The orc rose from his knees with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had never been rushed—and never needed to be.
His skin was scorched black across his shoulders and chest, ritual scars glowing faintly with embedded heat. A dented helm hung from his belt. His weapon was a massive slab of blackened steel—somewhere between a sword and a cleaver—glowing red-hot near the core. Embers danced around him in spirals.
Ray stepped forward instinctively. “He’s big.”
Nick nodded in agreement. “I bet he’d be a beast at basketball.”
She glanced at him. “What?”
The orc’s eyes locked on Nick, and the temperature spiked. The room was so hot that the heat whispered to the bones, not the skin.
Nick raised and made a finger gun.
Thirty-two fireballs spiraled into existence behind him, fanning out like wings.
The orc charged.
The first volley launched.
Sixteen fireballs vanished mid-flight, reappearing around the orc’s head and shoulders, detonating in a searing halo.
The orc ducked into the explosion.
Heat waves rolled across the chamber, but the boss emerged from the blast, steaming but upright.
Nick pursed his lips. “Shoulda guessed the orc covered in burn marks was fire-resistant.”
The orc roared and hurled his sword.
The molten cleaver screamed through the air like a falling star, trailing embers and smoke.
Ray stepped in front of Nick and dropped into a low stance, raising her arms to catch the massive slab of iron.
The impact hit like a battering ram.
A sickening crack echoed through the chamber as the force drove her back several feet—boots carving gouges into the scorched stone. Her arms buckled, bones groaning under the pressure. Sparks exploded as metal met flesh, but she held.
Her shoulders dipped. Her body shook.
But the sword didn’t pass.
It dropped at her feet, glowing and hissing against the stone, stopping just inches from Nick’s leg.
She exhaled sharply. “Ow.”
Nick smiled. “Nice job.”
He pointed his finger gun at the orc and cast Multi-Fireball again.
Sixty-four fresh fireballs bloomed into existence, flooding the chamber with searing light, joining the sixteen still lingering in the air from his first cast. Thirty-two of them orbited spiraled overhead like vultures waiting their turn, while the hovered in perfect stillness, their surfaces trembling with restrained violence.
The flames around Nick brightened.
The air itself began to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Faint red veins of light spidered through the stone at his feet, branching outward like molten roots. His coat flared without wind, heat rising off his skin in waves that shimmered like a mirage.
Emberheart.
The eighty fireballs in the air flared deeper, their cores darkening to a deep red, each one beating like a second pulse.
Two casts in ten seconds.
He fired.
The first wave of thirty-two howled forward like starved wolves, twisting midair before striking from above.
The orc moved.
With a guttural snarl, he reached out and his molten cleaver tore across the battlefield, slamming back into his grip with a sound like thunder cracking stone. His boots dug into the scorched floor. He raised the weapon high as the first barrage struck.
Fire erupted across his chest and shoulders.
Some blasts he batted away with raw strength, arms blackening beneath the heat. Others slammed into his ribcage and thighs, cracking bone, tearing skin. The stench of burning flesh hit like a gut punch.
But he did not fall.
The second volley came faster.
Flames carved through his side, detonating at his back, and hammered into his helm with a deafening clang that sent glowing shards spinning. Blood sprayed from his mouth, evaporating midair in the heat.
Still, he stood.
The final sixteen screamed down like a god’s judgment.
The orc roared and met them head-on.
The chamber vanished in fire. The air exploded with pressure. Nick’s coat snapped violently as the heat displaced the air. Dust lifted from the floor and hovered midair like stunned ghosts.
When the flames cleared, the orc was still alive.
His right arm hung like ruined meat. His skin was a patchwork of seared black and oozing red. Bone glinted from beneath the ruin of one shoulder. But the brands along his torso glowed.
“How is he still standing?” Ray muttered.
“You’re one to talk,” Nick replied sarcastically.
The flames crawling over the orc’s body clung to him, slow-dancing around his limbs like loyal hounds. His breath steamed in the rising heat. His body sagged, but his eyes burned.
Nick felt it before he heard it.
The shift.
The orc raised his cleaver and slammed it into the floor.
