The marsh whispered as we walked.
Each step sank into mud that sucked at my boots like it didn't want to let go. Fog curled around our ankles, cold and slow, rising from the swamp in lazy tendrils that breathed like something alive. This was Duskmire Hollow. A place forgotten by maps and avoided by instinct. The trees loomed, tall, brittle things with bark like scar tissue and moss hanging down like funeral veils. Everything here was quiet. Too quiet. Even the birds knew better than to stay.
We were close.
I raised a hand, signaling the others to slow. "West wall in sight," I muttered, nodding toward the stone shapes breaking through the fog ahead.
Behind me, the other two emerged from the mist, one in blue, the other in brown.
Rika moved first, cloak brushing her knees as she stepped lightly through the muck, never once misjudging her footing. Her robes were deep indigo with silver trim, sleek and practical, tailored for movement, not theatrics. A long slit ran up one side, just enough for mobility without sacrifice. The fabric shimmered slightly in the fog, catching stray bits of light like starlight on water.
She held a simple wooden staff in one hand, smooth and unadorned, while the other carried a grimoire pressed against her hip. It wasn't large, not the oversized tomes you'd expect from a stage magician. This one was compact. Worn. Efficient. Like her. The leather cover was dark and clasped shut with a single silver latch, faint enchantment lines tracing across the surface in calm, flickering pulses. She didn't cradle it like a treasure. She held it like a tool.
Her hair was pulled back into a low, practical braid, silver strands tucked cleanly behind one ear. Not a single ornament. Not a single loose curl. Just focus.
Then came Iroha.
She moved with a deliberate kind of flair, cloak half-draped over one shoulder like she hadn't quite decided whether she was a traveler or a performer. The cloth was dusky orange, sun-faded at the edges, and barely reached her waist. It swung slightly as she walked, worn not for warmth but for effect.
Beneath it, she wore a fitted set of leather armor in soft, sand-brown tones, snug at the waist, sleeveless at the arms, with overlapping plates running down one side like half-forgotten bardic scales. She had fingerless gloves, a wide belt slung slightly off-center, and a rapier sheathed along her hip that gleamed with a thin silver edge. Fast draw. Flashy kill.
Strapped to her back was a small travel lute, polished wood, darkened from use. The strings were wound tight, the finish chipped near the base. It wasn't just for decoration. You could tell from the scuffs that she actually played it.
Her hair was loose, mostly, save for two thin braids that framed her face before tucking behind her ears. The rest cascaded down in soft waves, a little wild, a little charming. Just messy enough to feel like freedom.
And then… there was me.
My robes were plain black. Simple folds, straight seams. The kind of outfit worn by wandering swordsmen and grave-cleaning monks. The only thing that made it look even a little prestigious was the gold threading running down the cuffs and seams, and even that looked like it was trying too hard.
If it were hanging on a rack in a vendor's stall, it'd go for the same price as three loaves of bread, the kind left over from yesterday, wrapped in a hurry and already a little stale.
I didn't mind. I wasn't here to be flashy.
But next to them, I looked like the third wheel of a hero's tale. Or maybe the quiet narrator who dies in chapter two.
The outpost came into view, half-swallowed by the marsh, its blackened spires jutting up like broken ribs. The outer walls had caved in places, swallowed by vines and mud. One of the old banners, dark blue, frayed to threads, still clung to a jagged pole at the top of a leaning tower. It fluttered like it was trying to remember what it once stood for.
"This doesn't look cursed at all," Iroha said behind me. Her voice was too cheerful for the setting, like she was either mocking the danger or trying to pretend she wasn't feeling it.
I glanced back. She was perched on a rock now, cloak flaring behind her like she'd timed the wind herself. The rapier at her hip caught a flicker of light through the mist, polished, elegant, impractical. She didn't look afraid. More like she wanted to be seen. Theatrical. Like this was a stage, and we'd just entered her scene.
"You're the one who picked this path," Rika said evenly. She sidestepped a patch of blackwater without looking down, her gait unhurried but precise. Not cautious, just deliberate. The kind of movement that didn't waste steps. Didn't ask for attention. Somehow, not a drop of mud touched her.
