TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 46 (RAW)

Chapter 46 - The Wailing Death

The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.

- O. Henry.

Frest opened fire with his heavy crossbow, instantly dropping one of the shambling undead with a bolt through its skull. Seraphina could not help but admire his professionalism and uncanny accuracy. It was hardly a knightly weapon, but he wielded it with such near-magical skill that she wondered if it might be tied to his Path. After all, guiding projectiles with a sliver of Mana was one of the game’s more “advanced” techniques.

Handing her sword off to Miriam, Seraphina loaded a handful of smooth river stones into her sling. Then she unleashed them with a furious rhythm, barely needing to aim against the teeming horde. Many stones simply passed through rotting flesh without halting the undead. Still, a good number sheared off limbs with gory explosions, leaving some zombies crawling pathetically across the ground. On rare occasions, a stone pierced a skull, killing its target instantly.

You have slain a Zombie 40 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 37 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 35 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 39 experience gained.

With a sling so simple, it was easy enough to grab more stones and keep firing. The horde, which might have spelled doom for a normal party of adventurers, was no match for Seraphina’s modified sling. 

Growing bored, she closed her eyes and stilled her breathing, making a game of “guessing” the zombies’ positions by sound and movement alone. Of course, their sheer numbers and her sling’s indiscriminate nature meant she hardly had to rely on her senses at all.

You have slain a Zombie 31 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 30 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 33 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 35 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 32 experience gained.

Seraphina continued her onslaught, taking a grim toll on the slow-moving undead. Some of the crawlers managed to reach their position, and her companions were now busy finishing them off. It almost looked like they were putting the zombies out of their misery—especially Eloise, who grimaced and looked away each time she ended a zombie’s unlife with a thrust of her spear.

You have slain a Zombie 5 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 5 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 6 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 4 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 8 experience gained.

Then, at last, Seraphina got what she had been hoping for:

You have slain a Zombie 26 experience gained.

You have slain a Zombie 24 experience gained.

You have learned Blind Fighting (lvl.1)

A laugh of pure delight escaped her—an unsettling sound in such grim circumstances—while a wild grin spread across her face. She took her sword back from Miriam and sprang into the fray, tearing through the last of the undead. Her raw power reduced the shambling corpses to little more than piles of lifeless, rotting meat.

She kept one eye on her Stamina, aware of her weakness in that area. Seraphina knew she could overcome it by investing a few more points into her physical attributes. Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution each bolstered Stamina, though Constitution offered the most per point. Still, even adding to Strength would help her as it would make any task or attack demand less effort. That thought flitted through her mind as she cleaved the heads off two more zombies. Then she dismissed the notifications as they came, already bored with their repetitive announcements.

They had broken the back of the horde, or more correctly, Seraphina had, and only a few stray zombies still lurched about now. It took just a few more minutes for her party to finish the job, earning everyone a modest sprinkling of experience. The aftermath was a sorry sight of rotted limbs and various body parts sticking out of the stained waters. 

Seraphina felt tempted to plant her sword in the riverbed and lean against it, but the image of Kellen’s disapproving glare stopped her. The poor blade had already suffered enough, slicing through scores of decomposing flesh and splintered bone. At least she would not be the one scrubbing it clean afterward or grinding its edge.

She turned her thoughts toward the next, more unsettling stage of this Trial. By now, she was well on her way to a new level and the power that would bring—defeating the dungeon’s boss would practically guarantee it.

“Take a moment to rest,” Seraphina said, pitching her voice so it carried over the hushed burble of the shallow river. “And take satisfaction in knowing we’ve granted the unquiet dead a measure of peace.”

Frest’s eyes, still jittery from the recent battle, swept over the carnage. “You sure this lot’ll stay down?” he asked, his concern obvious.

Seraphina placed a hand on her hip and tossed her hair primly. “They’d find it difficult to stand after all the bludgeoning and cutting we put them through.”

“But shouldn’t we offer some kind of last rites? Something to lay their souls to rest?” Frest persisted.

Eloise—her face pale and haunted like a fragile porcelain doll—lifted her chin. “This is a trial of the Goddess. I believe our victory is enough to guide them to her light.”

