I never thought a dismount would be the thing to finally kill me.

  The gate of Lasair Manor loomed ahead, its wrought iron spires silhouetted against the darkening sky. But it wasn’t the impressive architecture that caught my attention—it was the chaos unfolding at the entrance. Two guards in golden-tinted armor were desperately fighting against a pack of zombies, their swords flashing in the twilight as rotting hands clawed at them.

  “Zombies? Here?” I hissed, yanking on the reins to bring my horse to a sudden halt. My HP and MP numbers flashed in my vision as my system automatically prepared for combat.

  [Skill activated: Scan]

  The notification popped up as I assessed the situation. Ten zombies in total, level 15 each—not particularly strong individually, but deadly in a group. The guards were holding their own for now, but they were outnumbered and tiring fast.

  “Will! We must help them!” Osirus squawked, wings flapping anxiously on my shoulder.

  “On it,” I muttered, reaching for my short sword with my only hand. With practiced ease, I swung my right leg over the saddle, preparing to dismount— and promptly realized my mistake.

  Without my left hand to grip the saddle horn, I had nothing to balance against. My body tilted wildly to the side, momentum carrying me further than intended. Instead of landing gracefully on my feet, I tumbled face-first onto the hard-packed earth with a grunt of pain and surprise.

  [HP: 148/151]

  The fall knocked the wind from my lungs and sent my sword skittering across the ground. Mud caked my face as I struggled to push myself up with one arm, my stump flailing uselessly at my side. My disguise flickered out of existence, not really important since zombies didn’t care about social rank when it came to their victims.

  “Caw! Will, get up! Get up!” Osirus circled frantically above me.

  By the time I recovered my sword and scrambled to my feet, it was too late. One guard lay motionless on the ground, his throat torn out. The other fell as I watched in horror as decayed and bony hands dragged him to the ground, rotted teeth ripping into any exposed flesh.

  The zombies turned toward me, their milky eyes fixing on fresh prey. With the guards dispatched, all ten shambling corpses lurched in my direction, arms outstretched, jaws working mindlessly.

  “Well, this is just awesome,” I muttered, gripping my short sword tighter.

  I couldn’t run—my horse had bolted at the first scent of undead. I couldn’t climb—the manor walls were too high and smooth. And with only one hand, my combat abilities were severely compromised. The numbers flashed in my vision: ten level 15 zombies against one maimed level 38 scout with leather armor and a basic short sword.

  The first zombie reached me, its face half-rotted away, exposing yellowed teeth in a permanent grin. I slashed upward, catching it across the chest. The blade bit deep, but not deep enough. The zombie barely staggered.

  [Skill activated: Darken Stealth]

  I stepped back into the growing shadows of dusk, feeling the familiar sensation of darkness enveloping me. The zombies hesitated, their dim senses struggling to locate their suddenly vanished prey. I circled around, positioning myself behind the nearest undead.

  Despite its ordinary appearance, my sword seemed to transform as both Initial Strike Bonus and Opportunity Killer were activated. The plain steel took on an unearthly gleam, its edge somehow sharper, hungrier.

  Two skills I took specifically for the Demon King fight- the first hit to an opponent doing 25% bonus damage and the other giving 20% bonus damage if they’re hit from behind.

  My sword plunged through the back of the zombie’s skull with a sickening crunch. It collapsed immediately, truly dead at last. One down, nine to go.

  But my victory was short-lived. Another zombie spun with unnatural speed, its clawed hand raking across my shoulder.

  [HP: 132/151]

  The pain was sharp and immediate. Worse, the attack had disrupted my Darken Stealth. I was visible again, and now surrounded by the remaining nine zombies. My back pressed against the manor’s outer wall—nowhere left to run.

  “This is a stupid way to die,” I hissed through gritted teeth, raising my sword in a futile defensive stance. After surviving Andy’s betrayal, after all my plans for revenge—killed by common zombies because I couldn’t dismount a horse properly.

  The undead closed in, their stench overwhelming. I prepared for pain and the end, when suddenly—

  A battle cry split the air, followed by a blur of metal and muscles. A figure vaulted over the manor wall, landing between me and the zombies with impossible grace. Sunlight seemed to radiate from his golden-tinted armor despite the gathering dusk, and his longsword gleamed in the faint light.

  “Stand back!” the newcomer commanded, his voice resonant with authority.

