Well, it's Better Than Nothing

The Dullahan just stood there, chest puffed like he hadn’t just sucker-punched a confused nobody in a cursed forest.

“Now that you understand the situation,” he said, voice still echoing like a haunted podcast, “I expect that you will listen to me properly.”

I wheezed. Still kinda bent over. Still kinda traumatized. But not enough to stop the sarcasm from dripping out of my mouth like expired energy drink.

“Okay, okay. Let’s pretend for a second that you are real, truly and terrifyingly real,” I said, steadying myself against a tree that creaked suspiciously. “Why me?”

He tilted his invisible head like he was confused. Or maybe that was just the horse shifting its weight. I couldn’t tell.

“I mean it. Out of all the people on Earth—you could’ve picked a Navy SEAL, a black belt, some ripped dude who wrestles bears in Siberia. But you chose me. I can’t even do push-ups without seeing stars.”

“You,” he said solemnly, “are the only one who can uphold true justice.”

I squinted at him. “Shut up.”

His ghostly aura flickered like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

“I know that’s not the real reason,” I continued. “There’s no way some cosmic destiny algorithm spat out me as the savior of the free world.”

The air grew awkward. Like, high-school-group-project awkward. Then, for the first time, the Dullahan’s spooky tone wavered.

“Well,” he started, rubbing the side of his neck—which again, wasn’t there — “I mostly chose you because... you were the only one who could actually see me.”

My jaw dropped a little. “Seriously?”

“And,” he added, his voice dipping from ‘ancient guardian of fate’ to ‘slightly embarrassed camp counselor,’ “I was kinda... lost too.”

I blinked. “You mean you’ve just been wandering this forest for how long? Playing dramatic cutscenes hoping someone would respond?”

He shrugged. Or maybe his armor creaked. Hard to say. “Basically, yeah.”

“Well,” I said, brushing off my shirt, “at least you’re honest now.”

“Does this mean you’ll—”

“Nope,” I said immediately, turning around and casually walking off into the darkness like I had GPS and self-esteem. “Good luck with your journey.”

There was a pause. Then the hoofbeats followed me.

“Wait. Aren’t you already lost?” he called out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I stopped. Looked around. Trees. Mist. Judgy wind.

“That,” I said, pointing to absolutely nowhere, “is none of your business.”

I didn’t even make it ten steps before I heard it:

“If you don’t stop, I will punch you again.”

I froze. Spun around like I’d been called out in gym class. “My lord, I am so sorry!” I cried, dropping into the most dramatic peasant bow known to mankind—hands out, spine curved, soul shattered.

The Dullahan nodded approvingly, the way a disappointed dad might when his kid finally stops pretending to be a dragon in public.

“That’s more like it,” he said, back in full serious-mode, voice deeper than a podcast narrator on a true crime binge.

He lifted one gauntleted hand, and a flash of light nearly blinded me. In his grip appeared a sword—glowing, ornate, humming with power like it had its own Spotify playlist.

“You will not go empty-handed,” he declared. “Behold… Escanor. A legendary blade, forged in the darkest pits of the underworld. It has slain countless demons, endured centuries of war, and has only been wielded by the strongest of champions.”

My eyes widened. Finally. Finally something mildly interesting in this fever dream of a night.

“Whoa,” I breathed. “What kind of special abilities does it have?”

He puffed out his chest—or, well, chest armor. “It can cut… really sharp.”

I blinked. “You mean like… a sword?”

“Yes.”

“Like… any sword.”

“Correct.”

Silence.

“…Bro,” I said, deadpan. “Couldn’t all swords do that?”

He paused. I could hear the ghost gears in his non-existent head grinding.

“Well,” he began slowly, “only you and I can see it.”

My brows knit. “Oh. Oh, I get it now. It’s like an invisible sword. That’s genius. I can sneak-attack people! No one sees it coming! Slice ‘em down in one clean motion like an edgy anime protagonist—”

“Kinda,” he cut in. “Except… unless they’re from the underworld, it won’t really… do anything.”

