Lyra swallowed as Maximilian grew limp and tumbled through the air. His warhammer dropped from his hands. His hands—the skin was gone. From both the head and everywhere it could be seen.

  The floating Archmagister chuckled. "Ah, ja. You know, I’m a mage of death. And the funny thing is, the outer layers of skin are dead."

  He winked at her as Maximilian hit the dusty rubble and bounced three times like a limp doll educated by a child.

  Caden was there in an instant, his hands already glowing with green restoration magic, pouring life into their injured teammate.

  The Archmagister floated over to a piece of the wall and sat down, legs dangling. "Well. That took a bit out of me. But the second act requires dramatic escalation. Doesn’t—"

  Lyra didn’t let him finish his monologue. Her spear elongated again, shooting forward.

  But the blue shimmer of a defensive spell deflected the attack. She struck again. And again. Trying to provide cover fire.

  Yet the Archmagister just sat there on the wall and smiled. He seemed to murmur something under his breath.

  A spell. Its impact was obvious in an instant. The ten zombies closest to them moved in marionette-like unison, their eyes locking onto Lyra and her surviving comrades.

  She looked over the heavily breathing Caden, who readied his buckler and dagger again after helping the healed Maximilian to his feet. Life and death. Their assassin and healer.

  Rüdiger made another grand gesture.

  “Abracadabra,” he whispered with mock solemnity, snapping his fingers as if the world itself obeyed his stage trick.

  The ten zombies burst into flame. Human-shaped, howling infernos advanced on the three survivors of their party.

  Lyra took in a ragged breath as her heartbeat hammered in her ears. I need to take them out before they get close. She charged, but the heat hit her like a wall, blistering her skin before she could close to striking distance.

  Her skin tingled and grew red, as if she’d gotten sunburned.

  She took a breath as she began jabbing at the infernal undead. She glanced at their enemy. How do we get at him? How do we get at him? Olivi’s Balls. Our flyers are down.

  She retreated as she stabbed at the burning undead. At least I can do something.

  She glanced to the side as she retreated up the rocky pile under her. If I stumble, it’s over. Neither Caden with his dagger nor Maximilian with his illusions or hammer would be able to do anything to those creatures. I have to cover for them.

  The humanoid pyres advanced relentlessly. To her disbelief, the Margrave pulled out a flask, raised it in a toast, and took a long swig—as if this slaughter were nothing more than a tavern play.

  He is having a drink. This... this… She shivered in rage, but forced the spear forward, its smoldering tip all that kept her grounded.

  And finally, the first of the burning undead went down. She scrambled over the ridge of the rock into the military encampment on the other side.

  Camp followers and walking wounded were screaming and running.

  Behind her—like the rising sun—the undead appeared over the ridge of the ruins.

  Several of them stumbled forward into the encampment. Two hit tents, whose waxed fabric ignited like tinder.

  Maximilian grabbed Caden and jumped with the power of his invocation magic, away from the advancing monsters.

  Lyra took another piece of high ground—the ruin of a house—and saw the rest of the undead and the army advancing in good order.

  Pikemen. Undead pikemen. Covering musketeers. The Black Guards of the Order. Traitors to the living. Servants of dark mages.

  She looked over the thousands of camp followers and injured soldiers who had fought for the freedom of the Holy Land for most of their lives. Is this how it ends?

  She looked for Maximilian—but he had disappeared again, preparing another attack. How do I buy him time?

  She looked around, and as the undead advanced over the ridge, she took down two more of the burning ones. Caden was bombarding them with throwing axes as he retreated.

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  The screams and cries from the camp as several tents went up in flame became a distant background noise. We can’t let them overrun us here. If the camp burns, it’s all over.

  Then the terrifying master of the dark arts rose into the sky again—almost like the avatar of a god, an archetype made manifest.

  He tipped his hat to her as their eyes met and pulled out an apple, polished it on his cloak, and took a bite. Stroking his beard while chewing, he observed the scene.

  Incandescent fury filled Lyra's stomach. I have to get him somehow.

  The Archmagister shot out a hand and pointed at Caden. Four of the remaining burning undead charged, as if possessed by an unholy spirit. Which wasn’t actually too far from the truth, the sardonic part of her mind noted.

  Caden scrambled back, trying to run. It looked like he would outpace them—or at least match their pace.

  Until he stumbled over a tent line. Lyra’s chest locked in horror—as if the whole world slowed to force her to watch him fall.

  He yelled as he went down, uselessly flailing his hands. His scream got even shriller as the creatures dogpiled him, turning him—and the tent—into a mercifully short, screaming inferno.

  Lyra bit her tongue until she tasted blood. Can’t panic. I can’t panic, she whispered like a prayer.