"It's called optimism," Iroha replied breezily. "Also, treasure. Don't forget treasure."
"Or danger," I added.
"Same thing," she said, flashing a grin. "Honestly, I could've picked the sun-drenched ruins in the coral highlands. But no, you two wanted mystery." Her voice lilted just enough to make it sound like she was the one making concessions, not the other way around.
Rika raised an eyebrow without looking away from her slate. "I don't remember being offered a choice."
"Exactly," Iroha said with a wink. "Which is why it worked out."
I turned back to the ruins, letting their voices fade behind me.
The fog was thickest here. Still. Heavy. Like it was waiting for us to step inside.
A faint orange glow flickered in the fog, torchlight. Not fire wisps. Not random wanderers. People. I narrowed my eyes and dropped into a crouch just below the ridge, motioning the others closer.
"Movement up ahead," I murmured. "Two armored, guarding the gate. Three more in robes by that broken archway. And... another five further in. Slower. Shuffling."
"Undead," Rika said simply.
"They're not moving like the others," I added. "Lurching. Controlled."
"Definitely undead," she confirmed, tone clinical.
"So we've got ten total," I said. "Two frontline guards. Three robed casters. Five walkers."
"Ooh, is this the part where we get the treasure?" Iroha whispered from behind me, crouching low with a mischievous grin.
"After we deal with the people guarding it," Rika said without missing a beat. Her slate hovered silently beside her now, runes dimmed to avoid drawing attention.
I glanced between them. "You do remember why we're here, right?"
Iroha blinked. "Vaguely?"
I sighed. "Did neither of you read the quest line?"
Iroha tilted her head. "You mean that scroll with the fancy calligraphy and wax seal?"
"Yes," I said flatly. "That."
"I mean, if you wanted me to read a novel, you should've lit a fire and poured me some ale. Maybe then it wouldn't have felt like homework."
Rika didn't look up. "I attempted to. But what you call calligraphy looked more like bad handwriting."
I sighed, letting my head tilt just a little toward the sky. "Maybe being a solo adventurer isn't such a bad idea after all."
Then I shook the thought away and straightened.
"Okay. This place, whatever it used to be, is now a beacon. Magical output off the charts. It's been disturbing the nearby villages. Locals are reporting visions. Faint voices. Whole barns emptied overnight. One guy swears he saw his dead wife hanging laundry in the middle of the road."
"Spooky," Iroha said, resting her chin on her palm. "So what if there's a ghost sweeping the porch of some grandma's hut? Maybe he just wants a job."
Rika didn't look up. "At least it's contributing to the economy. Unlike you."
"Easy now, honour girl," Iroha purred, twirling a finger in the fog. "One off-key insult and I'll sing you straight into a zombie's open arms."
Rika finally met her gaze, calm as ever. "I'm well-versed in necromancy. If one tries to hug me, I'll simply make it kneel."
I raised a hand between them, palm out. "Okay, focus."
"Point is, whatever's inside is spreading. If we take it down, we stop the fog. We help the village. And yeah, probably loot the place too."
I looked back at the ruins. The armored ones were swapping positions. The robed figures hadn't moved much, but the undead were now circling the structure in an uneven perimeter.
"Okay…" I murmured. "Five undead. Three unknown casters. Two guards. Formation looks semi-organised, which means someone's giving orders."
"If the undead are linked, severing the connection could collapse them," Rika said. "Start with the casters."
"Unless it triggers a failsafe," Iroha added. "Exploding corpses. Rude, but classic."
I lowered back into cover and glanced at both of them. "So... what do we want to do?"
Iroha raised her hand like she was answering a teacher. "We talk to them."
I blinked.
"I'm serious," she said. "No weapons. No shouting. Just me, a smile, and a very persuasive melody. I bet we can talk our way through this without a single scratch."
I turned to Rika. She said nothing. Just adjusted the strap on her staff and kept her eyes forward.
No objections. No support. Typical.
I looked back toward the outpost, fingers brushing the hilt of my blade.
