Garath went pale, eyes wide with alarm. “The Cashnar… cannot go alone to a place like that. It would be madness!”

  Derek opened his mouth to reply, but Isabelle stepped in before he could speak.

  She moved beside him and crossed her arms. “He won’t be alone.”

  Garath’s voice tightened. “With all due respect, you’re still a young Warden. Uriela Valen would never approve of you walking into something like this. Especially not without a full escort.”

  Derek shrugged. “Well, lucky for us, Uriela’s not the highest-ranking religious authority in Rothmere anymore. Right?”

  Garath stiffened. He looked between them, disbelief etched into his face. “You can’t be serious.”

  But no one was laughing.

  “I… I’ll inform her immediately,” Garath said. “I’m sure she’ll agree to send a proper contingent to support you. There’s no need to—”

  “No,” Derek cut him off. “Ebonshade’s been neck-deep in shit for weeks. That was her chance to do the right thing. I’m not sitting around waiting for her calendar to free up.”

  Garath stared at him, pale, swallowing hard.

  He was probably terrified that the powerful, vindictive woman would take it out on him for not stopping Derek. But maybe there was a workaround.

  “Tell her I had a vision,” Derek said.

  Garath frowned. “A… vision?”

  Derek nodded. “Tell her Orbisar himself commanded the Cashnar to go to Ebonshade and break its curse.” He turned to Isabelle and winked. “What do you think? Sounds holy enough?”

  The Warden shot him a flat, unimpressed look.

  Garath looked marginally less like a corpse and regained a hint of color. “Uhm… very well. If this is the will of Orbisar and his Messiah… I’m sure High Priestess Uriela will understand and offer her blessing.” He gave a stiff little bow and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Derek said.

  Garath froze mid-step.

  “Before you go, I need intel. I don’t walk into missions blind. What do we know about Ebonshade? Anything I should be worried about?”

  “There’s the cult,” Isabelle said.

  Derek raised an eyebrow. “A cult?”

  Garath nodded. “An old death cult still lingers in the area. Officially, the village follows Orbisar’s teachings. Priest Elias has done a decent job keeping order. But... some locals still venerate the spirits of the dead… when Elias isn’t looking.”

  Derek frowned. “Why the hell should I care about another backwater cult?”

  Isabelle’s gaze drifted toward the horizon. “The villagers keep their dead close. There’s also a large cemetery to the north, right at the jungle’s edge. A Life sphere landing there could raise a small undead horde.”

  Tunga growled and gripped his staff until his knuckles turned bone-white.

  Garath cleared his throat again. “Regardless, those are threats an Orbisar Ascendant like Elias should’ve handled easily. Same goes for the men I sent.”

  Derek cursed under his breath. Damn this world. “And yet, none of them came back. Something went sideways in Ebonshade. And for some reason, Sierelith dragged Alyra right into the middle of it.”

  “There are forces in that place,” Tunga said, voice low and gravelly. “Old ones. You forget. You forget fear. Jungle people do not forget.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Tunga, for fuck’s sake—this isn’t the time for spooky jungle tales. Got anything useful? Say it. Otherwise, shut up.”

  Tunga didn’t flinch. He reached out and tapped the skull on Derek’s helmet with his staff.

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  The metallic clang echoed inside Derek’s skull. One of these days, he was going to snap that damned shaman stick in two.

  The shaman glared at him. “You only hear what you want, tin skull.”

  Derek swatted the staff aside with his armored hand, but Tunga didn’t back down.

  “So,” Derek said, pressing on. “We’ve got a death cult, a graveyard full of corpses, and maybe a few decided to stretch their legs after too long underground. What else?”

  “Two-thirty,” Garath muttered, face pale.

  Everyone turned toward him.

  “There were two hundred and thirty souls in Ebonshade,” the inquisitor said. “At least… before the sphere fell.”

  “There are always more souls than bodies,” Tunga said, like he was explaining something to a bunch of slow children.

  Derek rolled his eyes. When Tunga started spouting crap like that, pretending he didn’t exist was the only way to stay sane. “Alright. Worst case? We’re dealing with a small zombie army: the already-buried dead, the two-thirty villagers, and a bunch of zombified Sacred Guard.”

  Isabelle frowned. “Zombies?”

  Derek waved a hand. “Yeah, back home we call the undead that sometimes.” In holo-flicks.

  “If Elias and my soldiers really were turned,” Garath said, “you’ll be facing a threat far beyond your strength.”

  “What kind of powers are we talking about?” Derek asked.

  Tunga scratched his chin. “Can’t kill what don’t live. Can’t break what’s already broken. Can’t scare what’s already dead.”

  This time, Derek gave him a serious look. “You’re saying they’re immortal?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Exactly. As long as they stay inside the sphere’s magic, they’ll keep coming back.” She shifted her weight and tightened her grip on her sword. “But we can always cut them into pieces small enough that they stop getting back up.”

  “Sure…” Derek muttered. “Assuming they politely hold still while we slice them up.”

  “The death sphere cancels out the life sphere,” Tunga said.

  Garath shot him a glare. “The energy of a death sphere might neutralize those creatures, but those spheres are forbidden. Their users are outlaws, shaman. Are you suggesting we defy Orbisar’s will?”

  Tunga shrugged.

  “Garath is right,” Isabelle said. “That kind of magic is only studied within the Citadel, and there’s a reason it’s banned. Those spheres are extremely dangerous. Their effects are catastrophic.”

  Derek nodded. “Of course they’re dangerous. Like any weapon that actually works.”

  He pulled one of his plasma cannons from his side with a loud clang. “You think this is safe?”

  Isabelle’s gray eyes stayed locked on his. “It’s not the same, Derek. These are literal manifestations of death. They kill everything they touch, friend or foe. And after that, nothing grows. Ever.”

