The Graves loomed ahead, twisted iron gates rising from barren ground like broken teeth. Weathered metal screamed in protest as I pushed through, rust flaking onto my gloves. The wrongness hit immediately, a crawling sensation across my skin that made every instinct scream to turn back.

  I ignored it. Stepped forward.

  Reality lurched.

  The afternoon sky vanished. Sunlight died between one heartbeat and the next, swallowed by sudden, absolute night. Cold slammed into me, the temperature dropping twenty degrees in an instant. My breath ghosted white in front of my face.

  Mist rose from the cracked earth beneath my boots, curling upward in serpentine coils. Thick. Gray. Choking. Within seconds, it reached my waist, limiting visibility to maybe fifteen feet in any direction. Beyond that… nothing but murk and shadow.

  The only light came from above. A bloated moon hung in the sky, too large, too pale, its sickly greenish luminescence barely penetrating the fog. Everything else drowned in darkness.

  Dungeon mechanics at work.

  In Path of Exemplar, Dungeons functioned as separate instances. Pocket dimensions divorced from the normal world, each with randomly generated layouts that reset every time you left and returned. No two runs were ever identical. Different enemy placements, different loot spawns, different paths through the maze.

  It made grinding them repeatedly actually tolerable, and kept things fresh.

  But standing here now, actually inside one? The game hadn't captured the full wrongness of it. The way the air tasted stale and ancient. How sounds echoed wrong, bouncing off invisible walls. The constant pressure against my eardrums, like being underwater.

  My hand found the saber's grip. Drew it slowly, the rasp of steel against leather abnormally loud in the dead silence.

  Then the noise started.

  Clicking. Scraping. The wet rattle of breath through punctured lungs. Moaning that rose and fell like wind through broken windows.

  Skeletons. Zombies. Spirits. The Graves' standard inhabitants, prowling through the mist.

  I moved deeper into the dungeon, boots crunching on gravel paths between crumbling monuments. The fog revealed the landscape in pieces: a weathered gravestone here, a collapsed mausoleum there. Ancient tombs rose from the earth at irregular intervals, forming a sort of open-air labyrinth. Stone angels watched from pedestals, faces worn smooth by centuries of rain. Crypts yawned open, their iron doors hanging crooked on broken hinges.

  Everything smelled like rot and old earth.

  The clicking grew louder. Closer.

  I rounded a massive tomb, its marble facade cracked and listing to one side, and found them.

  Seven skeletons. All were hunched over, bones yellowed and brittle with age, shambling in aimless patterns near a cluster of graves. Tattered funeral shrouds clung to their frames, hanging in moldy strips. Empty eye sockets glowed with faint green light, the animation magic that gave them movement.

  One skull turned toward me. Clicked its jaw. The others followed, jerking their attention my way with the unnatural stiffness of the undead.

  They waddled forward as a group, bony arms rising, skeletal fingers grasping for flesh.

  I didn't wait.

  The saber lashed out, cutting through the first skeleton's ribcage. Bone splintered. The thing collapsed mid-step, animation magic failing as its structural integrity broke.

  The second lunged. I pivoted, brought the blade around in a horizontal slash that severed its spine at the neck. The skull tumbled free, bouncing across the dirt. The body followed a second later.

  Three, four, five… they came at me from different angles, trying to surround me on all sides. My blade sang through the air, finding weak points, exploiting the brittleness of aged bone. Vertebrae shattered. Femurs cracked. Joints separated under precise strikes.

  The seventh skeleton reached for my throat. I stepped inside its guard, drove my pommel into its sternum. The ribcage caved inward. It fell in a heap of disconnected parts.

  Silence returned.

  I stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by bone dust settling onto cracked earth.

  Then I frowned.

  Something was off. My movements had been... sluggish. Not terrible, but noticeably slower than yesterday. My strikes lacked the fluid grace I'd felt when fighting the War Lords, when my sword had seemed to move through enemies like water flowing downhill.

  I ran through the fight mentally, analyzing my performance.

  The answer came immediately, obvious once I thought about it.

  Yesterday, I'd used my longsword. My proficiency with that weapon was Expert; the muscle memory was ingrained deep, the techniques second nature. Every swing, every parry, every footwork adjustment had flowed from years of Roxam's training.

  But now I wielded a saber. A different weapon entirely. Different balance, different edge geometry, different optimal cutting angles. And my proficiency with sabers sat at Adept: competent, but not mastered. The instincts weren't quite there yet. The unconscious adjustments that made Expert-level combat look effortless had not been formed.

