The last rays of the setting sun bathed the woods on the city's edge in a fading glow. A man and a skeleton faced each other, Jenkins's mind reeling with questions:
"Do skeletons even talk? What part of it could possibly vibrate to produce a sound?"
On this point, the common sense of both Enchanters and ordinary people was in perfect agreement: skeletons do not talk.
"Stay... stay out of this. You won't find me."
The bone-chilling voice continued, and Jenkins stood in silence, trying to make sense of it all.
"Consider this a warning. If you dare meddle in my affairs again, next time won't be this easy."
Jenkins still couldn't grasp the situation, but the threat was unmistakable. He watched the skeleton warily, flames already flickering to life around his right hand. But with a final, grating cackle, the skeleton crumbled into dust, its ashes scattering on the evening wind and vanishing into the woods.
When Jenkins had first entered the bare woods, Chocolate had taken refuge from the falling snow by burrowing into his overcoat. The cat was now so still it might as well have not been there, leaving Jenkins free to focus completely on his surroundings.
"What was that about... Oh, I get it now."
Suddenly, dozens of small mounds of earth erupted from the ground before him. Fresh soil burst through the blanket of snow, leaving dark, damp patches in its wake.
A glance over his shoulder revealed the same scene behind him. He had been surrounded without even noticing. Fınd the newest release on NoveI~Fire.net
The man murmured, and as he spoke, the mounds swelled, pushed up by something stirring beneath the earth until they resembled fresh graves. Hands draped in rotting flesh and decaying torsos burst through their earthen prisons, but most of the figures that clawed their way to the surface were nothing more than bare skeletons.
A quick scan told him there were between fifteen and twenty of them. Each clutched a crude metal weapon—mostly rusted swords and knives—that didn't seem to match the tattered remnants of their clothing. It looked like the bodies had been brought here from somewhere else.
"Let's see," he mused. "The first skeleton couldn't share its vision, but its creator must have had some way of knowing the general situation. So the coward lured me into this... corpse cache? This trap? That explains what's happening now."
That was his best guess, and he figured the truth wasn't far off. Finding the mastermind would have to wait. The immediate priority was dealing with these filthy creatures. He didn't have his cane today, which meant fighting bare-handed. He wasn't a neat freak, but the thought of it still made his skin crawl.
Traditionally, items imbued with divine power had a devastating effect on any force that opposed a god's domain. Fortunately for him, all the Righteous Gods, even the god of Death and End, held a domain akin to the 'Protection of the Living'.
Jenkins held his pistol, loaded with blessed rounds, in his left hand. His right fist was wreathed in roaring flames. The stench of rot thickened in the air as he watched the horde close in. They were fast, their movements hinting at a coordinated effort to cut off his escape. These were no simple-minded ghouls.
The crack of the first shot was the signal. The circle of undead lunged at him as one. His bullet found its mark, and Jenkins launched himself into the air, spinning a full 360 degrees before his feet touched the ground again.
The flames on his fist traced a brilliant arc through the cold evening air as he spun. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the fire blasting outwards like a ripple, instantly engulfing the nearest ring of undead.
Light and fire were the banes of the undead—a fact known even to the common person. And Jenkins's flames were far from ordinary. The effect was immediate and devastating.
Using this tactic, he dispatched most of the remaining undead within five minutes. The snow was littered with charred bones, and the very air seemed to warm from the lingering heat of his flames.
The sun had finally dipped below the horizon. Jenkins, clad in his black overcoat, frowned as he pushed himself to his feet. Standing directly before him was a new foe: a skeleton of scorched black bone, wielding a scimitar that glinted with a cold, sinister light.
This one was different from the others. The finely crafted weapon alone spoke of a greater power. In life, the being must have stood over seven feet tall. Judging from the hole in its skull and the cracks spiderwebbing across its sternum, its death had been agonizing.
Jenkins pulled the cat from his coat and tossed it onto a nearby branch. It let out a soft, disgruntled mewl, but Jenkins was already focused, his full attention fixed on the new enemy.
The last sliver of the sun vanished behind it, its final, bleak rays glinting off the snow and refracting into a thousand points of blinding light. Two motes of blue fire abruptly flared to life within the skeleton's eye sockets. As its gaze fell upon Jenkins, a prickling sensation ran up his spine, and he felt an involuntary shiver.
"Papa Oliver mentioned something ," he thought. "Let's see..."
Living in the city, he rarely encountered the undead, so his knowledge on the subject was still somewhat superficial.
"I remember now. Blue flames signify a high-level undead, one that possesses most of its race's natural abilities. That's equivalent to at least a level-four Enchanter. Can something really be man-made?"
Even as the thought crossed his mind, the nascent high-level undead charged, scimitar raised. With no weapon to parry, Jenkins threw another blast of fire, but to his surprise, the creature cleaved right through it with its blade.
It was only then that Jenkins noticed. The blade wasn't a supernatural item, but it had clearly been ritually treated. It must have been enchanted with a high-level Fire Ward—perhaps the only thing that could counter his Inexhaustible Fire.
He couldn't backpedal as fast as it could charge. In the space of a breath, the distance between them closed to less than a foot. The scimitar sliced through the air, aimed at his arm. Jenkins dodged nimbly, landing a solid punch on the skeleton's left arm.
Frost immediately began to sheathe the bone, creeping up toward the shoulder. Before it could reach the skull, however, the blue flames in the skeleton's eyes flared, and the ice's advance halted.
The scimitar swept left in a wide arc, the displaced air stinging Jenkins's skin. This time, he leaped high, tucking his legs as the blade swished harmlessly beneath the soles of his boots.