“Exactly,” Seraphina said with a warm smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need a moment. The next part will be… taxing.”

Miriam, her spectacles slightly askew, pressed a hand to Seraphina’s shoulder. “Will you be all right, milady? And with words like that, I assume you know precisely what we’re up against?”

“Yes, do tell, Lady Seraphina,” the de Laney girl added. She still looked shell-shocked from her brush with the undead, her breath coming in tremulous little gulps.

With a dramatic flair, Seraphina flicked her wrist. “I’m to face one of the Keening Washerwomen of the Dead. A Banshee… though I wonder if they’re truly Undead or some manner of Fae.”

Eloise exhaled shakily, muttering a brief prayer. The quiet hush that followed underscored the gravity of the revelation.

Sir Clarendon simply shrugged as if this was just another day for him. He had served Seraphina’s father and had been in crazier situations than this. It was not his role to question his mistress.

Frest’s eyes widened in alarm. “A Banshee? No wonder everyone else who’s tried this trial failed. No wonder those adventurers preferred to face the steel of your father’s knights! We need to get out of here…” He looked ready to bolt on the spot, panic creeping into his voice. “Gotta get out…”

“Pull yourself together, Sergeant,” Seraphina commanded firmly. “I wouldn’t have brought us here if I didn’t have a plan. And you won’t be facing this creature—I will. Me, and me alone.”

“But Lady Seraphina—” Miriam began, her voice laced with worry for her mistress rather than herself.

Seraphina silenced further objections with a resolute look, drawing herself up and giving them all the confidence they needed—whether they believed her or not. This trial, though perilous, had to be faced. And only she could do it. Like everything else in life, the young girl intended to face it head-on.

“Your worry is touching, but unneeded. I am more than well equipped to deal with this Banshee,” the young noblewoman stated confidently. “Have I ever led you wrong thus far?”

The rest of the party all looked like they wanted to say something, but decided against it. This was in part due to the hopelessness of the situation and also in part having just been beaten about by the raw force of the girl’s personality. And at this stage, what good would an objection do anyway? They all thought to themselves.

“Frest and Sir Clarendon, stay here and protect the girls. After I defeat the Banshee we will all be exited from the trial together. I will see you all soon and we can have a nice evening together,” Seraphina commanded sweetly. 

“As you say, milady,” Sir Clarendon accepted, smacking his breastplate with a gauntleted fist. Frest followed him a moment later. “Good hunting.”

“I do so hope so. Perhaps, there might even be a spot of resistance. It has truly been rather too easy so far!” the young declared with an easy smile, hoping to instill some confidence in her people.

*****

She started to make her way against the flow of the shallow river, going upstream where she knew the presence of this dungeon waited for her challenge.

Seraphina paused in the middle of the shallow stream, her armored boots sinking slightly into the loose stones. She took a moment to breathe, forcing herself to find calm in the gloom. This part of the dungeon—or this Trial, as this world called it—was testing her patience, really testing it. An unsettling hush pressed in from all sides, so profound that her own heartbeat sounded thunderous in her ears. The air was cool, almost clammy, and a metallic tang lingered on the back of her tongue, as though the river carried the taste of old blood.

She continued her solitary trek upstream, the water colder now. Initially, the water only reached her ankles, but as she advanced, it crept halfway up her shins. Each step stirred up fine silt, and loose stones clouding the water around her legs. Although she could hear a distant churning, a fog had drifted in during that both dulled and emphasized every other sound. Through the swirling haze, Seraphina glimpsed shadowy shapes among the rocky outcroppings that bordered the water. She couldn’t tell if they were merely strange boulders or more of the undead. 

Her breath hitched momentarily in her throat. She would never admit it, being alone in these conditions made her scared. And Seraphina just missed her companion's solid presence, despite her own insistence that they remain behind. 

For against a Banshee—a creature she wasn’t even sure was truly undead or some twisted Fae—well, they’d be of no real help at all. Without magic weapons, physical attacks would be all but useless. Even Eloise’s attacks, though magical, were ironically mostly physical in nature. 

