“Argh!!!”

  The scream ripped out of Silas.

  Pain drowned everything.

  A notification blinked into existence.

  [Mana Armor has leveled up to Lv. 2]

  He barely registered it. The world narrowed to heat and teeth and the relentless pressure of bodies on top of him.

  Survival first. He forced mana to flow. Casting while reading the chant prompt in pain. Mana Armor reformed, a shimmering shell snapping into place.

  Everything hurt. But he held on. For a moment. Rage surged through him. And Silas went mad. He reached for anything within arm’s length—a jagged rock—and swung like a man possessed. Each blow cracked against the skulls of the fel rats. Bones broke. Screeches followed.

  Between strikes he muttered the incantation, channeling Electric Jolt whenever he could. Electricity lashed out. Rats convulsed and dropped. Yet the swarm didn’t stop.

  His Mana Armor flickered, weakening with every second. The protective shell that had saved him was draining away, again it was eaten down by claws and bites and sheer numbers.

  He tried to rise. Couldn’t. They kept coming—piling on, gnashing, a living tide of fury. Silas gritted his teeth. He refused to die here.

  Rage burned behind his eyes. He struck again with the rock. Another Electric Jolt. Another body twitching and going still. But it wasn’t enough.

  The fel rats screeched, wild and relentless, their beady eyes reflecting nothing but hunger.

  Then—

  A flash of steel.

  A roar.

  Arthur.

  The sword came down in a clean, brutal arc above Silas. Metal sang. Rats split and tumbled away, severed and scattering.

  The weight vanished. Silas sucked in air and pushed himself up, shaking dirt and blood from his hands.

  Arthur stood beside him, blade ready. “Are you okay?” Arthur asked without looking away from the swarm.

  The remaining fel rats kept their distance now. Too many of their kin lay dead at the edge of the sword’s reach. Wild creatures, yes—but creatures that understood danger.

  Silas kept his gaze at the sight of the horde.

  “No,” he said.

  Bite wounds covered him.

  Blood dripped from his arms and shoulders, streaking down to his legs where the damage was worst. His feet trembled. Muscles screamed. Every instinct demanded he collapse.

  Silas refused.

  He planted his boots firmly in the dirt.

  Not down.

  Not vulnerable.

  Not while those rats still circled.

  “Sorry,” Arthur said, voice tight. “We need to move. Jennifer needs us.”

  Silas strained to listen.

  No sound of Jen.

  No call for help.

  Only the distant skitter of claws.

  Unease knifed through him.

  “What about Larry and Tim?” he asked. His gaze stayed forward—never back—never off the fel rats waiting for an opening.

  “They’re fine,” Arthur replied. “But Jen needs us.”

  Silas glanced sideways. Arthur looked different. Harder.

  The constant worry that had shadowed him earlier was gone, replaced by something steely and focused. Battle had changed him.

  Silas kept the observation to himself.

  “So we got a plan?” he asked.

  “I carve a path,” Arthur said. “You follow. Support.”

  Silas cracked a grin.

  “Aye aye, captain,” Silas said.

  Then they moved.

  Arthur surged forward, sword flashing. Each swing met a rat mid-leap, sending mangy bodies tumbling aside. Steel cut arcs through the air—clean, brutal, effective.

  Behind him, Silas fought his own battle.

  Electric Jolt. Another rat spasmed and dropped. Electric Jolt again.

  Electricity snapped from the tip of his twig wand, dropping one creature and then the next. He even grabbed a broken branch along the way and used it like a club—smashing, driving, surviving.

  Two fighters.

  One path.

  It wasn’t elegant.

  It wasn’t safe.

  But it worked.

  Breath came easier.

  The swarm thinned.

  Then they reached Jen.

  The scene hit like a punch.

  Rats clung to the skeleton that shielded her, gnawing and clawing at bone. The construct stood its ground, protecting her with mechanical loyalty—but it was being overwhelmed.

  Arthur didn’t hesitate. He swung. The blade descended in a sharp, decisive arc. Rats scattered, severed and screeching as they were hurled aside.

  The skeleton had done its duty.

  Under its bony shield, Jen lay curled in a fetal position, unconscious but breathing. Bite wounds marked her skin—small, ugly reminders of the chaos—but compared to Silas and Arthur, she had been spared the worst. She was lucky.

  What surprised Silas more was the guardian itself.

  Skeleton summons were usually fragile things—temporary constructs that crumbled the moment pressure mounted. A mob of fel rats should have reduced it to fragments within seconds.

  Yet here it stood.

  Not whole—far from it.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Bones were gouged and gnawed. Sections had shattered under relentless assault. The surface bore the marks of claws and teeth, evidence of a brutal fight.

  And still, the rats had not broken through. The bones had held. Silas studied it in quiet amazement. One thing for sure it wasn’t like in the game. From a gaming perspective, it should have collapsed by now, but Jen’s skeleton had endured. It had taken the punishment. Bought time. Protected her.

  He and Arthur worked in tandem, cutting down the remaining fel rats that swarmed near Jen’s position. Steel flashed. Electricity cracked. Bodies hit the ground.