  Of course my movements felt awkward. I was essentially relearning how to fight with a new weapon type.

  I shook my head, irritation rising.

  This was why I needed to grind. To get my Saber proficiency up to Expert as quickly as possible. Until then, I couldn't use it, the unique saber that would become the centerpiece of my build that would let me acquire Jorn's Amulet.

  Penelope's Anguish.

  A legendary weapon locked behind a hidden quest chain, requiring Expert-level Saber proficiency to even equip. But once I had it? Combined with the stat buffs from sacrificed undead summons? The combo would be devastating.

  One step at a time, though.

  Right now, that meant killing everything in this dungeon until my skills improved.

  I wiped bone dust from my blade and kept moving, boots crunching on gravel as I navigated deeper into the maze of tombs.

  The mist thickened. Visibility dropped to ten feet, then eight. Shapes loomed out of the fog without warning: crypts, monuments, gnarled trees with branches like skeletal hands. The moon above provided just enough light to cast everything in shades of gray and black and green.

  More sounds emerged from the darkness. Groaning. Shuffling. The distinctive rattle of animated bones dragging against each other.

  I rounded a massive mausoleum covered in creeping ivy, and they appeared.

  Another group of skeletons. Ten this time, rising from shallow graves scattered across a small clearing. Dirt fell from their bones as they pulled themselves free of the earth, jaws clicking in that mindless rhythm.

  They saw me. Turned as one. Started their shambling approach.

  I raised my saber and rushed forward to meet them.

  The blade sang through the air, moonlight catching the edge as it carved through the first skeleton's neck. The head spun away into the mist. I didn't pause and stepped into the next swing, pivoted my hips for maximum torque, brought the saber down through a shoulder joint.

  Bone splintered. The skeleton crumpled.

  Two more converged from my left. I sidestepped the first's grasping hands, used the momentum to drive my blade through the second's spine. It fell in pieces. I reversed the cut, caught the first across its ribcage. It exploded into fragments.

  They kept coming. I kept moving, working my way through the group methodically. Each kill felt slightly smoother than the last. My body adjusting, learning the saber's rhythms. How much force to use. What angles worked best against bone. Where to strike for maximum structural damage.

  The tenth skeleton fell in a cloud of dust.

  I stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by the remains of my enemies.

  Somewhere in the distance, more groaning echoed through the fog.

  Good.

  I cleaned my blade on my coat and headed toward the sound.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The hours bled together inside the Graves.

  Time lost meaning in this pocket dimension where the sickly moon never moved, where the mist never lifted. There was only the endless cycle of movement and violence. Walk. Find undead. Kill them. Move deeper. Repeat.

  I crushed skeleton after skeleton beneath my blade. Their numbers seemed infinite, pouring from crypts and graves like water from a broken dam. My saber carved through bone with increasing efficiency as my body learned its language, each swing more precise than the last.

  Eventually the terrain changed.

  The mist grew thicker, more oppressive. The graves became larger, more ornate. Stone angels wept over marble tombs. Crypts bore family crests I didn't recognize. The architecture suggested wealth, nobility.

  And then I found them.

  Zombies.

  The first one lurched around a monument, and the stench hit me before I saw it. Not the clean scent of old bone, but the overwhelming reek of putrefaction. Rotting flesh, bodily fluids, decay in its most visceral form.

  I gagged, pulled my bandana tighter over my nose and mouth. It didn't help much.

  The zombie shambled forward with mechanical determination. Its flesh hung in strips from exposed muscle. One eye dangled from its socket. Maggots writhed in the cavity where its nose should have been.

  I circled it, studying its movements.

  Slower than skeletons. Much slower. But when I struck experimentally at its torso, my blade sank deep into corrupted tissue without stopping it. The zombie didn't even react, just kept reaching for me with blackened fingers.

  Right. Different rules.

  Skeletons fell when you destroyed structural integrity. Break enough bones, they stopped functioning.

  But zombies? Reanimated corpses driven by dark magic that cared nothing for physical damage?

  Only two weaknesses: decapitation or brain destruction.

  I waited for it to lunge, then stepped aside and brought my saber down in a powerful diagonal slash. The blade bit through vertebrae with a wet crunch. The head tumbled to the ground, still working its jaw. The body collapsed a moment later, truly dead.

  I wiped my blade on the moss covering a nearby tomb and kept moving.

