Those who knew how it began were no more.

Perhaps some unfortunate farmer moved a stone that should have stayed put. Maybe some foolish child undid a seal in a shrine somewhere. It may have even been a fiery stone shooting across the heavens.

Whatever the cause, it was not so very long ago that the Death began stalking the continent.

Disease traveled on the wind, consuming all the people it encountered; the dead rose, the trees withered, the air grew foul and the water rancid.

The King of Time issued a proclamation: “Find the source of this Death and seal it away.”

Thus heroes arose all over the continent, and so they, too, were swallowed one by one by the Death, leaving nothing but their corpses.

The only exception was a single party, which left these words alone: “The maw of the Death lies in the northernmost reaches.”

None left knew who discovered this. For those adventurers, too, were spirited away by the Death.

The Dungeon of the Dead.

The entrance to this vast abyss yawned like the jaws of the Reaper, and people gathered at the foot of it, until finally a fortress city was born.

In this city, adventurers sought companions, challenged the dungeon, battled, found loot…and sometimes died.

These days of glory went on, and on, and on, repeating over and over.

Riches and monsters welled up without end—as did the incessant hack and slash.

Life was spilled like so much water as adventurers drowned in their own dreams until the fire disappeared from their eyes.

Sooner or later, all that remained, glowing like an ember, were the ashen days of adventuring, which went hand in hand with the Death…

Step 1

Red Blade of Doom

The light is faster than the sound: A red blade slices past your eyeballs, followed by a belated whoosh. One half of a dungeon tile. That’s how narrowly you avoided death, just a shuffle of your feet.

You react immediately, closing in and bringing your katana up in a diagonal strike. There’s a ringing of metal, and you feel a dull numbness in your hands. The sword bounces back. You were too slow, frustratingly slow.

Grasping the hilt, you sling your beloved weapon over your shoulder. No follow-up attack comes.

You see just the ghost of a smile in the dim light. It’s laughing at you. Well, let it laugh.

“Hey, you, over here…!”

A spear comes stabbing in from the side. The voice seems so soft for one with a weapon so sharp. It’s a female warrior. The two of you no longer need words to coordinate your actions. But that doesn’t make you infallible.

“Hrrr-agh?!”

Another red flash cuts through the darkness, and again the sound comes late, a clash of steel. Sparks fly, and the spear is deflected. Now the red blade describes a great upward arc. A strike from above. Her face tenses, anticipating the blow. But then—

“Whoa—!”

Parried.

A half-elf scout, holding a butterfly-shaped dagger in a reverse grip, just manages to push the blade off its path. Female Warrior smiles at him as best she can, in acknowledgment of his fine, light-footed entrance. Spear in hand, she struggles to get back to her feet. “Sorry, that one’s on me.”

“All good, but…I can’t handle this one alone!”

With each flash of red light, Half-Elf Scout’s body sports fresh wounds. He’s a scout, after all. One-on-one combat isn’t his calling. I could use a little help here, he seems to be saying.

When you ask if she can stand, Female Warrior says, “I’ll try.” Good.

You advance once more, your sword still across your shoulder, charging straight ahead and swinging three times. But the red blade blocks each cut, sweeping your attacks aside and always moving ever backward as smoothly as if it were melting away. Then, suddenly, you feel a chill down your spine and jump back. The blade flashes through the space where your neck had been an instant before.

That would have been a critical hit!

“This sucks—it’s six-on-one, and we can barely hold on! It don’t make any sense!”

You agree with Half-Elf Scout. You would certainly like to settle this if you could.

There’s an exclamation from behind you: “It’s worse than that—look!” Myrmidon Monk sounds unusually agitated. It doesn’t take you long to figure out why. Something is bubbling up from the darkness—or rather, somethings.

“GHOOOOOOOOOOULLLLL!!”

“GGGGGGGHOOOULL…!”

Red eyes, pale, dead flesh grotesquely swollen. Dressed in rags and flashing fanged mouths, they must be vampires. Nightwalkers, nightwalkers, nightwalkers! And a great many of them, as if every adventurer to die in these depths has been summoned back from the grave. You have no idea how many of them might wait in the dark of this unknowable expanse.

“So much for six-on-one. Think your numbers were a little off,” Myrmidon Monk says, his antennae bobbing vigilantly. He clacks his mandibles together. “Though it makes no difference to our plan—to kill them all. We and they have that much in common, at least.”

“Well, there goes complaining about how we can’t win despite the advantage in numbers,” Female Warrior says. “Now they’ve got the numbers, and they’re some tough customers.” Not fair at all.

