The moment Nate's body was flung into the void, silence gripped the chamber like a vice.
Isabella stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight. The hammer knight had hurled Nate's limp form into the chasm without hesitation—like tossing away broken scrap. His blood painted the ground, and the thud echoed in her mind long after the body vanished into darkness.
Her breath caught. Her legs refused to move.
"Nate..." she whispered, the name cracking in her throat like dry glass. It felt wrong. Unreal. The kind of moment that should only exist in nightmares.
But the scene before her was cruelly real.
He couldn't be gone. Not Nate.
She slapped her cheeks—once, twice—trying to force herself out of her daze. Her trembling hands clenched into fists. There was no time for weakness. If Nate had survived everything until now, she couldn't falter here.
She cast a glowing sigil into the air.
She would finish what they started.
The battlefield stretched with chaos and dust. Cursed armor clattered on shattered tiles, and Isabella's remaining undead circled the archer and mage like wolves. But her mind was elsewhere—haunted by the absence of the boy who had pulled her out of darkness.
Where was he?
Why hadn't Nate stood back up?
Why hadn't the system healed him?
The two remaining knight-class monsters remained seated, watching like cruel gods, unmoved and unchallenged. Their arrogance burned in her veins like acid.
Fine.
She would make them care.
"Switch targets!" she commanded.
The undead twisted their stance, suddenly abandoning the archer to swarm the mage. As the rusted soldiers charged, Isabella pivoted, facing the archer directly.
He was ready. Three arrows nocked, each glowing a sickly green. The wind crackled around their tips as he released.
She responded instantly—her own circle lighting up with explosive force.
A blinding collision split the air. Arcane light burst outward, shaking the room like thunder. For a moment, the magic hung in stalemate—then hers broke through.
A wind spear pierced the archer's chest. His form crumpled beneath the impact, swallowed by dust.
But no time to celebrate.
She turned just in time to see the mage strike down ten of her undead with a furious blast of shadowflame. Only one remained, armor fractured, standing on one leg, sword still raised.
"Enhance!" Isabella shouted.
The undead's body pulsed, its movements sharpening.
It sprinted forward—and in a blur of motion, her forces overwhelmed the mage. A severed arm. A sliced leg. The cursed mage collapsed to his knees.
The last blow came clean—his head fell, lifeless.
Isabella exhaled, her chest heaving.
Two of the four were down.
She turned to the knights.
They had not moved. They had watched it all, silent.
Unfazed.
Their very presence felt like a mockery.
She narrowed her eyes.
Then sprinted toward the pit—and jumped.
The moment she landed below, her boots crushed scattered fragments of armor. She scrambled through the broken pieces, eyes frantic.
No blood trail.
No body.
Nothing.
"Nate?!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls.
Silence.
She dug through the debris. Minutes passed. Then hours.
Still nothing.
Her hands began to shake, not from exhaustion—but despair.
He was gone.
Truly gone.
She stared blankly into the void where he'd fallen, grief tightening around her like a noose.
Again. She had failed again.
Why did the people she cared about always die?
The rage inside her flared like an inferno.
Her magic erupted.
"Awaken," she whispered.
One. Then two. Then thirty.
"Awaken."
Another wave. Her voice rose with fury.
"AWAKEN!"
When it ended, ninety-five cursed warriors stood before her, their eyes glowing blue like stars in a graveyard.
Without a word, she ascended the steps, her army at her back like a wave of death.
The knights awaited her, unfazed.
Her voice was steel. "Rematch."
They didn't blink.
"Attack!"
Her undead surged forward.
But in a single, horrifying moment, the sword knight moved—and every single warrior fell.
Shattered.
Torn.
Destroyed.
Before she could react, the hammer knight reappeared behind her.
The air grew heavy.
Too late.
She turned just in time to see the hammer descend.
And then—bang.
The impact never came.
Isabella's eyes snapped open.
A figure now stood between her and death.
Tall. Silent. Unmoving.
Nate.
But not the same Nate.
His body was wrapped in twisted cursed armor, glowing faintly with purple light. His right hand gripped a giant warhammer—effortlessly.
In his left hand, a new sword pulsed with darkness. Long, jagged, etched in glowing runes. It looked more beast than blade.
Isabella stepped back, stunned.
The sword knight lunged, its blade a blur.
Nate didn't move.
With a single finger, he caught the strike.
A tremor tore through the ground.
The chamber cracked.
The floor beneath them collapsed—swallowing them whole into the depths.
Isabella stood frozen.
Then, slowly, she raised her hands.
The air shimmered. A necromantic circle ignited beneath her.
The corpses of the mage and archer lifted into the air.
"Awaken," she whispered again.
Their bodies glowed blue.
The reanimated mage extended a hand, revealing a small glowing stone.
Cautiously, Isabella took it.
The instant her fingers closed, it shattered.
Power surged through her, her veins alight with energy.
She didn't hesitate—she ran.
Below, the storm of war raged.
Nate tore through the darkness like a living blade. His movements were no longer human—they were monstrous. Elegant. Final.
The sword knight swung once more. Nate responded with a twist of his body and a swipe—severing the knight's hand.
Before it could react, Nate's kick sent it flying.
He followed, drove his blade forward—
The head rolled away.
One knight left.
Nate tossed his sword aside. His gauntlets gleamed, forming from pulsing energy.
The hammer knight stared at him.
Then dropped its own weapon.
They vanished.
All that remained was the echo of their fists colliding like meteors.
The dungeon trembled.
Stone cracked. Walls crumbled.
Then, silence.
The dust cleared.
Nate stood alone, gauntlets scorched, silver hair wild, face unreadable.
In his hand, he held the hammer knight's shattered helmet.
And in his eyes—there was no triumph.
No rage.
Only emptiness.
Only the weight of what had been lost—and what he had become.