"All right," I said quietly. "We'll try it your way."
Iroha was already standing, dusting off her cloak like she was stepping onto a stage. "Worst case, we cut them down. I didn't bring this rapier just to look the part."
I gave a small nod. "Just… stay sharp."
She flashed a grin over her shoulder. "Please. I'm always sharp."
She reached back, fingers brushing the strings of her lute in a lazy tuning gesture.
Beside me, Rika's spell-slate gave a faint pulse, quiet, ready.
I exhaled once and settled my weight into my heels.
Just in case.
The air was heavy with silence, the kind that made every breath feel like it echoed.
Torchlight flickered behind the gate, casting tall, twitching shadows across the broken stones. The guards shifted occasionally, armor creaking in the mist. They hadn't seen us yet.
Then Iroha moved.
Not a whisper of hesitation. She stepped out from behind the ridge like it was a stage entrance, calm, deliberate, as if the entire swamp had been holding its breath just for her cue.
"Easy," she called, hands raised just slightly. "I'm unarmed. Mostly."
The two guards at the gate turned, weapons lowering an inch. One wore rusted chainmail under a sleeveless jerkin, the other carried a spear taller than himself. Their faces were partially obscured by cloth masks, dyed black, sun-faded.
The one with the spear stepped forward. "This area is off-limits."
"To most," Iroha said, stopping just before the broken path. "But I heard a rumor that those with the right faith might find... welcome company."
A pause.
Then: "You're here for the Fogfather?"
Iroha tilted her head slightly. "That depends. Is he accepting applications?"
The guard glanced at his partner. The second man gave a slow nod.
"You'll speak to the Hollow Voice. If your spirit is true, you may be allowed into the fold."
"Oh, my spirit's very true," she said sweetly. "To many things."
"Do you bring tribute?"
"I bring curiosity," Iroha replied. "And questions. That's worth something, isn't it?"
Another pause. The first guard lowered his spear a bit more. "Fine. But no sudden moves."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
From our hiding spot in the marsh, I kept my hand near my blade, watching every twitch of the guards' posture. My eyes flicked to Rika, crouched beside me. Her grimoire was open now, a faint shimmer glowing across the runes as she muttered under her breath.
I frowned. "What are you doing?" I whispered.
She didn't answer. Just traced a glyph mid-air with one finger, focused entirely on the page.
The guards seemed to relax, just slightly. One of them even gestured toward the shattered gate. "You'll follow the fog-path. If your heart falters—"
BOOM.
A burst of violet light erupted beside me, not loud, but sharp and sudden, like a lightning snap in a stone corridor.
The nearest cultist flinched. The one with the spear turned hard, raising his weapon. "Intruders!"
Iroha let out a sigh as she stepped back. "You had one job," she muttered, drawing her rapier with a smooth flourish.
I stood and unsheathed my blade in the same breath. "We're up."
Rika snapped her grimoire shut with one hand, pale light still clinging to her wrist. "It wasn't supposed to go off yet."
I stepped forward slightly. "What, the unplanned fireworks?"
The two remaining guards snapped to readiness, weapons raised. Behind them, the undead broke from their patrol, heads turning in eerie unison as they started shambling toward us.
And just like that, stealth was over.
I moved first.
From the crouch beside Rika, I dropped into stance, one foot forward, knee bent, hand resting lightly on the hilt at my waist. My fingers curled around the hilt.
A single breath.
In a blink, I was gone.
A flash-step across the mud, the mist curling in after me. My katana was already mid-swing by the time I reappeared, arm raised, blade humming through the air. The guard standing before Iroha didn't even realise he'd been cut.
Until his body dropped, a thick diagonal slash carved across his chest plate like melted wax.
The second guard jerked back, eyes wide. He pivoted to strike Iroha, who was now standing tall with a soft smile on her lips.
She raised one hand, voice low and honeyed.
"Do you always point weapons at pretty girls, or am I just lucky?"
The guard faltered, blinked once, confused, but not swayed. I saw it in her eyes, the charm hadn't landed clean.
But Iroha didn't miss a beat.
