The four of us surged down the hall with unmatched speed, propelled by the pulsating energy of our holy stones, which tirelessly replenished our stamina. Torchlight became redundant; our inquisitor training enabled us to sense Essence, discerning between the corrupt, the righteous, and the harmonious.

  "How much further?" Osei's voice cut through the echoes of our rapid footsteps. He trusted my memory, knowing I had engraved the pinpoint location of the necromancers.

  "Depends on if we face any setbacks by creatures stronger than Wights or Shamblers. Assuming we don't, about two more minutes, maybe less."

  "Good. Then we can finally put an end to this mess, grab a breather for a bit," Guan stated optimistically.

  "You know better than that. We'll probably be sent straight to the next investigation immediately," Osei retorted, injecting a dose of realism.

  "Can we please focus on the task at hand?" Talia interjected. The sound of her blade striking the skull of another Shambler rang through the corridor, further diminishing the thick, dark aura.

  "If only we could…" I added, my whip glowing with a bright amber light illuminating the corridor. With a single flick of my wrist, I swept half a dozen Shamblers with one blow, the divine heat scorching bone and dirt alike. The Wights, too, posed no real threat as I effortlessly split them in two.

  Skittering sounds resonated down the nearby halls. The dead did not retreat. It was one of the necromancers, and he would not escape. Just a few seconds later, I ran into a thick wall of bone and dirt. My whip, potent as it was, lacked the raw explosive power to clear the path. I tossed a grenade at the wall, shooting it with my pistol upon impact, but it barely made a dent.

  I heard the steps of the others come to a halt as they caught up. "How do we get past?" Talia asked.

  "Elleshar… we shouldn't have gone without him," Osei muttered, concern lacing his words. I yelled and rammed the wall with my shoulder. Osei pulled out his communication orb.

  "Elleshar, we're sending our location. Come meet us here." For a short time, there was no response. Then, a hum emanated from the orb. "He shared his with us. Come, he must be in trouble."

  "Then let's hurry, else the necromancers will escape, and all those villagers will go unavenged," I declared, hastily retracing my steps down the corridor. The cracking of bones beneath my feet and the piles of bodies covering the ground made traversing difficult. Admittedly, I was impressed by the massacre before us—well over a hundred Shamblers and a score of Wights. But now that I think of it, I had been careless. Crusaders, fierce as they are, would be hard-pressed facing this many Wights. Had they been ambushed…

  A searing agony sliced through my skull, accompanied by the shrill wail that reverberated through the catacombs. My mental barriers, finely honed through training, faltered against the Banshee's otherworldly cry. Dizziness enveloped me, blood seeping from my ears, draining away my vitality. A brief pause allowed me to deploy the holy stone from my cross whip, mending the affliction. Its diminishing radiance warned of impending depletion—caution was imperative. My sword remained my sole recourse.

  Guan's hand rested on my shoulder, a silent inquiry into my well-being. "I'm fine, but we must assist them. The presence of a Banshee changes everything," I declared, forging ahead amidst the grim remnants.

  "I'm sure they will be fine, Indo. This band is not composed of ordinary crusaders, who are formidable enough already. Our friends have slain a Banshee in the past, and based on the wail, this one is a low-grade Banshee anyway," Osei reassured. Yet, I couldn't shake the gnawing guilt; their predicament traced back to me for abandoning them.

  "That's them!" Guan's exclamation guided us toward a distant light. Sprinting forward, the ground gave way beneath Osei and Talia. My hasty attempt to catch Osei with my whip failed, the inky darkness impeding precision.

  "Osei!" I called out.

  "We're alright, brother. The fall was shallow, just a trap."

  "What lurks below?"

  "A handful of Shamblers and a pair of Revenants. We'll handle it; focus on the others."

  Augmenting our physical prowess with Essence, we traversed the wall, crossing the 30-foot chasm. The light unveiled the others, besieged by Shamblers and Wights, their defensive formation holding firm. Elleshar manipulated planetary Essence, dragging the Wights underground. Osei's assurance held weight; they weren't in immediate peril, brandishing their blessed weapons against the malevolent spirits. However, William stood alone, confronting the Banshee. Several Shamblers lay by his feet, skulls shattered by his enchanted yet primitive club. His movements were an enigma to his age. The Banshee lunged, and he countered with finesse, sidestepping and retaliating. Despite her attempts to dissipate into a dark mist, he defended himself with uncanny skill, each maneuver executed as if guided by a sixth sense. Yet, a Banshee was a formidable adversary, and with his horrid armor, one misstep could prove fatal. Swinging my whip in the confined corridor proved impractical, and discharging my pistol risked hitting William if my aim faltered.

  I charged into the fray, my versatile cross functioning as a whip, Essence catalyst, and rondel dagger all at once. The dagger would suffice for now. A Wight lunged with malicious intent, but its attack was a clumsy maneuver, easily anticipated by an expert such as myself. In a heartbeat, I pierced its heart and flung it several feet behind me with a shoulder toss, barely breaking my stride as I spun with full momentum. I faced four Shamblers standing between me and the Banshee—a trifling obstacle for a seasoned warrior of the Church. My chakram materialized in my left hand, swiftly dispersing the lesser undead. It carved open three faces, the last being impaled with ruthless precision of my cross. The Banshee, poised to unleash another wail, found her voice silenced by my chakram. Attempting to evade the attack in her ethereal form, she then sought to possess me—an error promptly thwarted as I sanctified my body against the minions of Satan. Recoiling off my protective ward, I seized the opportunity, thrusting my cross through her chest. A feeble wail marked her dispersal, a fitting end.