“The final phase…” Nick mumbled.
The fire around him changed. The glow tilted—no longer red-orange, but a sickly golden hue. Nick’s own flames trembled. For a breath, they resisted him, shuddering like animals caught between masters.
Then the fire screamed.
A soundless, soul-deep wail that vibrated the stone under their feet and punched through Nick’s chest like a drumbeat of dread.
Nick blinked.
Then smiled.
The fire turned.
Not toward him.
Toward the thief.
It was slow, almost gentle, like embers curling into a hearth.
The orc convulsed. His mouth opened in a silent scream as fire erupted from his eyes, his nose, the sockets of his brands. His body arched back, then snapped forward as the fire consumed from the inside out.
Not his flesh.
Not his mind.
His soul.
The fire wasn’t rage. It wasn’t vengeance.
It was memory. Law. A verdict older than death.
Ray took a step back. “Nick…? What’s happening?”
The brands on the orc’s chest burst like blistered scars. The cleaver dropped from his hand and cracked the stone. His body staggered—and then, with no scream or ceremony—
He disintegrated into ash.
Nick exhaled, lowering his hand.
“He tried to take something that was mine,” he answered.
=Keeper of the First Flame=
-Passive Trait-
->Mana: N/A
->Rank: Mythical
->Description: A guardian of a world’s primordial fire, wielding flames that burn with an ancient, inexorable will. Fire-based abilities become stronger and more efficient, and any flame under the Keeper’s command will never wane unless willed to do so. The Keeper cannot be harmed by their own flames and gains resistance to fire-based attacks. Those who dare to steal fire from the Keeper will find their own souls set ablaze.
It was the last line of his recently gained trait that caused this.
Nobody could steal his flames.
=You have permanently eradicated the soul of (1) Ashbound Orc=
=You gain 5.0 skill points=
=Current skill points: 5.93=
=Level up! (x2) Multi-Fireball is now Rank 15/-=
=Level up! (x3) Flickerflame is now Rank 5/100=
=Level up! (x2) Nimble Hands is now Rank 4/100=
=Level up! Enhanced Fire Magic is now Rank 3/100=
=Level up! (x2) Ignite is now Rank 3/100=
=Level up! Emberheart is now Rank 2/100=
Nick lowered his hand slowly. The glow of the fire faded.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft, eerie crackle of embers dying in the corners of the room.
Then the temperature dropped.
Not by much, but enough to notice. The sweltering heat that had pressed against their lungs like a curse began to ease, replaced by the kind of warmth that came after a storm—the kind that let you breathe again.
And in that breath, the dungeon responded.
A low hum vibrated through the floor.
At the far end of the chamber, near the shrine where the Ashbound Orc had made his final stand, a faint shimmer sparked into being. The light twisted in on itself, bending reality like a mirage until the air tore open with a soft chime and something settled gently onto the scorched stone.
A silver chest.
Ray stared at it. “Do all bosses spawn loot chests?”
Nick shrugged. “I dunno.”
They approached together.
Unlike the golden reward chest Nick had seen in the Goblin Den, this one was simple—-square, weathered, and partially blackened on one side.
He crouched and popped the latch.
Inside, a flickering glow spilled out.
A skillbook lay nestled in the center, its cover scorched but intact. Cracked leather, stiff with age, bore a faint symbol branded into the surface: two open palms overlapping, surrounded by a thin circle of fire.
Ray leaned closer. “What’s it do?”
Nick picked up the book and examined it.
=Skill: Soulguard’s Reprieve=
->Description: Store 30% of damage taken in the last 5 seconds. When the user performs a protective action for another, release a healing pulse equal to 50% of the stored damage value. Affects self and allies within 3m. Cooldown: 30 seconds.
Even the fallen tried to shield those who yet lived.
“This one’s for you,” Nick said, tossing the book to Ray.
She examined the book, staring at the text. Her nose wrinkled when she realized what kind of spell it was.
“Another damn healing spell?” she muttered but the corners of her lips betrayed her by tilting up.
She opened the book and learned the spell.
Nick rose, brushing soot from his coat. “That flavor text, though. I wonder if it was referring to this dungeon.”
