I woke with a start, gasping as if surfacing from deep water.

  My hand went immediately to the saber at my side. Still there. Good.

  I blinked, disoriented, then sat up slowly. My back protested; sleeping against stone would do that. Every muscle felt stiff and cold, like I'd been encased in ice.

  A few hours of sleep. Maybe three or four, judging by how exhausted I still felt. Not nearly enough, but better than nothing.

  I looked around the clearing. The Gravekeeper's shack stood silent, its door firmly shut. No light came from within. The clearing itself remained exactly as I'd left it: weathered gravestones, bare earth, that oppressive silence that permeated everything in this place.

  But what struck me most was the sky.

  Still dark. Still that sickly moon hanging overhead like a diseased eye. The same faint light filtering through perpetual mist.

  Nothing had changed. Time didn't seem to pass here at all.

  I'd read about this mechanic in the game lore. Pocket dimensions existed outside normal temporal flow. It was just a bullshit lore excuse, of course. The devs were just lazy and didn't want to code in a day/night cycle inside the dungeon instances.

  Still, that didn't change the fact that the Graves operated on its own schedule. Which meant I had no idea what time it actually was out in Western Zenas.

  Didn't matter. I wasn't done here yet.

  I pushed myself to my feet, joints popping as I stretched. My arms went overhead, back arching until something in my spine cracked audibly. Then I bent forward, touched my toes, felt the muscles in my legs and lower back protest before gradually loosening.

  Circulation returned slowly. The stiffness eased.

  I rolled my shoulders, rotated my wrists. Drew the saber and made a few experimental swings, testing my range of motion.

  Better. Not great, but functional.

  I sheathed the blade and headed for the exit.

  The plan was simple: fight for a few more hours, kill anything that moved, grind my saber proficiency until I hit Expert. Then I'd leave, get some real food, maybe actually sleep in a bed.

  But first, more violence against the undead.

  I left the clearing behind, stepping back into the maze of crypts and tombstones. The mist swallowed me immediately, reducing visibility to maybe ten feet in any direction.

  The temperature dropped further as I moved away from the Gravekeeper's safe zone. My breath came out in visible clouds.

  I kept my hand on the saber's hilt, ears straining for any sound. Footsteps. Rattling bones. The shambling gait of zombies.

  Minutes passed in silence.

  Then I heard something else entirely.

  Metal on metal. The clash of weapons. Shouts, human shouts, echoing through the dead air.

  I stopped, frowning.

  What the hell?

  The sounds came from somewhere to my left. Not far. Maybe a hundred yards through the maze of graves.

  I moved toward them slowly, keeping to the shadows between crypts. My footsteps made no sound on the soft earth.

  The battle sounds grew louder. More distinct. I could make out individual voices now.

  "Knight, hold them! Archer, focus fire on the left flank!"

  "I'm trying! There's too many!"

  "Priest, heal! Now!"

  "I know, I know!"

  I crept closer, using a large mausoleum for cover. Peered around the corner.

  And saw them.

  Four adventurers, clustered in a defensive formation, surrounded by at least fifteen zombies.

  The scene played out like something straight from the game. A heavily armored Knight stood at the front, sword and shield raised, taking the brunt of the zombie attacks. Behind him, a Duelist with a rapier darted in and out, stabbing at exposed heads with practiced precision. An Archer stood further back, loosing arrows into the horde with mechanical efficiency. And bringing up the rear, a white-robed woman clutching a staff (a Priest, obviously) who kept casting healing spells on the Knight whenever he took damage.

  Professional. Coordinated. They worked together like they'd been doing this for years.

  All four wore armbands. Blue ones.

  Blue rank adventurers. Which meant they were probably around level 20. Experienced, but not elite.

  I watched them fight, confusion warring with irritation.

  In the game, this never happened. Dungeons were instanced. When you entered, you got your own private copy. No one else could interfere. It was a single-player experience by design.

  But now?

  Now the world was real. And apparently, real dungeons didn't work like video game instances.

  Multiple parties could enter simultaneously. Share the same space. Fight over the same monsters and loot.

  How fucking annoying.

