I step through the rusted iron gates and the transition strikes me with the force of a physical blow against my scavenged armor. The darkness I have known for centuries vanishes instantly, replaced by a sun that burns agonizingly bright in a vast sky, casting a harsh glare that seems to strip away the comforting shadows I carry with me. The silence of the deep earth is gone, completely overwritten by a chaotic assault of sounds as the wind tears through the dense canopy of trees, the birds shriek from the branches, and the insects hum in a relentless drone that fills the spaces between the leaves. The air outside is not the still, cold draft of the crypt, but a heavy, suffocating humidity that clings to the frayed wool scarf wrapped around my neck and threatens to rust the metal joints of my stolen gear before the day is over.

  I struggle to adapt my movements to the uneven terrain of the forest floor, fighting the physical limitations of the disguise I constructed to hide my true nature. I must alter my stride, moving with a heavy and unnatural gait to ensure the stiff leather and the rusted iron plates do not shift too much and expose the white bone beneath. I force myself to walk slowly, calculating every step to avoid the hollow clinking sound my joints make when they strike against the metal shell, burying the agile defender of the sarcophagus beneath the clumsy exterior of a weary traveler.

  The tracks of the Deadly Five are fresh in the soft mud leading away from the dungeon entrance, deep indentations left by heavy boots and armored feet moving with the arrogant confidence of those who believe they have conquered the dark. I follow the trail through the dense vegetation, maintaining a steady, unbroken pace that the living cannot match. I do not need to stop to rest my muscles beneath the shade of the trees, I do not need to drink from the streams that cut through the woods, and I do not need to sleep when the sun falls behind the horizon to plunge the forest into the night. I walk continuously for days, guided by the singular, burning anger that has replaced the empty stone box as the core of my existence, deciding that I will not stop this march until I find the adventurers and sever their heads from their shoulders.

  But the forest is a vast and unforgiving place, and after days of relentless tracking, the faint footprints of the Deadly Five begin to disappear beneath the fallen leaves and the heavy rains that wash away the mud. I lose their trail in the deep woods, surrounded by towering trunks and thick undergrowth that block my vision in every direction. As I wander through the vegetation searching for a broken branch or a scuffed stone, I notice a strange stillness settling over the environment around me. The wild animals I encounter—the deer grazing near the bushes, the boars resting by the water, and the birds perched in the low branches—do not react to me as they would to a normal hunter. They freeze when I approach, their eyes widening in a primal, absolute terror before they scatter into the brush without making a single sound. I realize as I watch a bear abandon its meal to flee from my presence that I must be careful in this world, because the animals can sense the aura of the grave clinging to my bones, recognizing the apex predator of death walking among the living.

  I press forward through the thick woods until the unnatural silence is broken by a sudden explosion of noise echoing from a clearing ahead. I hear the frantic splintering of wood, the heavy snorting of a large beast, and the aggressive, guttural snarling of predators moving in for a kill. I push through the dense bushes and step into the clearing to find a wide dirt road cutting through the forest, currently blocked by a violent struggle. A large merchant caravan with a canvas roof is tilted on its side, surrounded by a pack of massive woodland wolves with coarse grey fur and yellow eyes. Standing between the wolves and the broken wagon is a towering humanoid bull, his thick muscles straining beneath a torn linen shirt as he swings a heavy wooden club to keep the snapping jaws away from the canvas where his family hides.

  I step into the clearing and intervene because the wolves are blocking the only clear path through the forest, and the merchant swinging the club is the first person I have encountered who can provide me with the information I need to find the adventurers.

  I draw the dull iron cleaver from my belt and walk directly into the center of the pack, my heavy boots thudding against the dirt road. The wolves turn their attention toward me, baring their bloodstained teeth and growling as they spread out to encircle the new threat. The largest wolf, a massive beast with a scarred snout, lunges at my chest with its jaws open wide to tear out my throat. I step to the side, dodging the beast's weight, and bring the cleaver down in a brutal arc aimed at the back of its neck.

  The rusted blade strikes the thick bone of the wolf's spine, but the old iron cannot withstand the force of the impact. The cleaver snaps in half with a sharp crack, the top of the blade spinning away into the dirt while I am left holding a useless, jagged handle.