Even the fallen tried to shield those who yet lived.
‘Who was the Ashbound Orc trying to protect?’ he wondered.
He dusted his hands off and stepped past the chest, drawn to the scorched altar behind it. The altar loomed like a forgotten monument, weathered by fire and time. He knelt slowly, scanning the ruin.
The altar wasn’t just a slab of stone. It had once been ornately carved, though most of the detail had long since been melted or worn smooth by heat. Jagged fractures split the base, but he could still make out the remnants of a sigil at its center—a sunburst pattern, stylized flame licking outward in a ring. Cracked metal bowls flanked either side, their surfaces blackened, but not entirely empty. Faint traces of ash and bone rested inside.
Offerings.
Nick reached out and touched the edge of the altar. It was still warm.
Ray hovered nearby, her brows drawn in a rare moment of thoughtfulness. “Looks like some kind of cathedral,” she said softly. “Or a temple.”
Nick nodded slowly. “A shrine, maybe. Whatever this place was before… it wasn’t just a fortress.”
He stood and turned slowly in place, taking in the chamber again. Burn marks scorched the walls in patterns that almost looked deliberate. Not battle scars, but ceremonial burns. Smoke had stained the ceiling in circular spirals that matched the sunburst symbol on the altar. Around the edges of the room, fragments of ruined seating remained—benches, maybe pews.
“This place was built to house something sacred,” Nick murmured.
“Or someone,” Ray added, her voice hushed.
Nick looked back at the spot where the Ashbound Orc had made his final stand. “He was kneeling before it when we arrived.”
Ray frowned. “Was he… praying?”
“I think he was guarding it.”
They stood in silence a moment longer.
Then Ray glanced at the broken offering bowls again. “What kind of god do you think it was? One who wanted fire?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “Or maybe fire was how they worshiped. It’s an old religion. People probably used the elements as stand-ins for divine power. Fire sometimes means judgment… and sometimes, it means protection.”
“Doesn’t seem like it protected them very well,” she said.”
He stepped around the altar and ran his hand across a collapsed support beam, eyes narrowing. There were deeper carvings along the back wall—barely legible, but still present. Tall figures, hunched in reverence, flame held aloft in cupped hands.
To a creature with four arms and a head like a burning crown.
A god.
Ray tilted her head. “Hey… did we just murder a priest?”
Nick stared at the broken altar.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we laid one to rest.”
They left the chest behind.
The next doorway hissed as it unsealed, thick slabs of stone sinking into the ground with a hiss of steam. A warm wind brushed past them, laced with scorched air.
Nick stepped toward it.
But before he could cross, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor behind them.
A party of six adventurers entered the chamber at a brisk pace. Their armor was scuffed, but their eyes gleamed with purpose.
“There they are!” one of them shouted, pointing. “They really beat us to it!”
The leader, a tall, broad-shouldered man, grinned like he owned the room as he strode up beside the altar and gave a mock salute.
“Appreciate the warm-up,” he said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome, I guess?”
His eyes slid past him to the rest of the party. Most looked confident.
But one didn’t.
A younger man near the back in leather armor, a staff slung awkwardly over one shoulder, kept his gaze low. He looked tired and resigned, like he’d said no one too many times and been ignored every time.
Nick sighed.
“Go ahead,” he said.
The leader clapped him on the shoulder like they were old friends. “Smart man. No point risking it when someone else can do the dirty work.”
They pushed past, heading for the now-open tunnel.
As they disappeared into the next hall, Ray watched them go. “We’re just letting them go first?”
“Yup,” Nick said, turning to follow at a slower pace. “Either we get front row seats to a miraculous victory… or they die horrifically and the world gets to be a marginally smarter place for a few weeks. Either way, it’s a win-win.”
She stared at him.
He shrugged. “I have no patience for stupidity.”
She giggled. “Can I drink their blood after they die?”
“Whatever you want.”
He paused at the threshold, sparing a single glance back at the shrine. Ray mirrored his gesture, her expression unreadable.
‘May you rest in peace,” Nick silently prayed.
He wasn’t sure who he was praying to.
Project Knightfall 