The ground was made up of tightly packed, dark grey dirt. Fragments of 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 stood bundled close, looming taller than the rest, more deliberate in their construction. 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. But as far as he could tell, nothing down here had moved yet. No enemies yet. Just silence. Well, too much silence. Bob knew better than to trust an arena that let him breathe controlled for this long. Sorry Flowerpower, you are gonna have to wait till I’ve sundered this terrain.

  He walked, carefully, for minutes, alert, when suddenly the ground pulsed. At first it was a distant tremor barely reaching him. Then murmured whispers sounded in contentious chanting and the following ripples made bones jiggle on in the dirt. Soon skeletal remains stuck in the four towers twitched and rattled. Bob instinctively put away his knife. You’re not gonna be much use here, buddy.

  [System Message]

  The Bone Assembly awakens. The dead will not rest until you do.

  A single hand burst from the ground a few paces away, stuck at the elbow, bony fingers grasping wildly at the air. Here we go. But to Bob’s surprise, the first skeleton didn’t come from the ground. Instead, it had clawed its way free from one of the towers and plummeted to the ground. It broke apart upon landing only to reform as bones wriggled back together violently, pulled tight by invisible strings. Its empty eye sockets stared through a half-cracked skull. No weapons, no armor, just bone given purpose. It moved sluggishly, still regaining balance.

  Bob charged at the opening, slamming his buckler against its head striking the crack already there.

  [SP: 19/20]

  The brittle bone caved in, sending the rest of them 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 battle, and he had ‘forgotten’ to bring his own army. Another skelleton pulled itself free nearer to the ground. It didn’t shatter to rebuild itself. No, it just got back up, bones clicking as it straightened slightly. Bob surged forward, knocking it down by smashing its knee from behind. Three deliberate stomps finished the job. More rattling, plummeting and movement. The arena was waking up. A taller skeleton emerged from behind the tower. Ah, blind angles. 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 escalated the stakes:

  [SP: 13/20]

  Seven actions, seven points less. That’s how it works here.. He knew he had to make each bit of stamina count from now on. He stepped 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 dried out monster approaching him, curved iron catching it just beneath the jaw. ‘Crunch!’ Its head wrenched sideways, the force sending the rest of the fleshless corpse crumbling like this was the deciding move in a game of jenga. The crowbar vibrated in his grip, but it held. This is good! This was what he needed. He turned to face the next set of emerging enemies. More now. They weren’t coming one at a time anymore. Three, no, four, their bones rattling, empty eye-sockets turning toward 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?

  Bone-dust clung to his skin, mixing with the sweat, turning it into something gritty and foul. His breath came in sharp, measured pulls. He had to think ahead. Had to push before the next escalation. Because this? This wasn’t even phase two yet. His stamina was dropping fast. 5,004 enemies, 20 stamina. Every movement, every desperate pivot, lunge, and evasion, was a withdrawal from a bank that didn’t accept deposits. This was attrition. A slow, grinding inevitability clawing at his margins. Yeah, up it is.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  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 bone pillar, dodging skellies like a mad-man. The outer layers of bony 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 so much bone, then it should hold him too. He jumped over a few reforming skeletons and hooked his tool on the root pulling up hard while scrambling for footing on the vines. 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 pillar. 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 pillar 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, wrenching his crowbar free and climbing faster. 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.

  Then, finally, the last pull. His fingers curled around the vine-formed 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 grave pit. 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. He took a look around 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 bones and 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!

  These guys had been there the entire time. Something more than necromancers. They weren’t just raising the dead. They were fueling the entire damned arena. As long as they stood chanting, the graveroot would keep birthing horrors, an endless flood of bone and hunger. He swallowed hard, and though his body screamed for rest, there was no time for hesitation.

  Below, the sea of undead churned like a living organism, limbs snapping, skulls crushed beneath the weight of new bodies forcing their way up the side of the towers. Not by climbing, but by growing in numbers and mass. The ground had almost vanished in the writhing tide of bone. The masses’ pushing and writhing was causing the graveroot beneath Bob to shudder. This entire arena was destabilizing, his tower already swaying. 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. His mind worked through the angles, assessing risk, tracking patterns. The summoners never moved, whispers never stopped. They were too absorbed in their ritual to defend themselves. Which meant coup-de-grace might be possible. If he could reach them.

  He eyed the nearest tower, measuring the distance. It was too far for a clean jump. But with the right angle, if he used the root jutting out from the pillar, 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 miscalculated. Instead of striking true, his chest slammed into the edge of topmost roots. 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 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 horde was already upon him. They surged, mindless and ravenous. 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, yanking at his arms, his ribs, his legs. They tore at his clothing, at his gear, latching his buckler, his crowbar, as if trying to pull everything about him apart. It was a suffocating tide pressure coiling, squeezing and choking. Sharp things dug into flesh and his chest spasmed, lungs burning as he struggled for air that no longer reached him. His vision pulsed, darkness creeping at the edges. The weight above piling like constant tremors. Then, as his vision narrowed to a pinprick, everything went black.

  [System]

  Defeat