NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

The battle hadn't stopped—far from it. The clash of steel and the shouts of dying men echoed around the battlefield, but here, in this strange clearing amid chaos, the fight had contracted into something else. A duel. The skirmishers seemed to sense it too, drifting back to form a ring, their eyes fixed on the two figures at its center. No one interfered. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see which way the balance would tip.

Fen rolled his shoulders, letting out a slow breath as he settled into a ready stance—blade angled low, weight centered, ignoring the sting of blood still trickling from his side. Across from him, the dwarf stood with the calm poise of a veteran: axe held loose but steady, knees bent, the promise of violence in every line of his body.

Fen flicked a glance at the skirmishers circling them. He didn't have time for this—the bridge still loomed above, and his plan would fail if he didn't bring it down soon. But he'd noticed throughout the battle that the stronger the foe, the faster the tome filled, and this dwarf radiated power like a forge fire. Walking away wasn't an option. Not from him. And if he was honest, he didn't even want to. Against his better judgment, he wanted this fight.

"Your men fight well," Fen said, tightening his grip on the sword. "Disciplined. Fast. Not what I expected from…" He gestured toward the fallen bodies. "Interns running combat enhancers."

The dwarf huffed out a short, amused breath. "They are warriors first. They earned their names in the fire of battle."

"Is that so?" Fen cocked a brow, using the words to buy precious seconds, gauging the dwarf's rhythm, his tells, the weight of that axe. "And what's yours, then?"

The dwarf's grin spread, sharp and wolfish, his voice booming like a war drum.
"Durval of the Hells' Hearth Forge, the Smith of Warriors, and the Bane of the Drow!"

Fen blinked, then let a crooked grin slip. "Wow. Straight out of a first edition Player's Handbook. Sets the backstory up nicely."

Durval barked out a laugh, shoulders rolling in satisfaction. "And you? What do they call you?"

"Fenris," he said, tilting his head. "But my friends just call me Fen."

Durval's eyes narrowed, as if weighing that name against the man before him.

Fen gave a small shrug, blade angled casually but his mind cataloging every shift of muscle, every twitch of stance. "No titles. No bane of anything. But I do have a kill count that's probably making somebody's system monitor sweat."

Durval chuckled, lowering his chin slightly.

Fen's lips tugged into a faint smile as he studied him. "So what about you? Behind all that fire and steel—what do you actually do?"

The dwarf leaned forward, lowering his axe a deliberate inch, grin turning sly. "I work in customer service."

Fen exhaled in mock sympathy. "Ahh. That explains the rage."

They both laughed—the short, knowing laugh of tired professionals who understood the job too well. And then, the duel began.

Durval struck first, a violent overhead swing that cleaved the air with enough force to break bone. Fen caught the shift in his shoulders at the last second, blade snapping up to parry—only to realize the swing was a feint. Durval rolled through the motion, snapping forward with his forehead. The headbutt slammed into Fen's chest like a hammer, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Before he could recover, a steel-booted kick crashed into him, hurling him back across the stone. His cloak whipped in the air as he staggered, boots skidding.

Fen steadied himself, lips curling in a silent grin. Dirty tactics. My kind of fight.

The instant his stance locked in place, he lunged. His blade flashed—once, twice, three times—sharp, testing thrusts at different angles, each one pushing for an opening. Durval parried the first, deflected the second, and twisted just enough for the third to skim past his shoulder.

Fen flowed into a horizontal slash, pouring weight and speed into the cut.
Durval met it head-on.

The crescent axe angled perfectly, haft absorbing the blow as the dwarf dug his boots into the stone, bracing for impact.

"Nice!" Fen grinned—then flickered out of sight.

His cloak's teleport ability—Veil of Night—activated.

The cloak rippled as shadows swallowed him whole, leaving behind a streak of black smoke that curled and dissipated in the air like ink in water. For a breath, he was nothing but motion through darkness, sliding across the battlefield in an eyeblink.

He reappeared behind Durval, blade already arcing down in a ruthless overhead strike meant to cleave him from shoulder to spine—

Except the blade met nothing. As the strike fell, Fen caught a flicker of movement—Durval's form sinking straight into the earth, faster than the arc of his sword. It was as if the ground had turned liquid beneath him, swallowing him whole like water.

The ground where Durval had stood rippled, sand shifting as if stirred by an unseen current. Fen blinked, registering the disturbance a heartbeat too late. The earth itself moved.

Durval surged up ahead of him, chest and shoulders rising from the dirt as though breaking the surface of a still lake. He was already mid-swing.

The crescent axe swept low, and fast, aiming to cut Fen's legs out from under him. Durval moved like molten stone, flowing through earth as if it were water.