  The wolf lands on its feet and turns to snap at my exposed leg, thinking I am defenseless. I drop the broken handle and reach down with my bare, skeletal hand, my fingers slipping past the edge of the frayed wool scarf to grab the beast directly by the top of its skull. The wolf snarls and thrashes, trying to shake off my grip, but I do not rely on muscle to hold it. I tighten my grip until my fingers dig through the thick fur and press directly against the bone of its skull. I squeeze with relentless pressure, feeling the skull crack and splinter beneath my hand before it completely collapses inward with a sickening crunch.

  The wolf drops to the dirt instantly, its body going entirely limp. The rest of the pack halts their advance, the aggressive snarling dying in their throats as they look at the crushed skull of their leader and then up at the rusted visor of my helmet. The primal fear I witnessed in the deer and the boars takes hold of them, their instincts screaming that the figure standing over the corpse is not a man, but an embodiment of the end they cannot fight. They tuck their tails between their legs and scatter into the dark woods, vanishing into the trees until the clearing is completely silent.

  I stand over the dead wolf, adjusting the wool scarf to ensure no part of my bone is visible before I turn to face the merchant. The humanoid bull lowers his heavy wooden club, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily through his wide nostrils. He looks at me with a mixture of shock and profound gratitude, wiping the sweat and dirt from his broad face with the back of his hand.

  "By the gods of the road, I thought we were dead,"

  the merchant says, his deep voice rumbling in the quiet clearing.

  "I do not know where you came from, traveler, but you have my eternal thanks. Those beasts were going to tear through the canvas in another minute."

  He turns toward the tilted wagon and calls out, prompting a female of his kind to emerge cautiously from the back, holding a small, trembling child against her side. The merchant introduces them with a warm, friendly tone that feels completely alien to me, speaking of family and survival in a way that belongs to a world I have never participated in. He moves to a secured barrel on the side of the wagon and pulls out a wrapped bundle of dried meat and a leather waterskin, walking back to offer them to me with outstretched hands.

  "Please, take this,"

  he insists, pushing the supplies toward my chest.

  "It is the least I can do for the help. You look like you have been walking the woods for days without resting. You must be an adventurer heading toward Bonehaven, judging by the direction you are walking."

  I look at the offered food, feeling no hunger and knowing the meat would simply fall through my empty ribcage to rot inside my armor. But the name he mentions catches my attention, acting as a hook in the sea of irrelevant words.

  "Why do you assume I am an adventurer going to this Bonehaven?"

  I ask, keeping my voice low and muffled behind the thick fabric of the scarf so he does not hear the dry rasp of my vocal cords.

  The bull merchant chuckles slightly, gesturing toward my rusted armor and the empty scabbard where my broken cleaver used to rest.

  "Well, look at your gear, friend. You are wearing a mismatched suit of battered leather and rusted iron, and your weapon just shattered on a wolf's neck. You look exactly like a newbie adventurer trying to make a name for himself. Everyone on the roads knows that the guilds have been posting massive bounties in Bonehaven recently. Most new blood travels there hoping to secure a bounty and earn a chance to join one of the official guilds in the capital. I figured you were doing the same."

  I remain silent as my mind processes the information. The Deadly Five mocked my dungeon, and mentioned returning to their guild. If Bonehaven is a gathering place for adventurers and guilds seeking bounties, it is the most logical place to search for the trail they left behind. It will give me the information I need to track them down.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "I am going to Bonehaven,"

  I confirm simply, raising my hand to refuse the food and water.

  "Keep your supplies. I do not need them."

  The merchant frowns, clearly uncomfortable with a debt unpaid. He lowers the food and reaches into a leather pouch tied to his thick belt, pulling out a small handful of silver and copper discs that clink together in his palm. He insists on pressing them into my gloved hand.

  "Then take the coin, at least. You will need it to buy a new weapon when you reach the town, especially if you plan to hunt the bounties."

  I look down at the small metal discs resting in my palm. I do not understand their true purpose, having only seen them scattered among the dust of the dungeon floor or stuffed inside the wooden belly of the mimic when we baited traps. I do not comprehend the concept of trading metal for goods, but I recognize that refusing him again will only prolong this interaction. I close my fingers around the coins, nodding my helmet once before I ask for the directions to the town. The merchant points down the dirt road, detailing the landmarks I need to follow, and I turn my back on the caravan to resume my march, leaving them to fix their broken wagon while I disappear down the path.

