, Alice. You do not have time to fall apart. Box it. All of it. Right now.)

Memories pressed in anyway.

Hands on her. Laughter. The cold bite of manacles. The taste of things she never wanted to taste again. her baby.

She shoved them down.

Not gone. Never gone. Just... folded. Packed into a mental crate, hammered shut with nails made of pure stubbornness.

Later, she promised herself.

Later you can scream and cry and drink until you forget your own name.

Right now, you swing.

She dragged in a breath, filled her lungs all the way, then let it out slow.

When she spoke, her voice was steadier.

"So," she said, stepping up beside Yamaba, greatsword resting on her shoulder. "What’s the plan, boss? Kill every goblin in the warren, rescue our people, burn the rest down behind us?"

Yamaba looked at her, just for a heartbeat.

The fury in her gaze did not lessen. But something like approval flickered in it, a small, sharp spark.

"Something like that," Yamaba said.

Out in the tunnels, the alarm horn tried to sound again and died halfway through its note.

The wraith came pounding back into view, wreathed in fresh gore and cyan light, a small crowd of plague-jawed zombies lurching at its heels. The banshee followed, halo flaring as she herded more freed captives out of the side shafts.

Yamaba rolled her shoulders. Bone plates shifted with the motion, crackling softly.

"Stay behind my line when you can," she said. "If you fall, I can drag your soul back once. Maybe twice. I am not losing you in this hole."

Alice flashed a tight, humorless grin.

"Good. I was planning on making it out of here just to yell at Leo."

She lifted the greatsword.

Blue shockwaves shimmered off the edge, whispering of impact, of war.

Yamaba turned toward the dark, toward the deeper warrens where the chieftain still thought he ruled.

Her spirit flames flared high, painting the breeding pits in cyan and shadow.

"Then stay close," she said.

Together, half-mended knight and exhausted necromancer marched out of the pits toward the heart of Fangspire, leaving behind a chamber full of freed survivors and burning goblin corpses as the first payment on a very large debt.

The main cavern of Brightburrow was no longer a village.

It was a war zone.

The painted walls, once glowing with fungal murals, were splashed with streaks of cyan fire and dark goblin blood. Spirit-forged zombies shambled through the streets in stuttering, unnatural motions, biting and tearing at every living goblin in sight. Screams overlapped with the moans of the dying. Fresh corpses convulsed and rose again moments later, jaws gaping, eyes burning with Yamaba’s flame.

And yet

Not all the voices were screaming.

A cluster of goblins huddled behind an overturned market stall, shielding a group of children with their own bodies as a zombie lunged for them. Two slender female goblins dragged the little ones behind them, ears pinned flat in terror as they brandished kitchen knives like warriors.

Not far away, an adventurer woman with tangled blue hair and goblin marking fought back-to-back with a male goblin hunter, both bleeding, both ****, both swinging at the zombies that surged from a side tunnel. She cried out orders in a hoarse voice. The goblin answered with clipped commands of his own. They were working together.

Yamaba saw it all.

Her jaw clenched so hard a bone plate along her cheek cracked.

Her breathing hitched.

For a moment just one her steps faltered.

She had raised goblin children herself once.

She had braided their hair.

Held them when they cried.

Taught them not to bite strangers.

But she **** that memory away like a knife turned inward.

Her voice was flat, iron-hard.

“Do not stop. Do not think.”

Her feet kept moving.

Alice couldn’t.

Her breath caught as she stared at the chaos before them. A little goblin girl no older than five clung to her father’s leg, screaming as zombies tore at the barricades. An older goblin hauled her daughter onto his back and sprinted for cover, crying her name.

Alice’s grip tightened around her greatsword until her knuckles turned white.

“I… Yamaba, they’re ”

Her throat closed. “They’re scared. They’re just… families.”

Yamaba didn’t slow.

She couldn’t.

If she did, she would break.

“Alice,” she said without looking back. “If you hesitate, you will die, choose fast. I cannot make the decision for you.”