Fen sprang back, barely clearing the upward strike. Dirt and shattered rock fountained skyward, pelting his cloak. He raised an arm against the spray, boots sliding another step.

Should've known he had items of his own. The thought cut sharp through the chaos. And if he isn't bound by the same five-slot limit I am… this just got a lot more dangerous.

The ground convulsed. With a thunderous boom, Durval launched from the earth like a cannon shot. His axe spun in a blur, a cyclone of steel and momentum, carving arcs through the air as he came down.

Fen barely had time to react. He brought up his sword, parrying the first strike, but the sheer force of the spinning assault sent shockwaves through his arms, dragging his guard lower, the momentum tugging his blade off-center.

A mistake.

Durval's final spin landed. The crescent axe bit deep into his armor, driving him sideways and knocking him off balance. The impact rattled through his ribs, and steel cut into flesh and blood sent a jolt of pain through his torso.

Fen gritted his teeth. "I should've taken Desmond up on the heavy armor," he muttered.

Durval landed smoothly, boots planting with practiced ease, his stance already set. A wide grin flashed beneath his beard.

Fen exhaled, shoulder slack as he adjusted his grip. The wound was shallow—superficial even—but if he'd been a fraction slower, it would've gutted him. He raised his sword in acknowledgment, though his expression had shifted. The sharp, calculating focus remained—but now, layered beneath it, something else. Excitement.

He hadn't had a fight like this in cycles.

The flicker of memory tugged, a spark buried too deep to grasp. Dangerous to linger on it now—because Durval was already pressing the attack.

The dwarf came on fast, relentless, no hesitation.

Fen barely got his blade up in time. The clash resumed, steel ringing in sharp bursts as the rhythm of the fight surged back to life. Durval fought like a landslide—heavy, unyielding, yet shifting with uncanny fluidity, battering Fen back with each strike, then resetting his stance to press again. Fen countered with speed, redirecting weight instead of absorbing it, slipping into gaps, forcing space. Sparks flew with each collision, their footwork gouging trenches into the scarred ground.

The duel became a rhythm, a furious cadence that built toward crescendo—until both men broke apart, instinctively stepping back. Silent. Smiling. Breathing hard.

For a moment, stillness.

Then, as if bound by the same unspoken command, they lunged again.

Fen's body moved on instinct, blade meeting axe, parries and counters blurring together. He barely had time to think—just react, just move—but a single shard of clarity pierced the chaos.

At the edge of his vision, the wider battle came into focus. His squad and the mercenaries were clashing at the mouth of the bridge, steel on steel, cries of pain cutting through the thunder of combat. Men were dying. His people were dying.

He needed to end this.

And fast.

That realization sparked an idea—something he hadn't thought about since his gear had transmuted. The sting of the wound, the raw urge to heal, dragged it back into focus. And then, as if answering that thought, his HUD flickered:

Specter's Flask

Stolen novel; please report.
A matte-black flask laced with glowing symbols, still warm to the touch. The liquid within glows faintly, like bottled aurora.
Ability: Etheric Restoration — Provides ten seconds of invulnerability. Gradually restores health and stamina for 15 seconds.

Fen's fingers twitched. A wild plan formed in his mind—ugly, dishonorable, and effective. He felt cheap just considering it. Almost remorseful.

Durval deserved better.

This wasn't some arrogant rookie swinging wild, or a mindless thrall. This was a warrior—skilled, sharp, the kind of opponent you wanted to stand toe-to-toe with until the very end. Fen found himself wishing, absurdly, that they'd met under different circumstances. In a training hall. In another life. Somewhere he could have given Durval the clean, honest fight he'd earned.

But this wasn't that life. Not anymore.

This was war. His squad's lives were measured in seconds. The army's survival balanced on a crumbling bridge. Seraph's mission teetered in the balance. He couldn't afford honor here. And if Durval really was hardcore… if this flask trick ended him for good instead of sending him to respawn… Fen would carry that. He'd carry it all.

The thought sat like a stone in his chest. But he didn't let it stop him.

As if the battlefield itself sensed his urgency, a sharp chime cracked in his communicator. Davin's voice cut through the static:
"Fen, the heavy armor's starting to gear up," Davin's voice crackled through the comm. "They're forming into columns now. At the pace they're moving, you've got maybe ten, fifteen minutes tops before I have to blow the charges."

Fen pressed a quick acknowledgment, forcing his breath steady despite the burn in his lungs. "Understood, Davin. Hold until then. Make sure Seraph knows where we are in the timeline—and keep an eye on the skies."

