There was only one way to enter the Temple of Bree from its surrounding courtyard: a simple door made of white stone and covered with green vines, which swung outward in invitation when Ben and Red approached it. There was a tearing sound as some of the vines were pulled apart by the unknown force that caused the door to open, but no creaking nor any other sound; an impressive feat for a door that stood closed for millennia.

The two human adventurers exchanged glances, standing in front of the open door and peering inside into what looked like a grand entrance hall. As if on cue, they both looked back - the opening in the wall was still there, and they could see the nagas standing beyond - and then looked again at the open door, which had broken vines dangling from it.

“Well,” said Red slowly, “this door at least seems to agree with your naga friends back there.” He didn’t smile, and there was an angry tinge to his voice. “The mighty Beacon, come to fulfill the ancient prophecy and save the world.” The warrior rearranged the pack on his shoulders and frowned. “Lucky you have me with you, eh skin? The loyal warrior companion, always there to save your neck from the occasional bear or wolf or elf or God knows what and to take some beating for you so you can plan your plans and why share what you have in mind with me, I’m just a sidekick -”

Ben let him rant. He knew that the other man just needed to blow some steam; Red nearly died facing the nagas, and all so Ben could evaluate the situation and, well, plan his plans. It worked out well, but he could sympathize with the big warrior, who probably felt the need to hit something.

The mercenary paused to take a breath, and Ben used the opportunity to pat the man on the back. “You know I would never come this far without you,” he said simply. There was no sarcasm in his voice, it was a simple truth, and his words worked to deflate some of his companion’s anger. “Besides,” added Ben, “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need you again before this is all over.” He looked again into the temple and smiled when he recognized what stood in the middle of the entrance chamber.

Red followed his leader’s gaze. His eyes brightened as well. “A waystone!”

Ben nodded and gestured for the other man to take the lead. “After you, my warrior friend.”

Red narrowed his eyes as if suspecting some kind of trash talk, but Ben’s voice was genuine and trusting. The warrior relaxed and, with a hand on his sword, stepped into the relative darkness of the temple.

Ben smiled to himself and followed him in - but not before he bent down to pick a sizeable oval-shaped stone. As he crossed the open door threshold, he quickly dropped the stone to the floor and pushed it with his boot, so it rested next to the wall. Then he straightened and crossed the rest of the way to join Red inside.

The warrior was looking at the stone Ben had left on the floor and nodding in appreciation. “Smart, skin. At least you learn from your mistakes.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. Red was probably thinking of the Treasure Room in the Dungeon of Dwarven Despair, where the door slammed shut behind them, a moment before a group of ratkin zombies surrounded them. That incident did cross Ben’s mind, but it wasn’t the only reason for his improvised doorstop maneuver; if the temple’s door decided to close behind them, the scout wanted to make it easier for a certain someone to follow them inside.

The door, however, remained open, so the two men turned from it to look at their surroundings. Red whistled softly. “Italian decor,” he remarked. “Though far better than any cathedral I’ve seen.”

Ben had never been to Italy, but he nodded in agreement nonetheless. They were standing inside a vast domed chamber, constructed much like a European church: three wide naves with side aisles, supported by colossal marble pillars. The central nave was wide enough for fifty men to walk side by side, and in its center stood a smaller pillar made of white marble, with a shimmering yellowish aura around it and a soft humming sound emanating from it: the waystone.

High windows surrounded them, but little light filtered in as most of the glasses were covered with the same vines that climbed over the temple’s walls. The result was sporadic rays of light that gave the entrance chamber a mysterious and forlorn feeling as if the place was forgotten in time. Still, the light was enough to look around, and Ben felt growing uneasiness as he examined his surroundings.

The marble floor they were walking on would have been bright and shining were it not covered with a thick layer of dust. Intricate designs ran along the floor - hardly visible through the dust - and continued up the supporting pillars. Numerous paintings and murals were displayed everywhere, depicting beautiful landscapes and elven cities nestled in magical valleys.

The most prominent thing about the entire chamber, though, were the statues.

