Their days were spent questing, tackling increasingly difficult jobs, and their nights were spent in the modest comfort of inns. While they always shared a room to save money, they never shared a bed. Tenebrae, true to his guarded nature, never slept. Instead, he meditated, always seated in front of the door like a sentinel, his back never to it, as if he didn’t trust the world outside—or perhaps, the world inside. His vigilance unnerved Eliza at times, but she learned to appreciate the unspoken assurance of his presence. He was always watching, always ready.

The guild was abuzz with their rapid rise to Bronze rank. Few could believe they had climbed so quickly, and while some adventurers congratulated them, others weren’t as kind. Whispers of accusations began to circulate—claims that they were scalping quests, a grave offense in the guild. Scalping involved purchasing large quantities of monster materials to fraudulently claim quest rewards without actually killing anything. The guild viewed it as a stain on the honor of adventurers, and those accused were often called to defend their reputations.

It was during one such moment, when a group openly accused them, that Tenebrae spoke for the first time in public. His voice cut through the room like a blade, cold and precise.

“If you want us to take longer,” he said, his tone sharp and unwavering, “give us something worth killing. If not, do not complain when we do in days what would take you weeks. You are either weak, or the tasks are too strong for you. Either way, it is not my problem.” He leaned forward slightly, his glowing green eyes visible through the slit in his helm. “Do not become my problem. Unlike the things I kill."

The room fell silent, his words heavy with an unspoken threat. No one challenged him further, but it was clear the attention on their party had only grown.

Later that week, while reviewing new quests, a young woman approached them. She introduced herself as Lady Carina Agnieszka, a noble with striking auburn hair and soft green eyes that spoke of both strength and vulnerability. She explained her current mission: delivering a container of medicine to a remote village, two weeks’ travel away. It was a large-scale party quest, and her group was short two members. Seeing that Eliza and Ten had reached Bronze rank, she asked if they would join.

Eliza agreed almost instantly, her enthusiasm making up for Ten’s usual stoicism. The group, called The Sword, consisted of three other members: a stubby hobbit mage who specialized in earth magic, an elvish archer with sharp features and a smug demeanor, and Carina herself, a healer with a talent for water magic.

Eliza’s excitement quickly turned into mild annoyance when the elven archer, a pretty boy with long, golden hair and a charming smile, began relentlessly flirting with her. Every night, during their dinners, he would angle himself toward her, making sly remarks about her beauty and skill. Eliza tried to brush him off politely, but his persistence grated on her nerves. Tenebrae, ever the silent sentinel, never joined them at meals. He remained apart, still in his armor, and never removed his helm. The others often whispered amongst themselves about him, wondering aloud why he was so secretive. Eliza always deflected their questions, creating excuses to protect his identity.

By the halfway point of their journey, the party had seen little trouble. The roads were quiet, and the weather was calm. That night, under the high moon of the human realm, they gathered around the campfire. The warmth of the flames and the camaraderie eased the group into casual conversation.

Curious about party names, Eliza finally explained the origin of their own. “I chose Eternal Kiss because… well…” She trailed off, hesitant to share the truth. “It just came to me in the moment,” she lied, her cheeks flushing faintly.

The elven archer smirked, leaning back against a log. “A romantic name,” he mused. “Perhaps it suits your lovely visage, Lady Eliza.”

Eliza ignored him, her gaze shifting to Carina. “What about your group? Why The Sword?”

“It comes from the legend of Magog,” Carina began, her voice soft but reverent. “He was a holy knight, wielding a sword said to have been forged from the stars themselves. With it, he brought peace and hope to the land. But one day, the sword was stolen, and Magog was left powerless. In his despair, he nearly abandoned his quest.”

“But he didn’t,” the hobbit mage chimed in, his voice bright with enthusiasm. “Instead, he forged a new blade—not from the stars, but from the heart and dreams of his comrades. He named it simply Sword, and with it, he continued his journey.”

“And the sword became a symbol,” the elven archer added, his melodic voice carrying the weight of the tale. “Not of power, but of unity. Of the strength that comes from bonds and shared purpose.”

Eliza listened intently, captivated by the story’s meaning. For all her frustrations with this world, its myths and legends carried a beauty and depth that reminded her of home.

Ten, though silent, considered the tale carefully. Unity. Shared purpose. These were concepts that had been foreign to him for so long. Yet, as he glanced at Eliza, he wondered if they were slowly becoming something more than just an obligation.

However.

The peace did not last.

What was supposed to be the endpoint of their journey—the delivery of medicine—had turned into a nightmare. The gates of the city were in disarray. The northern gate remained sealed, but the southern gate was a chaotic scene of evacuation, overrun with panicked villagers and fleeing soldiers.

Within the walls, horror reigned. Undead swarmed in the thousands, their grotesque forms illuminated by the flickering light of fires consuming the town. Blood painted the cobblestone streets in thick, congealed streaks, and the acrid scent of burning flesh clung to the air. Soldiers fought valiantly but were overwhelmed, their bodies joining the tide of corpses that fueled the undead horde. Screams echoed through the chaos—a cacophony of despair and death.

Eliza found herself separated from the group in the mayhem. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest tightening as panic took hold. She clung to her bow, her knuckles white, but her hands shook so badly she could barely nock an arrow. Everywhere she looked, there was death. Blood. Fire. Her knees buckled as reality crashed down on her like a tidal wave.

This isn’t a game. This is real. And reality hurts.

She sank to the ground, tears streaming down her face as she tried to breathe, tried to focus, but it was no use. She thought of her ex, of the pain she had buried deep inside. The memories clawed their way to the surface, overwhelming her. The trauma, the heartbreak, the suffocating weight of her anxieties—all of it came rushing back. She curled into herself, her sobs drowned out by the chaos around her.

For the first time, she truly understood: this world wasn’t just dangerous—it was brutal. It didn’t care about her, her dreams, or her fears. It would chew her up and spit her out without a second thought.

She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there when a voice broke through the haze of her panic. Deep and cold, it sliced through the noise like a blade. “Why are you just sitting there?”

She looked up to see Tenebrae standing over her, his massive form silhouetted against the glow of the fires. He had just knocked back a wave of undead with a single sweep of his sword, the corpses scattering like brittle twigs. His glowing green eyes locked onto hers, unreadable and emotionless.

She stumbled to her feet, choking on a sob. “Have you seen the others? The party?”