Chapter 6: What the Hell Is This Thing?

Miss Amber, an expert in stealth, a specialist in shadow magic, and an avid grave robber, had a favorite saying: “The path is always there. Doors are just illusions—mere decorations. Once you get past the mental block, even the gates of the royal treasury can be opened with nothing more than a stalk of celery.”

Well, this world probably doesn’t have celery, but for Amber, prying open the door of an ancient tomb didn’t require any celery at all.

With a little shadow trickery, some knowledge of ancient wards, and a pinch of luck, this half-elf thief effortlessly bypassed the seals on the ancestral tomb of the Cecil family, revealing a secret passage unknown even to Hetty and Rebecca.

Without hesitation, everyone followed Amber into the newly uncovered corridor.

The tomb’s passageway, built from stone and soul-binding bricks, was far roomier than expected. Even towering knights like Gawain and Byron, both nearly two meters tall and clad in heavy armor, didn’t feel cramped. Though the enchanted sconces embedded in the walls had long since run out of power, after Hetty cast a few simple spells, the ancient lamps—some over seven centuries old—flickered back to life one by one, lighting the way forward.

“I’m really just a petty thief,” Amber said modestly as she led the group, “I’m descended from forest elves and deeply respect the ancestors. I’d never do anything as crude as grave robbing.”

Gawain scoffed at her excuse. “You’re that good at it and still feel the need to explain?”

Perhaps reassured that her life was safe, the shameless half-elf grinned like the tomb door she’d just cracked open. “Lockpicking and ward-breaking are just standard skills in our line of work. I’ve got solid fundamentals—what’s wrong with that?”

From the middle of the group, Rebecca suddenly asked, “Are you a subject of the Cecil domain?”

Amber frowned, thinking it over. “I’ve lived here for years, but I never officially applied for citizenship. According to your rules, anyone who lives here for over three years and pays taxes counts as a subject… so, do I?”

Rebecca shook her head. “Without an application, you don’t.”

“Oh,” Amber drawled, “then why ask?”

“I’m the lord of the Cecil domain,” Rebecca said seriously. “If you’re my subject, I’m obligated to protect you.”

Amber blinked. “…You should’ve said that earlier! Can I change my answer now?”

Rebecca’s face was dead serious. “Too late.”

Gawain glanced between the earnest Rebecca and the shameless Amber, shaking his head with a smile.

Despite waking up in this mess, being alive again felt a lot better than whatever hellish state he’d been in before.

He looked back at Hetty, who had been sneaking glances at him more than once. He’d been waiting for her to speak up, but since she remained silent, he finally broke the ice. “If you want to ask something, just say it.”

Startled for a moment, Hetty took a deep breath and composed herself. Looking at Gawain’s face—identical to the ancestor in the family portraits—she chose her words carefully. “Ancestor… I still find it hard to believe. Are you really…?”

“That’s right. I’m the very same Gawain Cecil, the pioneer from seven hundred years ago. I could tell you about my thirty-plus years of life, or the era of the Second Frontier. But honestly, none of that proves much. A good historian might be more convincing than me—I’m not much of a storyteller,” Gawain shrugged. “You just want to confirm I’m real, right?”

“Please forgive my doubts,” Hetty said hurriedly. “Stories of heroic spirits returning have existed forever, but seeing it with my own eyes is something else. I’ve heard some paladins and silver elves can fake death for years, even decades, preserving their souls and vitality through holy light and elven magic. But I’ve never heard of a human knight doing the same—especially one who’s been dead for seven centuries.”

“To be honest, I don’t know how it happened either,” Gawain admitted, shaking his head. Though he wanted to spin a convincing, airtight explanation, neither his own knowledge nor the memories of Gawain Cecil offered any answers. “Maybe it has something to do with what I went through in life. You know, when I led the settlers into the wilderness, I was blessed by the elements. That probably changed my body somehow.”

“I see…” Hetty said, noncommittal, then suddenly looked up and scanned the path ahead.

“There’s airflow,” she whispered. “And a different magical signature. We must be nearing the end of the tomb area.”

Gawain nodded, gripping the Pioneer’s Sword tightly—a strange unease told him danger lay ahead.

“Stay alert,” Byron, walking alongside Amber at the front, seemed to sense it too. He drew his steel broadsword, running a hand along the blade, which shimmered with a faint silver glow. “You three, watch the rear.”

The metallic scrape of weapons being drawn echoed as three soldiers readied themselves for battle. Though basic fighters, these were elite warriors carefully trained by the Cecil family, survivors of countless monster skirmishes. Their fearless, steady expressions quickly calmed the nervous Amber and the young attendant Betty, who was tucked safely in the middle of the group.

Though the tomb’s corridors stretched deep and long, every path eventually ends. Every ten meters, soul-binding bricks marked the boundary of the burial grounds. As these bricks disappeared, the group arrived at a slightly wider crossroads—the junction between the tomb area and the castle’s underground district, a hub leading to ancient secret passages.

Amber pointed down one branch of the crossroads. “I came in through there. It leads to a dry well outside the castle, but it’s probably overrun by monsters now.”

Gawain looked to Hetty. “Which way is west?”

Hetty traced a simple magical rune in the air. It glowed and wavered, pointing steadily in one direction.

“That way,” Gawain said. But no sooner had he spoken than a sudden wave of danger slammed into him.

There was no time to think. His battle-hardened body reacted faster than his mind. Instinctively, he raised the Pioneer’s Sword to block—and felt a hammer-like blow crash against the blade.

His body rocked but he held firm. Then the attackers appeared.

From one of the dark tunnels at the crossroads, three towering, staggering figures emerged, accompanied by a low, indistinct whispering.

These were no natural creatures. They looked like grotesque giants, nearly three meters tall, but their bodies were made of shifting, mud-like ooze. The sludge rippled and flowed across their forms, revealing huge hollow cavities where blood-red skeletons could be seen inside.

“Ah!” Rebecca gasped sharply at the sight. Betty bit her lip, on the verge of tears. Hetty slammed her staff to the ground, casting a weak dispel fear spell that countered the monsters’ terror effect. Then she quickly told Gawain, “Ancestor, it’s these things!”

Gawain shook off the shock of seeing such unnatural beasts, memories flooding back. “Those things?!”

The three monsters attacked again, their whispers like delirious murmurs. Two charged at Gawain’s group with heavy steps, while the third raised an arm, conjuring a dark energy arrow that shot straight at Amber, who was at the front.

“Whoa!” Amber cried out, instantly vanishing into the shadows behind Byron, then reappearing ten meters away in another patch of darkness. Byron roared, raising his silver-tinged broadsword to meet one of the charging monsters head-on.

“Hetty, Rebecca, take down the one shooting shadow arrows! Avoid arcane magic—it barely works on these things! Amber, you and the fighters protect the casters!” Gawain shouted, then charged forward, sword in hand.

He’d never swung a blade in battle before.

He’d never faced inhuman monsters.

Though he’d been reborn, this was the first time he’d stood on this alien land with his own legs.

He had no idea how far his fading combat instincts, the battle knowledge in his mind that wasn’t even his own, and a powerless ancient sword could take him.

But fate rarely gives you a choice.

You stand here, the monsters stand there, no escape above or below. You have only a seven-century-old antique sword. You used to have a shield, but some wastrel ruined it a hundred years ago. What else can you do?

You fight. You fight like hell.

Mutants? So what?

Seven hundred years ago, Gawain Cecil could take down a hundred of these things alone.

There are only three now. You can’t handle that?

(End of chapter)