Alice swallowed hard, chest tight with something jagged and suffocating.

She wanted to help those frightened goblins.

She wanted to hate them.

She wanted so many contradictory things that her brain felt like it was tearing in half.

(Months in chains.)

(Hands on me.)

(Laughter.)

(The taste.)

(The choices they took.)

(The things I never chose )

Her breath stuttered.

A sound behind her.

Scratching claws.

Snarling voices.

The slap of bare feet against stone as three goblins burst from a side alley eyes feral, weapons raised, lunging straight for her throat.

Alice didn’t think.

Her body moved on instinct.

She swung.

The greatsword screamed through the air, shockwaves distorting the space around it.

The goblins didn’t split.

They didn’t fall in halves.

They popped

Three wet explosions against the cavern wall, red mist splattering across murals goblin children.

Alice froze.

Her hands shook.

“Oh gods ” she whispered, horror rising like bile. “Oh gods, I I didn’t mean ”

The memory hit like lightning.

Hands pinning her down.

Needles dragging across her skin.

The sound she made while she tried to pretend she wasn’t crying.

The smell of the dirt floor.

The laughing voices arguing over turns.

Her vision went white.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then she shoved the memories down, hard, burying them so deep her skull ached. She jammed them into the same mental box she had built earlier. Hammered it closed with sheer will.

Not now.

Not now.

Move.

She **** herself to breathe, to steady the sword, to look anywhere but the blood dripping down the wall.

Yamaba’s voice cut through the haze sharp, grounding.

“Alice.”

Alice looked up.

Yamaba stood among her undead, bone armor crackling with cyan, fury burning through her like a star about to collapse.

“I know,” Yamaba said quietly. “I know what this place did to you.”

Alice’s chest tightened.

“But right now, I need you strong.”

Alice nodded once, jaw clenched.

“…Yeah.”

She lifted her battle forged greatsword. “I’m with you.”

Yamaba turned back toward the path leading deeper into the warren toward the chieftain’s hall, toward Leo, toward Jolie’s stolen child.

“Good,” Yamaba said.

Outside, another alarm horn shattered against the echo of undead screams.

Alice stepped forward, steadying her breath as she matched Yamaba’s pace.

(Just keep moving. Keep swinging. Don’t think.)

As they pushed deeper into Brightburrow, the surviving goblins good or bad, innocent or guilty scattered before the tide of plague-jaw zombies behind them.

Alice kept her eyes ahead.

If she looked back, she knew she’d break.

The battle shifted.

Not because Yamaba slowed

not because the undead faltered

but because something changed in the air, a ripple that rolled across Brightburrow like someone plucked the strings of the world.

Alice stiffened.

Yamaba froze mid-step.

A sound drifted through the cavern.

Not a horn.

Not a scream.

A melody.

Playful.

Bright.

Mocking.

A spotlight of phosphorescent green lit the tallest stone tower at the center of the village.

A figure stepped out onto the balcony.

Slender.

Bare-chested.

Hair falling in perfect waves around a face far too pretty. Boots polished. Blue cloak fluttering dramatically in the updraft.

His smile gleamed like polished gold.

Yamaba’s breath hitched.

“…Moru.”

Alice blinked. “You know that ?”

“I know him,” Yamaba whispered, and her voice was not rage not yet but something far older and colder, like a wound remembering how it was made.

Moru raised both arms as if greeting an adoring audience.

The battlefield reacted.

Zombies staggered.

Some froze mid-lunge.

Others convulsed as teal fire guttered in their eyes.

Goblin survivors looked up and cheered.

Moru laughed, delighted, voice ringing with crystalline reverb, amplified by magic.

“Hello, my sweet little shadows!” he sang, his tone a purr wrapped in charm. “Did you miss me?”

He twirled his wrist.

A glowing, lute-shaped arc of mana formed in his hand.

He strummed one shimmering note.

The battlefield erupted.

Goblins straightened, spines snapping rigid as strength flooded their limbs. Their eyes brightened to burning gold. Their movements sharpened with sudden speed.

