The ground beneath him was made up of tightly packed, dark grey dirt. Huge pieces of ancient bone jutted from the earth in uneven spirals, like half-buried ribs of something too large and unnatural to be human. Overhead, no sky. Just a vast swirling mass of ink-like madness, thick as oil, undulating in slow, serpentine shifts. Things moved within it, too far away to be seen clearly, too large to be fully ignored.

  His gaze slowly drifted to the many towering structures of bone, standing like weathered monuments to long-forgotten battles. Most were uneven, crumbling, haphazardly stacked remains cemented together through time and some unknowable force. Four towers in the center of it all were bundled close, looming taller than the rest, more deliberate in their construction. A point of interest for sure. At the peak of the tallest, most central one, nestled within remains, a single flower grew, pulsing with a faint, eerie glow.

  There you are. This was likely a marrowbloom, the objective of his loan quest. The climb wouldn’t be easy. The tower had no steps or ladders, just the unpredictable mess of bone upon bone. Though nothing down here had moved yet, Bob knew better than to trust an arena that let him breathe controlled for this long. Sorry loan quest, you are gonna have to wait till I’ve looked around the terrain a bit more.

  He walked, carefully, for minutes, alert, taking everything in, steady and ready for the inevitable shift: Then the ground pulsed vaguely. At first it was a distant tremor barely reaching him accompanied by murmured whispers that slowly turned into chanting. A ritual? More ripples came causing bone to jiggle in the dirt. Skeletal remains that made up the four towers twitched and rattled. Bob instinctively put away his knife. You’re not gonna be much use here, buddy. Can't stab vital organs where none exists.

  [System Message] The Bone Assembly awakens. The dead will not rest until you do.

  A single fleshless hand burst from the ground a few paces away, stuck at the elbow, fingers grasping wildly at the air. Here we go, it's starting. Then, the first skeleton clawed its way free from one of the towers and plummeted to the ground. It broke apart upon landing only to reform as pieces wriggled back together violently, pulled tight by invisible strings. Its empty eye sockets stared through a half-cracked skull. No weapons, no armor, just death given new purpose. It moved sluggishly, still scrambling at regaining balance.

  Bob saw the opening and charged, slamming his buckler against its head striking the weakpoint already there.

  [SP: 19/20]

  Brittle bone broke apart, sending the rest collapsing into an unorganized heap.

  [System Message] 1/5004 enemies defeated. The dead rise still.

  5004? WTF!? This wasn’t a fight. It was a full-scale battle, and he had ‘forgotten’ to bring his own army. With those numbers, this might be a job for a raiding guild, not a single dude. Exciting! Another skeleton pulled itself free nearer to the ground. It didn’t shatter after landing, didn't need to rebuild itself. No, it just got back up casually, clicking as it straightened slightly. Bob surged forward, knocking it down by smashing its knee from behind. Three deliberate, forceful stomps finished the job. More rattling, plummeting and movement. The arena was waking up. A taller skeleton emerged from behind the tower. Ah, gotta watch those blind angles or get swarmed. Bob rushed it, swinging the buckler again. This time, the impact wasn’t enough. The skeleton staggered, yes, but didn’t crumble. Bob dodged as it lunged, its movements jerky but purposeful. In his peripheral vision the sight of a stamina bar ticking down with each action escalated the stakes.

  [SP: 13/20]

  Seven moves made, seven points less. That’s how it works here.. He knew he had to make each bit of stamina count from now on. After all, he'd only regen one per minute. Stepping back further, his right hand fingers flicked as if clicking through menus, then he pulled the crowbar seamlessly from over his shoulder. Now we’re talking.

  Bob didn’t hesitate. He took two quick steps and swung at the nearest dried out monstrosity approaching him, curved iron catching it just beneath the jaw. ‘Crunch!’ Its skull was knocked sideways separating from the spine, sending the rest of its corpse crumbling like the deciding move in a game of jenga. The crowbar vibrated in his grip, but it held true. This.. is good! He turned to face the next set of emerging enemies. More now. They weren’t coming one at a time anymore. Three, no, four, five, six.. all rattling, turning to face him with dark malice. The pace was picking up.

  Bob adjusted his stance, exhaling slowly. The fight had layers, he could feel it. Right now, it was manageable. But the longer this dragged on, the worse it was going to get. That system message wasn’t just for flavor text. The dead were going to keep coming, and soon, the time between their emergence would turn them into a swarm. I have to figure it out fast.

  This whole fight was a setup. The first wave? A stall tactic. Keep the challenger busy. Make him spend resources. Force mistakes. He could see the game design behind it, clear as day. And the worst part? It was working.

  As the nearest skeleton lunged at him, arms outstretched, he stepped into its attack and swung the crowbar up in a brutal arc. ‘Impact. Fracture. Shatter.’ The skeleton split apart at the chest, ribs sent flying outward. Bob didn’t wait for the next one. Instead he moved back fast to gain distance, while stealing a glance toward the central tower. The marrowbloom was still there on top, untouched, one excruciating climb away. How much stamina will that take? He had to think ahead. Had to push before the next escalation. This wasn’t even phase two yet and his stamina was dropping fast. Every movement, every pivot, lunge, and evade, was a withdrawal from a bank that did not take kindly to deposits. It was attrition. A slow, grinding inevitability clawing at his margins. Yeah, up it is.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Bob gritted his teeth, fingers flexing around the crowbar. It had already earned its keep as a weapon, now, it would be something else. A hook. A last-ditch salvation. He launched himself toward the central tower, dodging rising skellies like a mad-man. The outer layers of ancient remains had nearly crumbled away, now exposing the dry, twisting vine-like growth beneath. Graveroot. It was like twisted sinew petrified in time, creeping through the dead like parasitic veins. If it had supported the weight of this much bone, then it should hold him too. He jumped and hooked his tool on the root pulling up hard while scrambling for footing. It worked. He was climbing it. Fuck yeah, later bonesies!