I stared at him. The mist seemed to hold its breath with me.

“So… you’re telling me this sword is worse than a regular sword?”

“Well—”

“No. No, you don’t get to explain. Just punch me. Go ahead. Punch me again. At least then I can die knowing no one saw me waving around my hands fighting against criminals like a lunatic.”

The Dullahan let out a sigh—long, echoing, and full of regret. “I didn’t want to do this.”

I braced myself. Tensed up. Closed one eye. This was it. The beatdown: round two.

But instead…

He dismounted the horse like he was about to deliver some sacred rite—and then dropped to his knees. Clank. Clank. Metal on dirt.

He full-on bowed. Arms stretched. Gauntlets trembling. Headless… yet somehow radiating desperation. It was weird. Like watching a Dark Souls boss beg for patch notes.

“Okay, okay—don’t try to guilt trip me,” I said, taking a step back. “I don’t do well with emotional blackmail from haunted medieval armor.”

“I just… I know if you help me,” he said, practically whining, “I can ensure that when you die, you’ll live a lavish afterlife. Better than most undead. Big crypt. Fancy tomb. I’ll even put in a good word with the Judges of the Departed.”

I raised a brow. “Yeah, that’s still not gonna cut it.”

The Dullahan clutched his armored chest like he was experiencing emotional chest pain. “Then name it. Is there anything—anything at all—you desire?”

I shrugged. “I guess... money?”

“Money?” he repeated like I’d just requested to marry his horse. “Out of all things—power, women, vengeance—you want money?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s not like I have a lot. I literally had a raccoon steal my last granola bar earlier. You think I’m thriving?”

He tilted his headless-less self thoughtfully. “How much do you want, then?”

“I don’t know. Tens of millions of U.S. dollars?” I waved it off. “Not like you’d have any, though.”

Then he said calmly, “How does 54.3 million Archrians sound?”

I stared. “What the hell is an Archrian?”

“Currency from my time,” he said proudly. “Solid gold. Hand-stamped. I was loaded when I died. I had most of it secured in a vault beneath the ruined city of Vaelora. Hidden, but reachable.”

I blinked. “So... medieval money?”

“Yes. But not fantasy garbage—real coins. Pre-banking collapse, high-purity metal. Not many survived the Great Melt.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do with that? Tip a barista with a doubloon?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “But... there are collectors. Very rich ones. Secret auction circles, high-end black-market types, even museums. Some would pay thousands just to own a pouch of Archrians.”

I paused. “You're telling me I could literally cash out ancient gold for stupid-rich-collector money?”

He nodded.

I squinted. “You’re not just making this up to scam me into becoming a ghost soldier or something, right?”

“If I were lying,” he said, “do you think I’d be begging on my knees, swordless and horse-bored, in the middle of this haunted hiking trail?”

“…Fair point.”

“So. Will you help me now?” he asked, voice still serious but with the tiniest hint of hope.

I sighed. “If I say yes, I want a down payment.”

“I have a pouch in my saddlebag. Five coins. Authentic. Try pawning one when we get back.”

I walked up to the horse and peeked. Sure enough, a small pouch—dusty, tied with old leather cord. Inside: gold coins, heavy as guilt and twice as shiny. They looked like something Indiana Jones would risk his life for.

“…You know what?” I said, holding one up to the moonlight. “You might actually be telling the truth.”

The Dullahan didn’t gloat. He just nodded like this was all inevitable.

“You’re still weird as hell,” I muttered. “But I’m broke, possibly hallucinating, and being bribed by a headless knight in the woods. So yeah. Let’s go ruin some secret society’s day.”

He climbed back onto his horse, posture straightening with purpose.

“Good,” he said, voice low and almost… proud. “Then your journey begins now.”

I tucked the pouch into my jacket. 

And with that, the forest around us seemed to shift—like it knew I’d crossed some invisible line.

No turning back now.

Not without at least 54.3 million reasons to see this through.