I took the shield first.

  It felt wrong in my hands the moment I lifted it, like picking up a stone someone had whispered secrets into. Something quiet, sour, coiled inside the metal. A curse sleeping just beneath the surface, waiting for something to wake it.

  And of course, the moment I held it, my curse stirred.

  I felt the two meet.

  Not violently, more like two tuning forks humming the same note. Touching.

  The air around me tightened, a faint ringing rising behind my ears like someone plucking a taut wire.

  “So it really works as described,” I muttered under my breath.

  My curse, the Curse of the False Saint, was always active, always pushing, always humming behind my ribs like a low fever. Normally it stayed background noise unless triggered, but the shield’s curse didn’t wait. It resonated instantly, answering the first whisper of mine with a muted echo.

  Every curse is linked, echoing the others.

  Each trigger resonates through them all, regardless of its strength.

  The ringing intensified for a moment before stabilising.

  Manageable, annoying, but manageable.

  Then I strapped the mace to my belt.

  And the resonance lunged.

  My arm sagged immediately; the weapon suddenly weighed twice as much as usual, maybe more. I clenched my teeth as the pressure behind my eyes surged, the ringing intensifying into needles. The hollowness followed a breath later, the familiar, creeping emptiness curling up my spine like cold vines.

  Depression. Fatigue. That taste of ash under my tongue.

  Even with all my stats and my trait boosting curse resistance, even with a lifetime of living under this thing, it never truly got easier.

  I exhaled through the discomfort, then made the practical choice before the curses built up a full symphony. I unstrapped the mace, then the shield, and set both gently besides my bedroll.

  Without them, the pressure eased back down to the usual baseline, like someone turned the volume from a 5 down to a constant 2.

  Still there. Always there.

  But liveable.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked around camp.

  People moved in clusters, some packing, some pacing, some whispering anxiously to others. Every face carried the same mix of exhaustion, fear, and that brittle hope people get when they’re too worn out to panic anymore.

  A few watched me the way you’d watch a dangerous tool – useful, but risky to touch.

  Some approached with worried looks, asking if I was okay. I waved them off gently.

  “I’m good,” I assured them. “Just testing equipment.”

  A couple seemed relieved. Others… less so. That was fine. You couldn’t win them all. It was already impressive they’d held formation today and didn’t run screaming into the woods.

  Progress was progress.

  I helped fold a few bedrolls, steadying my breathing while my curse quieted back to its usual clawing hum. As long as they served someone else, even mundane tasks became beneficial.

  Then Quinn and Alex slipped out from between the trees, moving fast enough that people stopped what they were doing and gathered instinctively.

  Everyone wanted news.

  Good or bad, it didn’t matter. Silence was worse.

  Quinn didn’t waste time.

  “I looped around the valley,” he said, voice high and sharp. “Towards the beacon. Found another type of monster. Worse than the gorgs.”

  The camp stiffened as one.

  Quinn continued, “Tall as a damn horse. Covered in moss. Skull-like head, horns like an antelope. Claws up front, hooves in back.”

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  A chill skittered down the crowd.

  I pictured it easily.

  And I didn’t like the image.

  “Looks like a wendigo out of a forest nightmare,” Quinn added. “I tried for a sneak attack, but it spotted me instantly, so I ran and lost it.”

  That shut everyone up.

  The way he said it told me enough; Quinn didn’t run from much. If something made him bolt without shame, it was no joke.

  Alex cleared his throat after a moment. “I found a small river. At the base of a rocky cliff, in the opposite direction from the light pillar. Fresh water and a good cover.”

  A wave of relief rippled through the crowd, but it was shaky and short-lived.

  Tom stepped forward, trying to herd the panic before it flared. “Okay. Okay, listen. This means we need to take shelter soon. Gain levels. Then reassess.”

  But people were already splitting into factions.

  “We can’t go towards the beacon now,” a man with his child said.

  “We’ll never make it in time if we wait,” argued a girl, a mage if I’m not mistaken.

  “We can kill the monsters,” a third voice insisted.

  "And perish in the process," another voice countered.

  Tom raised his hands, trying to calm them, but it only half-worked. The anxiety was sharp and biting.

  The general consensus slowly formed into a plan:

  Find shelter near the river.

  Train.

  Level up.

  Fight forward and repeat the process until the beacon.

  But whispers of doubt threaded through everything.

  “If we can’t even walk towards the beacon without dying…”

  “What if we don’t make it?”

  “What if it’s already too late?”