  I'd been planning to treat the Graves like my personal training ground. Grind levels in peace, farm experience without competition.

  But if adventurers could just waltz in whenever they wanted...

  The group finished off the last zombie. The Priest immediately cast a healing spell that bathed the Knight in golden light. The Duelist cleaned his rapier with a cloth while the Archer retrieved arrows from corpses.

  They clustered together, catching their breath. Talking in low voices I couldn't quite make out.

  Then the Archer turned.

  Looked directly at my hiding spot.

  "Who goes there?"

  His bow came up, arrow nocked but not drawn. The others immediately shifted into defensive positions.

  Shit.

  I stepped out from behind the mausoleum, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.

  "Just passing through," I said, keeping Roxam's gravelly voice calm.

  Four pairs of eyes locked onto me. I saw them take in my appearance: the bandana covering my face, the hooded cloak, the saber at my hip.

  The Duelist, a young man maybe early twenties with bright red hair and a cocky expression, looked me up and down.

  "Where's your armband?" he asked.

  "Don't have one."

  "Then you're not an adventurer."

  "Never said I was."

  The Knight stepped forward. Big guy, well-trimmed beard, the kind of face that probably inspired confidence in taverns. Right now it just looked suspicious.

  "What the hell are you doing in this dungeon, then?" His voice carried the authority of someone used to being in charge.

  "Same thing you are," I growled.

  The red-haired Duelist laughed. Actually laughed, like I'd just told the funniest joke he'd heard all week.

  "You hear that? He's 'doing the same thing we are.'" He shook his head, grinning at his companions. "Listen, friend, dungeons are dangerous. Amateurs like you get killed in them all the time. You should probably head back topside before something nasty tears your throat out."

  Outwardly, I kept my expression neutral. Roxam's ruined face didn't show emotion well anyway as the scarred tissue didn't move right.

  Inwardly, though?

  I was getting pissed.

  Who the fuck did these assholes think they were?

  I'd been fighting undead for hours. Killed dozens of skeletons and zombies. I was level 28, for Christ's sake. Higher level than any of them.

  And this smug prick wanted to lecture me about dungeon safety?

  Fine. They wanted smarmy? I could do smarmy.

  I let Roxam's voice drop even lower, adding that edge of menace that came so naturally to this body.

  "Big talk for blue-banded weaklings."

  The reaction was immediate.

  The Duelist's grin vanished. The Knight's grip tightened on his sword. The Archer drew his bowstring back halfway, arrow now pointed at my chest. Even the Priest, who'd been quiet until now, glared at me with surprising venom.

  The Duelist stepped forward, crossing his arms. His whole body language shifted. Less casual, more aggressive.

  "Look, friend." His tone had lost all its previous humor. "If you know what's good for you, you'll leave this dungeon to the professionals."

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  I placed my hand on the saber's hilt. Didn't draw it. Just rested my palm there, casual but threatening.

  "Last I checked, adventurers didn't own this dungeon."

  "A common misconception." The Duelist's smile returned, but it was sharp now. Predatory. "It may not be written down on any paper, but dungeons are where adventurers do their jobs. We fight here, we die here, we bleed here. Hell, dungeons are practically our homes. And when we see some know-nothing band-less scum sack coming into our homes, well, we get a tad bit upset."

  The rage built inside me like pressure in a boiler.

  This guy. This fucking guy.

  Where did he get the gall to claim ownership of public space? To threaten someone just for existing in the same area?

  "Your home, huh?" I let the words come out slow. Deliberate. "Well, I guess by your logic, I'm trespassing in your house. So what are you gonna do about it?"

  The Duelist drew his rapier in one smooth motion. The steel caught the sickly moonlight, gleaming.

  The others followed suit immediately. Knight raised his shield. Archer pulled the bowstring taut. The Priest lifted her staff, which began glowing with gathering magic.

  Fuck.

  I'd pushed too hard. Now I was looking at four armed adventurers ready to fight.

  And while I was probably higher level than any individual one of them, four-on-one were terrible odds.

  I could take the Duelist in a straight fight. Probably. My stats were better, my skills solid.

  But add in a Knight to tank, an Archer for ranged damage, and a Priest for healing and support magic?