She stepped in close, too close, and her rapier slid clean through his ribs, piercing the heart with surgical grace. He slumped against her shoulder for half a breath, then she sighed and nudged him off with one hand.
"Gotta hand it to you, honour girl," Iroha sighed, brushing a curl from her face. "If it weren't for the light show, I might've been stuck agreeing to a second date with this guy."
Behind us, Rika rose.
"All the talking proved to be inefficient," Rika said with a dry smirk, brushing past the fact that she was the reason why we're in this mess.
Her staff was gripped with both hands in front of her chest, her grimoire floating beside her, open and glowing. Runes pulsed with a stormlike rhythm, and her eyes glowed silver as storm clouds swirled above.
She whispered a command.
Lightning split the sky.
The blast tore downward, energy ripping through the marsh and slamming into the cluster of undead.
Two collapsed instantly, bodies crackling with residual light.
But then, chanting.
The three robed spellcasters lifted their hands in unison. Green symbols flared around the fallen corpses.
Both of the scorched undead twitched… then stood.
Back to five.
Iroha glanced over her shoulder. "What happened to making them kneel, Honour Girl?"
Rika didn't flinch. "They're already controlled by the necromancers."
"Exactly." Iroha clicked her tongue, gesturing wide with her rapier. "I knew we should've started with the necromancers."
Rika frowned but said nothing, mostly because she'd been the one to suggest that in the first place.
Iroha turned back to the fight, a grin stretching across her face. "Well. At least now it's getting interesting."
I shifted my stance again, blade low.
"Quick. Iroha-san, with me."
Her brow lifted. "How courteous," she purred. "Asking a maiden to dance at a time like this."
We moved together.
I bolted forward, low and fast, blade held behind me in a reverse grip. Iroha twirled into motion beside me, her cloak flaring out like ribbons, rapier in hand, steps light as choreography.
Ahead, the undead readied to intercept.
One hurled necrotic fire, thick and green, twisting like smoke in water.
I slid beneath it.
The spell sailed overhead as I came up under the frontliner, an undead brute with a rusted greatshield. My blade rose in a sharp arc, slicing clean through his arm.
The shield hit the ground with a dull clank, severed limb still clutching its edge.
Iroha slipped behind me and used the opening.
She stepped past the falling shield, driving her rapier into the brute's exposed side. The undead let out a hollow groan as it collapsed backward, pinned by its own falling weight.
More spells incoming.
One of the undead, a spectral-eyed ranger, conjured a bow of glowing bone and loosed two arrows.
A blade-wielding undead flanked me at the same time, slashing low.
I knocked the first arrow aside, barely. The second skimmed past my cheek, hot and sharp, leaving a sting behind.
The undead's blade came fast, and I met it in time, not elegant, just instinct. Steel scraped steel. I gritted my teeth, twisted hard, and managed to catch his wrist in the crook of my elbow. The sword dropped with a clatter.
No time to finish him cleanly. I yanked him forward instead, bracing behind his rotting frame as more arrows whistled toward us.
Another arrow embedded in his back. The body jerked, then fell limp in my grip.
Iroha danced in behind me, snatching the dropped short sword mid-spin.
"Finally," she said, holding both weapons. "A proper duet."
She twirled forward, blades flashing like silver fire. Her movements were a performance, precise, fluid, devastating. Each step landed with a dancer's grace, each strike with a duelist's intent.
The first undead lunged. She ducked low, spinning beneath its swing, and carved a clean arc across its throat, the body crumpling mid-turn like a puppet with its strings cut.
The second barely had time to react. Two quick steps, a pivot, and twin blades sank into its gut, a clean cross thrust that sent it staggering back in silence.
The last one raised its arm to strike, too slow. Iroha leapt, cloak fluttering like a ribbon, and drove both blades down into its shoulders. Bone cracked. The corpse dropped straight to its knees and fell face-first into the dirt.
She landed light on her toes, hair trailing behind her like the final stroke of a signature flourish.
All five undead, gone.
But the casters began chanting again.
I turned just in time to see Rika step forward, staff raised, her eyes burning brighter than ever.