He exhaled sharply, shaking out his shoulders, then turned back to Durval.
"Sorry about that," he said between breaths. "You know how it is—calls always come in at the worst time."

Durval huffed a laugh, rolling his shoulders as he readjusted his grip. "Aye, I know that in my bones. You wouldn't believe how many calls come in the second I try to take my break."

Fen grinned despite himself. For a man covered in blood and brimming with battle fury, Durval really was good company.
"Must be frustrating," Fen said. "Tell me something—your boss a zealot like Fisck? Forcing men to bleed out hardcore just to prove themselves?"

Durval's smirk widened, but his stance never loosened.
"Pretty sure of yourself." The dwarf rolled his neck. "Think you're going to best me?"

Fen chuckled, spinning his sword once in his hand. "This is the first fight in a long time that actually made me feel something. Don't want it to be over, but I've got places to be. Bridges to blow, ya know."

Durval let out a booming laugh, shaking his head. "Aye, lad. Don't worry. My boss doesn't pay me enough to play this rig hardcore."

Relief cut through Fen sharper than the pain in his ribs. That meant this wouldn't be his final send-off. He could use the flask without condemning Durval forever.

"Good," Fen smirked, raising his blade. His grin turned sharp, predatory.
"Then I don't feel so bad doing this. Thanks for the fight, Durval."

And then they moved.
Blades whirred, steel flashing in the firelit battlefield, both warriors lunging into the final clash.

The moment came as all endings do—unexpected, inevitable.

Fen's grip tightened on the flask as he summoned it from his inventory, the glass cool in his palm. He yanked the stopper free with his thumb and downed it in a single swallow, ether burning his throat. A cold system chime pulsed through his HUD.

System Alert: Etheric Restoration Activated — Health restored. Stamina replenished. Environmental resistances reinforced. Invulnerability: Active (10 seconds).

The magic hit like a lightning—white-hot pain screamed through his nerves, but something deeper, vital, refused to collapse.

Durval didn't see it. He only saw Fen lower his guard.

The axe came down in a brutal arc, burying into Fen's gut. Armor buckled, flesh tore, blood sprayed—but Fen stayed upright. Boots ground into the dirt, teeth bared, his body screaming but unbroken. For an instant, shock froze Durval's eyes.

Still hurts like a sparking circuit breaker, Fen thought, jaw clenched. Apparently, Invulnerable doesn't mean painless.

Fen drove his sword upward in the same heartbeat, slipping under the dwarf's ribs and shoving until the hilt pressed against blood-slick cloth.

Durval gasped, staggered. His axe slipped from numb fingers, but he didn't swing again. He knew.

The two locked in place, warrior to warrior, the end sealed between them.

Fen met his gaze, voice low but steady. "Good fight, Durval. Hope this isn't the last time we cross blades."

Durval's chest hitched. Blood flecked his beard as he drew in one last breath, summoning the dregs of his strength. His voice came out ragged but loud enough to carry to his men. "Stand down, Hellhounds!"

The shout tore through him, leaving his knees buckling, but his eyes still burned with pride. He looked back at Fen, a rasp of a laugh escaping. "Softcore, lad. I'll be back on my feet soon enough… and when I am—we'll call it a rematch."

He swayed, the last of his strength bleeding away, but still managed a crooked grin. "Treat my men with honor till then." His body sagged, the light fading from his eyes as the system claimed him, leaving only stillness in Fen's grasp.

Fen exhaled, jaw tight, and pulled his blade free. Blood pattered into the dirt as Durval's body slumped.

The remaining skirmishers—eight, maybe ten—stood frozen, weapons slack. A few looked stunned, others lowered their blades in silent respect. One or two even raised fists and voices in a rough cheer, calling Durval's name into the morning air.

Fen straightened, blood still dripping from his blade. He faced the skirmishers directly. "If you don't want to get caught in what's coming next," he said, jerking his head toward the open plains beyond the battlefield, "run that way. This is where we part."

There was hesitation, but no argument. A few nodded in respect. One saluted. Then, slowly, the circle broke apart. Weapons lowered. Men turned and began slipping into the open fields, leaving only Fen and his squad behind.

He turned to his own people, breath still heavy, adrenaline burning in his veins. "Good job, all of you. It's been a pleasure. But from here, our paths split. Get to base. We'll meet again—and when we do, drinks are on me."

His gaze landed on Fred, who still hadn't moved with the others, hammer slack at his side, eyes wide.

"Oh, and Fred."

The red-shirted soldier blinked.

Fen gave him a small salute, palm raised, thumb outstretched, middle and ring fingers split into a wide V. "Live long and prosper, okay?"

