I looked at my knife—blood dark and slick across the blade—then down at the boneless heap at my feet.
One second ago, he'd been ranting about honors and system buffs; the next, he was nothing but a wet cloth and dented armor, the bones quietly gone as if some invisible hand had unscrewed them and put them on a shelf. The camp noise—yells, clanging, the slow thud of war drums—fell away like a curtain pulled over a stage.
Silence hit like a thing with weight.
For a long, awful beat, everyone simply stared.
Then the nearest soldier screamed, clutching at his own throat as if suddenly afraid his own bones might be next. Questions and prayers, and accusations spilled out in a wave. Faces lost color. A child in the crowd began to cry.
Ammar was the first to move properly at my side. He swallowed hard, eyes white at the rims.
[Ammar]: My lady… what did you do?
I wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic without looking away from the shredded heap, as if polishing silverware after a banquet.
[Grey]: Used a skill called [Remove Bones]. Lucky I didn't use [Disembowel].
My voice was flat. The words landed on the crowd like frost.
The camp commander — a man whose armor was more patchwork authority than honor — pointed at the boneless corpse as if it were a moral exhibit.
[Commander]: Lady, this is a game. Please… refrain from—
He jabbed a spear into the corpse without a second thought, earning a few cheers and a handful of startled curses from the near-front. Then he straightened and tried to smooth his voice into officious calm.
[Commander]: Also, madam, we have rules about using those… abilities near NPCs. It hurts the public image. You should visit Doctor Genes' tent — some people can… explain. NOW—PEOPLE! BACK TO WAR!
The same mouth that ordered the stabbing lectured me on optics.
I let the absurdity sit for exactly two heartbeats. Then I smiled the smallest smile — the kind that means the weather is about to get very bad.
[Grey]: Of course. Public image.
As they continue to kill each other and laugh while stabbing one another.
I pushed into the medical tent, half because the commander had ordered it and half because curiosity is harder to resist than hunger. The flap smelled of disinfectant and old paper—comfortingly mundane compared to the battlefield's stink.
Inside, Doctor Genes, a middle-aged man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, was bent over an orc soldier, stitching a chest wound with the steady hands of someone who'd done this too often.
He looked up, spectacles sliding down his nose.
[Genes]: You must be the one who… removed the bones. The commander sent word ahead.
His tone was professional, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was still trying to decide if he should thank me or throw me out.
[Genes]: Lady, you may be new here, but this game has rules. No crimes. No cults. No racism. And absolutely no… cultural exchanges.
He knotted the stitch, snipped the thread, and pressed gauze to the orc's chest.
[Genes]: This world feels real because—for the people here—it is. We're just guests. You break it, you warp the system. You make it harder for the rest of us to keep balance.
He turned back to his instruments, voice softening without losing its edge.
[Genes]: Look, I'm a hospital intern outside. Here, my half-baked med skills can actually save lives. It's training, sure—but it's also real enough that I'd rather not watch everything unravel because someone thought 'creative use of skills' meant turning NPCs into props.
He dipped his hands into a basin, rinsing away the blood. His voice lowered, like he was trying to keep the memory from getting too loud.
[Genes]: You think I'm exaggerating? Before you arrived, there was a figure known as the Great Horde Master—an old ogre who ruled the greenskins like a king. Proud. Dangerous. A pillar in the balance of this world.
He dried his hands slowly, gaze flicking to me.
[Genes]: Too bad some players decided to make him a trophy. They killed him, twisted him into a Lich, then—because cruelty wasn't enough—brought goblins and orcs into his dungeon. Killed them in front of him. Over and over. Until his mind broke.
The tent felt colder. The orc on the cot turned his head away, as if he'd heard this story before.
[Genes]: Now? The Horde Master doesn't rule. He rocks in a ruined hall, whispering to goblin children who aren't there. Ghosts. Daycare is full of them. He hums lullabies to an army that died crying.
He leaned closer, eyes sharp as scalpels.
[Genes]: So forgive me if I sound harsh. But one 'Remove Bones' in the wrong place, and you're not just breaking a rule—you're writing a tragedy the NPCs will have to live with forever.
I stood there, watching the orc's chest rise and fall while Genes tied off the last stitch. His words rattled around in my head like loose bones in a jar.
A Lich rocking in a hall. Goblin children that never grew. Whispered lullabies to ghosts.
The daycare. The "orphans." Their too-small bodies. Their smiles were too fresh, too rehearsed.
I felt my lips curl, but it wasn't a smile—it was the expression you make when you solve a puzzle and wish you hadn't.
[Grey]: …So that's what it was. Not a dungeon. A graveyard on repeat.
I could almost hear the little goblins laughing again, their tiny teeth flashing. A month has closed. A month of crying phantoms stitched together into playtime.
My hands clenched, nails biting into my palms.
[Grey]: I hate when dots connect, Genes. Because once they do, I can't unsee the picture.
The tent was quiet except for the soft hiss of lantern flame. Even Ammar was silent, eyes wide at me.
I turned away before my shadow could start moving on its own, and return to the battlefront.
[Chapter End]