There were dozens of them, made of white stone and standing between the pillars. Ben approached the nearest cluster of statues to take a closer look- and gasped: the stone figures had the perfect resemblance to elves - and humans. The two races were mixed, facing each other, smiling, gesturing with their hands as if engaged in a lively conversation. Some had weapons on their belts or behind their backs, but no weapon was drawn. It was the embodiment of harmony, of coexistence that was long gone.

Ben hesitantly reached to touch one of the statues: a human woman with long flowing hair who was hugging a tall elf. This one, unlike the others, wasn’t smiling; stone tears streamed down her face, and her expression was sorrowful. He walked around the statue to look at the face of the elf who was hugging her: he, too, wasn’t smiling. His face was hard, and his lips were pressed in a narrow line. He embraced the crying woman with one hand while the other was holding a tall staff, and to Ben, the elf looked as if he was coming to terms with a certain hard truth. Looking around, the scout noticed more statues who had the same expression; it looked as if some of the elves and humans were sad and without hope, while others were oblivious to the supposed calamity the others were sensing.

“These are no ordinary statues,” said Red. His voice echoed eerily in the wide chamber, and Ben, who was absorbed in studying the statues, started and looked up. The warrior was walking toward him, his boots leaving clear marks in the dust. “I’ve never seen such real-looking statues,” continued the big man, “except once, in another quest, another world. There, the statues came alive and attacked my party. Here…” he looked uneasily at the stone figures.

Ben took a deep breath. “I don’t think these would come back to life,” he said quietly. Hidden knowledge filled his mind in a rush. “The Engill’s curse was final and eternal. These people here were the ones who decided to hold together despite the growing enmity of their races, despite the warning of the banished gods. Here they stood,” he added and gestured at the statues around them, “and here they paid the price.”

Red was nodding slowly. “Yes,” he said in his deep voice. “There is sadness here, yet a sense of… acceptance, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” said Ben, and he was surprised to feel his lips curled in sudden anger. “Though I can’t say I agree with their reasoning.” You don’t ever have to accept defeat, he thought, even if the gods themselves tell you to do so. He suddenly shivered; that last thought wasn’t his own - something that happened more and more often, ever since he met old Ben inside the interface.

Red looked at him strangely, but Ben said nothing else. Instead, the scout turned abruptly from the statues and started to march toward the waystone. “Have you found the other doors?” He asked over his shoulder.

Red hurried to catch up with him. “I did,” he said, not bothering to ask Ben how he knew there would be other doors. “There are -”

“Five doors. Sealed. And without keyholes.”

Red grunted. “Yes. So you know how to open them?”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t.” He tried to search his mind, but his scholarly knowledge ended with the five sealed doors; even old Ben’s memories were no use to him this time, as the legendary scout never went into the temple, having been stopped by the queen of the elves. “I only know there’s a riddle involved, and…” he looked up at the face of the warrior who walked by his side, “and the prophecy.”

Red only nodded in acquiescence, and they made the rest of the way silently until they came to a stop next to the shimmering yellow aura that surrounded the waystone. Red was about to walk into the light, but Ben grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“What?” Asked red, alarmed. He looked around him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You saw something?”

Ben shook his head. “This aura,” he said in a low voice. “Shouldn’t it be white?”

Red squinted his eyes, studying the magical barrier. “Well…yes, I guess it should. Now that you mention it, I don’t remember ever seeing a waystone surrounded by such a color. You think it means something?”

“Yes,” said Ben, but when Red prompted him with a look to say more, the scout just shrugged. “I don’t know what, it’s…” He sighed. “A feeling. Just be on your guard, OK?”

In response, Red blew air from his nostrils and drew his sword, holding it firmly in front of his body. He looked at Ben, waiting, and Ben followed his lead and drew his bastard sword. It felt strange and not really appropriate, walking to a waystone with weapons drawn, but Ben had a feeling that it was going to be needed.

The men stepped forward into the yellow light.

