The heavy iron doors groaned, rust flaking from the hinges as Faelar and I pushed them open.

  Captain Vane stood behind us, her sword drawn, her face pale. "The Royal Guard," she whispered. "This should be the antechamber to the King's Tomb. There will be traps. Maybe a construct."

  "No traps," I said, looking into the darkness. The stone on my belt was buzzing with a low, steady rhythm—a warning vibration. "Just bodies."

  The doors swung wide.

  They didn't reveal a throne room. They revealed a cavernous, subterranean barracks. The ceiling vanished into gloom a hundred feet up. The floor was a sea of stone sarcophagi, arranged in neat, military rows that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  And the lids were moving.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  The sound was like a thousand knives sharpening on whetstones.

  "Contact!" Liam yelled from the ceiling, where he was currently hanging upside down like a bat.

  Dust billowed up from the floor as hundreds—no, thousands—of skeletal hands punched through the stone lids. Ancient armor clattered against bone. Rusted halberds and notched swords were raised into the torchlight.

  It wasn't a squad. It was a Legion.

  "By the Light..." Vane breathed, taking a step back. "There are too many. We need to bottle-neck them at the door! Shield wall!"

  "No," I said. I stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the room.

  I felt the hum of the Void Core in my inventory. I felt the density of my own muscles. I looked at the sea of undead, and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel fear. I felt... efficient.

  "This isn't a fight, Vane," I said, lowering my spear. "It’s a harvest."

  I looked at Faelar. The dwarf was grinning, his eyes wide and bloodshot from the moss-stew.

  "Faelar," I ordered. "Clear the room."

  "Aye, Captain!" Faelar roared.

  The dwarf uncorked his flask, took a swig of the infinite booze, and breathed out a cloud of alcoholic vapor that smelled like industrial cleaner. Then, he charged.

  The battle that followed wasn't a skirmish; it was a meat grinder.

  The skeletons surged forward like a tide of dry ivory. They crashed against Faelar, weapons swinging.

  Faelar laughed. He spun his warhammer in a tight circle, becoming a tornado of iron. CRACK-SNAP-CRUNCH. Every swing shattered three or four enemies. Skulls flew through the air like hail. Ribcages exploded into dust. The dwarf didn't block; he simply absorbed the blows with his face and chest, his new constitution turning the damage into nothing more than an itch.

  "Coming through!" Faelar cackled, wading waist-deep into the bone pile.

  On the left flank, Elmsworth was conducting a symphony of chaos.

  "Back! Back, you collection of soup bones!" the wizard shrieked. He pointed his staff.

  [Casting: Fireball (Wild Magic Variant)]

  A bead of orange fire shot from the staff. It hit the center of the horde.

  POOF.

  Instead of a fiery explosion, the spell detonated into a massive cloud of confetti and hundreds of spectral, screaming rubber chickens.

  The chickens exploded on contact.

  Bawk-BOOM. Bawk-BOOM.

  A fifty-foot radius of skeletons was blasted apart by the poultry-shrapnel.

  "Glorious!" Elmsworth cheered, while Nugget watched with stoic approval from the safety of my shoulder.

  But there were always more. They climbed over the piles of their own dead, relentless and silent.

  I held the center. I didn't run around like Faelar or cast wild magic like Elmsworth. I simply stood my ground.

  A skeleton lunged with a spear. I sidestepped—a movement so minimal it barely looked like I moved at all—and snapped the creature's neck with the butt of my weapon. Another swung a sword. I caught the blade on my shield, twisted my hips, and drove my spear through three skeletons in a single thrust.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Stab. Twist. Kick. Repeat.

  It was rhythmic. It was hypnotic.

  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

  "Kaelen!" Vane shouted from the doorway, where her soldiers were frantically hacking at stragglers. "Pull back! You’ll get exhausted! You can't keep this pace up!"

  I paused for a microsecond to decapitate a skeletal sergeant. I checked my breathing.

  It was steady. My heart rate hadn't even elevated. My arms didn't burn.

  Infinite Stamina, I realized. I could do this all day.

  "I’m not tired, Vane!" I yelled back. "Push forward! We take the room!"

  From the shadows above, arrows rained down. Liam wasn't missing. Every single shot found an eye socket or a neck vertebra. He was emptying his quiver, and thanks to the Weaver's gift, every time he reached back, a new arrow formed from the shadows to meet his hand.

  "Die! Die! Die!" Willow screamed from behind me.

  The gnome cleric wasn't healing. No one was hurt enough to need it. Instead, she was channeling her positive energy offensively. She slapped her hands onto the skulls of the undead.

  [Cast: Cure Wounds (Inverted)]

  Golden light flared. The skeletons shrieked as the healing magic burned them like acid, dissolving their necromantic bonds instantly.

  An hour later, the noise stopped.

  The last skeleton crumbled into dust under Faelar’s boot.

  The Great Barracks was silent, save for the heavy breathing of Vane’s soldiers. The floor was carpeted in bone shards three feet deep.

  I wiped a smudge of dust from my armor. I wasn't even sweating.

  The stone on my belt buzzed.

  "xp_grind_complete.exe," the Weaver’s voice murmured. "Well done. You have successfully depopulated a zip code. Proceed to the loot phase."

  "Check the side doors," I ordered, stepping over a pile of skulls. "We need supplies."