She whispered the words, "Devourment by darkness."
The ground beneath the cultists cracked, then ruptured, as if reality itself recoiled. A black void spilled outward like ink poured over parchment, swallowing light, swallowing sound.
Then came the scream.
Not from the cultists, from the world. A soundless wail, like the sky tearing in half. The cultists froze mid-chant as the air thickened, pressing in with a weight not meant for breathing.
Tendrils of pure shadow erupted from the void, slick, writhing, endless. They moved with unnatural hunger, coiling up around the cultists like vines with too many mouths. One reached for the robed leader, and in a blink, dragged him below.
The others didn't even have time to scream. The abyss took them in unison, their bodies jerked downward, vanishing into a chasm that reeked of rot, starlight, and things never meant to be spoken.
Only the void remained, pulsing, satisfied.
Then the world went still.
The aftermath settled like ash.
We stood in the middle of a battlefield, stone fractured, bodies strewn across the wet earth, the last traces of magic still clinging to the air like smoke that wouldn't clear. The outpost's ruins loomed around us, skeletal towers leaning inward as if to listen. Somewhere behind us, the fog had begun to thin. But ahead, past the archway, it only grew darker.
A single entrance waited, yawning open in the base of the structure. No door. Just a jagged mouth cut into the stone, framed by old ironwork and charred sigils. Cold air spilled from it in quiet, pulsing breaths.
Rika moved first, brushing past a collapsed necromancer as she approached the doorway. Her hand hovered near the edges of the frame, fingertips trailing through invisible threads.
"It's still active," she murmured. "But not like before. It's… quieter."
"Meaning what?" I asked, stepping beside her.
"Like the source of the magic was shaken," she said. "Whatever was keeping the fog and the undead in check, it's fraying. But not gone."
Her grimoire opened midair beside her, pages flicking slowly before halting on a marked section. She scanned it briefly, then looked down the stairwell.
"It's necromancy," she continued. "But not the kind that binds or reanimates. This feels… older. Like the magic is bleeding out because it's been cut from something deeper."
Iroha let out a low breath behind us. "So all of this was the overflow?"
Rika nodded. "Most likely. The disturbances in the village, visions, voices, missing livestock, they were symptoms. The cause is still buried underneath."
I peered into the passage. The stone steps were cracked, damp, descending into pitch. The air that drifted up from below carried no scent, no sound. Just pressure. Like whatever lived beneath the ruin had been holding its breath for a long time.
"So," I said, hand resting on the hilt at my side, "we go in?"
Iroha joined us, casting a glance down the steps. "Forward into the haunted basement of death and secrets?" She grinned faintly. "Naturally."
Rika didn't move. Not yet. Her eyes stayed locked on the dark below.
"There's something else," she said finally. "I don't know what it is yet, but… it's not just necromancy. There's another layer to it. Like something watching from behind the weave."
I turned to her. "Dangerous?"
She didn't answer. Just closed the book.
Then: "Yes."
We stood in silence a moment longer. Fog drifted between our boots, curling around the first few steps like it didn't want us to go.
"Right," I murmured, drawing in a breath. "Weapons checked. Wits sharpened."
"Ladies first?" Iroha offered sweetly.
I took the first step.
The doorway loomed, cracked stone swallowed by moss and shadow, framed in twisted vines that recoiled as we passed through.
The air changed instantly. Not just cold, charged. It pressed against my skin like a held breath, thick with something unseen. The smell hit next: damp soil, burnt herbs, and something metallic just faint enough to make your teeth itch.
Behind me, Rika crossed the threshold without a word. Iroha hesitated for half a beat, then followed, whispering, "Oh good. Underground ruins. My favorite."
The stairwell spiraled downward, vanishing into shadow. The only light came from the walls themselves, moss-covered runes etched deep into the stone, pulsing softly in sickly green and bruised violet.
With each step, the pressure built.
Not just the magic, the sound. A low hum, steady and distant, like the heartbeat of the earth. And beneath that, voices. Whispering. Chanting. Not words I could understand. But I felt them. Slithering around the edges of thought.