  That changed the equation significantly.

  I needed to de-escalate. Or at least change the terms of engagement.

  "Look at these brave adventurers," I said, injecting as much contempt into Roxam's voice as possible. "Talking big yet unable to handle a single opponent without help from their buddies."

  The Duelist's expression shifted. The anger bled away, replaced by something colder. More calculating.

  Then he smiled.

  "Oh, so you want a duel, eh?" He waved back at his companions. "Stand down. This one's mine."

  The others exchanged glances but obeyed. The Knight lowered his shield. The Archer relaxed his bowstring. The Priest's staff stopped glowing.

  They backed up a few steps, giving their leader space.

  The Duelist stepped forward into the open area between graves. He settled into a ready stance, rapier held high in a classic fencing position. Weight on his back foot, front leg extended, every line of his body screaming trained professional.

  I drew my saber and mirrored him. Fell into the stance Roxam's muscle memory provided: blade angled across my body, weight centered, ready to cut or thrust.

  The red-haired man grinned at me across the space between us.

  "You should've walked away, friend. Nobody's gonna find your body in a dungeon."

  We began circling each other, feet shuffling across the dead earth between gravestones. My eyes tracked his stance, the way his weight distributed, how his rapier moved through the air with casual fluidity.

  The Duelist flicked his blade forward in a testing thrust. Quick. Clean. The tip came at my face, then withdrew before I could even react.

  I mirrored the motion, sending my saber toward his center mass. He deflected it with a lazy twist of his wrist.

  We were two Duelists doing what our class excelled at: killing each other one-on-one.

  The whole time, that fucking smile never left his face. Like this was a game to him. Like he was having the time of his life.

  It made my blood boil.

  He struck again, this time committing to the attack. His rapier lanced forward in a blur of steel.

  I brought my saber up, barely catching the blade in time. The impact vibrated up my arm, surprising me with its force despite the rapier's thin profile.

  The redhead immediately followed with three more strikes, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. Lightning fast combinations that came from years of training.

  The first thrust I parried high. The second I deflected to the left. The third-

  Pain blossomed in my right bicep as his blade sliced through fabric and skin. Shallow, but it burned like acid.

  "First blood goes to me." Rosco's smirk widened as he danced back out of range.

  Rage flooded through me, hot and immediate.

  I lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of cuts and slashes. My saber became a whirlwind of sharpened steel, every strike aimed at vital points: throat, face, chest, arms.

  The Duelist backpedaled, his rapier moving in tight defensive circles. Metal rang against metal as he deflected each attack. Barely. His footwork remained perfect, but I saw the strain in his movements.

  "Come on, Rosco! Take this loser out!" the Archer shouted from behind us.

  So that was his name. Rosco.

  Great. Now I had a name to curse when I killed him.

  We continued our deadly dance. Thrust and parry. Cut and deflect. Circle and advance. Our blades spoke a language older than words, each exchange a conversation about death.

  The pattern revealed itself quickly.

  It was obvious to me that Rosco's proficiency with his rapier sat at Expert level. His technique was textbook perfect, every motion economical and precise. My Adept-level saber work couldn't match that kind of refined skill.

  But.

  My stats were significantly higher than his.

  I noticed it in the small things first. How my blade moved faster than his, even when he anticipated my strikes. How my footwork covered more ground with less effort. How my stamina remained steady while his began to falter.

  Minutes passed. The duel stretched on.

  Rosco started sweating. His breathing grew heavier, coming in sharp gasps between exchanges. His strikes, once crisp and controlled, began to lose their edge.

  Meanwhile, I maintained my steady pace. Roxam's body was a machine built for prolonged combat. High Constitution, high endurance. I could keep this up all day.

  I saw my opening when Rosco overextended on a thrust.

  My saber came across in a horizontal slash, catching his left shoulder. The blade bit deep, parting fabric and skin. Blood welled up, dark against his adventurer's leathers.

  His smile flickered.

  I pressed the advantage, driving him back with aggressive cuts. He scrambled to defend, rapier moving frantically to intercept my attacks.

  Too slow.