  More zombies appeared. Groups of three, four, six. I fought them all, learning their patterns. They attacked with mindless aggression, no strategy or coordination. Just shambling forward, grabbing, biting.

  Easier to predict than skeletons, actually. Less dangerous if you didn't let them surround you.

  The repetitive nature of it started to numb me. Dodge. Slash. Decapitate. Move. Over and over until the motions became mechanical, automatic.

  Until I stopped thinking about what I was doing and just did it.

  Kinda wish I had my music player, though. Grinding without tunes was boring.

  During one engagement, three zombies converged from different angles. I cut down the first, pivoted toward the second-

  And the third got too close.

  Its fingers brushed my coat. Panic spiked through my chest.

  I stepped back, reached under my coat, and drew the flintlock pistol.

  The zombie lurched forward. I raised the weapon, aimed at its head from perhaps eight feet away, and squeezed the trigger.

  The flint struck the frizzen. Sparks ignited the priming powder in the pan with a sharp hiss-

  Then the main charge detonated.

  The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space between crypts. Smoke and fire erupted from the muzzle. The recoil jolted through my wrist, driving the barrel up and to the right.

  The lead ball went wide, missing the zombie's head by at least two feet and smashing into a gravestone instead.

  "Shit!"

  The zombie kept coming, undeterred.

  I barely had time to shove the pistol back into my belt before it reached me. My saber came up instinctively, caught it across the neck. The head came off in a spray of black ichor.

  I stood there, breathing hard, staring at the smoking pistol tucked into my waistband.

  That had been pathetic. Completely pathetic.

  I'd played military simulators before. Knew the theory of how these weapons worked. But knowing and doing were different things, apparently. I hadn't accounted for the recoil properly, hadn't braced my wrist, hadn't adjusted my aim for the muzzle lift.

  I definitely needed more practice. A lot more practice.

  But not now. Now I needed to reload the damn thing before something else appeared.

  I pulled out the powderhorn and lead balls, going through the familiar ritual. Measure powder into the barrel, drop in a ball, ram it down with the rod, prime the pan. My hands shook slightly as I worked, adrenaline still flooding my system.

  Once finished, I tucked the pistol back into my belt and gripped my saber tighter.

  Moving on.

  Two more groups of zombies fell to my blade over the next… hour? Two hours? Hard to say. Each group reinforced the lessons I was learning. Stay mobile. Control the engagement distance. Aim for the neck; it was easier to cut through than the skull.

  My arms ached. My legs felt heavy. The constant movement, the endless fighting, was wearing me down.

  Then the terrain changed again.

  The crypts grew larger, more elaborate. The mist thinned slightly. And ahead, through the gloom, I spotted a clearing.

  I approached cautiously, saber ready.

  The clearing opened between several massive crypts, their stone facades carved with elaborate death imagery. Skulls, hourglasses, scythes. The usual memento mori nonsense.

  But in the center of the clearing stood something different.

  A shack.

  Crude, ramshackle, built from weathered planks that looked like they'd been scavenged from coffins. A stone chimney rose from one corner, smoke trailing from it into the dead air. Lantern light glowed from the windows, warm and inviting against the oppressive darkness of the dungeon.

  Recognition hit me immediately.

  The Gravekeeper's shack.

  Every dungeon had safe zones: places where the monsters wouldn't attack, where players could rest and resupply. In the Graves, this was it.

  The Gravekeeper was an NPC merchant who sold basic provisions and bought loot. More importantly, he allowed you to camp outside his shack, which functioned as a rest point. Sleep there, and you'd wake fully healed, all status effects removed.

  I desperately needed that right now.

  My arms trembled with exhaustion. My coat was splattered with gore and bone dust. Every muscle in my body screamed for relief.

  I approached the wooden structure, boots crunching on gravel.

  The door was solid oak, bound with iron. I raised my fist and knocked three times.

  Silence.

  Then footsteps from inside. Slow, shuffling.

  The door creaked open.

  The Gravekeeper stood in the threshold, and I had to suppress my reaction to his appearance.

  Ancient didn't begin to describe him. His skin looked like old parchment stretched over a skull, so thin I could see the bone structure beneath. His beard hung to his waist, white and ragged, stained with dirt and what might have been old blood. Ragged clothing covered his skeletal frame, robes that might have been fine once, centuries ago, now reduced to tattered remnants.

  But his eyes were the worst part.

  Black. Completely black, from edge to edge. No whites, no iris, no pupils. Just endless darkness, like staring into empty sockets.