For a moment, nothing happened - they cleared the aura and Red, grinning, was about to touch the white surface of the waystone.

Then the moment passed.

A twin gasp came from both the humans’ throats as the yellowish aura disappeared - and dozens of specters appeared all around them. The ghosts were of both elves and humans, obviously belonging to the men and women who were petrified into statues, but unlike the stone figures, these specters had their weapons drawn and ready. Their faces were grim, cold with anger. In the span of a few heartbeats, they surrounded the two humans, forming a thick circle of translucent spirit bodies that encircled the waystone and blocked their way.

“Aw shit,” said Ben and Red in perfect unison.

The spirits drew closer. Ben couldn’t count how many there were - he guessed around fifty or sixty - and when he quickly scanned the stats hovering above them, he identified them as Cursed Temple Specters. The majority of them were no higher than level 5, but there was a group of Elite Specters among them: eight ghosts, four humans and four elves, their levels ranging from 8 to 13. These eight led the horde of specters, and when they were a few feet away from the two humans, they pointed their weapons - swords, staffs, daggers, and maces - toward the trapped adventurers.

A tense moment followed. The specters were quiet, not emitting a sound. Ben quickly studied the angry faces around him and wasn’t surprised when he recognized the elf whose statue was hugging the long-haired woman human. The dead elf was holding a long staff in his hands, and his cold eyes had murder in them.

“Skin!” Whispered Red urgently. His back was to the waystone, and his eyes darted from one specter to the next. “Do something! Say something! We can’t fight these!”

Ben knew he was right. The cursed specters were not substantial, and their ethereal bodies would ignore most of the damage either the warrior or the scout could inflict. And the warrior was right about another thing: it seemed the ghosts were waiting, albeit somewhat impatiently, for the living humans to say something.

Ben swallowed. Here goes. He straightened, hardened his expression, and fixed his glare on the elf with the staff. “What’s the meaning of this?” He said with as much bluster as he could manage. “I am Scout Benjamin of Sonadin,” he continued, feeling more just and confident with every word he said. “I am the Vindicator of the Depths and the Beacon of Nolxar. I demand that you clear the way and let us pass!”

The specters didn’t move. They glared, their dead cold eyes promising death, and glided a foot closer to the two surrounded humans.

“Ah, bro, I don’t think it’s working,” whispered Red.

Ben licked his lips nervously. On an impulse, he activated his Leader Aura, and a blue shimmer surrounded his body, boosting both his and Red’s confidence. “I am the one who was foretold!” He shouted, his voice echoing around the chamber. The specters edged closer, and Ben hurriedly changed tactics. “I was sent by the Queen of the elves!” He declared, looking at the elf. Moving his eyes to a human specter who was wielding a mace, he added: “I was also sent by the Lord of Sonadin!” The dead human didn’t react, unless moving a foot closer counted.

“Ben, they don’t care -” said Red. The warrior raised his sword, ready to fight despite the hopeless odds.

The specters were nearly upon them, and Ben knew they had mere seconds before the undead would attack. Trying to buy some time, he Paused the Game and quickly searched his list of skills and powers. He could teleport, of course, but that meant leaving Red alone with the undead, and besides, he didn’t know if he could outrun the ghosts even if he did manage to teleport far enough away. None of his other powers seemed relevant, except…

His eyes widened, and he suddenly grinned. He knew what he had to do. “Let us pass!” He shouted when the time of his Pause power elapsed, “for we have the Right of Passage!”

The Scout of Sonadin activated his Second Echelon Power, the one given to him after choosing the Essence of Fame. Its activation required a unique set of motions: Ben found himself holding his left fist to his heart, right before he knelt and held his sword up with a straight arm, pointing the tip of the blade at the domed ceiling - to Red’s utter amazement.

Ben felt energy building in him, and then light enveloped his body and burst in a concentrated beam from the tip of his sword. When the beam reached the height of ten feet, it became a circle of bright light that exploded outward like a supernova, sweeping over the heads of all the encroaching undead.

