How many were there? The question nagged at Bones, but the answer eluded him — too many bodies littered the floor to count.

  Leaning against the corner, he pressed his back to the cold stone, allowing the suspense of the battle to settle. With a slow tilt of his head, his gaze locked onto Murdok, who stood motionless for a beat before dragging his silver greatsword across the floor with a slow, deliberate scrape. The sound cut through the silence like a drawn-out death knell.

  Then, Murdok halted. His head canted slightly as his attention shifted to the vampire spawn sprawled beside him. He angled the tip of his sword downward and pressed it against the creature’s chest — a probing motion, testing for any lingering life.

  The wretch jerked weakly, its ragged breaths slipping into a strained whimper before fading entirely.

  Methodically, Murdok moved from creature to creature, his sword rising and falling in a practiced rhythm, ensuring none of the remaining spawn stirred again.

  “Pitiful creatures,” Bones muttered under his breath.

  Turning to his right, he found Skully standing amidst a heap of slain foes. The golem wiped the tip of his spear on the tattered rags of the last vampire spawn, flicking the excess blood away before stepping back. His side of the corridor was cleared.

  “That was… a bit much,” Bones remarked.

  The aftermath was worse than the battle itself. Both corridors were painted in deep crimson, the stone walls splattered with streaks of dark, congealing blood. The air was thick with the iron stench of death, so pungent that even Bones — who lacked the lungs to breathe — felt its suffocating presence clinging to him. His golems stood before him, their armor and garments drenched, soaked through with blackened gore.

  He frowned. They couldn’t walk around like this. Even undead had standards.

  “Strip,” he commanded.

  Murdok and Skully obeyed without hesitation, peeling off their tainted clothing and tossing it into the growing pile of filth in the corner. The blood had seeped too deep — it wouldn’t come out.

  Bones peered into his inventory and sifted through it until he pulled out two hooded cloaks. He didn’t even remember when or where he had acquired them, but they would serve their purpose. One was dull gray, frayed at the edges from wear. The other, slightly larger, was a heavy dark brown.

  He tossed the garments toward his golems. Skully caught his and donned it in one smooth motion, fastening the clasp before adjusting the hood. Murdok, on the other hand, struggled, twisting the fabric into a tangled mess.

  Bones sighed, pinching the bridge of his skeletal nose. “Really…?” His tone dripped with exasperation.

  Shaking his head, he gestured to Skully. “Help him.”

  Skully stepped forward, methodically adjusting the cloak until it fit properly over Murdok’s towering frame. The garments shrouded their heads and upper bodies but couldn't fully disguise their massive skeletal forms. Bones wondered what kind of reactions they’d draw.

  He scoffed, letting his skull recline against the wall. “No. They weren’t the ones drawing attention.”

  His gaze dropped, settling on the two halves of his broken staff. His fingers tightened around the splintered wood. The enemy had caught him off guard — he hadn’t expected another horde of vampire spawn to pour in from the opposite corridor.

  They had overrun both sides, cornering him. His golems held the flanks while he supported from the center, but the tide kept pushing through. Some forced their way past their defences, and in the chaos, he had found himself wildly swinging his staff like a club, much like Murdok wielded his greatsword.

  Then, the inevitable happened.

  The wood gave way, snapping under the force of his own desperation. The engraved circuits along the shaft — the ones that connected him to the mana-infused gem at its tip — fizzled out.

  Its magic was gone. Now, all that remained were two jagged wooden spikes, fit only for staking the next unfortunate vampire.

  Bones let out a slow breath, rubbing a thumb over the broken edges. Beyond wielding his staff as a makeshift melee weapon, he lashed out with his Ethereal Chains, striking down anything within reach. Chaos Bolt had proven too volatile for such close quarters, and Mana Blast just as unreliable.

  Soul Magic, however, exceeded expectations. The spawn's fragile spirits proved exceptionally vulnerable, and once Bones finally recalled he had more skills beyond the three new ones he’d been fixated on, the battle shifted in his favor. He adapted, and he'd emerged victorious from this minor corridor skirmish.

  A series of notifications chimed at the back of his mind. They had been popping up since the battle’s end, waiting to be acknowledged. Bones’ gaze drifted lazily over the carnage, searching for a quiet place to focus, but this…

  This was not the place.

  Pushing off the wall, he let the broken remains of his staff clatter to the ground. In its place, a bone lance manifested in his grip, its weight familiar, its purpose clear. Without another glance at the bodies, he started rightward, wisps of drifting souls curling in his wake as he navigated between corpses.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  His resources were full. Soul Eater had become a core skill — an ability that would ensure he could keep fighting no matter how long the battle dragged on.

  Beyond the carnage, following two minutes' walk, Bones arrived at a short flight of stairs leading to heavy wooden doors. He halted at the base, intending to check the notifications and see what had changed.

  He already knew the most important one. He could feel the slight shift taking place. He had leveled up.

  “Only two more.” Bones counted down until the advancement. The first one was a plain straight up advancement of his beginner class — would the second one be the same or was there something worth looking forward to? He firmly believed, given the synergy of his two classes, that there was.

  For a moment, his mind drifted away from the shadowy corridor.

  Just thinking about all the possibilities raised his spirits. Though, he did wonder how it would change him, in what way. Would he completely renounce his humanity and embrace the undead nature, or would he still struggle to maintain the balance between two sides? Hugo implied the former, but Bones was fundamentally different from him and the other undead.