  Fear was a stubborn weed.

  I watched them argue while letting my curse settle into the familiar ache in my bones. None of this changed my plan. None of it derailed where I was going next.

  I caught Quinn before Tom roped him into another pointless debate. The kid looked like he was about to start throwing hands just to make people stop talking, so I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him a few steps away from the forming argument pit.

  “How was it really?” I asked quietly. “No sugar-coating.”

  Quinn blew out a sharp breath. “Bad.”

  Then, after a moment, “Worse than bad.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck as if the memory physically crawled there.

  “The other side of the valley is full of those things,” he said. “Not tight packs—more like scattered apex predators, but there are a lot of them. And every one I saw moved like a fucking nightmare.”

  I frowned. “Levels?”

  He gave me a grim half-smile. “Probably over twenty-five, if level twenty-five is a milestone. Strong. Fast. Good senses. Not the kind of creature you kite or outmanoeuvre like the lumbering brutes we are facing now. They almost caught me.”

  That was enough to shut down any optimism.

  Well. I preferred reality anyway.

  “I’m planning to go after the gorg boss,” I told him. “Train the others in the meantime, get some levels, then strike.”

  “I was going to ask—”

  Quinn didn’t even let me finish.

  “I’m coming.” He cut in. “I need levels. Badly. And I trust you’re not planning suicide. But,” he jabbed a finger at me, “I’m not touching the boss. No chance.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Too big, too tough, too much bullshit,” he said flatly. “I got a glimpse of it. That thing is the anti-rogue incarnate. If the damn monster sneezes on me, I’ll explode.”

  I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my mouth.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I intend to face it alone.”

  Quinn stared at me.

  Then blinked.

  Then muttered, “Solo? …Are you insane?”

  “I have a plan,” I said.

  “A plan,” he repeated, deadpan. “Right. Your funeral. Hope it works.”

  Then his expression eased a little. “You ready?”

  “I was about to ask you.”

  He grinned, sharp and confident. “With the new title? My stamina’s so high I could run to the horizon and back. I’m good to go. And building shelter?” He made a vague dismissive gesture towards the arguing group. “Not my thing.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  I headed back to my bedroll, cut a strip of rope from a bundle, and tied the grimoire to my belt. The damned thing felt like a heartbeat against my hip – steady, slow, patient. Hungry.

  I packed the bedroll, cloak, mace, and shield; the shield was strapped outside the pack because there was no universe where that thing fit, and I secured everything tight.

  I only equipped the grimoire, which was already bonded; the problem with that is that I couldn’t unequip it. The other curses would stack, and right now I needed a clear head.

  Then I went to find Alya.

  I spotted her a moment later, crouched besides her looted gorg blade, more like a crude slab of metal than a sword, trying and failing to sharpen it with a stone that was obviously not fit for the job. The edge was chewed to hell, but she’d apparently taken a liking to the giant, ugly thing.

  When she saw me, her eyes flicked from me to Quinn.

  “Are we going?” she asked immediately.

  “If you’re ready,” I said.

  She nodded once, sharp and serious. The anger from earlier still simmered behind her eyes, but now it's focused and channelled. Good.

  We crossed camp together, heading for Marcus.

  The not-as-old-as-this-morning old man was sitting on a log, sharpening a pile of long, thin sticks. A dozen at least. The sticks appeared fragile, yet Marcus manoeuvred them effortlessly, as if he understood their precise purpose.

  I stopped in front of him.

  “Preparing something?” I asked.

  He didn’t look up. Just kept shaving the next stick to a perfect point with slow, careful strokes.

  Then he glanced at me, eyes clearer than they’d been all day.

  “This should do anyway,” he muttered under his breath. “Are we going?”

  “Yes, we just need to fetch Mary. Ah, speaking of the devil…”

  Mary approached with Jack in tow.

  “I’m coming too,” said the guy. “No way I’m going to fall behind you too much. I saw how you dispatched those brutes before. We need more high-level fighters if we want to continue to the beacon.” Although I didn't fully understand him, his calm demeanour was evident. I hope he can manage to continue pushing without breaking.

  I nodded to him and Mary. “Glad to have you on board, and you too, Mary; having a healer makes me much more at ease.” I finished with a smile.

  And just like that, our little team was forming.

  The cave was waiting.

  I felt the grimoire’s pulse against my hip, a soft echo to my heartbeat.

  Soon I’ll see if my plan is going to work or fail spectacularly.

  I couldn’t wait.

  20 chapters ahead!