  Maximilian. Where? Possessed by a sudden strange calm, she studied the air around the dark wizard. And she saw a shimmer blurring toward the bastard from behind—Maximilian.

  This time he won’t see it coming. This time, he gets what he deserves.

  She smiled to herself, her fingernails digging into the wood of her spear. Maximilian turned visible at the last moment, his warhammer coming down like divine punishment—and it hit the head of the Archmagister from above, a perfect swing.

  Lyra’s muscles tensed as she gave a victory cry while the Archmagister’s skull exploded like an overripe watermelon. The body collapsed and fell from the sky, disappearing behind the wall.

  Maximilian landed on the ridge, swirling his hammer in a lazy arc and smiling at her.

  "See?" he cried. "I knew we could—"

  The dust behind him stirred, as if something very fast and invisible was arriving.

  "Max! Behind—"

  Maximilian was already swinging, turning around as the Archmagister kicked him in the back of the knee. His strike went high, and as soon as it passed, the Margrave of Erlenwald extended an arm holding a pistol.

  “Boom,” Rüdiger smirked, pulling the trigger. Maximilian’s skull burst open, blood fanning across the rubble—final, absolute.

  Something broke inside Lyra. She screamed and ran.

  It took her a second to realize she wasn’t running towards him. Not towards the enemy. I’m running away.

  The voice of her younger self screamed in the back of her mind. The words of her mother came, too: Whatever you do, never abandon your party.

  She ran through the rubble, through the streets. What party? They—they are all dead.

  She ran and ran, her heart pounding, not caring where she was going. No one pursued her, and she slowed down.

  Hot tears were running down her cheeks.

  Her friends. Her family. All dead. Slaughtered in front of her.

  Murdered by a monster.

  "I was useless," she whispered, her voice nearly breaking. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks as she slowly collapsed against a wall. “I couldn’t even hurt him. I—”

  A gentle voice punctured her pit of despair like a blade made of ice. "Well, I wouldn’t go that far. It was a pretty good performance."

  She screamed and spun around. The monster was standing there, lazily leaning against a wall, one knee bent at an angle.

  He was about to take another bite from his apple.

  "How? How?" she scrambled backward.

  For a moment an impulse to fight reared up in her, but it wilted as soon as it arose. She broke down completely, crying out loud, falling to her knees.

  "No," she whimpered. "No, no, no. Why? Why?"

  Rüdiger tilted his head, as if giving the question serious thought. "Well… it was you who attacked me. Like—in terms of what happened at Northguard. And in terms of—"

  "Shut up, you bastard!" she screamed, grabbing a rock and throwing it at him.

  She missed.

  The man sighed. "Why does it always come to this? You won’t kneel, won’t bargain, won’t even pretend there’s a deal to be made?"

  She gasped, her mouth wide open. Channeling her remaining strength, she screamed. "Die! Die! DIE!"

  Her hands dug into the ground, ripping her fingernails as she flung handfuls of dirt at the man. The murderer. The monster.

  "Well… can’t say I didn’t try," Rüdiger said, tilting behind the protection of the shimmering blue sphere.

  Where is my spear? The thought hit with an odd clarity. Lyra shook herself as the rage ended. There was simply nothing left.

  "Any last words?" Rüdiger asked. "Anything I should do for you or your relatives?"

  Their eyes met, and Lyra knew—this was the end. "No. My family… the Greenskins."

  The Archmagister nodded. "Too common a story. I promise—when I rule, no one shall suffer that fate."

  Rüdiger made a gesture. The Archmagister turned around and walked away. Is he… leaving me?

  But within a few hopeful heartbeats, spectral fingers burst from the ground around her, and wavy humanoids made of glowing fog rose.

  A chill engulfed her—together with a terrible calm.

  "Maybe," she whimpered. "Maybe it won’t be too bad…"

  Even as she said it, she knew it was a vain hope.

  She blinked.

  And saw her collapsed body below her.

  How curious.

  Her fury didn’t fade—it was stripped away. Pain, rage, even grief peeled from her like burning skin, leaving only the pull. And the need to obey.

  She floated toward her new master.

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  Anywhere But Death

  by Melpomelion

  Eleven gods. Ten trials. One throne. A girl who dies, rewinds, and refuses to give up.

  What to Expect:

  - Emotional turmoil, graphic violence, constant hopelessness, and occasionally graphic gore.

  - While the main narrative follows the protagonist, certain arcs will temporarily step away from her perspective.

  - Light LitRPG elements without numerical stats and progression unfolds slowly for action-oriented audiences.

  - Each chapter typically ranges between 1,500 and 3,000 words.