I had no idea if I needed to say the names or if the soldiers instinctively knew who to eliminate. But in that state—with my flesh ripped open, my shoulder throbbing, and my vision blurred—I couldn't risk it. Every second was precious. Every heartbeat could be my last.
The Card Soldiers raised their black spears, their faceless masks pointed towards the targets. Like before, they marched with that cold, inevitable aura. Execution was inevitable.
The lancer, Sebastian, stepped back, ripping the spear from my shoulder with a brutal move—finally freeing my body. The pain made me bite my tongue until it bled. But it was still better than being skewered like a pig.
— That bastard can summon them again?! — he shouted. — Kill everyone, but leave the Bard alive!
Malaca was still fighting. Surrounded. Pressured. But amidst the chaos, she had enough presence of mind to throw her backpack towards me.
I crawled forward. Every inch was a battle.
— Damn... where is this damn thing...?
Blurred vision. Shaking hands. My life was draining into the snow.
— FOUND IT!
My fingers closed around a vial. Blue. Shining. Vital.
I unscrewed it with my teeth and swallowed it like water in the desert.
Pain spread through me, and then receded. It didn't disappear completely, but it receded. My body burned, healing unnaturally fast. Malaca's potion was potent—maybe military-grade. But even so, I was still too weak to fight like the others.
My consciousness flickered. If I passed out now, it would be the end. I knew it. Malaca would die. And Helena...
You promised to protect her.
— I... can't fall...
The Card Soldiers faced a brutal offensive. After intense minutes, only four remained.
And then—a scream sliced through the battlefield like a sharp blade.
— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
It was Isbel.
She wasn't screaming from rage... but from pain. Something she had never shown until that moment.
Cris was dead.
His severed head rolled towards the soldiers' feet. Blood still poured from his torn neck. One soldier held the head firmly, its eyes empty as abysses.
— Drop that head and bring me Isbel's! — I screamed, my voice almost failing.
The four soldiers launched themselves like dancing shadows towards the assassin.
But something changed.
A warm breeze passed through my body. A strange sensation—as if an invisible hand traced down my spine, cleansing away all the dirt, the blood, the pain.
My eyes widened.
— Zomeia was right... I leveled up.
The feeling was real. Invigorating.
My mind cleared. The desperation didn't disappear, but now it was controlled. I could think clearly again.
Yet the scenario was still dire.
Malaca was cornered by three elite zombies: Fiona, Vrigs, and Varnak Junior. They alternated attacks, keeping constant pressure on her. She could barely breathe, let alone strike back.
And Isbel, in her fury, had become someone else entirely. Her strikes were lethal. Precise. Even faster than the Card Soldiers. She wasn't playing anymore.
They were going to die. All of them. And after that, us.
— I have to do something...
My hand went to the guitar.
And then, I did the only thing I knew.
— All or nothing.
— I AM IRON MANNNNN
⚠️ WARNING: For the full experience of this scene, please follow the instructions.
(Please listen to the first track of the playlist "The Bard" on Spotify. If you can't find my playlist, please listen to Iron Man by Black Sabbath.)🎵
The strum on the guitar was irregular—more a desperate strike than a musical note. But it didn't matter. Music activated magic. And what powered the music… was intent.
The moment the strings vibrated, a wave of energy flowed through my body, from my fingertips down to my feet. My heart raced. My skin tingled. And then—as if the world had shrunk—I realized I'd grown larger.
Nearly a meter taller. Muscles stretched my clothes, and the guitar now looked like a child's ukulele in my hands, too fragile to contain the power surging from within me. My voice, when it escaped my throat, resonated deep and intense, as though another version of myself was singing along.
This time, something was different:
The effect didn't wait until the song finished.
It began the instant the first word left my lips, like a rising tide. With every line sung, I felt more strength, more mana, more… presence.
— HAHAHAHAH! YES! MY STRENGTH! — shouted Malaca, her eyes glowing like burning embers.
Her body responded to the melody as if blessed by the gods of war. Her muscles bulged. Her skin became thicker, darker. Her blows now ignored the gusts of fire, the wind spears, and the shadowy tentacles coming from Fiona, Vrigs, and Varnak Junior. Each spell striking Malaca was absorbed or deflected, as if the air itself protected her.
She advanced like a living wall. A hurricane of steel.
— Damn it! ISBEL, FUCK! HELP ME KILL THIS BITCH! — shouted Varnak Junior, now visibly pressured.
But the assassin hesitated. Her eyes locked onto me for a brief instant, blades poised to cut. She took a step. And then stopped.
— Forget that bastard! — roared Varnak. — Even if you stop him, this woman will still kill me! If I fall, you're going down with me, idiot!
Isbel clenched her teeth. Huffed. But stepped back.
It was obvious. They were trapped in a twisted knot of dark dependencies. If Varnak—who animated them—fell, the pact would collapse. Isbel would face a strengthened Malaca alone.
And me? I stood there, a giant, helpless, singing, pouring power into Malaca as if I were a conductor of lightning. I hated that position. Hated standing still, while she fought against three opponents at once. Even with amplified strength, she still had to protect vital spots. She wasn't invincible. She was flesh, bone, and resilience.
The battle had turned into a test of endurance.
Malaca danced between curses and blades.
Isbel prowled, restless, like a snake without prey.
And I… sang.
