White-hair flicked his hand at the door. The purple energy circles vanished. He snapped his staff downwards, angling it, and glanced back at me. “I suggest you put on your armor.”

  I had absolutely no idea how to do that. I pulled myself out of bed, shaken from my momentary, surprised freeze, and moved over to the armor in question. It had two sabatons, a breastplate with some thigh coverage, and a pair of gauntlets.

  “Do not overthink it,” White-hair said. “If you should be capable of such a thing.”

  Overthinking was kind of my speciality. I reached out and grabbed a gauntlet. What happened next, I couldn’t rightly explain. My fingers began moving over the belts, pulling them open, sliding my opposing hand into it like it was a glove. The rest of my armor went on just as…I wouldn’t call it easy. But I knew what to do, and I did it like I’d done it my entire life.

  I straightened, grabbing my shovel from the floor. The screaming was still going, though now it was joined by yelled, panicky words, and the thuds and sounds of fighting. There was an almighty crash, and lots of glass breaking simultaneously. White-hair pulled open the door, and he strode into the hallway without bothering to look into it.

  That seemed reckless--I mean, I was reckless, but White-hair didn’t seem like the type. I lurched after him, not keen on being left behind. Surprisingly, there was no one else in the long narrow hallway. Just me, and the back of the man I was stuck with. His long legs were making quick work of it, and I hastened to follow him.

  We trotted towards a long, narrow staircase at the end of the corridor. It took me a moment to realize that we were heading away from the screaming and noise of fighting.

  I glanced behind me. The clamor was definitely coming from that way, and I could see the hallway lead out into a great, large room, filled with lots of small beds, and then dip to a large stairway that presumably led towards the heart of the inn itself.

  “What exactly are you waiting for?” White-hair’s voice cut across my reverie.

  I turned back to look at him. He’d already begun to descend the narrow, spiral stairway, only visible to me from the knees up. He was glowering at me, a harsh eyebrow cocked.

  “Well?” he demanded, with no small amount of imperialism. “Unless you profoundly desire a misbegotten end, I suggest you use those limbs of yours--called legs, do imagine that--and make haste towards me.”

  “The screaming’s that way,” I said.

  His nostrils flared. “So it is. How much do you crave death?”

  I grinned. I couldn’t help myself. My smile grew, wide and toothy.

  I didn’t remember as much as I wanted, but I remember how I’d died--or at least, the beginning. The fire in our house had started at night. I’d gotten them out. I’d gotten them all out. I didn’t remember the finer details, but I knew that somehow, like I knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. I don’t think I’d survived what came after. Hopefully, my hospital bill hadn’t been a clusterfuck.

  I laughed.

  White-hair looked like I’d pissed in his oatmeal. He had that faint, horrified air of a man who couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Or hearing, in this case.

  I hefted the shovel in my right hand and turned around, beginning to jog towards the caterwauling. Surely, I could bonk death with a shovel.

  “What are you doing?” His voice had risen into a hiss-yell, like a cat that was being repeatedly spritzed with water.

  I hummed. He wasn’t an idiot, he’d figure it out. Or he wouldn’t figure it out. But I wasn’t about to sneak out the back, ignoring the screaming, the plea and call for help.

  So I might die, again--there were things worse than death. I’d made that decision a long, long time ago.

  I pulled up my HUD as I began to shift my jog into a sprint, feeling the burn in my legs, the hammering of my heart. I could feel the beginning of an adrenaline rush that would carry me through whatever catastrophic consequences came from this dumb decision.

  Shit, I was looking forward to it. My smile was irrepressible.

  My HP was still at 16/20, but I didn’t have any of those little icons in the top right that meant something bad. I felt a bit sore post the burning-tree-wolf nonsense, but that was ignorable. My quest list still had that one, single quest, though it was flashing at me, like warning lights on the back of a car. I reckon the problem it was referring to had shown up. In my top left, there were small words in elaborate script: FIRST CONVICTION. It shone, a gentle light. I let my HUD fade away.

  My shovel was beginning to glow. It was soft, and faint, but with my rising spirits--a really weird reaction to throwing myself headlong into bullshit, but eh--the glow grew stronger. I didn’t hear White-hair behind me, and when I spared the glance, I saw neither hide nor hair of him. He’d made his decision, then. That was fine.

