The Plaguefeather

"Ah, screw this..." someone mutters before bolting in the opposite direction, a few others following suit.

That leaves just me and one other person, the only ones still clinging to the idea that fighting might actually be the best option.

"Do you know any spells that work against undead?" I ask, grasping at whatever hope I can find.

"What? No! I mean, maybe I know a few that might work, but even if they do, we don't have the mana to cast anything!"

"That doesn't matter. We just need to use it once—just enough to make one of them drop their weapon."

The moment those words leave my mouth, the six undead are already within striking range. Their weapons swing down, forcing us into a frantic dance of dodges and footwork, staying just close enough to keep talking.

"And if that works? What then? You really think you can swing even one of those big shitty weapons they have?"

Damn. He has a point. My plan has a fatal flaw. But there's no time to rethink everything from scratch. I have to double down.

"Then we find one using a lighter weapon," I shoot back. "Or at least one of them has to have a dagger on their belt."

"I don't see a single one carrying a damn knife."

"Then at least we have an objective."

Something in my words must've clicked, because the next thing I hear is—

"I'm following you. Lead the way!"

Without hesitation, I turn and sprint, leaving the six undead behind. Not worth fighting—not yet. And I'm not running aimlessly.

There are about eight dim red lights scattered around this place, and the screams start the moment the others reach one of them. That can only mean one thing—the undead are just as drawn to those lights as we are.

The moment we arrive, a horde of undead is already waiting, weapons raised, ready to strike. But my focus isn't on them—I'm searching, scanning desperately for a weapon that isn't too heavy, something my weak hands can actually wield. Yet, no matter where I look, every weapon in sight seems far too unwieldy for me to handle.

"There!" The kid running beside me points ahead. "That one has a dagger on its belt!"

"Alright. Maybe I can snatch it without you needing to waste any magic," I say confidently—not actually thinking about how the hell I'm going to get through the swarm of undead blocking the way.

But luckily, my partner has a clearer plan. "This spell won't harm the undead, but it should give you an opening."

"Got it. I'm counting on you."

He gives me a firm nod, then starts chanting.

"Parx… Akh… Vorthar… Voz…"

A blast of air erupts in front of me—not powerful, considering our condition barely allows us to muster any strength at all—but just strong enough to stagger the undead, forcing them apart and clearing my path.

The moment I dash through, my target moves. The undead, gripping its sword with expert control, swings in a horizontal arc straight for my chest.

I drop low, sliding across the stone floor—skin tearing as my knees and thighs scrape against the rough surface. But it doesn't matter. In a blink, the dagger is no longer strapped to its belt.

"Damn, that was fast," the kid calls from behind, sounding impressed.

I ignore him, tightening my grip around the dagger. I'm not done yet.

Without turning, the undead swings its greatsword backward—a reckless, blind strike.

I duck under it with ease. Then comes the real strike. It turns, eyes finally locking onto me, a straight thrust aiming for my shoulder.

Again, I dodge, this time sidestepping just as the undead's arm comes within reach.

I seize it. My left hand clamps down on its thin, rotting limb. And in that instant, the fight is over. With a swift slice, I sever the undead's arm. The greatsword slips from its grip, clattering onto the floor.

"I found another! It's a light sword!" the kid suddenly shouts.

I glance over—he's pointing at another undead wielding a one-handed blade, much more manageable than the massive weapon I just disarmed.

Perfect.

I drive my foot into the undead in front of me, sending it toppling backward. Then, biting down on the dagger—no place to stash it—I bend down, grab the fallen greatsword, and haul it with both hands.

It's heavy. Too heavy. But that doesn't stop me.

I run, dragging the massive blade behind me, its tip grinding against the stone, throwing up sparks with every uneven step.

And once I'm close enough—

I spin.

Slow at first, my body twisting with the weight, then faster, faster—until the sword threatens to slip from my grip entirely.

And then—I let go.