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  I nodded approvingly at the old man who had confronted the Banshee, but he paid no heed, plunging into a group of Shamblers, their brains splattering across the walls. He fought like a berserker—swift and strong beyond his years, more skilled than most battle-hardened crusaders, skilled though not on par with an inquisitor. He required no assistance.

  Shifting my focus to Roderick, his gouged eye bleeding profusely, he valiantly fended off Shamblers and Wights alongside others. While the demons were not posing a threat to the crusaders, his untreated wound could prove fatal. Slashing through dozens of undead obstructing my path, I hastened to his aid.

  "Hold still," I urged.

  "No!" Roderick shouted, resisting. "The boy! Use the stone on the boy!"

  "What boy?" I inquired, then remembered the old man's son. Peering behind Roderick, I observed the young man's lifeless form.

  "How long..."

  "Since the Banshee's first wail. There's still time!" Roderick implored.

  With uncertainty, I nodded. As scared as Roderick often was, he was still a warrior. He knew the risks when he took up his mantle. This boy thought he knew but was naive and stupid. Not so different from myself almost a decade ago. Placing my cross on the young man's chest, I recited a prayer and laid hands on him. The amber stone shattered about six seconds later, and I continued to pray for another twenty or so seconds. The boy gasped, coughing up blood. His eyes struggled to open, now covered in thick blood, but at least he was breathing.

  "This life isn't meant for you. Go home after this. You have a father who cares about you," I said, watching him rummage through his bag aimlessly, seemingly oblivious to my advice. "What are you looking for?"

  To my surprise, he produced a small aquamarine runestone—a tool to command the powers of water. While not a potent relic, the fact that an ordinary villager possessed one was astonishing. Even more remarkable was his ability to channel essence through it, effortlessly clearing his face of blood.

  "If I shy away now, I would only prove your point," he declared, retrieving his claymore without meeting my gaze. I placed my hand firmly on his shoulder, exerting pressure enhanced by essence to restrain him from charging again.

  "Child, you almost died. Are you brave or stupid?"

  "A little bit of both, and a whole lot of my father's son."

  I couldn't help but chuckle. "You can't fight with that sword here. It's far too large. The reason your father took your club when you fell unconscious is that its compact size made it ideal for these crypts."

  The boy examined his sword, twisting and turning it. "Then, give me something I can use."

  "Absolutely not! My weapons are my own and too dangerous for you without proper training. I've wasted too much time. You're safe, and the others have this handled. Osei or one of the others will be able to heal Roderick; I'm going to catch the sorcerer." I rose and made my way around the wall, hoping I wasn't too late.

  Ignoring any Shamblers on the way, recognizing them as no real threat, I pressed on. They couldn't bite through the linen of my coat and were too slow to catch me. Conserving stamina with a vigorous jog instead of sprinting, I moved past the Wights, quickly dispersing them with well-placed, sanctified bullets. A delicate balance now existed to conserve stamina for the upcoming battle with the necromancer and any potential bodyguards.

  In three minutes, I covered enough ground to sense the thick, dark aura of the necromancer. Turning each corridor, I felt the air thicken, following the trail like chalk on a dark canvas. It was likely a trap, but they were unaware of the wrath they had summoned. When I was meters away from the source, dark auras emerged from concealment, surrounding me. I couldn't see them in the dark, but experience told me they were Shadows—six in total. Lesser demons whose spectral forms could bypass even my enchanted defenses. If struck with enchanted weapons, they fell as readily as men to steel, but their attacks were impossible to parry. One wrong move...

  The ethereal figures closed in from all sides, their insidious intent palpable. Bracing for the impending onslaught, I unleashed a deft somersault, a dance of deadly precision that freed my blade from its sheath in one fluid motion. The cold steel of my longsword met the darkness head-on, carving through the hip of the closest Shadow. Its spectral form split asunder, dissipating back to hell with a haunting wail.

  No respite followed as two more adversaries made their charge. My longsword thrust into one's chest while a graceful sidestep spared me from the clutches of the other. I felt its essence just a few inches from my heart, yet a swift upward cut from my blade severed both of the demon's limbs.

  The final trio, driven by malevolent determination, struck simultaneously. My blade danced with deadly grace, severing the arm of one, but not without a price—my right triceps bore a deep gash. The wound hindered my form, making my next swing come in sluggishly in an arc that the other easily evaded. My ribs suffered brutal lacerations from my mistake. Stepping back, I hurled my chakram, a lethal spin that silenced one Shadow. The lone survivor, bereft of finesse, charged, only to meet the same fate as its brethren under the sweep of my blade.

  The aftermath revealed wounds that demanded immediate attention. From my pouch, I retrieved bandages, hastily tending to my injuries to stave off impending danger. I just needed to cauterize the wound enough to prevent bleeding out. The jar of healing salve worked swiftly, closing the wounds within seconds yet leaving behind throbbing soreness. The skirmish with the shadows had been brief, only a few seconds, so I knew the sorcerers could not have gone far.

  Resolute, I resumed the chase, determined not to allow the necromancers to elude justice. Four wights attempted to obstruct my path, their demise swift under the barrage of my handgun. Another obstacle emerged—a towering wall of dirt, a manifestation of the dark mages' evasive tactics. Frustration echoed in my shout as every attempt to close in was met with a mystic force pulling them further away. The cat-and-mouse game persisted, testing my stamina, as every turn I took resulted in a dead-end. With ammunition exhausted, devoid of a stone, and the necromancers ever-so elusive, I knelt in defeat. Fading into the distance, their presence vanished, leaving me to release a final scream—an agonizing acknowledgment of my defeat at the hands of the enemy.