The specters, for their part, were finally reacting: as one, they all looked up to follow the circle of light. Ben could swear he heard a collective relieved sigh, and when the undead lowered their heads again, the anger was gone from their faces. They bowed their heads in respect - and vanished.

Well, most of them did. The eight Elite specters remained where they were, surrounding the two humans. They were still holding their weapons, but they looked much calmer now. The elf with the staff turned his translucent face toward Ben. “You are the one,” he said. His voice was hollow as if coming from far away. “As was foretold.”

Ben let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slowly rose to his feet. By his side, Red chuckled to himself and muttered something about a “drama-loving sonofabitch”. The scout met the gaze of the specter and nodded. “I am,” he agreed. “Let us pass, and we would end your eternal curse.” Now, where did that come from?

The specter actually smiled - but he did not vanish, nor did he step back. “No,” he said simply.

Ben frowned. “What do you mean, no? I just proved myself, didn’t I? Step back -”

The specter changed the grip of the staff in his hands, obviously entering a fighting pose. “One last challenge,” he said. “This is how the Engill wished it to be.” Around him, the seven other specters readied their weapons as well.

Ben cursed - a twin to Red’s oath - but didn’t waste time trying to persuade the ghosts that they were wrong. He watched them, noticing how their bodies somewhat solidified, and he smiled grimly when he understood the implications of what he saw. “We can hit them now,” he said quietly to Red. “The challenge must be fair, as the Engill wished it to be.”

“The Engill fucking take you and them both, skin,” was all Red said - before he charged with a whirlwind of blows at the four undead Elites who were closest to him.

The fight was on.

It was the first time Ben had to use his bastard sword in a melee against other fighters; up until now, his experience with the hand-and-a-half weapon summed up to fighting forest creatures such as eagles, wolves, and bears. He soon discovered that fighting men and elves - undead as they were - who knew how to use melee weapons was a different experience altogether.

The young hero was outnumbered four to one, and two of his foes were higher than him in levels. He was severely outmatched, but he did have a few things that played to his advantage. He was a good tactician. He had a surprising list of abilities. And he had the legendary sword of a legendary hero.

Even as Red jumped forward to storm his enemies, Ben jumped back, putting his back against the waystone so he wouldn't be completely surrounded. He felt the stone humming in response when he touched it - it seemed to be changing its shape - but put that knowledge out of his mind for now.

The dead elf with the staff wasted no time; the level 12 specter lunged at Ben with an upward swing of his staff. In response, Ben used his Gust spell, concentrating on the weapon in the specter’s hand. The sudden burst of wind wasn’t strong enough to disarm his opponent, but it did serve to block the staff in midair for a fraction of a second. That was enough for Ben, who followed the spell with another attack; the bastard sword swept past the staff and scored a hit, penetrating the specter’s gorget and entering his ethereal flesh. It was a blow that would most likely have ended the life of a living being, but against the semi-ethereal flesh of the specter - which resisted most forms of physical damage - it left a lot to be desired:

You hit Elite specter with 7 points of piercing damage + 6 points of air damage.

The air damage, at least, ignored the creature’s special undead defense. Ben noted it for future use but was already reacting to an attack he sensed coming from his left: the specter of the human woman whose statue was hugging that of the elf lunged at him with two daggers. Ben was quicker; he whirled, ducked under both of her arms, and slashed upward with his bastard sword. This level 8 specter had no armor, and the legendary blade went straight through her body as if it wasn’t there (which was sort of true).

Critical Hit! You hit Elite specter for 18 points of slashing damage + 12 points of air damage.

It was enough to reduce the level 8 ghost’s HP to below zero, and the specter vanished without a sound, leaving Ben to tumble forward - straight into the mace of another undead foe.

Ben managed to activate his sword’s third effect at the last possible instant, protecting himself with a weak Air Shield. It wasn’t much, but the extra five points to defense proved enough to deflect the mighty blow aimed at his chest. Ben, somewhat surprised that his ribcage wasn’t crushed to pulp, grinned - before the specter’s fist solidly connected with his face.