  Then a different sound reached them.

  A frantic splash.

  Silas’s head snapped up. Across the lake, Larry struggled in the water. No sign of Tim. The shoreline teemed with rats, squeaking and surging at the edge as they circled like predators waiting for weakness.

  “We need to help Larry,” Arthur said. He swung his sword in wide, discouraging arcs, keeping the nearest rats at bay. It wasn’t precision fighting—there was no room for finesse—but it created space.

  Silas glanced at Jen. Leaving her was dangerous. Who knew how long the skeleton would last? If it failed while they were gone…

  No.

  He couldn’t risk it.

  “Can’t abandon Jen,” Silas replied. “If that thing drops, she’s exposed.”

  Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Cover me.” He said. Arthur knelt beside the skeleton, hands extended in a gesture that wasn’t quite combat and wasn’t quite supplication.

  “Mr. Skeleton,” Arthur said. “Please. Help us. Help Jen. We need you—”

  Silence.

  Then change.

  The bones shuddered. Not violently. Not with the snap of destruction. Slowly. Like sand slipping through an hourglass, the structure disintegrated. Fingers of dust drifted into the air. The guardian that had held so fiercely against the swarm simply… vanished.

  Arthur froze.

  “Silas!” Arthur shouted.

  The warning came too late.

  The wall of protection was gone.

  Jen lay exposed.

  “Shit,” Silas said. “I’ll carry her.”

  “No, I—”

  Silas cut him off, hoisting Jen over his shoulder like a battered sea chest. She hung there limp and light, a fragile burden in a world determined to break everything.

  “You’re better suited for this fight than I am,” Silas said, voice tight but steady. “So we keep it simple. Classic roles. You’re the warrior. Guard the flank.”

  Arthur hesitated only a heartbeat. Then something sparked inside him. “Let’s do this,” Arthur said. He lifted his sword. “Clad.”

  A faint aura shimmered along the blade—subtle, almost ghostly. Like the glimmer of moonlight on distant water. It wasn’t loud magic. Not explosive. But it was there.

  Arthur surged forward.

  His sword carved arcs through the mob of fel rats, each strike efficient and brutal. Bodies tumbled. Screeches followed. He moved like a man forged in fire—decisive, relentless.

  Silas clung to his shoulder burden, bouncing with every step.

  Electric Jolt. Electricity leapt from his fingertips, dropping rats that darted toward the rear.

  Then pain struck him. Not a punch. Not a bite. Something deeper. It speared through his chest.

  “Argh!”

  He stumbled, dropping to one knee.

  The world narrowed.

  For a second he feared the worst—heart attack. A cruel, absurd end in the middle of battle. He wasn’t overweight. No history of disease. His family had been spared such ailments.

  So why now?

  The answer came in cold, mechanical clarity.

  [Spell backlash detected.]

  [Mana depleted.]

  Silas spat onto the ground. Thick crimson.

  Mana exhaustion. He hadn’t realized it could hurt like this—like his body itself was rebelling.

  “Silas!” Arthur’s voice cut through the haze. He swung his sword in wide defensive sweeps, keeping the rats at bay, guarding the sudden crack in their formation.

  “I’m out of mana,” Silas rasped. The words tasted like failure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. More blood. Not good.

  “Can you move?” Arthur asked. Nervousness flickered in his eyes.

  Silas forced himself upright. Pain screamed. He ignored it.

  “Come on,” he said. “We keep going.”

  Silas gritted through his teeth and got up. “Come on, let’s go,” Silas said.

  Arthur searched his face.

  “You sure?”

  The warrior didn’t stop fighting—blade flashing, keeping space between them and the swarm.

  Silas didn’t answer. He moved. No hesitation. No speech. Just action.

  Arthur followed, sensing the shift in his friend. The quiet, analytical man from before had vanished. In his place stood someone sharper—harder—yelling with each swing of his blade as if the sound itself could drive strength into his arms.

  The sword work was rough, unrefined, but fierce.

  Yesterday Arthur might have faltered. Today he fought like a man determined to survive.

  Silas plunged into the lake.

  Cold water stabbed at his open wounds, a brutal reminder of everything he had endured. He gritted his teeth and pushed deeper, keeping Jen afloat with careful hands. Her body drifted on the surface, supported by his grip.

  Arthur followed.

  They waded and then swam, water rising to their necks, moving toward Larry where he waited farther out.

  “Are you guys okay?” Larry asked. His gaze dropped to Jen. Unconscious. Still breathing.

  “She’s alive,” Silas said.

  “And you?” Larry asked.

  Silas grinned. “Almost died.”

  Larry’s expression softened. He clapped Arthur on the shoulder, a small gesture of respect. He had seen the boy fight—seen him hold the line—and that mattered. “You did good, kid.”

  “Thanks,” Arthur replied. His eyes drifted toward the shore. “So where’s Tim?”

  Larry’s face twisted. “Fuck that piece of shit.” The words hung in the air.

  Silas and Arthur exchanged a glance. No explanation was needed. Tim had left. Just as he warned he might. When things turned ugly, he vanished.