  Dead eyes.

  I kept my expression neutral, my posture relaxed.

  Because I knew what this harmless-looking old man could become.

  In the game, if you attacked the Gravekeeper or tried to steal from his shop, he'd transform. His form would shift into something massive and terrible: an undead abomination with hit points in the millions, damage output that could one-shot max-level players, and complete immunity to all forms of crowd control.

  Attacking him didn't just end your run. It ended it humiliatingly.

  So despite Roxam's usual hostile demeanor, despite the character's tendency toward violence and intimidation, I was going to be very, very polite.

  "What can I help you with?" The Gravekeeper's voice sounded like wind through a crypt. Hollow. Empty.

  "I need provisions," I said, keeping my tone respectful. "As well as a place to stay for the night."

  The black eyes studied me for a long moment.

  Then he nodded slowly.

  "Provisions. Yes." He shuffled back into the shack, gesturing for me to wait.

  I stood there, very carefully not touching anything, not moving from my spot outside the door.

  The Gravekeeper returned with a cloth bundle and a waterskin. He held them out.

  "Two bronze pieces."

  I fished the coins from my pocket and placed them in his palm. His fingers closed around them like a corpse's hand in rigor mortis.

  "You may sleep outside," he said. "The sanctity of this place will protect you through the night. No undead will approach while you remain near the shack."

  "Thank you," I said.

  The words came automatically. Slightly breaking character, maybe, but I wasn't taking chances. Better to be polite than to find out what this thing could do when angry.

  The Gravekeeper studied me again with those terrible empty eyes.

  Then he stepped back and shut the door without another word.

  I stood there for a moment, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

  Then I moved away from the shack, finding a relatively clean spot near one of the gravestones that bordered the clearing. I sat down, back against the cold stone, and opened the cloth bundle.

  Bread and water. Basic stuff. The bread was hard and stale, the water slightly brackish, but right now it tasted like the finest meal I'd ever had.

  I ate mechanically, chewing each bite thoroughly, washing it down with careful sips of water. My body needed the fuel. Tomorrow I'd be doing this all over again.

  As I swallowed the last piece of bread, I remembered something.

  The status screen.

  I pulled it up with a thought, and the familiar green text appeared in my vision.

  I stared at the number, surprised. I had gained a point in Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution during my grind. But that wasn't all. I'd been level 27 when I entered the dungeon this morning. The hours of grinding had pushed me up a level.

  And with that level came something important.

  ( 3 Available Skill Points)

  Three points to distribute however I wanted.

  I pulled up the full attribute screen, scanning the numbers.

  Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Perception, Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma.

  For most builds, you'd spread points around. Balance your character, shore up weaknesses.

  But my build wasn't balanced. It was hyper-specialized.

  I needed Wisdom. Desperately.

  Wisdom governed mana capacity. Each point of Wisdom gave you 0.5 mana. And Necromancers needed massive mana pools to be effective.

  When you summoned an undead minion, portions of your maximum mana got locked in reserve. Skeletons took 3 mana each. Zombies required 5. Higher-tier summons demanded even more.

  Most Necromancers summoned a few minions and used them as disposable fighters. Meat shields to keep enemies away while the Necromancer cast offensive spells from safety.

  But with Jorn's Amulet, everything changed.

  Instead of using minions as fighters, you could sacrifice them immediately, converting them into permanent stat buffs. Stack enough buffs, and you became a monster. Superhuman strength, supernatural constitution, magical resistances; all from sacrificed summons.

  The catch? You needed to be able to summon dozens of minions. Hundreds, eventually. Which meant you needed a mana pool so large it would make dedicated spellcasters jealous.

  Hence: Wisdom.

  I selected the attribute and dumped all three points into it without hesitation.

  My Wisdom increased from 35 to 38. My maximum mana jumped from 17.5 to 19.

  Pathetic numbers, but it was a start.

  I'd be putting every single stat point into Wisdom from now on. Every level, every opportunity. Building that mana pool until I could field an army.

  I closed the status screen and let my head fall back against the gravestone.

  Exhaustion hit me like a physical weight. Every muscle in my body ached. My hands were blistered from gripping the saber. My feet throbbed from hours of movement.

  The ground beneath me was bare earth, cold and hard. Uncomfortable didn't begin to describe it.

  But I was so tired I barely noticed.

  My eyes drifted shut. The distant sounds of the dungeon faded.

  Sleep took me immediately.