Carl was sprinting downhill, his two shiny blades held together in his left, an open common mana potion in his right. He was on course to meet his enemies on the flat land at the bottom.

A little blurry, luminous white-gray, the phantasmagorical legionnaires flew through the air, comically shuffling their feet. The common ones had a short sword and a shield, the wretched a spear, and the crazed dual-wielded swords. The scariest part about them, however, was definitely their faces – full of hatred and disdain, boundlessly emanating murderous intent.

The whole army could easily resemble a mirage …

… if it wasn't for their hair-raising screech, which filled the entire valley and assaulted Carl's ears, making him shudder involuntarily.

Wraith (common, grade 0)

HP: 100

Wraith (wretched, grade 0)

HP: 150

Wraith (crazed, grade 0)

HP: 200

Spectral Centurion (grade 1)

HP: 1 000

“I just need to kill it before I die!”

The distribution of the wraiths was actually reversed – there was like a century of crazed ones, almost as many wretched, and the commons were a minority, with quite a few self-flagellating penitents mixed in, which were slightly weaker. It would be safe to expect a corresponding result of using a Scroll of Danger in the black wolves' den, meaning a hundred prowlers …

The spectral centurion, which was initially in the middle of the congregation, gradually moved to the front during their charge, catching up to the leading phalanx of crazed wraiths. Apparently, as ethereal beings, they had no qualms passing directly through each other. They were going to wash over Carl like a tidal wave …

“So be it!”

He downed the mana potion, which normally granted 10/s for 40 seconds, and effectively 30/s for 40 seconds, then readied his weapons. They were right in front of him already, the tall centurion among them advancing with a lifted gladius and a furious visage …

“Come!”

Ripping Claw!

Ripping Claw!

Carl could feel them as his own wide attacks loudly cleaved the air, causing a turbulent flow whenever the magically empowered consecrated silver encountered some possessed particles of dust and elicited nightmarish cries. He perceived them with his whole body as they cut him with no resistance, like a fantastical mono-atomic blade that was so impossibly thin and did so little damage that the flesh and bone glued themselves back together right away.

It was …

… mind-numbingly painful!

He instantly started seeing apparitions everywhere, vicious, bloodthirsty, hateful, murderous, contemptuous, wicked. He couldn't even determine if those belonged to his adversaries, or were created additionally by an ability. His entire vision became chaotic, and his brain was in so much hurt that he couldn't think straight.

And then the terrifying gladius arrived …

Carl could feel fasciculations all over, eerily out of sync with the blows he was receiving. They were probably his own …

He endured so much suffering from the multiple stacked-up enemies within the first second, that he could sense his avatar fainting …

This was it …

… “ROOOOOOAR!!!”

Carl unleashed one Ripping Claw after another, paying harm no heed. Each pale-blue trace passed through at least a dozen overlapping ghosts, filling the moonlit night with a hellish lamentation and partially interrupting their attacks. The wraiths …

… began dropping like flies!

“To the last breath!!!”

Holding on by the remainder of his will, burning with excruciating passion, Carl committed everything he had, including his frail life. How amazing it would be to die there, instead of a dreadful and depressing hospital bed?

Suddenly, exhilaration overcame him. The centurion was on its last legs!

“Just a little … mooore!!!”

Yes! He could do this! The ghosts around him were constantly replenishing their numbers, and the abrupt onset of exhaustion inevitably heralded his debuffed vitality approaching zero, slowing him down as if he was being submerged in a dense liquid, but he only needed a couple hits to finish the job!

Then, a despicable bellow tore through the overall cacophony.

“I curse you, Heroic Spirit!”

Subsequently, the spectral centurion … fled!

“No! Not like this!”

Carl stopped, as so did the wraiths, which adhered to their chief.

His vitality just hit 0. He had no more energy left to lift his limbs.

But there was no unwillingness on his pale face. No! The fighting spirit hadn't left him!

“Your curses mean nothing to me.”

His dignified voice abolished all the disgraceful sounds, purifying the air around him.

Because he still had strength!

The confrontation barely lasted ten seconds, there was yet plenty of mana regeneration left!

Boosting Champion's Conviction, Carl put a grueling effort to sheathing the knives and reaching for his belt. There – holy water and a common stamina potion!

While the first one would sanctify the body, counteracting curses over time, the other was a genuine brew for rapid stamina recovery, not some energizing juice. It had a very short duration, but also a potent effect – as any expensive lifesaving tool should. Though Carl's abysmally low vitality limited his maximum stamina to a likewise pathetic amount, the regeneration per second was just enough to move freely.

Pursuing his accursed prey, Carl issued a ruthless order.

"Vile filth! I command you, come to me!”

The incensed centurion stared him down from a safe distance, guarded by its enraged minions.

“Kill him!” it hollered indignantly, hellbent on thoroughly erasing the offender. “Go, you maggots! Kill the Heroic Spirit! I want him dead!”

“Haha! … Yes! … Come! … And perish before me!!!”

Ripping Claw!

Ripping Claw!

Ripping Claw!

…

“That damned fool! Maybe we could have saved him if he retreated with us!” Psionic Voidspawn brashly broadcast his grievance.

“I doubt it. We only made it because of him,” Melting Heart redressed.

“Why not? One of us could have sacrificed themselves instead of him!” The warlock doubled down.

The party looked at each other awkwardly. If that were the case … then why did they all run?

“Well, at least we're all alive … I mean … the four of us,” Attractive Ion consoled.

“Are you seriously happy about that?! We're the least important people on this operation! How do you think Bulwark will react to this?” Psionic Voidspawn chided.

“Yeah … it would have been better if we all died,” Rygur Hellfire concurred glumly.

