CHAPTER 38

  Human Rock

  Bash dropped from the sky, slamming into the two closest marauders. The impact crumpled both, their ribcages bursting apart in a blast of bone dust and shattered limbs.

  Bash held the pose, one knee on the ground, the other stretched out to the side, fist embedded in the dirt like he’d just punched through reality’s loading screen.

  He raised his head and bellowed into the stunned silence, “Hello There!” His voice echoed across the battlefield, a jarring note of absurdity in the carnage.

  Every fighter stopped. Dire wolves’ jaws parted mid-lunge. Even the undead hesitated, bones creaking in place. It wasn’t fear, it was confusion. And for a moment, the entire battle forgot to move as they turned to look at the newcomer.

  Bash took a beat to brush the dust off and then straightened up with a theatrical flick of his wrist. He pointed at the still-mustering horde, cocking an eyebrow. “Sooo... this is the part where you all run away screaming, right?”

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a chorus of metallic shrieks, five jagged blades swung up as one, skeletons moving in a synchronized lunge.

  “Oh shit, oh fuck!” Bash shrieked, backpedaling as a wall of sword arms hacked through the air where his head had just been. All bravado evaporated as he spun, arms flailing like one of those wacky waving inflatable tube man, feet sliding through bone dust.

  Blades scythed past his ribs, one grazing his side with a spray of sparks, another nicking his bracer so hard his arm went numb. The world contracted as Reflex Surge kicked in, slowing the chaos to a series of blurred frames. But even with the cheat code active, it barely kept him a half-second ahead of death.

  “Goddamnit, how am I this stupid?!” Bash howled, ducking and weaving as he dodged a blade that whistled past his ear. He almost tripped, his boot catching on a half-crushed skull he’d splattered just seconds before.

  Somewhere in his head, a little voice, suspiciously like Patrick’s, screamed, “Don’t improvise in boss fights!” He ignored it because apparently, Bash the Loco’s entire skill tree was just “repeat mistakes but with new sound effects.”

  Probabilities crawled across everything. Red lines webbed across the chaos, every move screaming fatal error. Bash felt like he was going to puke, and was nearly ready to just give up and rage-quit the universe.

  Then, through the screaming mess, the sound of steel rang out, sharp and purposeful. He risked a glance and saw them. Patrick roaring orders, Luis’s battered shield raised like a banner, Nora’s blade gleaming, all three storming up the hill into the brawl.

  Patrick had gone full drill sergeant, bellowing above the carnage. “Tight! You want to live, stay in formation!” His spear punched straight through a marauder’s sternum, bone shards pelting the mud.

  Luis was all energy and desperation, shield up, eyes wild. He yelled, hacking off a skeleton’s arm with a wild upward swing. The arm landed at his feet, still twitching.

  Nora was a force of nature, darting between them, sword carving bright arcs. “On your left!” she shouted, practically beheading a marauder before it could get to Patrick. Blood from her own cut mingled with the bone dust, but her face was stone.

  At nearly the same moment his friends arrived, the Beastmasters’ counterattack hit like a storm front. Wolves, fur streaked with ash, eyes blazing, exploded from the tree line, jaws snapping onto skeletal necks with the sound of wood breaking.

  Their war cries tore through the mountain pass as they crashed into the fight with an almost suicidal fury.

  The undead reeled, caught off guard as the dire wolves crashed into them. Fangs found rotted flesh, and instinct overwhelmed whatever half-baked code held the shamblers together. They began to fall faster.

  Suddenly, Bash found himself with room to breathe. The pack and the Beastmasters had drawn off most of the marauders, leaving him only a pair of stubborn skeletons who didn’t know when to quit. He cracked his knuckles, grinned, and lunged.

  Hammering fists into skulls, sweeping leg strikes at brittle ankles, trying every trick he’d learned. But these things soaked up damage like a satanic dungeon master had designed them. For every bone he cracked, another just kept swinging.

  The field became a mess of motion and noise. Bash’s boots slid through mud streaked with marrow and crushed bone.

  Steel rang out across the field, harsh and constant, scraping against the air like a warning. Axes slammed through armor and bone alike. One beastmaster went down with a scream, ribs split open, while another avenged him by hacking an undead apart, raining bone chips onto the mud.

  Patrick’s spear shattered mid-thrust, leaving him with a jagged wooden spike. He didn’t hesitate and rammed it through the creature’s eye socket with a sickening squelch, the skull collapsing.

  Luis crashed to one knee, teeth clenched as a marauder’s sword snuck around his shield and tore a gash across his right shoulder. Blood peppered the stones. A skeleton raised its blade for the kill.

  Nora lunged, sword slicing a perfect line through bone and air. The skull popped off and landed at Luis’s feet. “Not on my watch,” she spat, dragging Luis back and slapping her glowing palm over his wound. “Next time you want a scar, try something less suicidal.”

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  Luis lips quirked. “I’ll put in a request form next time. If we’re still alive.”

  Patrick picked up Luis’s shield and slammed into the next undead, buying time as Luis’s wound sealed up, the scent of charred flesh mixing with the copper reek of blood.

  Bash kept swinging, fighting through the melee, his fists connecting with skull after skull, each impact ringing out. Bones cracked, ribs splintered, but it was all for superficial damage. Even his psionically charged strikes barely slowed them. His most overpowered skill was useless at the worst possible moment. The marauders just kept coming, relentless, seemingly without a health pool, all bone and bullshit.

  A hard counter, of course, why not? Just as soon as he felt overpowered, the universe handed him another middle finger. “Classic anime arc,” Bash snarled as he ducked a blow. The hero gets a power-up, and then the bad guys just respawn with more plot armor.

