Arlan felt sick.
Not the kind of sick you get from bad food or lack of sleep.
The kind of sick that comes from knowing something is coming for you, and you can't stop it.
The crypt had never been empty. The ghoul had been real. And yet—no one else had seen a thing.
Which meant one of two things.
Either the thing they fought was never meant to stay dead…
Or it had never been the real threat in the first place.
Arlan sat stiffly at the guild hall table, the weight of that realization pressing on his chest. Across from him, Mira had that look. The one where her brain was working too fast and her conclusions were always right.
"So," she said slowly, tapping her fingers on the table, "either we hallucinated a deadly, ancient ghoul…"
"Or," Tomas said, grinning as he leaned forward, "we woke up something worse."
Arlan felt actual physical pain from hearing that out loud.
Beren exhaled sharply. "I hate this."
Leila frowned, arms crossed. "You think the crypt's cursed?"
"It's a burial ground for the restless dead," Mira said. "Yes, I'd call that cursed."
Tomas shrugged. "Could be worse."
"How?" Beren asked, scowling.
Tomas smirked. "Could be haunted."
Leila threw a piece of bread at him.
Alric, who had been listening quietly, rubbed his temples. "Look. All I know is that I can't send another team in until I know what happened. We can't risk losing people."
Leila snorted. "But sending us back in is fine?"
Alric sighed. "I wouldn't ask if you weren't already in the middle of this mess."
Arlan wanted to argue. He wanted to say no.
But deep down, he already knew… this wasn't going to end until they faced it again.
And the crypt wasn't done with them yet.
The Job They Should Have Turned Down
The plan was simple.
Check the crypt. See what had changed. Get out.
That last part? Arlan doubted it would be that easy.
As they left the guild hall, heading toward Duskhaven's outskirts, the sky had already started to darken. Storm clouds rolled in overhead, casting long shadows over the uneven cobblestone streets.
Arlan felt Bones shift in his cloak.
The little skeleton rat had been unusually quiet since his evolution, but Arlan could feel the tension in him. He wasn't the only one who could sense something was wrong.
They arrived at the crypt just before sundown.
The air was thicker than before. Like the very walls of the tomb had absorbed their presence from last time, waiting for them to return.
Mira ran a hand over the entrance, muttering a quick detection spell. The results were… not comforting.
"Something's off," she said, frowning.
Arlan resisted the urge to scream at the obvious.
"Define 'off,'" Leila said, knocking an arrow just in case.
Mira hesitated. "It's like… the crypt isn't the same as last time."
Tomas frowned. "It looks the same."
"No, not physically. But the magic inside it is different. Like it's… moving."
That was all Arlan needed to hear. "Okay. New plan. We leave and pretend this never happened."
Tomas clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, fearless leader."
Arlan scowled. "I am not the leader."
Tomas grinned. "Exactly. Now get in the crypt before I make you."
Inside the Crypt – Where Everything Goes Wrong (Again)
The first thing Arlan noticed was that the air was too still.
Like stepping into a room where something was just waiting for you to turn your back.
Bones crawled onto his shoulder, clicking softly.
The deeper they went, the worse it felt. The tunnels that had once been lined with scattered bones and dust were… clean.
Arlan felt actual panic.
"Where are the bones?" he whispered.
Mira's expression darkened. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Leila exhaled. "I don't like this. I really don't like this."
Tomas held up his shield. "Should I say something stupid to lighten the mood?"
Beren grunted. "If you do, I'll hit you."
"Fair."
They kept moving.
And then—they heard it.
Not a growl. Not a whisper.
But… laughter.
Dry. Hollow. Ancient.
It came from deeper inside the crypt.
And then—
The torches blew out.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
The Master of the Crypt
The silence stretched.
Then—a voice.
Low. Cold. Ancient.
"You have returned."
Arlan's stomach twisted.
From the depths of the crypt, a figure stepped forward.
It wasn't a monster.
It wasn't a ghoul.
It was a man.
Or… at least, what had once been a man.
His robes were dark and tattered, dragging along the stone floor. His skin was stretched thin over sharp bones, his face sunken, his lips barely moving as he spoke.
But his eyes.
His eyes were not dead.
They burned with intelligence. With power.
And with recognition.
Arlan felt his chest tighten as the figure tilted his head slightly—looking directly at him.
"…You," the man murmured. "It was you."
Arlan's blood ran cold.
Mira stiffened. "Who are you?"
The figure ignored her. His gaze never left Arlan.
"You came here once," he continued, voice like rusted steel. "You saw what should not be seen."
Leila raised her bow. "I don't know who you are, but—"
The figure raised a hand.
And the world collapsed.
A wave of force slammed into them.
Arlan flew backward, crashing into the stone wall.
Beren barely had time to lift his axe before he was thrown aside.
Mira's spell died in her hands as she was sent sprawling.
Tomas hit the ground hard, his shield clattering beside him.
Leila managed to loose an arrow—but it stopped in midair.
The man flicked his fingers.
Leila was hurled into the far wall.
One by one, they all fell.
And in the end—only Arlan remained.
The man stepped forward. Calm. Unrushed.
"I have been waiting for one like you."