  I feinted high, then drove my blade low, catching him in the side. The saber punched through his leather armor, creating a puncture wound that leaked crimson.

  Rosco's smile vanished completely.

  Now he had to work. Really work.

  His breathing became ragged. His footwork turned sloppy. Desperation crept into his movements as he realized what I'd already figured out.

  He was going to lose.

  I glanced back at his companions.

  The Knight's grip had tightened on his sword hilt, shield raised and ready. The Archer had nocked an arrow, bowstring partially drawn. The Priest's staff glowed with faint holy light, mana gathering for an emergency heal.

  Of course.

  They weren't going to accept the outcome of this "fair" fight. The moment their leader went down, they'd jump in.

  Fucking cowards.

  Rosco came at me with renewed fury, perhaps sensing his friends' readiness to intervene. He struck out with a deep thrust, committing everything to the attack.

  I sidestepped.

  His rapier sailed past my ribs, overextended and exposed.

  I swept forward, closing the distance between us instantly. My free hand shot out and clamped onto his face.

  Necromantic Touch was a combat spell used specifically by Necromancers. At its touch, it activated a curse that caused Rot damage to the target. Although it wasn't very damaging, especially at the Novice level, it was said to be very painful.

  Mana drained from me in a rush as the spell activated.

  Rosco screamed.

  The sound that tore from his throat was inhuman. Pure agony given voice.

  His flesh rotted under my palm. Pink skin turned black and oozing, spreading across his features like spilled ink. The smell hit me immediately: putrid, like week-old roadkill left in the summer sun. Maggots erupted from the corrupted tissue, wriggling in the filth. Other vermin followed: flies, beetles, things that fed on decay.

  I released him and stepped back.

  Rosco staggered away, clutching at his ruined face with both hands. His rapier clattered to the ground, forgotten. He kept screaming, wordless and raw.

  "Rosco!" The Knight charged forward, sword raised high.

  "He's a Necromancer!" the Archer shouted, voice cracking with fear.

  The ground around us was littered with zombie corpses. Rotting flesh, broken bones, putrid remains from the battle these adventurers had just finished.

  Perfect.

  I activated Summon Skeleton.

  My mana pool emptied completely, the sensation like having my insides scooped out with a rusty spoon. But it worked.

  Four skeletons erupted from the slain zombies, tearing free from decayed flesh with wet, tearing sounds. White bone dripped with blood and pus as they clawed their way into existence. Greenish soulfire ignited in their empty eye sockets.

  They swarmed the Knight immediately.

  The armored man skidded to a halt, forced to deal with the undead attacking him from multiple angles. His sword came down, shattering one skeleton's skull. But the other three pressed in, clawing at his armor, searching for gaps.

  "Kill the Necromancer!" he shouted, voice muffled by his helmet.

  The Archer seemed frozen, bow raised but uncertain. His arrow tracked back and forth between me and the skeletons mauling his companion.

  Target indecision. A fatal mistake.

  I drew my flintlock pistol with my left hand. Raised it. Aimed at the Archer's center mass.

  This time, I braced properly. Widened my stance. Anticipated the recoil.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The gun roared. Smoke and flame erupted from the barrel. The kick traveled up my arm, but I'd prepared for it and absorbed the impact.

  The Archer's chest exploded in a spray of blood and bone fragments.

  He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, bow falling from nerveless fingers. Dead before he hit the ground.

  Holy shit! Firearms were devastating.

  Then I saw movement to my right.

  Rosco came at me again, his face partly healed now. Golden light still clung to his features where the Priest's magic had worked to reverse the necrotic damage. But strands of rotted flesh still hung from his reddened skin, swinging with each movement. His left cheek was missing entirely, exposing teeth and jaw bone.

  "Die, you bastard!" Spittle flew from his mouth, pink with blood.

  He attacked with wild abandon, technique abandoned for pure aggression. His rapier became a blur of desperate strikes.

  But desperation without skill was just flailing.

  My Dexterity was significantly higher than his. Every attack he threw, I saw coming a mile away. The trajectories were obvious. The timing predictable.

  I parried one clumsy thrust to the outside, opening his guard completely.

  Then I drove my saber into his chest.