  His spirit dampened as the reality settled, snapping him out of reverie. He sat down on the first step of the stairs and turned to the next notification.

  His Ethereal Chains skill had ranked up along with the Chaos Bolt. Bones expected as such — newly learned skills ranked up easier and faster. The new Soul Eater skill seems to be an exception — as it was yet to rank up. Bones supposed the reason why it may require more to level than other skills was because there’s not really much to it besides opening his mouth and devouring the lingering wisp. And to advance it… Bones didn’t even want to consider how many soul fragments he would have to eat.

  “I guess the silver lining is the fact that they don’t all have to be human souls…”

  Pushing himself up, he turned toward the heavy wooden door standing slightly ajar. He hadn’t noticed them open before. Climbing the stairs, he nudged the door with a creak — just enough to peer through.

  To his right, flickering torchlight shimmered dimly in iron sconces, casting long shadows down a corridor that ended in a bend. Suits of dull grey plate armor, once polished to a mirror shine, now stood like forgotten guardians in front of torn tapestries. A worn red carpet, its pattern nearly erased, stretched along creaky wooden floorboards that had long lost their polish. Across from the suits of armor, tall, narrow windows let in faint slivers of moonlight, pale and distant.

  Bones slipped through and glanced left — another corridor, equally empty, mirroring the right side. Centipedes slithered through cracks in the stone, and thick cobwebs sagged from every corner. Whether abandoned or just left to rot, the place had been neglected for years. It might’ve even been haunted. Bones dismissed the thought with a shake of his head.

  He shut the door behind him, stealing one last glance left before heading right. His eyes drifted upward to faded murals on the high ceiling, where knights in heavy armor clashed with cloaked figures. The brutal imagery — elongated claws, torn bodies — hinted at vampires overwhelming their foes.

  He paused beneath one of the tall windows, its pointed lancet arch framing the fractured moonlight. Peering through the blurred glass, he searched for signs of the fog that had driven him here. But the forest beyond lay under clear skies — still, quiet, undisturbed.

  “The fog is gone?” he muttered. “Or maybe it only shrouds the castle from the outside.”

  That felt more accurate.

  Turning away from the window, he approached a nearby suit of armor — full plate, visor up, everything intact. He eyed its condition, wondering if it could be salvaged and repurposed for Murdok. But something else tugged at his attention: the torchlight nearby.

  It flickered steadily in the iron sconce, yet gave off no heat. He stepped to the next torch to check, his hand hovering close — still no warmth. The flame gave no heat, no life, just a hollow imitation of light.

  “Decorative,” he muttered, brows furrowed. “Maybe the castle’s owners didn’t need warmth if their bodies were colder than the stones themselves.”

  His expression darkened at the thought of a vampire — perhaps one like Count Faas — dwelling here. He reassured himself he could still turn back, retreat the way he came. But his legs remained still, rooted by something stronger than caution.

  He wanted to see more. And so, he pressed on.

  Behind the corner, another corridor stretched on, branching into several intersecting hallways like veins through the castle’s body. Bones advanced past the second crossing when a familiar sound echoed from around the next bend — low, guttural snarls that rattled his memory — Vampire Spawn. Then came the piercing, animalistic shrieks of ghouls — unhinged and wild, like hyenas tasting blood.

  Bones came to a halt, narrowing his eyes as he listened, gauging the scuffle’s rhythm. There were several — moving fast. Claws on stone. Feet dragging. Breathless hissing. He took a moment to sense their positions, then gave a silent nod to his golems.

  Then, like a hero in his final charge — though his golems went first — he followed close behind, not bothering to run.

  The enemy was already mid-fight, ghouls and spawn tearing at one another. Territorial, mindless, both sides were too feral to form an alliance. Bones’ party collided into the fray. Steel met flesh. Bone broke bone. Blood painted the walls and splattered across the worn red carpet, soaking it so thoroughly that the faded crimson almost looked vibrant again.

  The clash was brutal but brief. When the dust settled, three vampire spawns and four ghouls lay dismembered, their blood pooling into thick, congealed patterns.

  A faint flickering of system notification pulsed across Bones’ vision revealing the promotion: Vampire Hunter, Rank 2. He was better at slaying vampires now.

  Bones barely reacted. “About time,” he muttered, already turning his attention toward his golems’ battered gear, inspecting the dents and scratches on their bones, making mental notes of what needed mending.

  That’s when he noticed it — just ahead on the red carpet, tucked suspiciously close to the corridor wall. A treasure chest. Wooden, iron-banded, and perfectly still.

  Bones squinted. “A treasure chest?” he said aloud, voice betraying a note of excitement he hadn’t meant to reveal.

  He hurried past his golems, drawn like a moth to flame.

  But then — from the opposite end of the corridor — a ghoul scrambled into view. Bones halted, watching to see if it had noticed him.

  It did.

  Letting out a hyena-like screech, the creature lunged forward on all fours.

  Bones took a step back as it charged. Skully was already on the move, barreling forward to intercept.

  But the ghoul never reached him.

  At first glance, it appeared to be a simple treasure chest — aged wood banded with tarnished iron, sitting innocently on the carpet like a forgotten prize. Its placement was perfect, almost too perfect, as if it had been waiting.

  The illusion shattered the moment the ghoul got too close.