  I hit the edge of the landing and looked over the railing below. The inn had an interesting layout. The public beds were located in a place that was like a large loft. Or, at least, half of it. Then, it became a hallway that led to the small private rooms. Below me, the first floor was like any, a classic medieval tavern that I’d seen in countless movies. Lots of wooden tables, chairs, bowls of oatmeal and tankards. It was morning, so only the people that had been eating breakfast were downstairs.

  A lot of the tabletops were also tipped over. Shit had been flung absolutely everywhere, oatmeal plastered to the walls. A few people lay on the floor, red pooling beneath them. In fact, there was so much blood that I blinked, not quite believing my own eyes. The weird sort of glee I’d experienced vanished instantly. There was a large counter with a woman screaming behind it, and at the center of the mess, an array of…Raiders? That was what we were called, right? There were four of them against a…something in all black armor.

  It was a man. I think. It made the hair on the back of my neck rise, just staring at him. He had long, odd proportions, skinny legs, arms so long the hands brushed his calves. He was wearing armor. It was spiky, because of course, and he had a tattered, old cloak, with a deep hood. If he had a face, I couldn’t see it, but I could hear him breathing, a deep, lung-shaking rasp. A death rattle, if one could only breathe in death rattles.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  There was an odd aura to him. Light poured in through the windows, but as it reached him, it scattered, dimming. He projected shadows where there should’ve been none.

  The Raiders facing him were an interesting-looking crew. There was a large man, more heavily armored than I was, with a big honking greatsword. Next to him stood a woman in fine, colorful silks, with a narrow rapier and a jaunty hat with a feather.

  Behind one of the tipped tables was a barefoot woman in a rawhide dress, a staff that looked like a branch had been snapped directly off a tree in hand. Next to her stood a man dressed in robes similar to White-hair, a long short sleeved coat over a high necked tunic and breeches. He had a staff like White-hair’s, too, but it was elaborate and delicately carved.

  Big boy swung his greatsword with a roar, and the creature in black grabbed it. Its gauntleted hand tightened down, and there was the awful shriek of metal scoring metal. As I watched, red rust began to ripple down the blade.

  Hoh, shit. Okay.

  Lanky-shadow pulled the sword forward, dragging the large man towards him. He couldn’t possibly be that strong, but big knight got pulled forward like he was a child being scruffed. The woman next to him lunged, trying to skewer the black creature.

  He wasn’t terribly amenable to being skewered. The creature waved a hand at the needle-like blade like he was batting away a fly.

  It wilted at the touch, the metal melting, like she’d buried it in lava. The barefoot woman was one of the screamers, and she waved her staff wildly. At the same time, the man next to her flicked his own staff. Vines burst through the floorboards, and a stream of purple fire issued forth from the man’s staff.

  The vines twisted away from the creature, vomiting forth a hundred different blooms. Splitting open, they coiled like spider legs, dying. The fire stopped in front of the shadow, like he’d a glass wall before him, and twirled up towards the ceiling. It hit the rafters, and caught.

  Why was it always fire? I would’ve loved for it to be something else for once. Bullets. A crossbow bolt to the ass. A biblical flood. Something that wasn’t fucking fire.

  With that being said, I was thinking far too hard. Couldn’t think, just had to do. Either I’d live, or I wouldn’t. I released those worries like an exhale, and I pulled myself over the railing. It wasn’t elegant. I didn’t have long legs.

  I slammed, shoulder-first, into the table next to the light-eating shadow.

  For a moment, everything paused. I scrambled to my feet to see hat woman, knight man, and the creature staring at me.

  The fire roared, and memory hammered at the door of active thought. Yeah, we had to finish this little showdown and get out of here. Dying to save people, yes. Dying because some dumbass lit the rafters on fire and I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the conflagration for a second time, no.

  I hefted my shovel. It glowed, brilliant, unhampered by the dark, like I’d scooped dawn. Was willing to bet it would do something. I swung it, aiming for the creature’s face. Black spiky caught it, of course, but it had to drop the Knight’s greatsword in the process--nice.

  Then, something unexpected happened. Its long fingers grasping my glowing shovelhead spasmed, and it opened its mouth. It howled, a sound that shook my teeth in my skull, and rattled my arm. Its hand hissed smoke, and it released the shovel, leaning backward.