"So," Iroha murmured behind me, her voice low but casual. "Anyone else feel like we're walking into the belly of a very polite death god?"
Rika didn't glance up. "The hum is resonant. Magical, definitely. Deep weave. Likely layered in ritual glyphs."
"She means yes," I said.
"Oh," Iroha said dryly. "Well, that's perfectly comforting."
We kept walking.
The air got warmer. Not like fire. Like breath. Like something was exhaling from deep within the stone.
"Anyone else feel like we're being… watched?" I said.
"We are," Rika replied, her voice flat.
I glanced back. "By who?"
She blinked once. "Not who. The structure. It's aware."
"Okay, cool. Love that. The building's alive," Iroha whispered, running a hand along the rune-lined wall. "If I snore too loud, you think it'll get annoyed?"
Rika didn't look at her. "It'll probably just eat you instead. Then we can ask it what second-best tastes like."
Iroha scoffed, flicking her braid over her shoulder. "Please. At least I'd taste better than something with all the flavor of crushed ice."
"Can you two focus?" I muttered, trying to keep my voice low as we reached the first landing. "I'm sure… you both taste fine. Either way."
They both stopped.
Turned.
Deadpan.
"Pervert," Iroha said flatly.
"Idiot," Rika added, not missing a step as she moved past me.
And just like that, they were already heading down the next staircase, leaving me standing in cold, cursed silence, reevaluating every life choice that led to this moment.
We reached the final step.
The hallway flattened out into a wide archway. Beyond it: silence. That kind of silence that makes your heartbeat feel too loud in your ears.
I motioned for stillness.
We crept forward, slow and low, every boot step landing like a sin.
And then we saw it.
The chamber opened up in one massive breath, circular, cathedral-wide, lit by unseen magic that shimmered like dust in molasses. Black stone formed the walls, veined with quartz that pulsed like distant stars. Pillars of pale bone stood evenly spaced, carved with spiraling script I didn't recognise, and didn't want to.
The floor was patterned with a ritual circle so vast it swallowed half the room. Glowing etchings filled every inch, lines, runes, old magic. Some of it was still wet.
And in the center of it all…
The altar.
Massive. Hulking. Built of something that looked like obsidian and… something else. Something organic. It pulsed slightly. The body on it made my stomach turn.
A chimera. Or something close. Twice the size of a bear, three heads slumped forward, leonine, draconic, and something vaguely insectile. Its wings were bound in chain, its limbs splayed, and its chest was stitched shut with enchanted sinew, still glowing faintly.
We weren't alone.
At least thirty cultists stood in formation around the altar. No weapons. No armor. Just robes, clean, symmetrical, stitched with sigils I'd never seen. They weren't guards. They weren't warriors. They were devotees.
And every one of them chanted in unison.
"This is it," I whispered.
"Looks like we're just in time," Iroha added, eyes narrowed. "So what's the plan, dungeon boy? Walk in and start handing out hymn books?"
Rika leaned slightly over my shoulder, eyes fixated on the altar. "That beast… it's a conduit. The magic surrounding it isn't just necromancy. There's something… older. Deeper. This is the epicenter."
I said nothing.
Because something else had just stepped into view.
He stood at the head of the altar, facing the chimera's corpse, robed in layers of black, each one embroidered with bone-white thread. His mask was horned, metal, and entirely inhuman. His voice was the one leading the chant, louder, firmer. A ritualist's rhythm.
Rika exhaled softly. "The Fogfather."
"Great," Iroha muttered. "He looks like a walking sermon."
Taller than expected. Cloaked in darker robes embroidered with bone-thread. His face was hidden by an iron mask, rusted and horned. One hand lifted, and from it, green energy poured like liquid fire.
We huddled in shadow, unseen, somehow, as the chant reached its peak.
And the ritual began.
He raised his voice above the others: "Let this be the final offering. The perfect flesh for the perfect return. May the Hollow Voice rise... through you."
He pointed toward the chimera's corpse.
The altar erupted in green light, runes igniting across the floor in a sharp ring, then crawling up the beast like roots seeking marrow. The air screamed. Wind tore through the chamber despite the walls. Our ears rang with the pressure of it.
