The throne hall of the Nightbound Citadel echoed with a sound that could only be described as frustrated fabric.

  Lord Vorgath the Eternally Burning Flame, Sovereign of the Nightbound Citadel, He Who Devours Crowns and Swords, Breaker of Oaths, Harbinger of the Ever-Burning Eclipse, stood before a towering black mirror holding two cloaks.

  The first cloak was long, velvety, and billowed behind him like a thundercloud on command.

  The second was torn, shredded, and artfully distressed in a way that suggested he had survived twenty-seven high pitched battles, a tragic prophecy, and at least one heartbreak with a fiery red head.

  He held one up, then the other.

  “Is this too menacing,” he murmured, “or not menacing ?”

  Behind him, the enormous double doors creaked open.

  A trio of advisors hurried inside, their footsteps full of dread and apology. One limped- clutching his ribs and wheezing slightly, still recovering from his recent encounter with the mysterious human and his magical carriage.

  Vorgath did not turn.

  “This had better be important,” he warned. “I am between aesthetics.”

  The thinnest advisor stepped forward, clutching a scroll like it was a live snake.

  “M-my lord… w-we have obtained the name of the hero who defeated General Grakthul.”

  Grakthul groaned only slightly, casting a sidelong glance to the advisor. They had been mortal enemies ever since an incident three years ago when the advisor had “accidentally” scheduled Grakthul’s battalion review for the same day as the annual Demon Legion Potluck.

  Grakthul never forgave missing the enchanted chili competition. This new sleight gave yet another level of hatred for the ancient lich such as the burning embers of hell could never hope to match.

  Vorgath straightened.

  “Excellent. Speak it, that I may etch it into the stones of unending malice.”

  The advisor inhaled.

  Vorgath prepared himself for the epic recitation of deeds, the flowing syllables and poetic flourish of mythic cadence, and the proper grandeur of a foe at long last worthy of his epic wrath.

  “His… his name is… Cletus Hickenbottom.”

  Silence.

  Vorgath lowered the cloak. Very slowly.

  “…You are joking.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “That sounds like a name one invents when pressed for time and is low on imagination. That name is what you call a distant cousin you don’t invite to weddings. It is a prolonged accident of syllables!” An unnatural burning sensation started to crawl down the Demon Lords’ neck, a sensation that forced his left eyelid to flutter involuntarily. He had expected a great exaltation of glory and an eagerness to battle. Instead, he felt something vastly different and he could not quite recall the word for this sensation.

  The advisor winced. “Y-yes, my lord.”

  Another advisor coughed delicately. This one brushed delicate fingers through her red main of luxurious hair. Her voice, smokey and tantalizing-

  “We also discovered, my lord, that the hero claims to hail from another realm.”

  Vorgath’s eyes brightened. “A world beyond worlds? A plane of eternal chaos? A legendary realm of lost heroes?”

  “A place called… ‘Arkin-saw.’”

  Vorgath froze.

  “…What?”

  “Arkin-saw, my lord.”

  Vorgath rubbed his temples with armored fingers.

  “This is madness. Pure madness.”

  Grakthul piped up.

  “My lord, we have also located the hero’s current whereabouts.”

  Vorgath perked up.

  “Finally. Where does destiny place him?”

  “At a settlement called High Meadow.”

  Vorgath spread his arms dramatically.

  “A meadow! Of course! A wide, open field befitting a hero’s entrance!”

  Grakthul swallowed.

  “My lord… there is no meadow.”

  Vorgath’s arms dropped.

  “…Come again?”

  “High Meadow is surrounded on all sides by dense, impassable forest. No grasslands within fifty miles.”

  Vorgath stared at him.

  Then smiled wickedly.

  “…Clever. They have hidden the meadow by A cunning ruse.”

  All three advisors looked at each other.

  None dared correct him.

  “Continue your surveillance,” Vorgath commanded, selecting the shredded cloak with newfound purpose. “And prepare my armor. If fate dares mock me with a hero named Cletus Hickenbottom, then I shall meet fate with ”

  Lightning flashed in the chamber.

