The jungle thinned as Freya pushed forward, leaves brushing her shoulders and vines snagging at her feet. The oppressive humidity clung to her skin like a second layer, but she didn't slow.
Not after the orcs. Not with the memory of those green-skinned monsters still fresh in her nerves.
So far, so good.
No more surprise encounters. No traps. No heavy footsteps echoing in the trees. Just the low hum of insects, the distant hoot of something probably nocturnal, and the soft squelch of damp soil beneath her feet.
Evening crept in slowly, the sky above the canopy shifting from pale gold to smoky violet.
Freya glanced upward as slivers of moonlight filtered through the leaves. The light dimmed, the jungle grew quieter, and the shadows deepened into something heavy and watchful.
Then—light.
A flicker, faint and orange, peeking between the trees up ahead.
Freya froze.
She narrowed her eyes, shifting slightly behind the trunk of a thick tree.
The glow wasn't fireflies. It was firelight. Controlled. Steady. Too warm, too regular. And usually fire didn't float like that—not unless it was a torch… or a lantern.
Her heart gave a cautious thump.
Someone had made camp.
She glanced at Grant. The skeletal knight stood perfectly still beside her, his bony frame blending eerily well with the twisted roots and shadowed trunks around them.
Freya licked her lips, her voice low. "I think we should check it out."
She considered her options.
Circle wide?
Sneak in closer?
Or just stroll out there and say hi, and hope she didn't end up with an arrow through her throat?
Her fingers brushed the shaft of her scythe.
"I swear, if this turns into a horror movie scene, I'm flipping the script."
Adjusting Mr. Wolfie's hide around her shoulders, she crept forward—slow, silent, step by cautious step.
Her movements were fluid and deliberate, each footfall light and stealthy. A silent predator gliding through the undergrowth.
She slipped around a thicket and climbed a low ridge for a better view.
And there it was.
A small clearing, bathed in the flickering light of a modest campfire.
A spit of meat roasting slowly over the flames. Gear scattered in a careless pile.
Two green hulking shapes sat with their backs to her, one nursing a drink from a crude gourd, the other gnawing at something suspiciously meaty.
Orcs!
Freya's blood turned to ice.
Her breath caught. She ducked behind the trunk of a thick tree, heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic drum.
Her throat tightened. That smell. That guttural laughter. The slouch of their green-muscled forms.
Suddenly, she was that scared little girl again—hiding in the thicket. A helpless doll surrounded by monsters with blood on their tusks.
The vivid sensation twisting her gut into knots.
No, not again. Not this time.
She clenched her jaw. Her fingers tightened around the scythe's shaft, nails digging into her own skin—but she didn't feel that.
The panic in her chest didn't vanish—but it dulled. Smoothed into something colder. Heavier.
Vengeance.
She narrowed her eyes and scanned the area.
Good.
Only two this time.
They were isolated. Relaxed. Vulnerable. This wasn't a tribe on the march. It was just two stragglers, likely scouts. Maybe even deserters.
Freya inhaled slowly. Controlled. Measured.
"There only are two of them," she whispered. "Grant, what say you?"
She glanced at Grant.
The skeletal knight met her gaze with his hollow sockets. No expression, no voice, but his posture had subtly shifted—readier, tighter. As if he was encouraging Freya.
"Good boy, but we still need a plan."
Freya inhaled through her nose, slow and steady. She needed to calm herself down to orchestrate the attack.
"Okay, Freya. Don't overthink it. Don't get fancy."
"They're just two orcs with their guards down. Probably can't even see well in the dark."
"That's why they need torches."
"But Grant and I? Dark magic lets us see clear as day."
She turned to him. "I'll cast [Bat Swarm] to put out the fire and draw attention."
"You circle around and ambush from the right."
"We kill them in the dark. Capisce?"
Grant let out two low growls and nodded. He almost sounded eager.
Freya didn't waste another moment. She swept her hands forward, and a black magic circle burst to life, pulsing with eerie crimson light.
"Go, my children," she whispered. "[Bat Swarm]. Find your prey."
Skreeee!
Dozens—no, hundreds—of big ass—screeching bats erupted from the circle, shrieking through the air toward the campfire.
The sudden flurry of wings and cries made the orcs jerk in surprise.
"Bats?" one grunted, puzzled. "That's bad omen."