— Do you really think brute strength is enough, Malaca? — mocked Varnak with a twisted smile. — Allow me to show you the true power of dark magic!
Before he finished the sentence, Vrigs and Fiona surged forward like a living storm of elements, launching blazing streams of fire and cutting wind gusts directly at Malaca. With a thunderous roar, the giantess swung her now-colossal fist, rupturing the flaming tornado in a violent explosion. The flames engulfed her arm, but she advanced fearlessly, slamming her other hand into the ground to unleash a shockwave that knocked Varnak off balance and forced the zombies to momentarily fall back to protect him. A necromancer's greatest weakness, much like a summoner's, was himself—it was common knowledge that summons were only as strong as their invoker's ability to stay protected.
As Malaca prepared to attack Varnak, she felt an icy chill shoot down her spine. The assassin's manic smile suddenly appeared before her, revealing a poisoned blade that sliced superficially across her thick skin, leaving a burning trail of pain. With astonishing reflexes, Malaca twisted violently, swinging at the empty space where her enemy should have been. The assassin dodged skillfully, disappearing once again into invisibility, leaving only a muffled laugh lingering in the air.
— Coward! — roared Malaca, clenching her fists with renewed fury.
Varnak stood once more, more determined, conjuring a runic circle around himself. Shadows gathered, forming spectral shapes whose sole function was to create a protective barrier around him. His revitalized summons prepared for another coordinated assault.
Malaca took a deep breath, channeling all the amplified strength she'd been given. She knew she needed to act swiftly and precisely. Ignoring the burning pain of the poison, she charged forward with astonishing speed for her colossal size, crushing Fiona instantly with an overwhelming strike that scattered pieces of flesh and splatters of blood in all directions. Vrigs, now isolated, couldn't invoke his abilities in time.
In the next instant, Isbel reappeared, attempting another treacherous strike. This time, Malaca was ready. With agile reflexes, she grasped at the air where she sensed her enemy's presence, feeling resistance as an invisible body struggled frantically in her grip.
— Got you! — Malaca shouted, squeezing her fist until she heard the cracking sound of bones shattering, as the assassin finally reappeared—her head crushed, pieces of brain matter sliding down her face.
Only the necromancer remained now, whose expression displayed genuine fear for the first time. Malaca advanced, determined and relentless.
— Your magic ends here, Varnak! — she proclaimed, raising her colossal fist for the final strike.
Varnak Junior backed away, eyes filled with tension as he murmured incantations in a guttural tongue. His hands shook with excitement or madness—perhaps both. Malaca recognized the danger and charged forward like a storm, desperate to stop him. But the specters around him exploded into the air like ethereal grenades, pushing her back with waves of dark energy.
— Damn it... what are you doing? — she growled, planting her feet firmly, resisting the impact.
Then Varnak's laughter sliced across the battlefield. Cold and satisfied.
— Finally finished. I hope you enjoy this.
He placed his palm on the ground, and immediately a black ooze began forming in front of him. The sludge bubbled and spattered as if the very earth were rotting. From inside that foul puddle, something writhed, struggling to break free. Something monstrous… and familiar.
— This can't be possible… — I whispered, my throat dry.
From within the slime rose Marcoriel.
Or rather, what remained of him.
The legendary warrior was grotesquely deformed, one wing utterly destroyed and the other dragging like a dead banner. His skin bore the grayish pallor of death, yet his aura… still pulsed with raw power, even corrupted. His presence was suffocating, as if the air grew denser with every step he took.
— Marcoriel… he's using advanced, total-domination necromancy — murmured Malaca, face taut, as if swallowed by the agony of seeing an ally turned into a weapon.
Marcoriel charged violently, fists colliding with Malaca in seismic clashes, making the ground shake with each strike. She endured, yes—her body, amplified by my music, still held—but she couldn't strike back. She was a fortress being battered by an earthquake.
I knew the duration of my buff was limited. Every second counted.
And then, I did the only thing left to do.
I dropped the guitar.
My legs moved before I even decided to. Varnak was still kneeling, gasping, his body hunched over as if he were about to vomit. He had used everything he had. The mud-creature had drained the rest of his mana. He was vulnerable.
And I... I was a giant of pure fury.
— DAMN IT! — I shouted, my soul bleeding.
I jumped onto him, shoving him to the ground. His skeletal body offered no resistance. My knees dug into his chest, and my hands found his throat. His skin was cold. Eyes wide open.
— No... no... please... — he babbled, his lips trembling, his face becoming a mask of absolute panic.
And I saw it. I saw it in his eyes.
He was the same age as my daughter.
My fingers tightened anyway.
He cried.
So did I.
Tears blurred my vision, but my fists kept pressing, as if my anger was stronger than my compassion. His face swelled, turning red... then purple... until white foam trickled from his mouth.
He struggled like a drowning dog.
— I NEVER WANTED TO BE IN THIS WORLD! — I roared.
Hatred pierced through me. Hatred for everything. For the dungeon. For fate. For having killed before. For killing again.
Malaca still fought Marcoriel, being dragged, pushed, struck, yet fighting with everything she had to keep the creature from saving its summoner.
And I... I kept going.
Minute after minute.
A slow murder. Painful. Cruel.
And then... silence.
His eyes became empty.
Lifeless.
I was still atop the body, panting like an animal.
I had killed Varnak with my own hands.