  He’d installed that, of course.

  ----

  The forest fell away into a narrow clearing, choked by fog and overgrown roots that crawled up from the earth like long-forgotten fingers. They groped blindly across the stones, clutching at anything warm, anything living, anything foolish enough to still be breathing this close to the crypt.

  The air itself seemed wrong—thick, damp, humming faintly with a rhythm that didn’t belong to the living world. Every few seconds, the fog shifted as though something enormous was exhaling beneath the cold and rotting ground.

  Black stone, half sunk into the hillside.

  Its gate yawned open just wide enough to whisper

  Kotetsu’s headlights cut through the mist like twin moons.

  The engine purred. The dashboard flickered.

  “Ambient mana detected,” Kotetsu reported. “Trace amounts of necrotic energy. Estimated structural integrity: poor. Recommended course of action: don’t go in there.”

  Cletus leaned forward against the hood, hands on his hips. “Ayup.”

  He stared into the darkness a long moment, the brim of his cap barely catching the light.

  “Looks like a crypt, alright.”

  The Elf Princess, Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria, descended gracefully from the passenger seat as though the ground might applaud her. “This is the perfect opportunity to apply my arcane expertise,” she said, brushing a leaf from her sleeve. “Elven light magic is especially effective against the undead.”

  Cletus nodded, tone flat. “Ayup.”

  Raven emerged next—silent, spectral, a patch of shadow with opinions. Their cloak billowed dramatically even though there was no wind. “The Night gathers,” they murmured. “And with it, the hungering wails of those who were denied rest. Undeath is a mockery of nature itself—an echo screaming in defiance of the grave.”

  Cletus didn’t look up. “Ayup.”

  Raven turned toward him, voice lowering to a rasp. “Do you not feel it? The chill of despair creeping into your soul?”

  Cletus opened the driver-side door and reached behind the seat.

  A metallic echoed as he pulled something free.

  He held it up to the light.

  An aluminum baseball bat. Kotetsu’s dashboard flickered to life. “That belonged to my previous owner,” the truck said evenly. “Yamiko Tanaka. She kept it behind the seat for ten years, seven months, and eleven days.”

  Cletus turned the bat over in his hands, reading the half-worn sticker near the handle: “Guess she took the ol’ game pretty serious, huh?”

  “She did not play,” Kotetsu replied. “Her father insisted she carry it for protection. He told her, quote, ‘You never know when the world’s gonna pitch something nasty at you.’”

  Cletus snorted softly. “He wasn’t wrong.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Indeed,” Kotetsu agreed. “She used it twice.”

  That made him glance up. “…Used it?”

  “An attempted robbery, twelve years ago. She broke the man’s arm in three places. Then she called him an idiot and offered him tea while waiting for the police.”

  Cletus grinned despite himself. “Sounds about right.”

  “She also once used it to chase a raccoon out of her compost bin,” Kotetsu added. “Statistically, that encounter was far more violent.”

  Cletus gave the bat a light swing. It hissed through the misty air like it was glad to be useful again. “Well, Miz Tanaka,” he muttered, resting it on his shoulder. “Guess we’re goin’ ghoul huntin’.”

  Cletus tested the weight with a few lazy swings.

  Raven’s eyes glinted faintly beneath their hood. “Steel is forged to slay the living. That—” they pointed to the bat “—does not look like steel.”

  “Should work on ghasts.” Cletus replied, slinging the bat over his shoulder. He reached back into the truck, rummaged again, and came up with a wrench. “And this little fella,” he added, slipping it into his pocket, “is for emergencies.”

  Kotetsu rumbled disapprovingly.

  “Clarification: you are descending into an undead-infested ruin with a blunt object and a piece of plumbing equipment?”

  “Yup,” Cletus said. “Ain’t broke what works.”

  The princess sighed softly, composing herself. Her palms glowed faintly with silvery light. “At least allow me to illuminate our path.” The glow intensified—then flared too bright.