"You don't say," the other muttered. "Think there's something evil is in the woods?"
"Wait—they're flying straight at us, aren't they?"
"They are! What the hell?!"
The two orcs scrambled to their feet, snatching up their weapons in a hurry.
The swarm was already upon them—dozens of leathery wings beating around their faces, tiny fangs snapping at exposed skin.
The bats' fangs weren't powerful enough to do real damage—orc hide was thick, tough—but they were more than enough of a distraction.
The orcs swatted and cursed, swinging their blades wildly to drive the pests away.
And then—
Shlkk!
Orc from the right froze, his expression twisting in disbelief.
He looked down to see a jagged bone blade bursting clean through his chest. A perfect strike—through the back, out the sternum.
A fatal one.
He turned his head, struggling to see his attacker.
And what he saw made his blood run colder.
Two ghostly blue flames burned in the eye sockets of a skull—close, too close. Staring straight into his soul.
His gaze, once full of dying rage, melted into dread.
"U-U-Undead…? How… how did you … "
Grant didn't wait for the orc to finish his dying words.
He twisted the bone blade sharply and dragged it sideways, shredding the orc's heart.
Then, with a crunching kick to the back, he yanked the blade free and let the corpse slump forward into the dirt.
The second orc stared in horror.
And then the bats began hurling themselves into the torches, one by one—kamikaze-style. Snuffing out the light.
Darkness swallowed the clearing.
The orc backed up, trembling. "No… you… you can't be here…"
"Undead aren't supposed to leave the Return of Kings!"
The words came out trembling—but the fear didn't last long.
Because the next moment—shnk—his head flew clean off his shoulders.
Freya stood behind him, her scythe still humming with motion, her crimson eyes glowing in the dark.
"Not so tall and mighty now huh?"
Freya's voice was cold and quiet, carried on the breath of the dark. She didn't smirk. Didn't celebrate. Not yet.
The severed head thumped to the forest floor with a soft plop, and the body crumpled in the opposite direction, blood darkening the wet earth.
A gust of wind stirred the leaves. Then, all at once, the screeching stopped.
Silence returned.
The swarm of bats that had erupted like a storm just moments ago, now silently burst into plumes of black mist—poof—vanishing back into the night, as if they had never been.
Only a few errant feathers and flecks of gore remained, drifting down like soot after a fire.
Still breathing heavily, Freya took a long look at the battlefield.
Two dead orcs. All dealt with.
All hers.
The scent of blood hung thick in the clearing. Her throat burned with hunger she could no longer ignore. Her fangs itched. Her eyes pulsed red.
She stepped over to the big headless corpse, "No sense letting it go to waste," she murmured.
With a primal hiss, her [Fangs] sank deep into the orc's neck. [Blood Drain] followed.
Hot, thick blood surged up into her mouth—rich, wild, violent. It tasted like fury and menace.
She let out a low sigh, then moved to the second corpse.
This time, the flow was messier. The blood sprayed slightly as she bit in, coating her chin, but she didn't care. She drank greedily, crimson eyes flashing.
A shiver ran down her spine as the power surged into her.
Her senses sharpened. Her limbs felt lighter, her balance surer.
The jungle itself seemed to slow around her—she could feel it now, like her body was syncing to the rhythm of something primal and dark.
She exhaled, licking blood from her lips, and stood up straight.
"Whew… I guess they're better than Starbucks."
As she turned, she saw Grant kneeling beside the corpses she had finished. Silent. Reverent. Soul fire pulsing.
Then, one by one, the orcs' bones shimmered, warping like molten ivory, then began to flow—drawn to Grant like metal to a forge.
He raised his arms, and let the "liquid bones" coating on his own, merging with his frame. Reinforcing his torso.
His spine thickened. His arms lengthened slightly with new bone layering.
He rose slowly, his now-broader silhouette glowing faintly under the moonlight. Even his cracked shield and chipped sword gleamed like new now.
Freya watched, eyebrows raised. Whistled. "Now that's what I call a level-up."
"Looking good, big guy."
A faint rumble echoed from his chest. The soul fire danced—he was laughing. Somehow.
Freya smiled and thought of giving him a shoulder pat.
She reached up—
Stopped.
Awkwardly stared at the height difference.
Even on tiptoe, she couldn't reach him.
She gave up with a sigh. "One day," she muttered, "I'm getting a stool."