  Silas said nothing.

  He understood the impulse. If he had been in Tim’s place—surrounded by teeth and chaos—he might have chosen survival over loyalty too. A hard truth. But this was a hard world. A first quest should not have been this brutal.

  Yet here they were.

  “So what now?” Arthur asked. He stared at the shoreline.

  Rows of fel rats waited, watching, a living wall of hunger.

  No one spoke. Silence stretched over the lake like a taut rope.

  Silas opened the quest window again, scanning the requirements for completion.

  “Larry,” he asked. “How many did you catch?”

  “Five,” Larry muttered, eyes fixed on the shore. “Inside the bellies of those damn rats.”

  All that effort. Wasted.

  All his effort went down the drain.

  “Think you can catch another ten?” Silas asked.

  Larry’s shrug was faint but telling. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  Silas nodded. “Can you do it… while in the lake?”

  Larry smirked, a glint of stubborn pride in his eyes. “There’s always a first.”

  They waded closer to shore, enough for the water to rise to Larry’s waist. From the look of it, the fel rats hesitated at the edge—seemingly allergic to water, or perhaps unwilling to cross it. Not like ordinary rats back home.

  The duo formed a tight circle around Larry, eyes scanning the tree line, the shore, every shadow for movement.

  Silas kept shifting attention between the fel rats and his mana bar. It crept upward, painfully slow. Without it, he was useless. Every second spent casting was a gamble. He made a mental note to use his next skill point to unlock mana regeneration—logical for a black mage, practical even—but due to trying out a few things, he postponed it and now felt its absence.

  Larry’s rod dipped again. First fish.

  Silas frowned, wondering how Larry could manage it in this waist-deep water. Then Larry showed why he loved fishing. A precise smack, a knock-out, and the fish was tucked neatly inside his tunic, turned into a makeshift sack.

  Second fish followed.

  Silas watched, eyes widening. The water was their ally. The fel rats stayed put. Nothing ventured into the lake. Silas moved closer to Arthur, voice low but urgent. “Arthur… do you see it?”

  “I see it,” Arthur said. “Their numbers are the same.”

  Silas glanced at him, then at the fel rats churning along the shoreline. Both men held different thoughts, different strategies—but something clicked in Silas’s mind.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Exactly forty-eight,” Arthur replied.

  The precision surprised Silas.

  Counting that many squirming, snapping creatures without losing track required focus. Discipline. Arthur might have been rough around the edges, but the kid could fight—and he could think under pressure.

  Silas leaned closer.

  “Hey,” he said. “Want to test something?”

  Arthur frowned.

  Silas explained.

  It wasn’t a complicated idea—an experiment.

  Arthur hesitated. Nerves flickered across his expression. But courage, quiet and growing, won out.

  Arthur stepped toward the water.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Each movement sent ripples across the lake and ripples of agitation through the rats. They squealed and surged, but when Arthur stopped, they hesitated—an instinctive pause.

  Then he struck. His sword arced downward. Rats scattered and fell. Arthur’s earlier fighting had earned him a level two. He had distributed his points with purpose—strength, vitality, agility—favoring physical strength. The change was immediate. He rolled his shoulders, testing the newfound power coiled in his muscles.

  Stronger. Sharper. He returned to the shoreline and cut down more rats. One by one. A dozen. Then another.

  After a while, he stepped back and watched more rats coming out of the tree line, joining in with the horde. And he counted.

  Silas watched him.

  Arthur’s hand tightened on his sword. “You’re right,” he said, voice steadier now. “They’re exactly forty-eight again.”

  Confirmation. A pattern. The realization struck like a ship breaking through fog.

  The quest required a dozen kills per participant. With Tim gone, the count adjusted. Forty-eight remained. A system of rules—however strange—governed this trial realm.

  Silas turned to Jen.

  He stripped his tunic, shredding it into rough lengths of fabric. Twisting the strips together, he fashioned makeshift ropes.

  A harness.

  Without ceremony, he used it to secure the unconscious woman to Arthur’s back.

  Arthur raised an eyebrow.

  “You sure about this?”

  “You’re stronger,” Silas said. “And try not to swing wildly. Wouldn’t want Jen to wake up, puking.”

  Arthur nodded.

  Carefully, Silas adjusted the makeshift bindings, ensuring Jen was secure but not constricted.

  Then they moved.

  Reaching close enough to the shoreline, Arthur began his offense. Culling through the remaining fel rats, sword flashing in controlled, efficient strikes.

  Silas fought alongside him, with the safety of the lake, he casted fireball in a calm manner. The ball of flame struck and engulf not one but a few others within close proximity, spreading the flames, burning them all as he watched they squirmed before finally laying still. One interesting thing he noticed that despite being burned alive, these rats didn’t even dare jumping into the water. He was itching about trying to splash some of the water to see what would happened, but he kept to the basic. Casting fireball, burning them all.

  By the time Larry finished his tenth fish, the difference was undeniable.

  Arthur and Silas had grown. Stronger. Sharper. Especially Arthur.

  The system rewarded action.

  [Arthur Lv.5]

  [Silas Lv.5]