  Cletus threw up a hand. “Holy hell, woman! You tryin’ to call airplanes?”

  “It’s ” she protested.

  “Yeah, well, elven radiance’s burnin’ my retinas. Dim it down some.”

  Raven, already halfway through the doorway, didn’t react.

  They simply whispered, “The light will only draw them faster.”

  Then they vanished into the gloom.

  Liraelith hesitated. “Draw what faster?”

  A sound answered her.

  Something wet dragging across stone.

  Something breathing in short, wet clicks.

  Cletus sighed. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

  He stepped forward, bat in hand, voice echoing off the old stone walls.

  “Alright, y’all—time to clock in.”

  The inside of the crypt breathed rot. Every exhale came from nowhere and everywhere, damp and ancient and far too personal. The walls were slick with green-black moss. The floor whispered with the soft crunch of old bones that had given up on dignity centuries ago.

  Raven moved first. Naturally.

  Their cloak fluttered like a shadow with commitment issues. They stepped through the gate, every motion deliberate, each footfall a declaration of brooding intent.

  “The dead are restless,” they murmured. “And they remember.”

  Cletus adjusted his hat. “Yeah, well, let’s hope they remember how to stay down.”

  Liraelith followed with glowing palms, her silvery light casting the crypt in a holy shimmer that made the mildew look almost respectable. “This place offends the balance,” she said softly. “I shall restore purity to its heart.”

  “Ayup,” Cletus replied, stepping over a femur.

  They didn’t make it ten paces before the ground started moving.

  A low rumble. A shift in the air. Then—

  CLACK.

  A skeletal hand shot up from the dirt. Then another. Then a dozen.

  Raven was already in motion.

  Their twin blades flashed out with a hiss of steel and intent, carving through the first wave like a grim ballet dancer possessed by caffeine and poor decisions.

  Bones clattered, skulls rolled, and Raven moved faster—twisting, spinning, blades singing through air thick with dust and decay.

  A cackle broke from beneath their mask, low and unhinged.

  “Dance, you forgotten wretches! Dance to the rhythm of your undoing!”

  They struck a dramatic pose mid-spin.

  No one saw it.

  They did it anyway.

  Liraelith flicked her wrists. Sigils flared around her in rings of pale light.

  “By the Crest of the Moonpetal, return to rest!”

  Arcs of holy fire shot out—each one slicing through the dark like ribbons of moonlight. Skeletons exploded in dazzling displays of righteous pyrotechnics. It would’ve been awe-inspiring if she didn’t look so smug about it.

  Cletus strolled a few steps behind the chaos, bat over his shoulder.

  A skull tumbled to his feet. He looked down, sighed, and gave it a lazy tap. It shattered against the wall.

  Kotetsu’s voice crackled faintly from the doorway. “Observation: the undead appear to have poor structural stability.”

  “Yup,” Cletus said.

  Raven flipped backward off a tomb, landed in a crouch, blades crossed, cloak flaring dramatically behind them. “The first wave falls. Their hunger sated only by failure.”

  Liraelith huffed, lowering her glowing hands. “Please, they barely required effort.”

  Cletus brushed some dust off his sleeve. “Y’all done showin’ off yet?”

  Then the floor

  No rumble this time. No warning.

  Just a low, wet growl that rolled through the crypt like a stomach remembering it hadn’t eaten in a century.

  The fog deepened.

  The light dimmed.

  And from the far end of the corridor, something big started crawling into view.

  A shape of slick gray flesh and empty hunger.

  The ghast.

  Something large scraped its claws along the stone. A guttural, mucous-drenched growl rolled through the corridor, followed by the unmistakable scent of wet grave dirt and regret.

  Liraelith’s light dimmed instinctively.

  Raven’s blades stilled mid-spin.

  Kotetsu’s voice crackled from outside. “Warning: undead class signature detected. Estimated threat level: moderate to unhygienic.”

  A shape emerged from the gloom.

  Half-human. Half-corpse. All attitude.