  I smiled, pulled by the shovel, and swung again. This time, it connected with its head as it tried to dodge, but couldn’t quite manage it. It pulled back, but not fast enough.

  It screeched again, and there was an element of wrath in it, to match the hissing stench of..something. The shadow of his armor looked more solid to my eye, like my shovel had forced it to have real weight and form.

  I pulled back my shovel again. The creature swung his arm. It caught me in the gut. I had one moment to gasp as all the air abruptly vacated my lungs, and then I was tossed backward.

  I slammed into the wall, hard. Whatever air I had managed to regain mid-flight left again. I gasped and sputtered.

  Holy shit, long-limbs could move fast. The creature was coming towards me, moving like an angry ghost. I rolled onto my knees, my chainmail tunic clinking angrily at me. I pushed myself up, grasping my shovel, trying to stagger out of the way. I’d seen what it did to everything it touched. Sure as anything, he’d done something to me, too, but I could still move, my armor hadn’t melted off, and my spade was doing just fine.

  He was gonna hit me. I wasn’t moving fast enough, and the armored shadow was just accelerating.

  It was intercepted by Big Knight. The heavily-armored man had dropped his sword entirely and had dove for the back of the shadow creature.

  “Wait--” I yelled. It was too late. I’d seen what it had done to the fire, and the vines, and the metal.

  Big Knight roared, and it was not a sound of victory. He released the creature almost as soon as he’d grappled him, rolling onto his side and groaning. He’d successfully tackled it to the floor, and it let out a rasping snarl as it scrambled back to its feet.

  The jaunty-feather woman ran over to the knight, trying to grab onto him. She looked up at the creature, her eyes wide from fear as it bore down on her.

  The two in the back weren’t doing well. Staff man was busy trying to put out his fire with frantic and nonexistent success. Barefoot woman had clasped her hands over her ears and was crying hysterically.

  I ran after spikey shadow, and slammed it hard in the back with my shovel. The digging instrument in question had only glowed brighter and brighter throughout this entire fight. It screeched again and spun. I gritted my teeth, baring them in a smile at the entity.

  “Try me,” I said, readying my shovel for another swing the moment the damn thing moved.

  It did. It lunged. As it came for me, I slammed it upside the head. It screamed at me, but came ever steadily forward. I hit the spot again, and I smelled burning flesh. My memory shuddered behind the locked door of my mind, and I gritted the muscles in my jaw. Again, I hit it, and again, it wailed, but it moved towards me, inexorable. It knew, I realized. It knew I was afraid of it touching me again, of what it might do if it could grasp me for longer than a glancing blow. It suffered the pain with grim patience.

  I wasn’t doing a lot of damage to the damn thing. With every swing and smack, I hurt it, but it felt like the pinewolf all over again, like I was chipping away at a brick wall with a stick. If I could go back and tell old me to not pick the shovel, I would’ve.

  As the thought occurred, the glow from my shovel dimmed. I blanched. Shit, was it going out?

  As if fate had heard me, and laughed at my anxiety, the glow flickered violently. Panic lurched into my throat.

  I slammed the shovel hard on top of the creature’s head as it dove in, deflecting it towards the floor. The sound of pain was less this time. It rallied, and the rasping hiss it made sounded almost self-satisfied. Fuck.

  The light shuddered, dimmed, and died. The only illumination was purple fire and the morning dawn.

  A door slammed open. I saw a flicker of white. I glanced, my one good eye darting in the direction of the door.

  There, in the doorway, stood a man in a highnecked robe-coat. His white hair blew in the wind, staff in his hand, glower firmly affixed.

  “White-hair!” I called. Despite myself, relief surged as I panted for desperate breath.

  The creature turned towards the sound of the door, the outside wind, and the general presence of White-hair’s entrance. The moment it set eyes on the man, it began to lurch towards him. I might as well have been chopped liver.

  Before I could ponder that particular reaction, White-hair spoke. His nostrils were flaring again, and the gold of his eyes shone with such rage that a volcano might’ve been ashamed. “What denomination have you dared, you foolish wretch?”

  “…You’ve white hair?” I pointed out.

  That was about the time the monster tried to eat him.