Strategy had turned the tide. For nearly thirty minutes, Evan was a whirlwind of calculated violence. He utilized the crumbling architecture of the village as a force multiplier, funneling the undead into doorways and alleys where their numbers meant nothing.
The tally in his peripheral vision climbed steadily.
[75/100]
Evan's breathing was a jagged rasp, his lungs feeling like they were filled with hot needles. Just as he prepared to engage the next cluster, the atmosphere shifted. The oppressive heat didn't just feel heavy; it felt charged.
From the base of the blood-wood tree, the skeletal hero—the "Guardian"—slowly rose from its seated position. It didn't speak, but it raised a jagged, parchment-skinned hand. A wave of crimson energy rippled outward, washing over the remaining twenty-five skeletons.
The transformation was immediate and horrifying.
The brittle, white bones didn't just harden; they began to knit together with strands of raw, red muscle that sprouted from nowhere. The next skeleton to reach Evan didn't just shamble—it lunged. Evan raised his baton to block a strike, but the impact sent a shudder through his teeth, shoving him back three steps.
"Great," Evan spat, tasting copper in his mouth. "They got a buff."
He was hitting a wall. The adrenaline was flagging, replaced by the crushing weight of heat exhaustion and the dull throb of a bruised rib where a stray boney fist had connected earlier. His vision blurred at the edges, the twin suns overhead merging into a singular, hateful glare.
The empowered skeletons still lacked the tactical mind of a living soldier, but their sheer physical power made them dangerous. Evan took a glancing blow to the shoulder that numbed his arm, and he realized he was running out of time. He wouldn't survive another twenty-five of these.
He looked past the horde to the base of the tree. The Guardian stood 6 feet 9 inches tall, a towering monument of death watching the slaughter.
Cut off the head, Evan thought, a desperate, military-instinct gamble. Kill the commander, break the spell.
"One shot," he whispered, tightening his grip on the baton and the egg.
He didn't wait for the next wave. He sprinted.
He moved like a man possessed, diving through gaps in the skeleton line, ignoring the shallow scrapes and the rattling claws that caught at his jacket. He cleared the village square and skated to a halt before the throne of roots.
The leader didn't wait. It moved with a terrifying, fluid grace that the lesser skeletons lacked. As Evan swung his baton, the Guardian dipped its shoulder, the move so nimble it seemed to defy the physics of its decaying form. It countered with a backhand that caught Evan square in the chest.
The world went sideways.
Evan hit the dirt hard, the wind driven from his body in a sickening whump. He gasped for air that wouldn't come, his vision swimming with black spots. The Guardian didn't give him respite. It began to circle him, raining down a flurry of punches. Evan managed to tuck his head and block a few with the baton, but the sheer force was systematic, breaking down his guard.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other skeletons—the empowered ones—closing the distance. They were seconds away.
This is it, he thought, his heart fluttering like a dying bird. I'm sorry, Elara.
In the depths of his backpack, the red book began to bleed a faint, rhythmic light. Simultaneously, the egg flared. Evan didn't see the light, but he felt the surge.
It wasn't a warm glow. It was a cold, ancient fury.
His eyes, usually a deep purple, suddenly bled into a vivid, incandescent red. A roar of raw rage tore from his throat—a sound that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old boy.
As the Guardian reached for him again, Evan's hand shot out. He didn't block; he caught the leader's skeletal wrists. The Guardian paused, its hollow sockets flickering.
Evan stood up, his muscles screaming, fueled by the unknown energy pouring from his artifacts. He realized in the clinch that while the Guardian was a master of form, its raw physical strength was only marginally greater than his own now-augmented power.
"My turn," Evan hissed.
He surged forward, tackling the towering skeleton. They hit the ground with a bone-shaking thud. The Guardian tried to throw him off, but Evan pinned it, locking his legs around its torso.
In a last-ditch effort, Evan realized the baton wouldn't be enough for a finesse kill. He gripped the weapon with both hands, using it like a horizontal stake, and began to bash the Guardian's skull against the roots of the tree.
On the third strike, the tactical baton shattered into pieces.
Evan didn't stop. He used his bare fists, driven by the red haze in his vision, pounding the Guardian's head until the amber light in its eyes flickered and died.
The Guardian dissolved. It didn't just die; it turned to fine, gray ash that the wind immediately snatched away.
Evan slumped forward, his knuckles bleeding, his strength utterly spent. He looked up to see the remaining skeletons mere inches away, their claws outstretched to tear him apart. He closed his eyes, accepting the end.
But the strike never came.
A collective rattle echoed through the square as the remaining horde disintegrated into dust, their source of power severed.
Silence returned to the wasteland, broken only by Evan's jagged, sobbing breaths.
[TALLY: 100/100]
[CHALLENGE CLEARED]
[Place the Egg and Artifact on the Altar.]
Evan stayed on his knees for a long time, the red in his eyes slowly fading back to purple. He was broken, dehydrated, and alone—but the path was open.
He reached into his pack for the book and pulled the egg close. The altar waited.