The cold was the same.
The mist was the same.
The sky—if it even was a sky—remained still, wrapped in violet light under the ever-watchful moon. There was no wind. No sun. No sound but the crunch of boots against broken stone.
Lucas adjusted the straps of his cloak, now stiff from wear and exposure. His hands were steady again. His breathing controlled. The exhaustion had faded, mostly—but he could feel the residue of it in every slow, measured step.
They were moving again.
Climbing.
Higher.
He didn't know what hour it was. Or what day. Or even if time passed here in a way that mattered.
But they had rested.
And now they moved.
That was enough.
Lyss led the way in silence, as always. Her posture was straight, balanced. Every step chosen with care. She hadn't said much when they left the cave—just a single glance toward the slope and a nod.
'Up. Always up.'
Lucas followed, his thoughts dulled by the cold and the monotony of the climb.
Their packs were lighter now.
No food.
No water.
Just blades, gear… and willpower.
Lots of that.
Hours passed. Or maybe more. The only change was in the sharpness of the terrain—more jagged, more vertical, more demanding.
Then Lyss stopped.
One hand raised.
Lucas froze behind her.
Her head tilted slightly.
He followed her gaze.
Shapes.
Moving.
Not fast, not loud—but definitely there. Half-glimpsed between tendrils of mist, crawling just below the ridge line.
One.
Two.
Four.
More.
Some new twisted frames—clawed limbs, pale bone armor, heads that twitched unnaturally with every motion.
But this time…
There were many.
Too many.
Lyss turned her head slightly, voice low.
"They're circling us."
Lucas's grip tightened on his scythe.
"Of course they are."
They didn't charge.
Not yet.
The creatures moved along the ridge line like phantoms, half-hidden behind thick coils of mist. Their limbs bent the wrong way. Their bone-white armor cracked with each twitch of movement.
Lucas could hear them.
Skittering.
Scraping.
Circling.
He clenched his jaw and shifted his stance.
"Tell me you have a plan," he muttered, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.
Lyss stood beside him, completely still. Calm. Eyes narrowed. One hand already resting on the hilt of her sword.
The Starlight Fang.
She drew it in a smooth, practiced motion, and the blade caught the violet light of the moon above. Not reflecting it—absorbing it, in a strange, silent pulse.
Finally, she answered, her voice cool and focused. "Don't die."
Lucas snorted. "Creative."
With a sharp breath, he reached inward—calling to the shadows.
The Abyssal Reaper surged into existence with a low hum, its obsidian edge shimmering with a faint, hungering glow. The scythe rested against his shoulder like an extension of his will.
He twirled it once and let it fall into a ready stance.
'Okay. Let's make this hurt.'
They stood back-to-back now, just a few feet apart. The mist closed in tighter.
Shapes moved.
Three. Five. Seven. Nine.
Too many.
"You take the right," Lyss said.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
Lucas chuckled darkly. "Fine. Just don't let me die first. That'd be embarrassing."
The mist surged.
And then the first beast leapt.
The first beast tore through the mist with a screech, bone claws extended, jaws unhinging with a wet snap.
Lucas moved without thinking.
The Abyssal Reaper spun in his grip, carving through the air in a wide arc. The creature lunged—and he sidestepped just enough, letting momentum carry it past him before slashing upward in a vicious, sweeping cut.
The obsidian blade sang.
The beast shrieked.
And its body split clean from shoulder to hip.
Black blood sprayed across the stones.
[Kill Confirmed.]
[You have slain: Pale Reaper Spawn.]
Lucas's eyes widened for a second.
'Pale Reaper Spawn? That's what these things are called?'
He didn't have time to think about it.
Another came, low and fast. He parried the first strike, backpedaling as its claws scraped across his chestplate. Sparks flew. The impact rang through his bones.
Behind him, the distinct hum of Lyss's Starlight Fang rang out like a silver bell in the fog—clean, sharp. Every motion she made was efficient, lethal.
He risked a glance over his shoulder.