  I arrive at Bonehaven as the afternoon sun begins to drag the shadows across the landscape, and the sight of the town immediately confirms the merchant's words. It is a sprawling, chaotic frontier settlement built directly into a vast valley of mud and rock, surrounded by a terrifying phenomenon that gives the place its name. Massive, ancient bones, thick as watchtowers and curved like the ribs of a fallen god, jut out from the earth in every direction, forming a pale, skeletal forest around the perimeter of the town. The wooden buildings and muddy streets are constructed within the shadow of these giant remains, with scaffolding erected around the largest bones where workers hack away at the ancient marrow to exploit whatever resources the ruins provide.

  I step into the bustling streets, and the sensory overload of civilization hits me like a wave of suffocating heat. The air is thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, the smoke of roasting meat from street vendors, and the sharp, metallic tang of hot iron from the forges. But above all the physical scents, the town reeks of the same greedy ambition that characterized the intruders who invaded my dungeon. It smells like the adventurers.

  I navigate through the crowded, muddy streets, keeping my head down and ensuring the rusted visor and the wool scarf remain tightly secured over my face. I weave between people of different races and sizes—humans, elves, dwarves, and beings with scales or fur—all interacting in a chaotic blend of commerce and survival. I see groups of adventurers everywhere, boasting about their kills outside the taverns, showing off their shining armor, and carrying weapons that gleam in the fading sunlight. The anger simmers in my chest as I walk past them, visualizing the moment I will turn my blade against their arrogant faces, but I suppress the urge to act. I need a weapon first.

  I wander the town until I spot a wooden sign hanging above a decrepit, soot-stained building that reads "We Fix Anything" in crude lettering. The rhythmic ringing of a hammer striking an anvil echoes from the open doorway, accompanied by the intense heat of a roaring furnace. I step inside the dark, cluttered shop, pulling the broken handle of my iron cleaver from my belt as I approach the counter.

  Behind the anvil stands a giant of a human, his massive arms covered in thick hair and sweat as he shapes a glowing piece of steel. This is the blacksmith. Off to the side, sitting on a wooden stool in the shadows of the shop, is a thin elf with pale skin and dark bags under his eyes. He wears a stained leather apron over a dark tunic and constantly puffs on a rolled cigarette, filling his corner of the room with a pungent, herbal smoke. He watches me enter with cynical, calculating eyes, holding a heavy ledger in his lap.

  The giant blacksmith sets his hammer down and wipes his forehead with a dirty rag, stepping up to the counter as I place the broken handle of the cleaver on the scorched wood.

  "What is this trash?"

  the blacksmith, says with a booming voice, looking at the rusted iron with absolute disdain.

  "You want me to fix this? The metal is completely corroded, traveler. It snapped because it is ancient junk. I cannot fix a blade that has no integrity left in the steel."

  I stand silently, staring at the broken handle, realizing that my scavenged weapon is truly useless in this world above ground.

  the blacksmith leans his heavy hands on the counter, a greedy glint appearing in his eyes.

  "The cleaver is done. If you are heading out to the bone woods or looking to take a contract, you need a better, new weapon. I can provide you with a solid steel broadsword or a heavy mace for a little coin. Something that will actually cut through flesh instead of breaking on the first bone you hit."

  I think about the silver and copper discs the merchant pressed into my hand, calculating if the small handful is enough to secure the steel he offers. I slowly reach for the pouch at my belt to discuss the exchange, but as I do, a loud crashing sound comes from the back of the forge where a stack of iron bars has tipped over. the blacksmith curses loudly and turns his massive bulk away from the counter to fix the mess, leaving me standing alone at the front.

  Before I can withdraw my hand, the thin elf slides off his stool and steps silently up to the counter, leaning in close so the smell of his cigarette smoke washes over my helmet.

  "Do not give that brute your coin,"

  the elf whispers, his voice a raspy, conspiratorial hiss. "My name is Silas. I am technically his helper, but I know what I am doing far better than he does. I can tell from the way you walk and the way you hide your face that you are a serious adventurer, not one of these loud fools boasting in the taverns."

  I look at Silas through the narrow slit of my visor, remaining completely still as he speaks.