Then it happened.
The chimera's body crumpled inward, not collapsed, but consumed. The flesh peeled like old bark, drawn up into the air and compacted. It spun, unraveled, disintegrated.
And in its place…
A shadow bloomed.
The Hollow Voice rose, forged from the chimera's remains.
Ten feet tall. Humanoid only in outline. Its body was made of writhing script and smoke, etched with glyphs that burned like coals. Where a face should be, there was only a yawning void, a circular, screaming absence. Its arms ended in bladed extensions, shaped like ancient reaping tools.
The Fogfather dropped to his knees.
"Yes… finally… I see you, my god. I—"
The Hollow Voice moved.
One sweep of its reaper.
The Fogfather was bisected cleanly down the middle. No scream. Just silence and blood.
We didn't breathe.
"Really?" Iroha whispered, barely a breath against my ear. "Dungeon boy, the monster turns on its summoner? Couldn't write a less cliché twist?"
I muttered back, "Hey, not one of my finest ideas. But you're in the story now, so we'd better figure out what comes next."
The cultists didn't react. They kept chanting, louder now, louder still, their focus entirely on the towering god before them.
The Hollow Voice raised one arm.
The remnants of the chimera stirred. Its bones clattered and reformed. Its skin regrew in wet strands of shadow-thread, stitched with magic. Necromancy. Pure, undiluted resurrection.
"Arise." A single breath from divinity, and the grave loosened its grip.
Iroha shot me a sharp look. "Really?"
"Shut. Up." I hissed, eyes fixed on the abomination now standing again.
The chimera rose once more, but changed. Fused with something darker. Its form pulsed with green light, and its eyes burned with necrotic fire.
Then the Hollow Voice turned.
Its faceless void locked onto our hiding place.
It lifted its blade and pointed.
"Feast."
The monster didn't hesitate.
It lunged from the altar like a cannonball, all muscle and fury, straight for us.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
We didn't react in time.
But Rika did.
She stepped forward, staff slammed down, runes surging.
"SANCTUARY WARD!"
A golden barrier flared to life, circular and radiant, catching the beast mid-air. Its claws smashed into the shield, cracking it like glass, but it held. Just long enough.
I grinned.
Iroha did too.
We moved.
Twin blades in harmony, Iroha peeled left, I went right, flanking fast around the recovering beast. It roared, claws scraping the stone, wings dragging like blades.
Iroha went first, a clean lunge toward its left eye.
Too slow. The beast reared and swatted her aside like a leaf. She collided with a cultist, too deep in trance to even register the impact, and tumbled through the chalk dust.
I took the opening.
Low dash. Dodge the incoming hook. Leap and spin.
The blade connected, barely. I dragged it along the beast's back, but the necrotic aura pulsing from its skin turned the blow shallow. A thin cut. Minor damage. It was like trying to slice through fog-wrapped iron.
Iroha rolled to her feet, scowling. "Eyes up, beast. I'm just getting started."
She charged again, full sprint.
"Now, Honour Girl!" she shouted.
Rika didn't hesitate.
Her spellbook flared open, pages flipping with invisible wind.
"ECHO STEP!"
A shimmer danced across the chamber.
Illusory duplicates burst out around Iroha, six, eight, a dozen swirling forms mimicking her exact movements. A storm of dancers with blades drawn.
She dove in.
"PIERCING HARMONY!"
A blur of motion, the real Iroha slipped between her illusions, feinting and weaving. The beast struck at phantoms, roared in confusion, and that's when she struck. Her rapier plunged straight into the side of its neck, cutting deep. Green ichor burst from the wound, sizzled on the stone.
It staggered, shrieking.
Rika stepped forward, raising her staff.
"TEMPEST STORM!"
Wind howled.
A cyclone erupted from her staff's tip, spiraling with shards of ice and condensed magic. It slammed into the beast's side, staggering it further. The creature roared, slowed, pinned by pressure.
"I said DIE already!" Iroha barked.
I moved in, blade humming with cursed energy. Power surged through my arms as I gripped the katana tighter.
