I'm Back!

“Let's move.” Murry whispered.

The five slipped into Bell Village.

For what seemed like forever, its streets were finally silent.

Fishing nets, long since torn by wind and rain, swayed gently between weathered wooden homes. Broken barrels, forgotten market stalls and faded signboards remained exactly where they'd been left, as though the villagers had expected to return before nightfall.

Only, no one ever did.

Furielle walked a little slower than before, unusually quiet as she followed the others through the empty streets. No one seemed particularly eager to break the silence either. Even Murry, usually the first to complain, simply looked around.

“This place has been abandoned way before this horde gathered.”

Ludmilla ran her fingers lightly across the moss coating a nearby wall.

“…Nature has been reclaiming it for a while now.”

Another bell echoed overhead.

DONG.

“…There.” Isla pointed toward the old stone tower rising above the surrounding rooftops. The tower stood untouched by time compared to the houses below, its weathered bell still swinging gently behind the open arches near its summit.

“Let’s stop that sound.” Murry urged.

They hurried through the empty square before disappearing into the tower. The heavy wooden doors groaned loudly as they pushed them open, dust scattering across the ancient stone floor.

“Look out!” Isla jumped in front of Furielle, as an undead lunged from the staircase ahead. Her wind spell sent the corpse flying to the far wall, where Murry finished it off clean through the head.

Furielle hadn’t even realized where that came from. She was normally much more focused and aware of her surroundings… yet ever since they entered the village…

“Thank you, Isla.” She smiled weakly at the mage.

“Anytime.” Isla smiled back.

“Bastard probably couldn’t get out with the doors closed…” Murry pointed.

“Curious how it got in, in the first place.” Ludmilla observed.

The party looked around.

Rotting pews lined either side of the aisle while faded banners hung from the walls. Shafts of afternoon sunlight poured through cracked stained-glass windows, illuminating specks of dust drifting through the air.

The bell rang again.

DONG.

“Up there.” Ludmilla pointed. The spiral staircase winding around the tower's inner wall was narrow enough that only one person could climb at a time.

Murry led the ascent, sword drawn and ready.

DONG.

As they neared the top, a low groan came from somewhere above.

“…Wait.” Murry quietly raised a hand. Another wet, guttural moan sounded from beyond the trapdoor leading into the bell chamber.

He slowly pushed it open, allowing daylight to spill down the narrow staircase.

There, beneath the enormous bronze bell, a lone undead staggered around the chamber.

One of its arms remained tangled around the thick bell rope, raw flesh torn away where weeks of endless pulling had worn it down to bone. Every time it lurched mindlessly toward the movement at the doorway...

The rope tightened and the bell swung.

DONG.

The undead stumbled again, its ruined fingers still clinging instinctively to the rope.

DONG.

Ludmilla's eyes slowly drifted from the creature to the dried blood staining its tattered adventurer's cloak and to the bite marks along its arms, realization quietly settling across her face.

“…He climbed up here.”

Murry lowered his sword slightly.

“…To ring the bell.”

She nodded.

“He was probably ringing it to ask for help.”

Another sluggish step, leading to another pull.

DONG.

“Then he must have turned.”

The adventurer had never meant to doom the road.

In his final desperate moments he had only hoped someone would come to his rescue.

Murry stepped forward and ended it with a clean swing, severing the arm tangled around the rope as the corpse collapsed beneath the bell. Freed from its grip, the great bronze bell rocked gently one final time.

Dong...

And finally… nothing.

“…Rest easy, pal.”

The final toll faded across Bell Village until nothing remained but the faint sounds of the wind outside.

𓌏

Flint ran through bushes and around thick trees, sword sheathed and tight in his fists. He ducked a branch, and jumped over a low fence. The groaning behind him was intense and constant, not letting up one bit.

He didn’t know the undead could be so fast when they wanted to. The ones he’d seen mostly shuffled and lunged… now some of them were even sprinting after him.

To the naked eye it looked like Flint was blindly running from the horde. But he wasn’t.

The baker back in town had unknowingly given him exactly what he needed.

It’s an old fishing village.

It didn’t take long for Flint to conclude that fishing villages had dockhouses… and boats.

Undead couldn’t swim, nor row. Escaping a horde wasn’t easy but putting a mass of water between him and them… made it significantly easier.

Flint’s eyes lit up as a wooden dockhouse appeared in the distance, standing along the lakeshore just outside the village.

“There… it is!”

It was a good thing he found what he was looking for before he got tired. He hadn't run this much since he was a child, chasing Isla around Berthram's cabin.