You were hit! Elite Guardian specter hits with 3 points of bludgeoning damage + 6 points of necrotic damage. Be warned: your life is being drained at a rate of 2 HP per 5 seconds. This effect will remain active as long as the specter who hit you remains hostile.

Ben felt - and heard - his nose break, even as he staggered backward from the specter’s fist. Then he felt another blow, this time across his back. Pain spread through his back like fire, and his shoulder blade felt like it was split in two.

You were hit! Elite Guardian specter hits you with 14 points of bludgeoning damage.

“AAARRRGGH!” Ben screamed in rage and whirled around with his sword outstretched, trying to push away his assailants - there were three of them - while giving himself some leeway to recover. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose, and he felt weak all over, probably as a result of the specter’s life drain ability.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Red, who was still surrounded by four specters. The big warrior seemed frustrated, and when he caught Ben’s eye, he shouted angrily. “Breaker isn’t working against them, dammit! How did you -” but he could say nothing more as the ghostly foes attacked him in unison.

Ben couldn’t spare any thought to the Red Mercenary. The three specters - levels 10, 11, and 12 and wielding sword, mace, and staff - charged at him as one.

Ben let his instincts guide him. He blocked the incoming sword with his blade, whirled to avoid the mace crushing him, then jumped over the staff that came in a downward swing. He almost kicked high to hit the mace-wielding specter’s face but stopped himself at the last instant; he didn’t want any part of his body to come in contact with these creatures, fearing another life-draining ability. Instead, the Beacon dropped to the ground, rolled, jumped to his feet next to the sword-wielder, and slashed sideways with his sword.

This time he took no chance and activated the second effect of his sword: Clone Attack. The weapon imitated the critical hit from before, dealing the same amount of damage. The 30 points of mixed damage were enough to send the specter to oblivion, and the cursed specter vanished.

The dance of death. You learn.

The foreign thought came out of nowhere, catching Ben entirely off guard. It was accompanied by a prompt, hovering in the corner of the scout’s vision: a notification about him crossing the second threshold of his Swords skill.

Ben, though, was in no condition to read any prompts: the two remaining specters were upon him, using his momentary distraction to penetrate his defense. He managed to block the mace with his sword, but the staff swept downward again - it seemed to be a favorite maneuver of the undead elf - and this time, it caught the scout behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. Ben fell on his back with a painful grunt, feeling his already injured back blazing with renewed agony.

You were hit! Elite Guardian specter hits you with 19 points of bludgeoning damage. Be warned! Your HP is at 50% or less. You should probably take cover or something.

Ben couldn’t take cover, but he could do something. The mace went down to crush his head, but before it could hit him, the trickster teleported away, leaving behind him a white smoke screen.

He appeared on top of the 18-feet-high waystone - which, happily enough, was also wide enough to stand on. “Didn’t expect this, eh fuckers!” He cried down to the specters he had left below. However, his triumphant grin faded away when both of the ghosts looked up at him - and began to fly up. They would be upon him in a matter of seconds.

Ben quickly activated his Ring of Healing - replenishing ten precious hit points - and considered his options.

He could use his bow to shoot at them, but the weapon was too mundane and had no notable magical qualities; he doubted he could damage their half-ethereal bodies with simple arrows.

He could throw daggers at them, but he suspected his Daggers of Dispelling would serve him no better than his bow would against the undead.

He could use Night Terror, throwing shadows at them, but the waystone was annoyingly positioned right under a beam of sunlight, and the shadows he could snatch with his wand were weak and pitiful.

He could call Red and ask the warrior to distract them, but the mercenary seemed to be faring worse than Ben: the warrior had managed to dispatch only one of the specters and had his hands full simply protecting himself from the remaining three.

The specters were 5 feet away now, swinging their weapons in unison, and there was no more time to think. Ben shrugged and did the only thing remaining to him - he jumped.