  The ritual reacted as if sensing his imminent escape. Ripples erupted from the three other towers, prompting the skeletons below to claw at each other, tearing themselves apart. Not mindlessly. Not in chaos, but In sacrifice. Bob caught a flash of brittle limbs snapping like dry branches. For each skeleton destroyed, two more rose. Yup, all the more reason to keep climbing, baby!

  Then, a skeletal hand shot out from the towers side right next to him. He barely twisted in time as clawed fingers raked past his side, leaving cold, phantom pain in their wake. His body felt like it had lost a fraction of warmth, a piece of something vital stolen from his core.

  [HP: 8/8 (Base: 10, Penalty: -2)]

  Max HP damage? A second hand erupted from the graveroot, this time further away. Then another. And another. Skeletal arms were clawing their way free from the tower itself, fingers grasping blindly, hungrily. The bones weren’t dry like the ones below, they glistened as if birthed from the roots right here and now. Bob bit back a curse of his own making. He couldn't afford to fight, or dodge, in this awful situation. Just climb! Every second wasted was another enemy, another obstacle, another piece of himself ground down into nothing.

  Finally, the last pull. His fingers curled around the ledge, as he heaved himself up, rolling onto the sloped, gnarly top. His arms burned, his legs trembled, but he had made it.

  [SP: 4/20]

  The marrowbloom sat before him. Small. Delicate. Its petals shimmering in the dim, eerie glow of the arena. He reached out and the roots groaned beneath him. A deep, dry sound of warning. Then the flower went into his inventory. Gotcha!

  [Item Acquired: Marrowbloom]

  The moment Bob plucked the delicate, bone-white flower from its twisted roots, he braced himself for retaliation. A surge of something pulsed beneath his fingers yet nothing lashed out. There was no immediate reprisal. Something still felt off. From his vantagepoint he took in the battlefield.

  [System Message] You see through the veil of despair. The true threat emerges.

  Bob’s vision blurred for half a second, his skull buzzing like a poorly tuned frequency. He forced himself to focus. Atop each of the three smaller towers of graveroot, stood a figure, draped in layers of black cloth that slithered and curled unnaturally despite the air being utterly still. The fabric wasn’t just fabric, it moved, shifting like shadows made tangible, roiling against unfelt currents. Their hoods were cavernous voids, swallowing all light, revealing no faces. Long, skeletal fingers pulsed in a dull violet glow and stretched toward the sky twirling above. The whispers! The chants! These fuckers..

  They had been there the entire time. More than mere necromancers. They weren’t just raising the dead. They were fueling the entire damned arena in a twisted birthing-ritual. As long as they stood uninterrupted, the graveroot would keep pushing out horrors, an endless flood of calcified hunger. He swallowed hard, and though his body screamed for rest, there was no time for hesitation.

  Below, the sea of undead started to churn like a single living organism, limbs snapping, skulls crushed, yet feeding, growing. The ground around the four towers had almost vanished from sight in the writhing tide of bone, as the masses’ was causing the graveroot beneath Bob to shudder. This entire arena was destabilizing. Think, Bob, think. His stamina said 4 out of 20, check. One regen per minute meant six ticks to reach half max. Time was a luxury he didn’t have. 5004 of them will topple this tower. His mind worked through the angles, assessing risk, tracking patterns. The summoners never moved, chanting unbroken. They were too absorbed in their ritual to defend themselves. Which meant coup-de-grace might be possible. If he could reach them. Taking out just one might halt the ritual. Buy some time.

  He eyed the nearest tower, measuring the distance. It was too far for a clean jump. But with the right angle, if he used a bit of root jutting out from the top as footing, he might be able to launch himself just close enough. No real choice. It was now or never. Bob inhaled sharply. His body was sluggish, his limbs heavily drained. Still, he forced himself into motion dashing forward, pushing off, jumping.

  The air hung silently around him as he swooped ahead in a downwards arc. His crowbar was already swinging, aimed straight for a hooded head. He was going to make it.. Except he didn’t.

  Even here I suck at platforming, huh?

  He had either miscalculated or been too optimistic. Instead of steel striking true in a deadly assassins'-jump, his chest slammed into the rooty edge. The impact crushed the breath from his lungs, his fingers scrabbling for purchase, crowbar lashing out to hook anything at all.

  [HP: 5/8 (Base: 10, Penalty: -2)]

  For one heart-stopping moment, he hung on, half dangling, half clawing at the lip of the ritualists tower before gravity took its toll. Bob’s body tilted backward, his exhausted arms failing him as he fell. The world became a blur of motion, soon followed by packed dirt and bone-remnants welcoming his crashing descent.

  [HP: 1/8 (Base: 10, Penalty: -2)]

  Pain, sharp and jarring, shocked through his spine. Before he could even think to move, before his body registered the true extent of damage, the mass of the horde was already upon him. It surged in ravenous motion. Bone clicked against bone in an un-orchestrated rattling of death. Gaunt hands.. cold, dry, endless.. clawed at him from all directions. Fingers like rusted hooks scraped at his skin, yanked at his arms, his ribs, his legs. They tore at his clothing, at his gear, latching at his buckler, his crowbar, pulling everything about him apart. Sharp things dug into flesh as his chest spasmed, lungs burning in a futile struggle for air that no longer reached him. His darkened vision pulsed in a continuous crimson outline, weight pilling on with constant tremors. Then, even the outline narrowed to a pinprick turning everything pitch black.

  Is this how it ends? Am I not better than this..

  [System] Defeat