  The blade punched through leather armor, through skin and muscle, between ribs. I felt it scrape against bone as it penetrated deep into his chest cavity.

  Rosco coughed. Blood leaked from his open mouth, running down his chin in dark rivulets. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating with shock.

  He tried to speak. Only wet, gurgling sounds emerged.

  I yanked the saber free.

  Rosco collapsed to his knees, hands clutching at the hole in his chest. Blood pumped between his fingers with each weakening heartbeat.

  Then he fell forward onto his face and stopped moving.

  I turned toward the remaining adventurers.

  The Priest stood twenty feet away, staff raised and glowing as she frantically cast healing spells on the Knight. Golden light streamed from her hands, washing over the armored man's wounds.

  The Knight himself was in trouble.

  He'd managed to destroy two of my skeletons, reducing them to scattered bone fragments. But the remaining pair had tackled him, bearing him to the ground through sheer persistence. One had its bony arms wrapped around his neck from behind, applying a chokehold. The other clung to his sword arm, preventing him from bringing his weapon to bear.

  Scratch marks covered the Knight's face where skeletal fingers had found purchase. Blood matted his trim beard, turning it dark and slick.

  He slammed his shield repeatedly into the skeleton gripping his arm, but couldn't get the proper angle. The undead creature held on with inhuman strength, bones grinding against armor.

  The Knight's face was turning purple from lack of oxygen.

  I rushed toward the Priest.

  She saw me coming and screeched, a high-pitched sound of pure terror.

  I raised my saber, preparing to thrust it through her throat-

  And looked at her face.

  Really looked at her.

  She was young. Maybe nineteen, twenty at most. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting paths through the grime and sweat. Her hands trembled as she stumbled backward, staff falling from nerveless fingers.

  Not the face of a hardened adventurer. Just a scared girl who'd gotten in over her head.

  I hesitated.

  She turned and ran, robes billowing behind her as she vanished into the mist between graves.

  "Fuck!" I cursed, watching her disappear.

  Letting her go was stupid. Tactically moronic. She could report what happened here, bring reinforcements, cause all kinds of problems.

  But I couldn't do it. Couldn't stab a terrified girl in the back while she fled.

  Roxam could have done it, but not me.

  I turned my attention to the Knight.

  The skeleton behind him had fully committed to the chokehold now, bones pressed tight against the man's windpipe. The Knight's struggles were growing weaker, movements more sluggish.

  He was dying.

  I crossed the distance in seconds.

  The Knight's eyes tracked me through his helmet's visor. Wide with fear and desperate hope that maybe I'd show him the same mercy I'd shown the Priest.

  I didn't.

  My saber came up, searching for gaps in his armor. Found one at the armpit where plates overlapped but didn't quite connect.

  I thrust the blade into the gap with all my strength.

  The saber slid through leather underpadding, pierced something soft and vital. Kept going until it stopped against the far side of his armor.

  The Knight cried out, a sound full of pain and betrayed hope.

  Then he went limp.

  The skeletons, sensing their victim's life draining away, released him. The armored corpse collapsed with a metallic crash, settling into the dirt like discarded scrap.

  Both undead turned toward me, greenish soulfire burning in empty eye sockets. They stood motionless, awaiting commands from their master.

  Silence fell over the graveyard.

  I stood surrounded by corpses. Rosco, face-down in spreading blood. The Archer, chest blown open. The Knight, leaking crimson from the gap in his armor.

  Four adventurers had entered this fight.

  One had fled.

  Three would never leave.

  I'd won.

  The realization hit me slowly, like wading through cold water.

  I'd just killed three people. Again.

  My hands started shaking. The saber trembled in my grip, its blade still dripping with the Knight's blood.

  But beneath the horror and the guilt, something else stirred.

  Satisfaction.

  They'd threatened me. Tried to intimidate me. Attacked me. And I'd defended myself effectively.

  More than that, I'd learned something crucial: I could win. Even outnumbered, even fighting multiple opponents, Roxam's build combined with my game knowledge made me formidable.

  I forced myself to breathe steadily. To push down the rising panic and focus on practical matters.

  Like looting.