  She gestured vaguely toward the horizon. “There’s a desolate region far from here. A celestial-tier sphere crashed there. They say it used to be full of life, people, cities… a whole nation. Now it’s just rock and dust.”

  Derek clenched his jaw. Heat churned in his gut, threatening to boil over. Best not to say what he was thinking.

  Best not to admit that if it meant saving Alyra, he’d use every death sphere he could get his hands on, without blinking.

  Not that it mattered. He didn’t have any.

  Just a few micro-missiles Ithara had rigged with that kind of energy. Nowhere near the same as having a real death sphere installed in the NOVA.

  “Well, if there’s nothing else…” Garath gave another stiff bow. “I’ll inform High Priestess Uriela Valen of your intentions.”

  Derek nodded. “Yeah—ask her if, this time, she could maybe not send an assassin after me. Things are messy enough as it is.”

  Garath blinked. “Wh-what do you mean by that?”

  Derek smiled. “Nothing, Inquisitor. Don’t stress. I was just joking…”

  He waved him off.

  Garath hesitated, then walked away.

  Derek sighed.

  Yeah, sure, joking.

  Total bullshit. He couldn’t prove Uriela was behind the guy who nearly killed him.

  Too many people wanted him dead to be sure.

  But the suspicion was strong.

  Without a word, Derek, Isabelle, and Tunga set off toward Ebonshade.

  The grassy hills around them swelled gently underfoot, deceptively calm beneath the weight of the jungle heat. In the distance, the tree line loomed like a wall of shadow—dense, twisted, and unmoving. Ahead, a soft green hill rose just high enough to swallow the road, as if the land itself was hiding what came next.

  They walked in silence for over an hour. Derek had sent the Repair Bots ahead to scout, flagging any potential threats on the minimap.

  They’d all agreed: slow and careful. Low profile. Conserve energy.

  No mistakes.

  If Sierelith really was headed to Ebonshade, she was already hours ahead of them.

  Rushing wouldn’t help—unless they were eager to walk straight into a trap.

  “What are… zombies like?” Isabelle asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Derek blinked. Right. He’d forgotten to mention they were fictional where he came from. Just holo-movie monsters, novel clichés, web serial junk. Oh well. “Let’s see… dumb as bugs, half-rotted, groan like creeps whenever they see something alive, and they shamble around like they’ve had too much to drink.”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound dangerous. Slow, dumb, fragile... Not like what we’re likely to face. Except maybe the rotting part.”

  Derek swallowed. A chill crawled up his spine. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re intelligent,” Isabelle said. “Like Tunga said, some of them still talk. At first.”

  She paused.

  “Almost like they’re still alive.”

  Then what?

  Tunga’s voice rumbled behind them. “Even the magic of a life sphere cannot defeat death.”

  He tapped his temple with a gnarled finger. “Mind goes first.”

  Isabelle nodded. “First it’s fits of rage. Then they lose control. Less thought, more violence. Until nothing’s left. You have to put them down before that happens.”

  She paused. “Burning them to ash is usually safest.”

  Derek swallowed again. Sure, fine if you’re dealing with one or two. Maybe even a handful.

  But an entire village’s worth? Coming from every direction?

  “A dog,” Tunga said.

  Derek turned.

  The shaman was pointing ahead, squinting.

  A dog was walking straight down the road.

  It wasn’t stopping to piss on bushes.

  It wasn’t sniffing anything.

  Just walking.

  Steady.

  In a straight line.

  “It came from Ebonshade,” Isabelle said. “Maybe it ran off and is looking for someone to care for it. In villages, dogs are often used to guard livestock.”

  Derek narrowed his eyes. Something felt off. Dogs didn’t move like that.

  Sure, maybe it was shaken by whatever went down back there—but this?

  Too stiff. Too precise.

  Creepy as hell.

  “Vanda,” Derek said.

  “Yes, Derek?”

  “What do you make of that dog?”

  “You know I prefer cats.”

  He made a face. “Can you scan it? Let me know if anything feels... off?”

  “Yes, Derek. And if you'd like, I can scan the blades of grass too. Or the clouds. Oh look, that one’s shaped like a dog. What a coincidence. Shall I analyze it?”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Vanda, this is not the time for your crap.”

  “Alright, alright. Running scan now.”

  The dog was getting closer.

  Something was off. It looked injured, one ear missing. And its face…

  What was that on its muzzle?

  “Derek.”

  “Yes, Vanda?”

  “I scanned its temperature.”

  “Temperature?” Derek frowned. “Look, I’m trying to be patient because I don’t know what’s going on with you, but when we’re on a mission, I need you to take this seriously. I asked you to analyze the dog, not—”

  “Its body temperature matches the ambient temperature,” Vanda interrupted.

  Derek froze. Isabelle and Tunga stopped too, puzzled.

  He cleared his throat. “Vanda… repeat that. Out loud.”

  “As you wish. The dog’s body temperature is the same as the surrounding environment.”

  “What does that mean?” Isabelle asked.

  Derek swallowed hard. “There’s only one condition where a mammal’s body temp matches the environment.”

  Isabelle glanced at Tunga. The shaman just shrugged.

  “When we’re dead,” Derek said. “It happens after we die.”

  Both Isabelle and Tunga spun around to look at the dog.

  It was closer now.

  Much closer.

  There was nothing on its muzzle. Quite the opposite.

  A ragged chunk of flesh was missing from its face, exposing bare bone and jagged teeth.

  The white bone gleamed in the sunlight—clean, dry, like it had been dead a very long time.

  And yet, it was still walking.

  The dog saw them.

  It didn’t bark. Didn’t growl.

  It just started running.

  Straight at them.