Outside the range of the torch, Daiden struggled in the darkness. Friction from when weapons collided, sounds from when his swords swept the air, he embraced the moment, aeter-strengthened. His footwork flowed along the cracks across the horde, now adjusted to the pressure from the undeads. He realized when his aeter persistence eased the pace of his breathing, the beating of his heart.

Two remained of the Fleshbound Soldiers, eight of the Ashbones – armoured skeletons, among the lower tiers of the undead. Daiden moved with a trail of residual aeter, luring the horde into a darker, narrower path. He shortened his grip to the hilt and clenched his teeth when the Fleshbound arrived. His stroke carved a crescent in that moment, releasing a wave of aeter to halt the horde’s momentum. Daiden rushed through the risen dust and debris right after. He swiped his foot in a straight line, along the moist dungeon floor, to push a Fleshbound off balance.

In a stomp, Daiden steadied his posture and slammed his shoulder onto the toppled Fleshbound. He hopped back on the other, pushing him onto the wall with the entirety of his weight. Daiden carved another aeter attack to stop the Ashbones and returned to slash away the Fleshbound on his sides. He moved his swords with a relentless passion, in a hot sweat, in search of a desired outcome. It occurred with a stroke of luck, first with the thirtieth attack from the Sword of Broken Probability, and next with a cut that sundered into a soft explosion.

Daiden quickly immobilized the healthier of the two Fleshbound by jamming his swords onto its knees. He kicked the other across its neck, tearing away at its burning flesh, and then once more in a toss towards the Ashbones. With a deep breath, he retracted his swords and finished the second Fleshbound. He turned towards the horde next, slowly.

“How polite of you to wait,” thanked Daiden, with a tired smile. “Shall we dance for a bit, then?”

Daiden switched to a reverse grip on his dominant sword and impaled the nearest undead, through the skull, from tip to hilt. He disarmed the falling skeleton of his sword and threw it as a spear onto the next, imitating the pattern until the last of the Armoured Ashbones. He returned the Sword of Broken Probability into his spatial inventory and held to the weapons from the undead. In another struggle, Daiden pushed into the narrow path once more and retrieved his other sword as well, felling five of the skeletons through the effort. His joints ached a little now.

“Well, I haven’t used the Jade Serpent’s Breath yet…” thought Daiden, chest and shoulders in a heave. “I should probably hold off on that. What’s three more?”

Nearing the two-hour mark, Daiden slogged to a finish and finally returned to the safe zone. Leda quietly offered him a bowl of vegetable stew, with some grilled meat and rice.

“I wouldn’t have expected it,” admitted Leda, clearing space for a seat next to the fire. “You’re Takshaka’s Descendant, aren’t you?”

With a nod, Daiden returned to eating his food. After a few mouthfuls, he pointed his spoon at Leda and asked, “Does this clear the exchange?”

“Oh, without a doubt!” said Leda, with a smile. “Why don’t you look at your chest?”

Daiden noticed the glow on the inscriptions fade a little. He sighed out loud, in relief.

“Good, nice,” said Leda, suddenly. “Actually, I preferred it this way, to start with the pleasant news first.”

“What do you mean?” asked Daiden, simply.

“Well, let’s just say that you made it inside in time,” said Leda. He pointed his chin towards the darkness, beyond the range of the dome. “You’ll find your bad news there.”

Within the depths of the darkness, Daiden swallowed a lump in his throat at the sight of several undeads, merely silhouettes, swaying with their eyes in a shimmer, shielded by the shadows, and revealed only by the flickers of a dim light.

Daiden rubbed his eyes and looked again, noticing several Fleshbound Soldiers and skeletons, some Ashbones, and others with a darker colour and thicker bones. At the centre, a slimmer, taller silhouette pierced through the shadows, wading into the light. The other undeads stilled in that moment. A lone skeleton, without holes for eyes, but with flesh around its mouth, hands, and feet; the lone skeleton walked towards the dome. Its skin reflected a strange roughness, blue, without the flow of blood. Its lips remained sealed, stitched to a close, with a black, dark thread, knotted around the corners in a dangle. Daiden noticed a strange pressure emanate from its presence. His nose crumpled from the stench even.

“That Minister Tyr…he kept a lot of the story to himself,” remarked Leda, with a grim expression. “Politicians. I never did quite like them.”

“Did our good Minister hide the degree of difficulty for this quest?” asked Daiden, watching the lone skeleton halt at a distance from the dome.

“You see, Daiden Lost, that’s an Acri,” revealed Leda, describing the creature nearest to them. “An advanced variant, and a very strong one at that. What walks alone, deep into the night…without the need to see or smile, stitched across the lips, silent as a wisp…but with the nose of a wolf, listen it shall, to your wailing heart, eat you all the way it shall…

“Ah, I’m sorry. I might have gotten a little carried away there. That, well, that’s a children’s song, famous in several parts of Mioverold, to warn against the Acri. They’re strong, fierce, and great commanders. But we’re far, far from the tear.”

Daiden spat an exasperated sigh. He gulped his words and waited for the priest to finish.

“Variant undeads are very territorial, often preferring the proximity of areas rich with necrotic aeter,” explained Leda, slowly. “In a locked, underground dungeon, that would be their point of origin – the spatial tear we were asked to close. But to think that something as strong as an Acri was pushed all the way to the entrance…that can only mean one thing…”

“There’s something a lot stronger deeper inside?” guessed Daiden, nervously.

“Yes.”

“Ah, fuck me!” thought Daiden, with a frown.