A chorus of System alerts flickered over them:

[BUFF: War-Bard’s Grace]

[BUFF: Bloodsong Quickening]

[BUFF: Moru’s Blessing “Do Try Not To Embarrass Me”]

Alice stumbled as the zombies nearest her weakened visibly, bones trembling, spirit fire flickering out of sync.

[DEBUFF: Bardic Disruption]

[DEBUFF: Dispel Chord Necromancy Weakened]

[DEBUFF: “Sit, Stay, Die Slower”]

Yamaba snarled.

Her wraith buckled, cyan flames wavering.

Moru laughed again, leaning over the balcony rail, kicking his booted feet with childlike glee.

“Oh, Yamabaaa,” he called sing-song, “I can feel you down there! My favorite little flower! Look at you undead horde, vengeance in your eyes ”

He pressed a hand dramatically over his heart.

“Darling, I’m touched. Truly. You didn’t do all this for me, did you?”

Alice stared at Yamaba.

The elf the butcher of Brightburrow the raging storm that nothing had slowed

looked stricken.

Not afraid.

Not angry.

Just…

Wounded.

“Moru…” she said again, quieter this time. “You’re alive. And… you look… the same.”

“Oh, flattery!” he gasped. “You remembered!”

He leaned close to the railing, golden eyes sparkling.

“Tell me, Yamaba do you still have that poem I wrote you? The one about your pretty screaming? Y’know, the one that rhymed ‘skull-fire’ with ‘desire’?”

Alice’s jaw dropped.

Yamaba’s spirit flames flickered violently.

“He was kind to me once,” Yamaba muttered, almost to herself. “When I was captured… when I was pregnant. He… protected me. Read to me. Fed me. I thought ”

Her voice cracked.

“I thought he was different.”

Moru clasped both hands in front of himself and giggled.

“Oh, sweetheart. I was grooming you.”

Alice choked. “WHAT?!”

Moru winked at her.

“Don’t make that face, surface-girl. Everyone does a bit of grooming. Some people are just better at it.”

He stretched luxuriously, rolling his shoulders as if he’d just awoken from a nap.

“And speaking of grooming… Yamaba, love, look how you’ve grown. I’m so proud.”

“Stop talking,” Yamaba hissed. “Stop ”

“Oh, no. No no no.” Moru wagged a finger at her. “You don’t get to silence me. You came back from the dead. You slaughtered half the compound. You broke my favorite elder rather rudely, too and you’re marching toward me looking like a bone-forged goddess.”

He spread his arms wide.

“So of course I’m going to narrate this. This is art.”

The battlefield seemed to move on his rhythm

as if the goblins were dancers and he was the conductor.

Every strum of his mana-lute sent ripples across the cavern, coordinating goblin movements:

archers firing in unison

spear wielders forming walls

runners swarming from side passages with perfect timing

even the terrified civilians seemed to part in flowing patterns

Alice tightened her grip on her sword.

“He’s… orchestrating them.”

Yamaba nodded.

“He always did. Even before he had a class.”

Moru lifted a hand and blew her a kiss.

Yamaba recoiled like she’d been struck.

Alice blinked at her.

“Yamaba… you’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“Are you scared?”

“No,” Yamaba said quietly.

Then, more honest:

“Yes.”

Moru beamed.

“Ohhh, you two are adorable. Truly. But if you want to reach me”

He gestured grandly toward the stairways, bridges, and chokepoints leading up the tower.

“You’ll have to earn it. I’ve prepared such lovely obstacles for you. Think of it as a date, Yamaba.”

Alice whispered, “He is absolutely a dick.”

Moru cupped a hand to his ear.

“I heard that.”

Yamaba inhaled sharply.

Her spirit flames roared back to life.

Her bone armor blazed.

Below the tower, dozens of buffed goblins surged forward, war cries shaking the stone.

Yamaba lowered into a stance.

“Alice. With me.”

Alice raised her greatsword, shockwaves humming around the blade.

“Let’s go kill your ex.”