The greatsword soars, slicing through the air, heavy and wild. The undead have no time to react. Its head flies clean off. The light sword drops from its lifeless fingers.

~~~~~

By the end of it, I'm pale, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I've burned through all my strength—first with that kick, then with the throw that landed perfectly on target.

"You good?"

"I'm fine..." I manage between breaths.

"Here, take the light sword."

I shake my head at the offer. "I think I'll be more useful with this dagger. Its edge is much sharper anyway."

The kid grins, clapping me on the shoulder while I still fight to steady my breathing.

"But we need to move," he says, glancing around. The undead are closing in again.

Now we have weapons.

And the undead—despite their terrifying presence—are not invincible. I've pushed myself beyond my limits just now, but if we keep up this pace, this trial might not be as impossible as it first seemed.

And that thought alone sends a rush of excitement through me.

After all, I've just done something that comes naturally to me—something I enjoy… A pure, straightforward fight. No tricks, no gimmicks. Just skill, instinct, and a decisive victory.

If I still had a heart, it would be pounding with exhilaration.

"So, if I got this right, we just have to survive against these undead for three straight hours, yeah?" The kid throws the question my way after we've lasted an hour in this hellhole.

Where we've been running more than fighting—picking our battles carefully to avoid overexerting ourselves and burning through what little stamina we have left. And just now, the level-up notification pops up again, this time for both of us.

"I don't know... I hope so," I reply absentmindedly, my focus more on the status window than on my makeshift ally's words.

╔════════════════════════════════════════════ ╗

║ ⌈ Level Up Window ⌋ ║

╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣

║ ▶ Name: **Deon Ravenheart** ║

║ ▶ Race: **Human** ║

║ ▶ Level: **3** ║

║ ▶ Class: **Unassigned** ║

║ ▶ Title: **[None]** ║

║ ▶ Energy Orientation: **[None]** ║

║ ▶ Destiny Bind: **[None]** ║

║ ║

║ ▶ HP: **119 / 138** ⬆ (+13)** ║

║ ▶ SP: **23 / 195** ⬆ (+13)** ║

║ ║

║ ▶ MP: **1 / 49** ⬆ (+4)** ║

║ ▶ EP: **1 / 89** ⬆ (+7)** ║

║ ║

║ ▶ Strength: **19** ⬆ (+2)** ║

║ ▶ Agility: **42** ⬆ (+6)** ║

║ ▶ Arcane: **15** ⬆ (+2)** ║

║ ▶ Essence: **13** ⬆ (+2)** ║

║ ▶ Sanity: **26** ⬆ (+1)** ║

║ ▶ Intelligence: **19** ⬆ (+2)** ║

╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣

║ ⌈ Skill and Effect List ⌋ ║

╠════════════════════════════════════════════ ╣

║ **[The Withering Blight]** ║

║ Status: Active ║

║ + Infection Progress: 88% ║

║ + Base stats amplification: 1.5 ║

║ + Level up stats amplification: 1.75 ║

║ + Time Remaining Before Vessel ║

║ Expiration: 3 years, 3 months, 13 days ║

║ ║

╚════════════════════════════════════════════ ╝

"Wow… Another level up? Already?"

The kid smirks, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face.

So I shift my gaze toward his status window. That's where I notice that his Arcane stat stands out—noticeably higher than his other attributes.

Which means… he's not just some random kid trying to survive. He's holding back about how much he actually knows about magic.

"Garrik... Frostbane..." I mutter, reading the name displayed in his status window.

The moment the words leave my mouth, he stops dead in his tracks. His head snaps toward me, eyes filled with disbelief. His reaction catches me off guard, and I instinctively slow to a halt as well, lifting my shoulders in confusion.

"What?" I ask.

Then it clicks—something I had completely overlooked.

Back when I first woke up in this place, the elders had gone out of their way to ask for my name, even though they could've easily seen it in my status window.

I had forgotten something crucial: they couldn't read it.

They can understand numbers, basic stat names, and maybe a handful of status effects—just whatever little knowledge has been taught to them. But they have never, or perhaps not yet, fully grasped the language itself.

Which means... they can't even read their own names in this script, as they have their own writing system—completely different from this one.

~~~~~