  Its skin hung in loose gray folds that looked like they’d given up trying to stay attached years ago. One milky eye glowed faintly in the dark. The other seemed to stare inward at bad life choices. When it spoke, its voice gurgled like a drain that had too many opinions.

  “Ahh… mortals,” it rasped. “Come to test your valor against Mortimer Questfallen, are you?”

  Liraelith blinked. “Mortimer… Questfallen?”

  The creature straightened, what was left of its spine creaking like an old door. “A tragic name, I know. My parents were… optimists.”

  It gestured vaguely to itself. “Once, I dreamed of glory. I sought to purge the undead from this world—lich, vampire, ghoul, all of them! A champion of the light, I was. Until… well, I got bit. Tragic irony, really. Questfallen indeed.”

  Raven tilted their head, voice low and theatrical. “So you became that which you hunted.”

  Mortimer sniffed. “Yes. Terribly poetic, isn’t it? I fed on goats at first—only goats, I assure you. Then sheep. A few cows. Maybe a stable boy once, but he was mostly screaming, so he doesn’t count.”

  He sighed wistfully. “Still, I’ve built a modest unlife. Twenty-two years of consistent haunting, moderate rural terror, and only pitchfork mobs. I’m proud of that, honestly. Adventurers come through now and then. I eat them. Keeps the morale up.”

  He leaned forward, sniffing at the air. “But you lot… you don’t smell like the usual wide-eyed idiots. You smell… different.”

  His gaze stopped.

  On the hat.

  Cletus stood there, baseball bat over one shoulder, grease-stained cap on his head, watching Mortimer with the same expression a man reserves for a raccoon in the pantry.

  The ghast squinted, then leaned a little closer. “What… what is that upon your head?”

  Cletus blinked. “My hat?”

  “Yes. The symbol.” Mortimer gestured vaguely with a dripping claw. “That… crest. It radiates a strange power. A rune of protection? Some arcane sigil to ward away evil?”

  Cletus took his cap off, brushed some dust off it, and turned it in his hands. “Nah. That’s a John Deere.”

  The ghast stared.

  “…John… of House Deere?”

  “Yup,” Cletus said. “Real good tractors.”

  Mortimer blinked slowly. Then twice more, because one of his eyelids didn’t quite work.

  “I see,” he said finally, with grave sincerity. “A farmer god.”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  The ghast nodded, profoundly respectful now. “Truly, your pantheon grows stranger by the day.”

  Raven’s hand twitched, their voice a hiss. “Shall I end him?”

  “Not yet,” Cletus muttered. “Man’s talkin’ tractors. Show some respect.”

  Liraelith pinched the bridge of her nose. “By the roots of the Radiant Bough, this is not a conversation I imagined having before breakfast.”

  Mortimer spread his claws wide, ancient pride burning faintly in his hollow chest. “So be it! Let the sacred duel commence! The living and the unliving, clashing beneath the sigil of the farmer god!”

  Raven’s blades flashed up again.

  Liraelith’s hands filled with light.

  Cletus sighed, flipped the bat in his grip, and said, “Ayup. Time to clock in.”

  Mortimer lunged first.

  His claws slashed through the air, leaving trails of sickly green mist that hissed where they touched the stone. Raven met him halfway, blades flashing, cloak flaring in perfect, edgy geometry.

  “Face the silence of your grave!” they hissed, spinning low and carving upward in a sweeping arc that should have bisected him cleanly.

  Mortimer laughed — a wet, gurgling sound like a clogged drain chuckling to itself. He caught Raven’s blade in one clawed hand, twisted, and hurled the scout backward with casual contempt.

  Raven rolled, landed on one knee, cloak coiling dramatically behind them.

  They whispered, “He’s… strong.”

  Liraelith raised her hands, the air around her shimmering with white light. “Then I shall end him quickly!”

  She thrust both palms forward.

  A torrent of radiant energy blasted down the corridor, engulfing the ghast in holy fire. Dust and bone fragments scattered—until Mortimer’s laughter echoed through the smoke.

  “Ohhh, delightful!” he crowed. “You call light magic?”