Your face is tight as you nod at Female Warrior, then ready your sword in a low stance. You slide forward, taking care to not lift your feet as you close the distance to your opponents, trying to find their presence. Where is the red blade? You can’t make out even the silhouettes of your foes in the darkness. The idea of being able to sense an enemy’s presence is a rather nebulous one anyway. Honestly, there probably is no such thing. There’s only sound, the rasping of breath, traces of body heat, eddies in the air. The five senses tell all there is to tell.

Female Warrior looks at you, and you can feel the trust her eyes convey. She seems to have noticed how calm your breathing is.

“So,” she says, “what’s the plan?”

The edges of your lips curl up as you tell her that there is only ever one plan. Destroy each and every one of them.

Heh: She gives a good-natured shrug, her pale face breaking into a smile. It seems you’ve successfully relieved the tension.

“Mm.” Myrmidon Monk grunts thoughtfully. “Would you like me to switch to the front row? I don’t mind either way.”

“Get outta town!” Half-Elf Scout says, despite the cold sweat drenching him. “Only one of us can chop off that bastard’s head, and it’s gonna be me!”

“Excellent!” Myrmidon Monk laughs, clacking his mandibles approvingly at the scout’s show of enthusiasm. At the same time, he works his knotty fingers, tracing a complicated sigil. The Seal of Return.

“There’s a good chance these undead are weak to Dispel…!” The one who calls out is the party’s female wizard, your cousin who’s incidentally also charged with resource management. “Three moves after Dispel! Let’s do it! Coordinate with me!”

“Right!” comes the eager voice of the bishop beside your cousin, holding the sword and scales. The light has long since gone out of her eyes, which are covered by a bandage, yet her gaze contains the utmost resolution. She was weak once, but now she is a seasoned adventurer.

Even as you marvel at the bishop’s growth, you grunt your own acknowledgment of your cousin’s instructions, tracing a sigil with your free hand.

“O my god of the wind that comes and goes, send home these souls!”

Opening gambit: Myrmidon Monk’s Dispel fills the space with a fresh, violent wind.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The rotting corpses are unable to withstand this purifying air, akin as it is to the Resurrection miracle that restores life. The legions of restless dead in this dungeon were not summoned by a curse, but before a high-level miracle, they succumb just the same.

As the nightwalkers crumble into dust, your cousin’s voice sounds loudly: “Ventus! Wind!”

“Lumen! Light!” continues Female Bishop. She brandishes the sword and scales, intoning the words of the spell as if delivering a proclamation from her god.

The words of magic invoked by the two women overwrite the very logic of the world, refashioning it and producing immense power. The wind turns to a gale, and even your eyes can perceive the light condensing.

And finally, you, too, speak a word of true power, unleashing it all with the sigil formed by your hand.

‘Libero! Release!’

A storm of wind.

Blinding light.

Roaring noise.

And heat.

The grave-dark room, having nearly become an alternate dimension, is flooded with piercing light. Those undead who escaped the effects of Dispel now scream as their flesh boils away. There is nothing in the world that can flee Fusion Blast.

“Captain—!”

“Oh crap…!”

At least, not if it is of this world.

You are lucky. In response to your friends’ shouts, you dodge, rolling along the stone floor. The red blade flashes before you, and there is a spray of blood. The spray is accompanied by a whistling sound. Like a rain of crimson, it spills from the throat of Female Warrior, right in front of your eyes.

“Hhh—rrr…ahhh?!” She presses her hands against her neck, her face bloodless, before she collapses to her knees. The red blade slides through the air again. Overhead in a grim repeat of last time. It’s moments away from decapitating her.

“You—son of a—!” Half-Elf Scout shoves the blow aside. But the butterfly-shaped blade is smacked away, once, twice, and then his abdomen opens. “What the—? Hrrrgh—?!”

You can hear the blade bury itself deep in his bowels. Blood comes pouring from the scout’s mouth. With your companions fallen before you, you grip your blade and rise to your feet. That was two of them.

“…!” Your cousin speaks quickly: “They need healing! You focus on the front row; I’ll worry about the back!” You’ve always respected the way she keeps her cool in even the most extreme situations. And so, even as your companions desperately invoke healing miracles behind you, you slide forward. You can still feel the lingering heat of Fusion Blast on your skin as you jump, lashing out toward the red blade with your own.

Your hands feel little resistance in response. The ash, all that’s left of the nightwalkers, wafts up from under your feet as you slide forward again, trying to control your distance. Your opponent has pulled back, laughing at you all the while. You can see the grin through the rising steam.

This is bad.