  The counterattack soon faltered as the marauders regained the advantage, an unstoppable tide of bone and malice. Dire wolves began falling back, the Beastmasters buckled, and even Bash’s party gave ground. Step by grinding, bloody step, the undead advanced. For every one that fell, two more pressed forward, relentless.

  Bash staggered backward, chest heaving, sweat and blood painting his cheeks. He slipped back into formation, just as Patrick bellowed, “Fists do nothing! Pick up a weapon before we all die!”

  Bash wanted to crack a joke about ‘registered weapons’ or ‘deadly karate hands’ but the words got lost somewhere behind his fear. Bash simply yelled, “I can’t!”

  Nora’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. “Bash, think. Do something!”

  His brain fired, cycling through every tool he had. Investigator was jammed. Prediction was a blur. Tactical overlays threw nothing viable. The fight was too messy, the enemy too tough for clever plays or cheap tricks.

  He tried to channel the old Bash, the hack-every-system Bash to find a new plan. If the solo charge wouldn’t work, Bash would need to try on the support role for a change.

  He scrolled frantically through his skills, hunting for a loophole. Most ideas died before they were even half-formed. But then a single line caught in his mental searchlight, and everything clicked into place.

  The phrasing was so simple, he could've punched himself for missing it. Bash broke it down Barney style. ‘Empower weapons’ or ‘empower your fist’ were not the same thing. And if his fists weren’t working, maybe it was the weapon part that mattered.

  Bash darted toward Patrick, shouting over the clash, “Let me try something!” He snatched up a dropped spear, the system's passive-aggressive message blinking in the corner of his vision.

  “Yeah, yeah, bite me,” Bash muttered, ignoring the penalties. He didn't want to swing it. He wanted to charge it.

  He gripped the shaft, focusing, channeling every last drop of psionic energy into the steel tip. Nothing happened.

  The energy slipped through his fingers, refusing to catch. Come on, come on. Bash gritted his teeth and pushed harder, skull starting to ache. Then the steel caught. It hummed, flickered, the point glowing with a faint, angry red. Like a tuning fork full of lightning, until Bash felt his palms buzz dangerously. It would burn out fast, a minute at most unless he kept feeding it, but that could be enough.

  “Switch!” Bash screamed, shoving the spear at Patrick like he was passing a live grenade.

  Patrick didn't hesitate. He pushed a marauder aside, let Luis’ shield drop, and caught the charged spear mid-swing. The whole exchange took less than a second. Call of Duty meets Lord of the Rings. His first strike with the new spear sent a creature flying in two separate directions. Each blow sliced through bone like molten wire. Where Patrick's old weapon would've maybe chipped or cracked a skeleton, now each swing sent heads rolling and ribcages bursting apart, psionic sparks crackling in the aftermath.

  Somewhere to the left, a Beastmaster bellowed. Not pain. Shock. They'd seen what the glowing spear did. Bash caught a glimpse of wild eyes tracking Patrick's next swing.

  No time to worry about that now.

  Bash barely had time to blink before Patrick had cleared half their circle. Luis and Nora, catching on, circled back in. Bash scrambled for a fallen sword. The charge came easier this time, now that he knew how. He slapped it into Nora's grip. “Don't cut yourself.” She was already swinging before he finished the sentence.

  He tossed another glowing blade to Luis, who caught it one-handed. “Now we're talking!”

  Every weapon Bash touched sang with power, and their little squad became a monstrous wedge, tearing through the undead like a cavalry charge. Bodies flew and limbs tumbled across the churned battlefield as they pushed forward.

  “Keep 'em coming, Bash!” Luis barked, not bothering to look back. “And stop gawking at my ass!”

  Bash grinned and grabbed another weapon to charge. He wasn't just some solo glitching junkie anymore. He was a conduit, passing out cheat codes to his apostles of chaos.

  But the well was running dry. Each charge took longer, the glow dimmer, his hands shaking. He was looking for another weapon to charge just as a marauder broke through the line, blade swinging for Bash's throat. He had nothing left but instinct. He dropped flat, hitting the muddy ground as the sword screamed past his nose. The skeleton loomed over him, blade rising for the kill. Bash's brain offered one final thought, at least I tried. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  The blow never came. Instead, bone crunched and something wet splattered across his chest. He cracked one eye open to see Luis standing over him, sword buried in the skeleton's split skull. “You're welcome!” Luis shouted, hauling him up by the collar.

  Patrick's spear flickered and died. “I need another!”

  Bash could barely stand. His legs shook. His vision swam. But he grabbed a blade off the ground anyway. This one fought him. The metal stayed cold for three agonizing seconds before finally sputtering to life like a dying lighter. He tossed it over with what little strength he had left. “Last one. Make it count.”

  Patrick caught it and drove it through two marauders in a single thrust.

  Bash's legs buckled. He caught himself on a half-buried shield and stayed there, sitting in the mud, breathing hard. He watched the rest of the fight play out. Patrick carved through the stragglers. Nora covered his flank, blade flashing. Luis whooped and hacked down the last marauder standing, its skull spinning into the dirt.

  Bash didn't move. Couldn't. The bravado from his grand entrance felt like it belonged to someone else, some idiot who thought jumping off a cliff was a good idea. That guy was gone. What remained was a hollowed-out husk held together by adrenaline and spite.

  By the time the psionic boosts ran completely dry, the battlefield looked like a butcher's yard. Body parts lay scattered everywhere, some still crawling around aimlessly.

  Beyond the scattered dead, a dire wolf growled. In the heat of combat, Bash had nearly forgotten about the other group. He dragged his gaze over.

  The Beastmasters had reformed their lines. Axes rose. Shields locked. Not facing what was left of the undead.

  Facing them.