  The holy light spiraled into his decayed body, his veins glowing with stolen radiance.

  Liraelith gasped. “He’s absorbing it! That’s impossible!”

  Mortimer’s grin widened, jagged teeth glistening. “Oh, it’s entirely possible. I am the nightmare that prays to itself.”

  Raven staggered up, voice grim. “He’s feeding on her magic. He’s becoming stronger.”

  Cletus exhaled slowly, stepping forward.

  He adjusted his cap. He spun the brim backward.

  Shifted the bat in his hands.

  “Alright,” he said, tone flat as the Ozarks. “That’s enough outta ya’.”

  Mortimer turned toward him, raising both claws. “You think to challenge me, mortal? You, with your crude weapon of weak steel and—”

  The aluminum bat came down like the hammer of an angry deity.

  There was a noise like a watermelon being hit by a truck at seventy miles an hour.

  Mortimer’s skull simply ceased to exist.

  What remained of his body stood there for a beat, politely pretending it hadn’t noticed, before collapsing into a pile of twitching limbs and regret.

  Silence filled the crypt.

  Even the fog seemed confused.

  Cletus stared at the mess, bat still raised. “Well… damn.”

  He looked down at the weapon, then at the smoking crater that had once been a face. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  Liraelith just… stared. “You him.”

  Raven’s voice came low and reverent. “That was… beautiful. Brutal. Pure darkness given form.”

  “Yeah,” Cletus said weakly. “Kinda wish I hadn’t seen it up close, though.”

  Kotetsu’s voice hummed faintly within his head. “

  Cletus blinked. “…Ten times?”

  “

  Raven crouched near the remains, mask gleaming faintly in the gloom. “His core remains intact,” they murmured. “A worthy trophy. Hank will pay us well for this.”

  Cletus slung the bat over his shoulder, still processing.

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Let’s just… not tell Hank about how we did this one?”

  Liraelith shuddered, composing herself with effort. “I concur. He will ask for far too much paperwork.”

  As the group turned to leave, the bat glinted once under the fading light.

  Somewhere in the ether, the spirit of Yamiko Tanaka’s father nodded approvingly and muttered,

  ------

  Nekrothrax the Bone-Seer hovered a respectful three inches off the obsidian floor. It was the ideal height for both dignity and dramatic cape drift. His eternal flame-eyes flickered warmly as he observed the throne hall.

  It was a good morning, he decided.

  Sallientheria had only set two things on fire so far.

  Lord Vorgath was once again debating cloak aesthetics. It was a reliable indicator he was in an approachable mood.

  And then there was Grakthul. The orc wore new bandages, his leg was braced solid, and he wheezed painfully with at least three broken ribs. The bruises were deep, there were stitches closing several wounds, and he stared hard at Nekrothrax – a deep burning gaze that forced the lich to avoid meeting those very eyes.

  Nekrothrax clutched his scry-scroll of intelligence reports to his ribcage, metaphorically and literally. His ribs squeaked with quiet excitement.

  The big, beautiful idiot.

  He drifted closer.

  Grakthul stood to the side, arms crossed, glaring aggressively at the floor as if the floor had personally insulted his mother. A fresh bandage wrapped his midsection — a wound Nekrothrax knew all too well. He had watched the human’s monstrous chariot punt his beloved general through a tree.

  Nekrothrax’s soul-flame dimmed protectively.

  Poor Grakky. Always so brave.

  He wished he could tell him.

  They were destined for one another.

  The chamber doors slammed open.

  Lord Vorgath swept inside wearing the shredded cloak — oh good, Nekrothrax thought. It really did compliment the spikes. And the eyes. And the brooding aura of cosmic heartbreak.

  “My advisors!” Vorgath thundered.

  Nekrothrax straightened proudly.

  Sallientheria fluffed her hair.

  Grakthul winced because moving hurt.

  “At long last, I am prepared,” Vorgath declared. “The hero Cletus Hicken-bottom—” he pronounced the name with withering disdain “—dares walk this world. And so destiny demands rise to meet him.”