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Chapter 3: The Spirit and the Bones (Part 1)
We stepped through a narrow passageway flanked by carvings of ferocious beasts, entering an unfamiliar chamber. Unlike the other crypts we’d passed through—where the metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air—this place carried only the sour stench of decay. It was stale, oppressive, and utterly devoid of life.
This was the most tomb-like room we’d encountered so far. A suffocating silence blanketed everything, making even the act of breathing feel ominous. This wasn’t just a resting place for the dead; it was a sanctuary of death itself—a void untouched by anything living or vibrant.
"Wait, let’s take a break here. I need to take care of some personal business." Longbow Sunshot suggested loudly after scanning the area for movement. He placed his hands lightly on his head, shook them as if removing something invisible, then froze stiff like a statue. From his lips came hurried mutterings that faded into whispers:
"I can’t hold it anymore…"
"What’s wrong with him?" I asked, pointing at Longbow Sunshot's rigid form.
"He’s probably going to the bathroom," Long Triangle replied with a grin. "Now that you mention it, I should relieve myself too." He exchanged a few words in their strange language with Clado, then all three mimicked Longbow Sunshot’s gesture, raising their hands theatrically before standing motionless beside him.
The "bathroom"—another peculiar term from the Planewalkers. Whenever they claimed to need the “bathroom,” they would enter this trance-like state, immobile and unresponsive, as though communing with some higher plane. To me, it seemed less about bodily functions and more akin to prayer or meditation—a sacred ritual where they detached themselves from physical constraints to pursue pure spiritual contemplation. Perhaps the “bathroom” was their holy sanctuary, a space where minds transcended bodies in search of enlightenment.
It sounded noble enough—at least until danger struck while my companions indulged in their lofty ablutions.
Three pale figures materialized at another entrance to the chamber, gliding toward us with purpose. Their cracked helmets perched atop rusted armor bristling with embedded weapons, and their own battered tools gleamed faintly despite their age. Yet, there was something off about them—they weren’t solid. Through their translucent forms, I could see the dim outlines of the walls behind them. They moved like wraiths, their lower halves dissolving into swirling white mist instead of legs.
Above each floated a name tag: Cursed Warrior Spirits. My mind flashed back to the task given to me by Valor Fortress’ combat instructor—I needed to defeat nine warrior spirits to prove my bravery and advance in training. So this was where they lurked.
The cursed warriors noticed us immediately, raising their weapons high and emitting chilling shrieks as they closed in. Their jaws unhinged like snakes’, revealing gaping maws large enough to swallow my head whole.
“Long Triangle, wake up! Longbow, are you okay? Clado, Black Aurora, stop standing there!” Panic surged within me as the three level-33 spirits advanced. I frantically slapped at my teammates, trying to snap them out of their trances. But nothing worked—they remained locked in their ethereal bathrooms.
The first spirit swung its spiked mace directly at Black Aurora’s skull. Oblivious, our elven mage stood entranced, blissfully unaware of impending doom. With no time to lose, I gritted my teeth, gripped my Swordtooth Shredder, and lunged forward. Metal clashed against metal, jarring my shoulder and sending me stumbling backward until I collided with Black Aurora.
Before I could recover, the second spirit thrust its spear toward me. Off-balance and unable to dodge, I watched helplessly as the tip inched closer to my shoulder. Desperation sparked a foolish hope: these were ghostly apparitions, their weapons mere shadows. Maybe they couldn’t harm me. If I ignored them, believed they didn’t exist, perhaps they’d vanish.
I squeezed my eyes shut, chanting silently: You don’t exist. You can’t hurt me.
Then came a sharp sting—a blade piercing my left shoulder. Pain exploded, followed swiftly by frustration. Damn it, they were real!
There was no time to dwell on philosophy now. My reckless intervention had drawn their full attention. All three spirits converged on me, relentless and merciless. Each strike pushed me further into desperation.
In life, these warriors must have been paragons of valor, celebrated heroes who fought valiantly against tyranny. Now, corrupted and cursed, their once-admirable qualities turned lethal. Even without reason, their instincts remained razor-sharp. I imagined armies centuries ago facing similar horrors during battles against Darrendel the Apocalyptic King.
The burly spirit wielding the mace delivered crushing blows, forcing me to stagger back repeatedly. The lanky spear-wielder pierced my defenses effortlessly, rendering my armor useless. Meanwhile, the dual daggers of the third spirit tore open gashes that refused to stop bleeding. Cornered, I cowered behind my shield, relying on agility and healing potions to survive.
Just as despair loomed, a wave of milky-white healing energy washed over me. Relief flooded my chest as Longbow Sunshot’s voice boomed:
“What the hell?! How did the fight start already, and why are you soloing?! Damn fools, running around recklessly since we got here. Move aside, leave the heroics to me!”
With that, the dwarven priest charged into the fray, twirling his uniquely styled staff. Magic crackled around him as he chanted rhythmically, creating a protective barrier with wide arcs. His intervention bought precious seconds, allowing the others to awaken and join the battle. Within moments, the cursed spirits shattered into piles of ash scattered across the floor.
Among the debris, we scavenged coins and miscellaneous items. Strangely, one pile contained a pair of “Tattered Military Boots.” Considering the spirits lacked legs entirely, I couldn’t fathom how they’d managed to carry such footwear.
“What’s ‘Petrified Bone’?” Long Triangle muttered, holding up several pristine bones. They looked like leg bones, elongated with knobby joints at either end. Unlike ordinary bones, these felt dense and sturdy, almost stone-like yet surprisingly smooth to the touch.
“Where did you get those?” I asked curiously, weighing one in my hand.
“During the fight, I… uh…” Long Triangle smirked, patting his bulging sack proudly.
I groaned inwardly. While I struggled to stay alive, he’d been busy thieving?
“It’s material,” Longbow Sunshot observed after examining the bones closely. “Maybe I can craft weapons from them. But we need more.”
Excited chatter ensued as the group debated staying longer to gather additional bones. To my delight, this aligned perfectly with my quest objectives. And so, the cursed warrior spirits learned firsthand what it meant to face not just thieves, but opportunistic ones.
To Long Triangle, these once-mighty warriors became nothing more than walking piggy banks. Every encounter sent him diving greedily into their nonexistent pockets, desperate to loot every last fragment. By the end of our sweep through nearby chambers, nearly twenty spirits had met their final demise—and Long Triangle’s bag overflowed with thirty assorted petrified bones: femurs, tibias, phalanges, and more.
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