  "Ranir is trying to trick you,"

  Silas continues, glancing nervously over his shoulder to ensure the blacksmith is still distracted.

  "He will sell you cheap, heavy iron and charge you premium silver for the privilege. I can help you better, especially with the new bounties posted around the town. I have been working on something special in my own time, a weapon with real bite. I can provide it to you for lesser coin than what he will demand for his trash."

  I doubt the sincerity of the cynical elf, recognizing the same deceptive tone the mimic used when it lured intruders toward its wooden jaws. However, my goal requires a weapon capable of killing the Deadly Five, and if this elf possesses something beyond simple iron, I must investigate it. I give a single, slow nod to indicate my agreement.

  Silas smiles, revealing teeth stained yellow from the smoke.

  "Good. Meet by the north wall of the town, behind the tavern, in exactly one hour. Bring your coin."

  He steps back just as Ranir finishes stacking the iron bars and returns to the counter.

  I look at the giant blacksmith, offer a brief apology for wasting his time, and gather the broken handle before turning and leaving the shop. I navigate through the muddy streets until I reach the north wall, a towering barricade constructed from the massive, curved ribs. I find a secluded spot in the shadows of the bone wall and lean against it, waiting for the hour to pass while I watch the people of the town go about their lives. I observe the adventurers moving in packs, laughing and drinking, feeling the cold hatred solidifying in my chest as I memorize their behaviors and their weaknesses.

  The sun finally sets behind the distant mountains, plunging Bonehaven into a gloomy twilight illuminated only by the flickering torches hanging from the buildings. As the shadows lengthen across the mud, Silas appears from the alleyway, carrying a long object wrapped tightly in a thick canvas bag. He moves cautiously, constantly checking his surroundings before he stops in front of me.

  "Do you have the coin?"

  he asks, his eyes darting toward my belt.

  I reach into my pouch and pull out the handful of silver and copper the merchant gave me, holding it out in my gloved hand. I ask him how much coin he needs for the weapon inside the bag.

  Silas looks at the money and scoffs, clearly annoyed by my bluntness.

  "Does it not matter to you what is inside the canvas? Do you not want to know what is so special about the sword you are about to buy?"

  "What is it?"

  I ask, my voice monotone behind the scarf.

  Silas stands a little taller, a proud, arrogant smirk forming on his face as he shifts his cigarette to the corner of his mouth.

  "It is an enchanted sword, traveler. I am a scholar of the arcane, exiled from the capital for studying lore they deemed 'forbidden.' I know things the fools in the guilds refuse to learn. This blade is enchanted specifically against the undead."

  He rests his hand on the canvas bag, his eyes gleaming with the thrill a monster sealing the fate of its prey.

  "One of the bounties in town, the most valuable and the hardest one to claim, asks for the killing of an undead werewolf that has been terrorizing the northern fishing town for months. Normal steel cannot kill it, and fire only makes it angry. But this sword,"

  he pats the bag firmly,

  "this sword is forged with runes of disruption. It burns the rot from the inside out. It will help you claim that bounty and make you rich."

  He unrolls the canvas, revealing a long, elegantly crafted longsword with a silver-plated hilt and a blade etched with glowing, pale blue runes running down the center fuller. It is a beautiful, deadly weapon designed to eradicate creatures exactly like me.

  "Take it,"

  Silas says, holding the hilt out toward my chest.

  "Feel the balance."

  I reach out with my gloved hand, needing to know if the weapon can serve my purpose against the living adventurers despite its intended design. I wrap my fingers around the silver-plated hilt and lift the sword from the canvas.

  The moment my grip secures around the handle, the pale blue runes etched into the steel react violently to the necrotic energy animating my bones. The blue light instantly shifts, flaring into a harsh, burning red aura that engulfs the entire blade. The sword hums with a loud, aggressive vibration, the anti-undead enchantment screaming in the presence of the very thing it was created to destroy. The red light washes over my rusted armor and illuminates the dark alleyway, reflecting off the bones of the north wall.

  Silas freezes, his arrogant smirk melting into an expression of absolute, paralyzing shock. The cigarette drops from his lips, tumbling into the mud as his wide eyes travel from the aggressively glowing red blade up to the rusted visor of my helmet, and he realizes exactly what is standing in front of him.