  Faelar, who was somehow hungry despite having just exerted enough energy to power a windmill, kicked open a heavy wooden door on the eastern wall.

  "Gold?" Liam asked, peering inside.

  "Better," Faelar whispered, his eyes widening.

  It wasn't a treasury. It was a pantry.

  The air inside was cool and dry, preserved by ancient stasis runes carved into the walls. Shelves lined the room from floor to ceiling, stacked with clay jars, sealed casks, and hanging bundles of wrapped meat.

  "The Royal Larder," Vane said, limping in. She picked up a jar. "This is High-Kingdom seal. This food is five hundred years old, Faelar. It’s dust."

  "No," Faelar said reverently. He took the jar from her. He cracked the wax seal.

  A pungent, spicy aroma filled the room.

  "Preserved Void-Beast Jerky," Faelar identified it instantly, his nose twitching. "Cured in salt and... crushed star-anise? Oh, my."

  He moved to a cask. He tapped it with a knuckle. "Wine. Red. Turned to vinegar centuries ago."

  "So it’s poison," Vane said.

  "It’s vintage," Faelar corrected. "It’s an acidic reduction sauce waiting to happen."

  He grabbed a sack of grain. "Ever-Rice. Magic-infused. Never rots."

  Faelar turned to me, tears of joy streaming down his face. "Captain. We aren't just eating tonight. We are dining."

  We set up camp in the center of the cleared barracks, using piles of bones to build a windbreak for the fire.

  Vane’s forty soldiers were slumped against the walls, exhausted, bruised, and terrified. They watched the Misfit Guard with a mixture of awe and fear.

  "Faelar," I said, sitting down and cleaning my spear. "Work your magic. The men need morale."

  "Aye," Faelar said. He pulled a massive iron cauldron from... somewhere. (I suspected the dwarf now had an Inventory too, or he was just really good at packing).

  Faelar began to cook.

  And it was like watching an alchemist at work.

  He threw in the "Blue Moss" we had harvested in the lobby. He chopped up the rock-hard, 500-year-old Void Jerky. He poured in the ancient vinegar. Then, he uncorked his endless flask and poured in a generous glug of whatever glowing liquid was inside today.

  "That’s going to kill us," a soldier whispered. "He’s making poison soup."

  "Trust the process," Elmsworth said, feeding a piece of jerky to Nugget. "The dwarf speaks to the ingredients."

  Faelar hummed a low, dwarven tune as he stirred. His hands glowed faintly—the Alchemist's blessing activating.

  Under his spoon, the impossible happened.

  The rock-hard jerky softened, rehydrating into tender chunks of dark meat. The bitter moss dissolved, thickening the broth into a rich, velvety blue cream. The vinegar lost its bite, transforming into a deep, savory tang.

  The smell wafted through the dungeon.

  It didn't smell like a crypt anymore. It smelled like a hearth. It smelled like roasted garlic, seared steak, and fresh bread.

  Stomachs grumbled across the room—a chorus of hunger that drowned out the fear.

  "Soup’s on!" Faelar announced, banging the ladle against the pot.

  Vane was the first to accept a bowl. She looked at the thick, blue stew suspiciously. She took a spoon, blew on it, and took a bite.

  Her eyes went wide. She froze.

  "Well?" I asked, taking my own bowl.

  "It..." Vane swallowed. "It tastes like my grandmother’s Sunday roast. But... better."

  She took another bite, faster this time. "I can feel my ankle knitting together. The pain is gone."

  I ate.

  The flavor was explosive—savory, spicy, and deeply comforting. But it was the effect that was truly magic.

  As the stew hit my stomach, a warm rush of golden energy flooded my veins. It wasn't just calories; it was a buff.

  [System Effect (Hidden): Hero’s Feast Consumed] [Buff Applied: King’s Casserole] [Effect: Cures all diseases. Grants immunity to Poison and Fear. +20 Temporary Hit Points for 24 hours.]

  Around the campfire, the soldiers began to sit up straighter. The gray pallor of the dungeon left their faces. Bruises faded. The trembling in their hands stopped.

  "I feel... awake," a sergeant marveled, flexing his hand. "I feel like I could punch a stone wall."

  "Don't," I advised. "Leave the wall-punching to the dwarf."

  Faelar sat back, patting his belly, watching the men eat with a satisfied grin. "See? Nothing a little ancient seasoning and 100-proof spirit can't fix."

  "You are a wizard," Vane told Faelar seriously. "Elmsworth is a fraud. You are the true magician."

  "I just know what hungry men need," Faelar shrugged.

  I finished my bowl and set it down. I felt fully restored. The fatigue of the last few days was wiped clean. I looked at the massive double doors at the far end of the barracks—the doors leading to the Inner Sanctum.

  The stone on my belt buzzed.

  "Stamina restored," the Weaver whispered. "Morale at 100%. Buffs active. You are now prepared for the Boss Encounter."

  I stood up, grabbing my spear. The metal felt warm in my hand.

  "Eat up," I told the room. "Get your strength back. Because whatever is behind that next door... we’re going to kill it."

  Vane stood up next to me. She didn't look terrified anymore. She looked ready.

  "What’s the plan, Kaelen?" she asked.

  I looked at my team—Faelar belching blue smoke, Liam sharpening a shadow-arrow, Willow glowing with mana, and Elmsworth teaching Nugget how to juggle bone dice.

  "The plan?" I smiled. "We knock."