Vol 3 Chapter 33 – Boyhood: Autumn at Thirteen・Part 11

Are there five, maybe six, undead chasing us? Footsteps and the rustle of branches only grow—they never shrink. Reinforcements keep bursting out.

Damn it, if they were classic Romero zombies this would be easy, but these things are way nastier. Give sprint-type undead the advantage of numbers and it’s a nightmare. One-on-one I could chop them apart, but where would I find the time?

“W-wait, Erich—couldn’t we slow down just a little…?”

“No! They’re close! We’ll be surrounded!!”

I half dragged Mika along—he steadied himself with his short staff and shouted, but I had no room to slow down or fuss over him. The growing footsteps cut off the path out of the forest while closing the ring around us.

If it were only pursuit, Mika could swamp the ground and cement them in place like yesterday’s bandits. But with them herding us from every side, we had to think about our way back—tricky.

And if they swarm like in the movies—filling trenches with their own bodies—game over right there.

We ran from the pounding feet, though it meant little—we’d bolted deeper into the forest on reflex. Heading this way means nothing good, only worse trouble. Worst possible move: inexperience writ large.

“Waah, heads-up!?”

Grinding my teeth at my own stupidity, I heard Mika’s panicked cry—and an undead lunged from a thicket. One leg was missing, propped up with a branch, lightly armored yet armed—maybe once an adventurer or mercenary.

No time to study it. Two <Invisible Hands> slammed a boulder into its face; as it toppled, I drove a branch through its exposed gut, pinning it to the ground. That should keep it still.

How long did we run? Twice we shoved corpses aside, once each we steadied a stumbling friend, once I fetched Mika’s dropped staff and fenced a corpse, once he saved me with a wall after I face-planted on a root. It felt endless, yet passed in a blink under the trees.

What I knew: stamina was draining, and the footsteps never stopped.

Hold on—this is the backwoods. There shouldn’t be enough people to raise an undead army. Where are they all coming from…?

“Th-they’re coming again!”

“Oh, come on!”

Maybe our early dice luck was too good, because the bad rolls kept collecting their debt. Is this a curse? Give me enough breath to swear at least!

Mika etched a quick, imperfect sigil and turned the ground behind us to mud; I swung the Hands ahead to clear a path, swatting away the creeping death.

And while we fled, it hit me: we’re being herded.

Too late. We vaulted through a gap in the trees into a patch of dim light—and a yawning dungeon mouth greeted us.

A ruin like avant-garde art: wooden houses stacked like blocks, chaotic as a child’s bad drawing. Look close and it’s copy-and-paste of one house, piled on itself.

Obviously bad news. Calm adventurers would never get near that door—more likely torch it on sight.

But we had no choice.

“Inside, now!”

“Right!”

We broke cover—and more undead than we could count poured out. How had they hidden so long?

Gasping, we dove through the doorway and slammed it shut. Mika pressed his staff to the wood, muttered, and locks sprouted—two, three—then sliding bolts. The door rattled under starving fists but held.

We slid to the floor in unison, gulping air.

“Still…”

“Yeah…”

Bad. I sighed; Mika pressed his forehead. The situation hadn’t improved—only worsened.

“Sorry, this is my mistake… If we’d run back toward the entrance…”

“No, not your fault, friend. We were lured. They probably had second and third lines waiting.”

He cut off my apology with a water flask. We passed it back and forth until the panic eased.

Whoever herded us likely had numbers we couldn’t break—waiters behind every path out. But how did they gather that many and station them so deep? Questions later; first, how do we escape?

“Rescue…?”

“Not likely.”

Our heavy hitters were far away; the fairy couldn’t move for days; Lord Faige wouldn’t notice for another two or three. No wandering savior would come. We had to handle this ourselves.

“So it was a flag…”

“A flag?”

I slumped. My off-hand comment about the bandit fight being a “mid-game encounter” had spawned a main quest and dungeon. Of course a climax fight comes with the set—note to self: never say that again.

Right—future. I can’t afford to die here.

I stood and checked myself: tired, unhurt. Mana nearly full—I’d only used the Hands. Mika had burned more on snares; I’d better not push him.

I lit a lantern with a spark of magic. There was no lighting inside; even with <Cat’s Eye>, I craved full darkvision.

“Well… ready to move?”

“No problem. Leave the light to me.”

I handed him the lantern. Do-or-die: we’d push on and carve a path. We weren’t doomed yet; as long as my limbs were attached it was too early to quit.

The hall creaked under careful steps. Every door was identical; even the seams repeated the same pattern—a lazy doujin-game texture that wrecked depth perception.

“So… this must be a demon palace?”

Another door opened onto a wall; I carved an X. Mika spoke up.

“A demon palace?”

“I only read about it once, so the details are fuzzy, but…”

He explained: when mana and malefic energies pile up in a haunted land, they warp space and laws, spawning a labyrinth. The process is demon-palacing; the maze, the demon palace. A place a little slipped out of reality, brewed from mana-stewed malice.

Makes sense—a monster like that would turn the local woods into a garden of the dead.

Still—what luck dumps me into one after “a little adventure”? Luck must be hidden data—and mine’s flying low.

Sword-gripping that thought, I opened another door and the stench punched me: the reek of people after they’re done being people.

“Erich…”

“Yeah… Let’s go.”

Of course an enemy waited. I swallowed spit gone hard and stepped in. Broken furniture, the smell of rot and wood, and one undead. His traveling gear and greatcoat, soaked black with blood, marked him a seasoned wanderer—head missing.

A falchion dangled from his right hand. Easy to swing like a machete, beloved by commoners—but in his grip it dripped menace.

“Mika, you’re running low, aren’t you?”

I stepped forward to shield him and took my stance. One corpse, plenty of room to fight. Every undead so far had been missing a part. I was getting the palace’s theme.

“One-on-one is my game.”

A razor slash came—too alive for a corpse. Compact, centrifugal, perfect use of a falchion. I parried; he retreated with my step, reset his guard without a gap.

…This corpse has skill.

I thrust—he slipped back, rapped the flat of my blade. A veteran’s tactic. He stepped in, falchion raised for my shoulder. Take that and you’d lose bones.

But I wasn’t green. As he parried me, I reversed my grip, slid my left to mid-blade—letting him knock me aside so the switch was easy.

I caught his blade at guard and hilt—steel rang. The tang stopped it. I used his pressure as a pivot, rolled my sword upward; the falchion slipped off, my edge sliced into his flank.

Leveraging weight and Wolf-Sender’s keen edge, I pressed—his right arm came off, sword and all, and he toppled.

A single clash, a handful of feints—deciding everything. Swordplay: intricate, yet perfectly clear.

Sprayed with black blood, I hacked off left arm, right leg, left leg—leaving a twitching lump of meat. I steadied my breath, flicked the blade clean.

That black blood on the floor could have been my own.

Strong undead—every strike lethal, tactics sharp. By feel he was at least Adept. Our militia would struggle one-on-one.

As I exhaled, a board creaked. The opposite door opened by itself.

Ha… figures. So that’s how this place wants to play….

【Tips】Depending on the precision of the controlling spell or the strength of the possessing ghost, some walking corpses retain all the skills they had in life.