She tried to convince herself that leaving them was the right decision, but a prickling anxiety in her chest said otherwise. If she somehow failed, no one would be there to pull her from the jaws of doom. Of course, if she failed, it wouldn’t matter one way or another.

The dreary landscape did little to assuage her fears. The dungeon’s interior sky—if it could even be called that—resembled a dark, starless night trapped indoors, with drifting gray clouds that offered no hope of daybreak. 

She now the occasional jagged rock formations thrust up like broken bones, their edges rimed with some sort of glowing moss that pulsed faintly blue. The reflection of this eerie luminescence on the water’s surface seemed to track her progress, bobbing and weaving, as though she were haunted by a procession of ghostly lights. From time to time, she thought she could hear moaning, but it might have been just the breeze scraping over the rocks.

She pressed onward, determined not to let the gloom break her focus. Though her heart pounded, she forced the fear down. And so, each step brought her farther from the safety of her companions, deeper into the unknown.

The mist thickened until she could barely see her own outstretched hand. Soon, the swirling gray enveloped her completely, muffling the flow of the water around her ankles—or was it up to her shins? She found herself counting paces, determined to keep track of how far she’d come. 

Without warning, the ground dipped beneath her, and she nearly lost her footing. She cursed under her breath, righting herself with a tight grip on her sword’s pommel as the blade stabbed into the river bed. 

Time blurred. She couldn’t tell if she’d traveled minutes or hours in this featureless haze. Her mind began to churn with doubt: had she chosen the correct path? Or had some illusion led her astray? Would she wander here, alone, until her stamina drained away completely? The rhythmic sloshing of her steps throught he water became a sort of maddening clock ticking away her life. 

Seraphina was just about to sink into despair when the mist opened before her like a curtain drawn aside, revealing a small clearing in the stream. A raised stone at the water’s center served as a sort of stage. Perched atop it, facing away from Seraphina, was a woman with impossibly black hair that cascaded down her back. She sat hunched, sluicing garments in the knee-deep water. The wet fabric slapped against the stone with a dull, repetitive thud. A sudden chill snaked up Seraphina’s spine, and she felt her pulse hammering in her temples. Something about the woman’s figure seemed painfully familiar.

When the woman turned, Seraphina froze. It was her own face—pale, twisted into a knowing smirk. Not the face of her in this world, but her beautiful visage from her last. The sight was so unnerving she nearly lost her grip on her sword. The washerwoman’s eyes were ringed in shadow, her lips curled in an expression of glee that bordered on madness. Slowly, with deliberate motions, the creature lifted the cloth in her hands and wrung it out, letting the water drip, drip into the stream. That water, now tinted a deep crimson, floated downstream toward Seraphina like the fingers of prophecy.

“You came.” The voice was airy, nearly a whisper, but the words carried an unmistakable malice. A hollow sound.

Seraphina swallowed. The creature should not have spoken at all, for it dispelled some of the fugue and mystique that had surrounded her.  “You’re the Keening Washerwoman,” she stated in a clear voice, her mouth nonetheless gone dry. “A Banshee.”

In response, the black-haired figure tilted her head. The slow motion was almost playful, as though she took pleasure in Seraphina’s sudden fear. Her malevolent smile widened, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth. Seraphina’s own reflection—the face she’d seen countless times in mirrors—warped into something hungry, something ancient and cruel.

“You wonder if I’m Fae or Undead?” the Banshee asked, voice echoing strangely, as though it came from every direction at once. “Why not both?”

A deafening wail erupted from the creature’s mouth, shattering the calm of the clearing. It hit Seraphina like a physical force, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She staggered, throwing an arm across her ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound. Horror swirled in her stomach; the Banshee’s cry felt like it could strip her soul from her body. The shallow water churned at her feet, as if troubled by the unearthly shriek. 

Her Health began to creep downwards as she weathered the aural assault.

For one terrifying moment, Seraphina felt her resolve falter. Her mind reeled under the onslaught, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. She tasted copper on her tongue, and realized she had bitten the inside of her cheek. Struggling to remain upright, she remembered why she had come and what power she had sworn to uphold. Then she remembered who she was.