Arlan's chest heaved. He struggled to push himself up, but the air felt like it was pressing down on him.
The man knelt slightly—close enough that Arlan could feel the cold radiating off of him.
"You do not yet understand, do you?"
His rotting lips curled.
Arlan gritted his teeth, fighting against the crushing force pinning him down. His vision blurred from the impact, but through the haze, he could still see him.
The man—no, the thing standing before him—was no ordinary undead. His presence felt different. It wasn't the raw, mindless hunger of a ghoul or the soulless emptiness of a reanimated corpse.
This creature thought.
And worse—it knew him.
His burning eyes studied Arlan, gaze lingering just a moment too long, as if peering through flesh and bone—seeing something beneath.
Arlan forced himself to speak. "Who… are you?" His voice came out rough, breathless.
The man exhaled, as though the question was exhausting. "Many names. None of them matter anymore." He cocked his head slightly, robes swaying as he took another step forward. "What does matter… is you."
Arlan clenched his fists, but his limbs refused to obey. The magic pressing down on him was suffocating, absolute.
The man's thin lips curled into something that might have been a smile. "I have watched you, boy. You walk the path, but you do not yet understand where it leads."
Something about his words sent a chill down Arlan's spine.
"You mean—necromancy," Arlan forced out.
"Necromancy," the figure repeated, almost mockingly. "A word spoken with fear. With disgust. With ignorance."
He lifted his skeletal hand slightly, and suddenly, the weight pressing down on Arlan vanished.
Arlan gasped, his body finally freed, but he didn't move—not yet.
The figure didn't attack. Didn't make any move to stop him.
Instead, he studied him. Evaluated him.
Then he spoke, his voice carrying a depth that should have been impossible for something so long dead.
"Tell me, Arlan. What do you know of necromancy?"
Arlan hesitated. "I—" He stopped. What did he know? The church condemned it. The Order hunted those who practiced it. The stories painted necromancers as monsters, as villains.
But he had felt its power. His power.
And it had never felt like a curse.
The man's gaze sharpened at Arlan's hesitation. "Nothing," he mused. "Of course. They keep you ignorant. They want you afraid."
His voice darkened. "Necromancy is not what they tell you, boy. It is not mindless death. It is balance. The oldest form of magic. The first and the last."
Arlan's breath caught.
The man continued. "Before the mages of flame, before the wielders of divine light, there was us. The Keepers of the Dead."
A pause. A slow, deliberate step closer.
"Once, we were healers. Guides. Protectors of the cycle. But the fearful… the weak… turned on us." His eyes burned brighter. "They rewrote history. Branded us monsters. Buried us."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "And still, we return."
Arlan stared. This was more than some undead horror lurking in a forgotten crypt.
This was something ancient.
Something that had survived.
And he had just confirmed one thing—Arlan was like him.
"You fear your gift," the man continued, watching him closely. "But tell me, Arlan... Has it ever failed you?"
Arlan's fingers twitched. He thought of Bones. Of the power he had felt in his veins. Of how right it had felt when he had used it.
His silence was answer enough.
The figure exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "You stand at the edge of understanding, yet you hesitate. Why? Because they tell you it is wrong?" His voice was almost pitying. "They have lied to you since the day you were born."
A tense silence stretched between them.
Then, as if sensing his limits, the figure stepped back.
"I will not force you," he murmured. "You must choose this path yourself."
Arlan's heart pounded. "Choose?"
The figure smiled, and for the first time, there was something genuine in it. "You are already walking it, whether you wish to or not."
Then—his form began to fade.
"Wait!" Arlan staggered forward. "You didn't tell me your name!"
The last thing Arlan saw was the faintest flicker of amusement in those burning eyes.
Then, the figure vanished.
And the crypt fell silent once more.
Arlan stood there, breath coming in uneven bursts. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Then—he remembered the others.
He spun around.
Mira groaned, slowly pushing herself upright. Tomas let out a wheezing breath, rubbing his head. Beren was already on his feet, though his stance was unsteady, and Leila blinked, dazed, from where she had landed against the wall.
"What… the hell just happened?" Tomas croaked.
Arlan hesitated.
He looked down at his own hands—at the fingers that had almost reached for more, for something deeper.
Then he glanced at the empty space where the figure had stood.
He couldn't tell them. Not yet.
So instead, he did the only thing he could.
He lied.
"Nothing," he said. "He was just… another undead. And now he's gone."
Mira's eyes narrowed. She didn't believe him. Not entirely.
But she didn't press—not yet.
Tomas exhaled, groaning. "I hate this crypt."
Leila dragged herself upright, shaking out her arms. "Can we never come back here again?"
Beren scowled. "Seconded."
Mira, still watching Arlan, finally sighed. "…Let's get out of here."
Arlan nodded numbly.
As they made their way back through the crypt, Bones—silent until now—shifted on Arlan's shoulder.
His tiny skull nudged against Arlan's cheek, clicking softly.
Arlan swallowed hard.
He wasn't sure if he was relieved or terrified.
Because for the first time since stepping into the crypt…
He wasn't just afraid of what was hunting them.
He was afraid of what he might become.