“Should we at least go get Fate?” Melting Heart proposed worriedly. “I think she was hesitating.”

“We can't even see her any more, no telling how far she backtracked, and she's ignoring my messages.” The warlock shook his head. “The higher-ups will surely demand our recordings. If we throw our lives away now, then what do you think will happen to us? No, let's go back and report,” he decided with a heavy conscience, then went through the portal.

The three mages glanced at each other once more, exhaled miserably, drooped their heads, and followed.

…

Carl was all out of brews and bombs – and he came with many. The Skyborne Lions gave him special belts with ample room for consumables, one for the waist and one for the chest, the same ones everyone else was wearing into the haunted battlefield. He only had one stamina potion and one holy water for emergencies, but plenty of common mana potions, a couple inferior perception potions, as well as a dozen pulse grenades, which were not powerful at all, but at least could be detonated safely from just several meters, and with how stacked the ghosts were, their cost-efficiency was through the roof.

But the spectral centurion learned …

It mercilessly directed its reluctant troops to exhaust Carl in a war of attrition, never getting close to him itself.

Carl also had a big problem – the curses stacked without end, depleting his vitality in spite of Champion's Conviction, but most importantly, burdening his psyche with an unidentifiable suffering, a kind of background noise that didn't impede his hearing, yet made focusing a hopeless task. It really felt like doom, every second of it worse than the last, as Carl's feeble body was failing to cope with the onslaught of horrific sensations.

He knew he was in big danger. Even if he lost the mental capacity to assess the amount of damage he was receiving, a system prompt reminded him.

“Congratulations! You are now a Pain Freak!”

[Pain Freak] (passive)

Proficiency; prerequisite; provides immunity to involuntary flinching and fainting.

This, however, made things even worse – though the avatar's dullness disappeared, allowing Carl to abandon this front and redirect his forces elsewhere, the weight of the sensations now fell solely on his meager shoulders …

For ten infinitely long minutes he battled, his mind becoming sluggish from the severity of the trauma, almost detaching itself from reality, as it felt like he was puppeteering a clumsy doll one moment, and being puppeteered by some unknown entity the next. At this point, he was dependent almost entirely on instinct, repeating the motions that were ingrained in his subconsciousness.

Finally, all the wraiths and penitents fell, and with them, the atrocious apparitions ceased plaguing him.

“Your time … has come,” Carl proclaimed quietly, glowering with a head that felt so heavy he could barely lift it, but his tone held no doubts to this incontestable fact, his fiery gaze fixated on the enemy's panicked eyes.

“Then I will drag you to hell with me!” it burst out diabolically, eventually accepting its fate.

…

“What do you mean they died?”

Radiant Bulwark's voice may have sounded neutral to any outsiders, but to the Skyborne Lions and to the returning party of mages especially – it was colder than absolute zero.

Psionic Voidspawn stepped forward.

“It wasn't our–”

“Silence!”

The disturbed axeman swiftly messaged both missing players, as he was yet to hear from them. Shortly, his eyes widened, while his brows creased.

“Vice Guild–”

“Stay here!”

And he took off.

…

“Brother Lionheart!”

Weaving Fate run towards Carl, dismayed yet elated. He was barely alive, dragging his feet bit by bit, hardly able to support himself, miserably attempting to climb the hill where his backpack lied. She grabbed it on her way, then flew down with her elven grace.

“You did it! You really did it!” She cried. It was one thing watching him demolish a rank 5 dungeon in a replay, but being there when it happened was so stirring, that she couldn't help the emotions welling insider her. Not to mention – this feat of his was on a whole new level!

“And you only have 1 health left! Haha! What a timing you chose to learn Champion's Conviction!” She expressed with glee, while pained by seeing his harrowed white face.

“No …” he began weakly, almost inaudibly, “the curses … stacked … too many …”

She realized the point immediately, goggling and gaping with dread and terror. His skill should have advanced already, granting him 2 or 3 additional health for the cost of his mana regeneration, but the curses negated that as well. He actually had 0 vitality …

He was defying death once more!

“Teleport out!” She shouted in panic, grasping Carl under his arm so he wouldn't fall. She knew he had just cleared the dungeon of all mobs, as she received a system prompt herself.

“Did … the others … leave?”

“Forget about them! Teleport out!”

“The loot …”

“Never mind it! Teleport, now!”

And so Carl did. They reappeared together in the Expedition Association's portico, but Weaving Fate failed to hold on to him throughout the process. The soothing embrace of a void provided momentary relief to his battered resolve, and he slumped limply …

… but was unexpectedly caught and picked up.

“Don't give up, brother Lionheart! We're going to the temple!” Radiant Bulwark roared, hoping to wake Carl up, alerting the hundreds of players in the vicinity. He sprinted, clutching the dying warrior tightly, and soon arrived in the sanctum.

“Fate! where do I go now?”

“I–”

“Here, let me help you,” a cordial NPC offered out of the blue, his calm voice pleasing and reassuring.

Carl's vision had long blurred. He didn't register what was happening around him, nor did he care. He was wholly consumed with a futile battle, one he was inevitably losing. But that didn't matter. All he wanted …

… was to fight to the very end!

“You can let go now, Charles Lionheart. You're safe.”

“Heh …” Carried gently, Carl chuckled so imperceptibly, that normal players might not have noticed it. “You're … still working? Doesn't Cybercore … let you rest?”

“Oh, I was about to finally get a good night sleep, when you went out of your way to hassle us for the third time today,” Nathaniel quipped with a tender laugh.

“But I … didn't gain any … new honor … ?”

“Oh, but you did,” Ignacio Aguilar contradicted, lightly dipping Carl into the beatific font.

“You really did.”