She was dancing through two enemies at once, blade flashing like falling stars. She moved with precision, her steps deliberate, her strikes absolute. One beast lunged—she sidestepped and buried her sword through its throat. The second tried to circle, only to meet a reverse cut that severed its limbs before it could scream.
Lucas didn't have time to admire it.
The second spawn came again—claws high.
He ducked under the swipe, spun, and slammed the Abyssal Reaper into its back with both hands. The blade bit deep. Too deep. The creature jerked once and went limp.
[Kill Confirmed.]
[You have slain: Pale Reaper Spawn.]
'Two.'
His heart pounded.
His arms were already burning.
And there were still more coming.
Lucas barely had a moment to breathe.
The mist kept birthing new shadows, and the sound of claws scraping stone echoed like a cruel drumbeat. Another Pale Reaper Spawn lunged at him from the side.
He turned too slow.
The beast slashed across his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his arm. The armor held—barely—but the impact spun him half a step.
'Shit. That one hurt.'
He stumbled back, then gritted his teeth and raised the Abyssal Reaper high. Its weight didn't feel natural—it felt like it wanted to kill something.
So he let it.
With a shout, he brought it down diagonally.
The scythe howled through the air and bit deep into the creature's side, cleaving through bone and sinew like it was paper. The force of it knocked the spawn off balance, and Lucas followed with a second strike, this time horizontal—clean, fluid, brutal.
The creature collapsed in pieces.
[Kill Confirmed.]
[You have slain: Pale Reaper Spawn.]
'Three. That's three.'
He staggered back, breathing heavy.
His arms were trembling.
His lungs burned.
And his vision was starting to blur at the edges.
Each time he used Soulrend, the drain pulled at him more and more. It wasn't just energy. It was him. His own essence being chipped away, one swing at a time.
He clenched his jaw and pressed a hand to his ribs. Still intact.
But not for long if this kept up.
In the distance, he could still hear Lyss—steel on bone, bone cracking, beasts shrieking in pain and fury.
She wasn't just surviving.
She was winning.
Nine had come for her side.
None were still standing.
The moment Lucas turned to check on Lyss, he made a mistake.
He felt it before he saw it—a presence to his left, too close, too fast.
A fourth spawn burst from the mist, its claws already mid-swing.
Lucas twisted—
But not fast enough.
The talons raked across his side, just beneath the ribs. A searing pain exploded in his abdomen as the beast's claws tore through his armor and bit into flesh.
"—Fuck!"
He stumbled, nearly falling to one knee.
The scythe slipped in his grip but didn't fall.
Blood soaked through his shirt in seconds, hot and wet.
His breath caught in his throat.
The spawn hissed and lunged again.
Lucas didn't have time to think.
He reacted.
With a savage growl, he brought the Abyssal Reaper around in a wild, one-handed arc—pure instinct, no finesse.
The blade slammed into the creature's skull and split it in half.
[Kill Confirmed.]
[You have slain: Pale Reaper Spawn.]
Lucas dropped to both knees this time, panting, clutching his side. The gash burned like fire.
His vision swam.
'Shit... it's deep. It's really deep.'
He looked down and saw blood pouring through his fingers.
His head lolled.
'Can't… pass out. Not here.'
He tried to breathe, but every inhale came with a stab of pain.
He collapsed forward, catching himself with one trembling hand.
Around him, the mist had fallen silent.
And then… footsteps.
Sharp. Fast. Controlled.
Lyss.
"Lucas!" Her voice cut through the fog like a whip.
He didn't lift his head.
"Hey," he muttered, coughing. "Still alive. Barely."
She dropped to her knees beside him.
And without a word—
She placed a hand over the wound, and her palm began to glow.
Warmth.
It was the first thing Lucas noticed.
A strange, alien warmth spreading through his side, soft and steady—seeping into torn muscle, broken skin, blood-soaked cloth. The pain didn't vanish. Not immediately. But it dulled. Like it was being pulled away, layer by layer.
His breath hitched.
He forced his eyes open, blinking through the haze.
Lyss was crouched over him, one hand pressed firmly against his abdomen. A soft light bloomed beneath her palm—green, gold, and tinged with a gentle pulse of white. It radiated life. Calm. Control.