A final leap, high, spinning, blade behind me like a falling star.
"TIRELESS SPIRIT!"
Three arcs.
Three heads.
One strike.
A whirlwind of black magic traced a perfect line through its necks. One by one, the heads dropped, leonine, draconic, insectile, thudding onto the stone floor.
Then the body followed.
Still.
Heavy.
Dead.
We didn't cheer.
Didn't breathe.
Because the Hollow Voice hadn't moved.
It had simply… watched.
Until now.
Rika's voice rang sharp: "We can't kill it!"
"What?" Iroha snapped.
"We need to force it back!" Rika yelled. "Into the hole!"
Iroha blinked. "Come again?"
Rika didn't even flinch. "We have to shove it back inside. That's the only way."
Iroha made a face. "Yeah… still not sounding any better the second time, honour girl."
Then she spun around, shouting, "Okay! I've got an idea, but I need you two to distract it with something big!"
We nodded.
No plan. Just trust.
I charged.
"EMBIGGEN!" Rika shouted.
Light wrapped around me. My body stretched, swelled, muscles bulging, bones straining.
Larger. Slower. Heavier.
But stronger.
I crashed down in front of the Hollow Voice, swinging like a storm. It blocked easily, my strikes slamming against its arms, knocking it back but not hurting it.
I didn't need to hurt it.
I just had to hold it.
Iroha ran to the center, cloak flaring, hands on her lute.
She spun once.
Strummed.
Yelled: "DOMINANCE BALLAD!"
Music burst like a command, clean, sharp, divine.
All thirty cultists froze.
Their heads turned in perfect sync, not toward the Hollow Voice, but to her.
Their mouths opened again, but the chant was different now.
Slower.
Reversed.
Backwards tongues spilling out in harmonic unison, perfectly aligned with her melody.
Rika stepped forward.
"VERDANT GRASP!"
The ground cracked.
Vines burst upward, thick, glowing tendrils coiling around the deity's legs, arms, chest. It struggled, but too many roots held fast.
The altar glowed, the void below it began pulsing again.
The cultists, still under Iroha's thrall, chanted louder. Their voices rang like sacred echoes.
I grabbed the Hollow Voice's shoulders, massive hands pressing hard.
It fought.
I pushed harder.
One step.
Another.
Rika poured power into the vines, sweat streaking her face.
Iroha strummed louder, forcing the cultists into one final crescendo.
I roared and shoved the Hollow Voice into the altar's heart.
The void opened.
Darkness peeled wide like a hungry wound.
The god slipped inside, pulled back into the place it came from, clawing but silent.
Gone.
Its reaper clanged against the stone, echoing like a death knell.
Then the cultists collapsed, all thirty at once, like marionettes with their strings cut.
Silence.
Real silence.
Breathing, pulsing, human silence.
We didn't speak right away.
No one needed to.
Just the three of us, battered, blinking, and somehow still standing in the stillness of something we weren't meant to survive.
Then...
"Omg, we did it!"
Iroha practically launched over the kotatsu, tackling Rika in a celebratory hug that nearly knocked the breath out of her. "We actually killed the monster!"
Rika stiffened for half a second… then allowed herself to smile, small, real, and rare. "It wasn't technically a monster. But yes. We did."
Their laughter echoed off the tatami mats instead of dungeon walls. Warm, human. Victorious.
I leaned back, the light of Tokyo's neon skyline flickering through the curtains.
For a moment, I didn't say anything. Just watched.
Something I'd built, obsessed over for years, was no longer just mine.
And that? That felt better than any boss kill ever had.
I picked up the last piece of my omurice and chewed slowly. "Y'know… they actually beat the dungeon. That was supposed to be super tough. They practically pulled off the impossible."
Across from me, an obnoxious slurp of tea, loud, smug, and jasmine-scented. "Pfft. Your version of impossible should be having two girls stay over without one running out the door after ten minutes."
I scoffed. "Can't you just be happy for me?"
A big grin met me from across the table. "Oh, trust me, I am. Especially after what I heard from two doors down."
I groaned. "You're impossible."