The Beacon couldn’t fly like the specters, so he did the closest thing at his disposal: he used Air Steps, turning the air solid enough to step on, and jumped over the head of the phantoms. The half-ethereal beings turned in mid-swing to follow the surprising human, and so did Ben: he formed another air step just behind the specter with the mace and slashed down in a vicious arc. The specter raised his mace high to block, and Ben’s blade collided with the other weapon, producing an eerie ringing sound.

For a moment, the two combatants remained locked in mid-air, the live adventurer staring wide-eyed at the cold eyes of the undead human warrior below him. Then, something unexpected happened:

Special weapon effect triggered: Scout Ben’s Luck. Consequence: successful disarm.

Ben’s sword seemed to hum with a life of its own, and suddenly the mace fell from the hand of the Elite. In that exact moment, the second-long duration of Ben’s Air Steps elapsed, and the scout fell.

Luckily for Ben, he had the presence of mind to hold his sword steady enough even as he fell - and the sword cleaved the specter’s unprotected head. The undead creature promptly vanished.

Unluckily for Ben, he remembered too late that he had a spell that could save him from fall damage. He opened his mouth to cast Feather Fall, but unlike Fizban, the scout didn’t manage to finish the spell before he crashed heavily on the floor.

You fell from 24 feet and suffered 18 points of damage. You are crippled: your leg is broken. Be warned; trying to move might incur further damage. You are bleeding: you will lose 1 HP per 10 seconds until your injuries are healed. You are heavily wounded. HP remaining: 3/59 You are about to die. Do something!

Ben groaned. He could barely move, and his vision became red. Through the blurry haze, he could see the fourth specter floating back down toward him, his staff raised to strike the killing blow.

Somehow, despite everything, Ben managed to hold on to his sword when he fell. Gritting his teeth, the scout tried to ignore the agony of his multiple injuries and struggled to get up. He managed to steady himself on his one good leg and turned to face the level 12 undead, though he knew that he had no tricks left. His Beacon Power could save him, but Ben had used that daily power when facing the nagas.

The scout’s lips curled in a sneer. “I’m the fucking Beacon, asshole,” he hissed. “Give me all you got.”

The specter obliged: he flew at Ben at a surprising speed, using some kind of bullrush power. It was too fast for Ben to defend against, yet he tried nonetheless, raising his sword to intercept -

A beam of pure white light, as wide as a fist, came from somewhere behind him. The beam struck the specter squarely in his chest, burning through the half-ethereal body and leaving a fist-sized hole in its wake.

The elven specter stopped in mid-air, looking down at the hole in his chest. Then he raised his head, and when he looked at Ben, there was newfound respect in his dead eyes. The cursed spirit nodded. “The Engill,” he said in a whisper. “Grant you passage. Choose well, your highness.”

And he disappeared.

Behind the vanishing specter, the two remaining Elites who were fighting Red vanished as well, to the surprise of the exhausted warrior.

Ben, who suddenly had no strength left whatsoever, collapsed to his knees. His sword made a clanking noise as it hit the marble stone floor of the temple. With two points of health remaining, the scout swayed on his knees and turned his head weakly to look at the figure who approached from the shadows.

A woman she was, tall and graceful, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize her. The setting sun that filtered through the vine-covered windows illuminated her from behind, and her hair seemed to blaze as red as the hair of the woman he loved…

But then Milenna stepped out of the sunlight and came to a stop next to Ben, looking down at him with her delicate eyebrows raised in her familiar haughty manner. Black hair, Ben thought, blinking up at her. Black, not red. The sorceress looked as beautiful as ever - more so if that was possible. A powerful aura surrounded her, but Ben wasn’t sure if it resulted from her magic or her mere presence. In her hands, she held the same Enforcer Staff that was given to her nearly a week before. She looked strong and regal as ever, and when she smiled at him, her smile was full of love he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Ben licked blood from his lips and managed a weak smile. “What the hell took you so long?” He asked - and was rewarded with her dark purple eyes widening in disbelief.

Then he lost another hit point and was left with his last one. His mind felt dizzy, darkness filled his vision, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the marble floor rushing to meet his face.