"What… the hell are you doing?" Lucas rasped.
Her eyes were focused on the wound, lips drawn tight with concentration.
The light pulsed again.
And Lucas felt the skin beginning to knit itself back together. He felt tendons realigning. The sharp heat of bleeding slowed, cooled.
'What the—what is this?'
He winced as the last wave of pain ebbed out of him, replaced by a strange sense of numb relief.
It was nothing like the healing serums he'd read about.
This wasn't artificial.
It was… alive.
He swallowed thickly.
"You a healer or something?" he muttered, voice strained.
Lyss didn't look at him.
"Something like that."
The glow faded, her hand withdrawing.
The blood remained, but the gash had closed. Not completely healed—but no longer life-threatening.
Lucas exhaled slowly, falling back against the rock with a groan.
"Remind me not to piss you off," he muttered. "You're terrifying."
Lyss stood without replying.
Her blade vanished in a shimmer of light.
The mist was still again.
The battle was over.
Lucas lay against the rock, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.
His side still ached—like the flesh remembered being torn open. But the bleeding had stopped, and more importantly… he was alive.
Again.
Lyss stood a few paces away, scanning the fog, her sword now gone, her face unreadable. The mist had settled, for now. No more movement. No more screeches. Only the faint echo of violence that clung to the rocks around them.
Lucas sat up with a grunt, his hand still pressed to the dried blood on his side.
"Okay," he muttered. "That was fun."
Lyss didn't respond.
She turned and walked back toward the nearest corpse, boots crunching quietly over the broken ground.
Lucas pushed himself upright, breathing through the soreness. His cloak was shredded at the waist. His armor dented, streaked with black blood and dust.
But he could move.
That was enough.
He looked at the scattered remains.
Dozens of them—limbs twitching, blood drying fast under the cold moonlight. The Pale Reaper Spawn didn't dissolve like some monsters did. They stayed. Solid. Ugly. Tangible.
He exhaled, dragging the Abyssal Reaper through the dirt before letting it fade into shadow with a thought.
'Three. I killed three of them.'
It had felt like thirty.
He turned toward Lyss. She was crouched now, examining the bodies.
Not saying a word.
Lucas joined her after a minute, his steps slow and uneven. The lingering burn in his abdomen reminded him that moving too fast wasn't a good idea.
Lyss didn't look up as he approached.
She was already cutting into one of the beasts, knife in hand, searching through the flesh and bone with practiced efficiency. Her movements were clean. Precise.
A moment later, her blade tapped against something hard.
A faint red glow pulsed beneath the ribs.
She reached in and pulled out a jagged, crystalline orb—warm to the touch, vibrating with a steady rhythm.
A Soul Core.
Lucas exhaled. "Still can't believe those things just leave that inside them."
He dropped to his knees with a wince and began carving into the nearest body. His cuts weren't elegant, but after the first one, he found the rhythm. Slice, pry, dig.
More glowing cores emerged.
Three from his own kills.
Six from Lyss's.
A total of nine.
They sat in a small pile of faintly pulsing light between them.
Lucas glanced at her. "You took down more. You want to split it uneven?"
"No," she replied simply. "Half's half."
She pushed four toward him.
Lucas hesitated.
'She didn't have to do that.'
But he didn't argue.
He took the cores and let the system absorb them one by one.
[Soul Core Consumed +2]
[Soul Core Consumed +2]
[Soul Core Consumed +2]
[Soul Core Consumed +2]
[Current Soul Level: 1 (16/1000 → 24/1000)]
'Slow progress… but it's still progress.'
When they finished, Lyss moved to another corpse—this time cutting carefully into the muscle. The creatures were ugly, but the meat was dense, strong, and edible. With a bit of fire, it would do.
Lucas helped, even if his movements were slower.
They worked in silence.
Collected meat. Cleaned tools.
By the end of it, they had enough food for a few days.
But no water.
Lucas sat back, wiping blood from his hands, glancing at the black sky above.
'Still thirsty. Still sore. Still climbing.'
'But we're alive.'
And somehow, that still counted as a win.