She was Seraphina bloody de Sariens and no low-level scummy dungeon was her match. This indignant anger empowered her, giving her the resolve to stand proud and straight, looking at the bitter black creature as if it were nothing more than a cockroach.

She inhaled and, with a mighty effort, expelled her own voice. It was not a scream born merely of fear or rage—it was the invocation of her Holy Covenant. Before she had sung to beauty and life. 

Now Seraphina sang to condemnation and judgment.

Radiant energy coursed through her throat, and an almost blinding light rippled outward from her lips. She could feel the weight of her power weaving through her words, meeting the Banshee’s keening head-on. 

A mighty wail all of her own.

The clash of sound was nearly unbearable. It was as if thunder had torn open the skies, shaking the foundations of the stream itself. Through the haze of unearthly noise, Seraphina’s gaze locked onto the Banshee’s. She saw the creature’s triumph fade into surprise, then disbelief, and finally, fear. Seraphina’s empowered voice was neither melodic nor graceful—it was raw, potent, the clarion call of someone who was sure in their own cause. 

As the two cries merged into a frenzied crescendo. Seraphina stumbled forward, determined to maintain her assault. Step by step, she advanced on the figure, never letting her voice falter. The Banshee tried to hold her ground, clawed fingers digging into the wet cloth she’d been washing, but it was no use. With a final shriek that dissolved into a strangled gasp, the Banshee collapsed in on herself, becoming a swirl of inky darkness. 

You have slain a Banshee 500 experience gained.

You have learned Wail of Judgment (lvl.1)

You have completed a Divine Ordeal 1000 experience gained.

Cracks began to form in the rocky platform beneath the Banshee. They spiderwebbed outward, luminous white lines that looked as if the very dungeon was unraveling around them. 

Yes! She cried out herself. Fresh notifications flooded her vision informing her that now she was level seventeen. Quickly, she put two of her attribute points into Constitution and one point into Luck. Finally, she put her free skill point into Heal, maximizing the spell.

The walls of fog shimmered, shuddered, and then abruptly shattered. Slivers of light—like shards of crystal—rained down in a glittering storm. 

In the next heartbeat, the entire dungeon began to convulse. The rock walls behind them fractured, sending jagged spears of stone and crystal tumbling into the water. The shallow stream turned turbulent, its surface churning with shards of brilliant azure that scattered light in all directions. Seraphina felt the ground lurch beneath her feet. The unnatural gloom peeled away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of shifting lights as if she were trapped inside a giant prism. 

A sudden, violent flash nearly blinded her. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, and when she lowered it, the scene had changed entirely. The stream, the swirling mist, and the Banshee’s shattered platform were gone. Instead, Seraphina found herself on solid ground, the sky above a normal shade of dusky gray—she was back outside the trial’s entrance.

Blinking against the fading afterimages, she saw the blurred outlines of her companions rushing toward her. Miriam was first, spectacles askew, arms stretched wide. Frest and Eloise followed, the latter looking as though she might drop to her knees from relief at any second.

“It’s over!” Miriam her maid cried, voice cracking with emotion. “She’s back!”

Seraphina tried to speak, but the words refused to form. The aftershock of unleashing that Holy voice had drained her, leaving her lungs and throat feeling as though they’d been scoured with fire. She took one unsteady step, then another, the world tilting precariously around her. She managed a half-hearted smile at her companions.

All at once, the exhaustion and terror she’d fought so fiercely to contain erupted through her body. Her muscles turned to lead, and the sword slipped from her grip, clattering against the ground. A wave of overwhelming relief washed over her, hot tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She’d done it. She’d faced the monstrous Banshee that had taken her own face, sealed the unholy wail with her own Holy Covenant.

“Lady Seraphina!” Miriam shouted, her voice echoing again in Seraphina’s dull ears as she lurched forward to catch her. Eloise raised trembling hands, whispering a prayer as her face, still bearing traces of the horrors they’d witnessed, twisted into concern. Frest hovered behind them, eyes bright with a complicated mix of awe and relief.

Seraphina’s lips formed silent words, perhaps a prayer of her own, but only a faint breath escaped. The weariness pressed down on her like a crushing weight, and she let her eyelids sink shut. The world slipped away in a swirl of shadows and comforting warmth.