Fred just stared, utterly baffled. His mouth opened, then closed again as though searching for the right response. At last, he simply nodded once before loping after the others.

At that moment, Fen's eyes flickered as the HUD notification appeared:

[Stored Charge: 100%]
"Power drawn from the blade fuels its wrath. The more it drinks, the greater the storm."

The Arcane Nexus had devoured its fill. Unlike the Grasp of the Hollow he'd unleashed aboard the Legacy, this one came with a warning—an announcement, almost ritualistic in its cadence:

It is satisfied. It is ready.
The souls will return—not as they were, but as they are.
They will rise from the void, wrenched screaming from the abyss.
Their numbers: legion.
And they will not return alone.

Fen's breath caught, the words thundering through his HUD like judgment passed. Power lanced through him, tugging at the edges of his essence, burning as if the spell demanded more than stored charges—it wanted his will. His vision blurred for an instant, the world tilting.

Excitement warred with dread. The Hollow hadn't given him any warning. It had simply reached and taken. This was different. This was a choice.

A prompt flashed before his eyes:

[Ability: Cavern of Souls – Full Charge Required]
"Open the path to the Forgotten. The veil fractures, the earth screams, and from the abyss they rise—fiends wreathed in ethereal fire, howling for vengeance. Once summoned, they come but once in an age, and the covenant cannot be called again for a thousand years."
[CAVERN OF SOULS: CAST? yes/no]

His hand hovered, blood still slick on his knuckles. For one heartbeat, he hesitated, nerves and exhilaration tangled into something sharp.

Then he grinned, teeth bared. "Let's see what you've got."

He gave the mental command and confirmed: Yes.

Seraph leaned low against Petrie's neck as the drake banked hard, arrows slicing the air past her ears. His wings thundered, each beat rattling through her bones as he carried them just clear of another volley of magefire from the southern tower. Below, the clash of steel rang out like a thousand bells shattering at once.

Her men on the north line were starting to buckle—shields splintering, formations breaking under the press. To the south, archers and spellcasters carved through Fen's troops with ruthless precision.

"Come on, Fen," she muttered, snapping a bolt of shadow from her crossbow into the cluster of archers on the northern tower. The spell tore through several bowmen, scattering the rest, but she didn't bother checking her kill count. There were too many.

"Any moment now," she muttered, loosing another bolt of shadow. "Davin said the heavies will be here soon—but what's your play, boss?"

She veered Petrie back over the center of the bridge, scanning for Fen's position—

And then the earth split open.

A jagged rift of midnight darkness tore through the ground, racing toward the bridge in violent cracks. The air thickened at once, sour and heavy, the stench of rot filling her lungs. She coughed, gagging against it.

And then came the screaming.

Sickly green hands clawed their way from the abyss, spectral fingers dragging themselves into the light. The first enemy soldier barely had time to shout before one latched onto him. His flesh blackened, withered, and collapsed into dust. More hands followed. Dozens. Hundreds. Then thousands. They poured upward in a writhing tide, dragging the living into the dark, ripping them apart with shrieks that curdled the blood.

The fissure reached the bridge. Stone groaned and split, its supports buckling as if centuries of weather had scoured it in an instant. Chunks crumbled away, the surface cracking in jagged veins, but the span itself held—scarred, weakened, yet still standing.

The spectral tide surged over it. The dead swept across the span like a river of horror, tearing through the defenders stationed there. Soldiers screamed as they were ripped apart or hurled into the void, their weapons useless against the tide. And yet—as the legion crossed into Seraph's northern side of the battle, the torrent shifted. The spirits parted like water breaking against a stone, flowing around her allies. Not a claw touched them, not a single hollow face turned their way.

The bridge stood—but most of the enemy upon it belonged to the abyss. Their ranks were torn apart in moments, decimated, until only one in ten still drew breath. Only the few archers and mages perched on the towers were spared, untouched by the tide.

Seraph's eyes went wide. Her grip on Petrie's reins tightened, knuckles white, as the drake banked hard to avoid the chaos below. She fumbled for her comm, voice unsteady.

"…Fen?"

Static, then his voice, breathless. "Yeah?"

Her mouth went dry. "Was that your doing, boss?"

There was a pause. Fen's voice came through, edged with guilt. "…Uh. Yeah."

Silence crackled across the line. Seraph pressed her lips together, staring down at the writhing mass consuming the bridge.

"For server's sake, Fen," she muttered, voice half awe, half exhausted exasperation. "Wow. Just… hmmm."

Another beat passed, the screams echoing up from below.

Finally, she added, dry as sandpaper: "Remind me not to piss you off while you've got that book. Okay?"