Flint reached the dockhouse, slamming his shoulder against the door and shutting it behind him. As bodies slammed against wood, rattling the boathouse, the woodcutter’s eyes had already found the other exit right before a steadily swaying boat.

“Found you!”

Flint exited the cabin, jumping on the wooden floater just as the undead burst into the dockhouse. Gripping the oars tightly, he began to row away.

“Come on! Faster!” He gritted his teeth, as the first row of undead splashed into the water, sinking to its deepest depths. However not all simply fell.

CRASH

An undead leapt, landing right into the boat.

“Hey what the–”

Before it could lunge, Flint swung the oar into its skull, knocking the undead over the side and sending the boat rocking beneath his feet.

“Phew…”

The woodcutter exhaled as the boat drifted farther from the groaning horde lining the dock. Just in time, too. Somewhere across the lake, the bell rang one final time before falling silent.

Flint smiled and eased his grip on the oars, allowing the boat to carry him across the still water while his pulse gradually slowed. Only then did he notice the crimson glow beneath the Bloodblade's sheath beginning to fade.

𓌏

For the first time since entering Bell Village, no bell echoed across the valley or distant groans filled its streets, leaving only the wind stirring the faded fishing nets between the abandoned homes. Murry pushed open the heavy bell tower doors first, squinting beneath the afternoon sun.

"...Well."

He looked up toward the now-silent structure.

"I'd say that worked."

Ludmilla brushed a thin layer of dust from her sleeves.

"It was a remarkably primitive solution."

"Primitive?" Murry snorted. "That poor bastard accidentally terrorized an entire trade route for months."

Isla smiled to herself before stepping outside.

"What now?"

Murry rested both hands on his hips, surveying the deserted streets.

"We're already here."

He nodded toward the scattered buildings.

"Might as well make sure no stragglers are hiding inside somewhere. The last thing we need is merchants finally returning only to get surprised by a lone undead hiding in somebody's cellar."

They split up to search the abandoned village, checking the houses one by one. Broken furniture remained where families had left it, while moss crept across the wooden floors beneath roofs that had partially collapsed over the years. They searched room after room without finding so much as a twitch or a groan.

"...Looks clear." Murry called from across the street.

Before anyone could answer a familiar voice echoed from the village entrance.

"I'm back!"

Isla’s head whipped toward the voice almost instantly.

"...Flint!"

Relief instantly spread across her face as she hurried toward him, stopping only when she reached him and quickly looking him over from head to toe.

"You’re… alright."

Flint scratched the back of his head.

"I told you I’d be okay.”

"You didn't actually make any promises."

“Oh!” He smiled sheepishly, "I forgot."

She let out the smallest sigh before her cheeks puffed into a small pout.

“Jeez… idiot.”

Flint laughed.

Murry folded his arms.

"...You certainly took your time, kid."

"I had to row halfway around the village."

"Those broad shoulders just for show then?”

Ludmilla adjusted her glasses, "I never doubted your return."

Murry looked sideways.

"You didn't, huh?"

She looked at Flint as though stating the most obvious fact in the world.

"No. Flint is competent."

"...Huh."

Murry scratched his beard.

"...That's... probably the nicest thing you've ever said."

"I merely stated an observable fact."

Flint smiled before glancing around the group.

"...Where's Furielle?"

The four exchanged uncertain looks before Murry frowned.

"...Wasn't she with you lot?"

Ludmilla slowly shook her head.

"I assumed she was behind us."

Isla looked toward the quiet street stretching deeper into the village.

"...She wandered off a few minutes ago."

Flint's smile faded.

A few moments later, a pair of faint groans drew them toward a cottage near the edge of the village. Its roof had partially collapsed years ago, leaving broken beams scattered among the rubble while faded curtains stirred through an empty window frame.

The front door hung crookedly from a single hinge.

"...Furielle?"

Flint slowly stepped inside, only to stop when he saw Furielle standing motionless in the middle of the ruined home with her back to them. Her attention was fixed on something ahead, her shoulders rigid as she stared toward the collapsed remains of the ceiling.

Beneath the massive wooden support beam, two undead remained pinned to the floor. Tattered remains of an apron still hung from one, while the other retained the broad frame and thick beard he'd once had in life.

Years of struggling had worn deep grooves into the wooden floor beneath them, their skeletal fingers still clawing weakly at anything within reach as they tried in vain to pull themselves free.

Furielle's shoulders began to tremble.

“Mama...?”

Her voice cracked.

“Papa...?”