  The nearest zombie lunged. The warrior’s sword moved in a blur, cleaving through the undead creature with terrifying efficiency. The zombie’s head bounced across the ground, its body collapsing in a heap.

  Two more attacked simultaneously. The warrior parried one with his shield and decapitated the other in the same fluid motion. His fighting style was unlike anything I’d seen before—not the flashy showmanship of Andy or the stationary style of Patrick.

  This warrior moved like light itself—graceful yet devastating, each strike precise and efficient. There was something mesmerizing about his technique, as if the very air around him bent to his will. His red hair caught the dying sunlight, creating the illusion of flames dancing around his head as he moved.

  [Skill activated: Enhanced Perception]

  I studied his movements, trying to understand what I was witnessing. Something was… off about his fighting style. Not wrong exactly, but unusual. The way his sword cut through undead flesh seemed almost too easy, as if the blade encountered no resistance whatsoever. And though zombies were shambling toward him from all sides, their attacks always seemed to miss by mere inches, their rotting fingers grasping at empty air where he had been a heartbeat before.

  It wasn’t luck. It was as if he knew exactly where each attack would land before the zombies themselves did.

  Within moments, the remaining zombies lay in pieces on the ground. The warrior stood amid the carnage, his breathing barely elevated despite the exertion. Not a speck of blood or filth marred his golden armor.

  “Are you injured?” he asked, turning to face me. His blue eyes were startlingly bright against his pale skin, filled with genuine concern.

  I tried to respond, but my words caught in my throat. The embarrassment of my pathetic display crashed over me in waves. Here was a true warrior who had dispatched ten zombies in less time than it had taken me to fall off my horse. And he’d had to save me—a supposed Hero—like some helpless villager.

  “I… I was just…” I gestured weakly at the dead zombies with my sword, then at my stump, unable to form a coherent explanation.

  The warrior’s eyes widened slightly as he noticed my missing hand, but his expression remained respectfully neutral.

  “It’s good to see you again, Will. What brings you to see Duncan Lasair, lord of this manor?” he asked, sheathing his sword in one smooth motion.

  I had to be honest, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure he would recognize me. Yes, I was part of the famous Heroes Party which came here two years ago, but I was used to people easily forgetting me compared to Andy the Famed Champion or Heather, who actually had a fan base because of her singing.

  My mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging. The weight of my failure pressed down on me like a physical force. I’d come seeking an ally, and instead had demonstrated that I couldn’t even dismount a horse properly, let alone fight effectively.

  “Caw! We seek shelter and food, good sir!” Osirus swooped down from where he’d been circling, landing on my shoulder with a flourish of white feathers. “My companion and I have traveled far, and night approaches swiftly!”

  Duncan’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the talking raven, but he recovered quickly. “A Moon Raven,” he murmured, something like recognition flickering in his eyes. “I’ve not seen one since I was a boy.”

  His gaze went from Osirus to me and I found myself looking at the ground. I had a whole speech in my head for when I met him and I couldn’t even get a word out of my stupid mouth.

  I really messed up… he’s probably going to send me away since I went and got his men killed—

  “You are welcomed to Lasair Manor, please walk through the entrance and my butler will get you set up for the night.”

  I didn’t expect the offer and I definitely didn’t expect him to sound kind. I looked up, startled, seeing no anger or judgment, just sympathy. I was so ready for a tongue-lashing. For being told I was a failure.

  Why do I get the feeling I have some mental scars from Andy? Not just physical ones.

  I slowly nodded and turned, walking towards the entrance. No point in worrying about my horse, it was probably long gone now.

  “I’ll also make sure one of my servants tracks down your horse,” Duncan said, as if he could read my mind. I nearly snorted with laughter, but instead just gave a thumbs-up as I walked towards the entrance. Then realized as I crossed onto Lasair Manor grounds, he might not even know what the gesture means.

  As I stepped through the entrance gates, Lasair Manor revealed itself in all its splendor. The grounds were meticulously maintained, with emerald lawns stretching away from a wide gravel path that led to the manor house. Ancient oaks formed a natural corridor on either side, their massive trunks gnarled with age. In the fading twilight, I could make out elaborate flower gardens blooming with colors I couldn’t name, some giving off a faint luminescence that created pools of gentle light across the landscape.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The manor itself was imposing yet elegant—three stories of pale stone that seemed to glow with a warm inner light. Stained glass windows caught the last rays of sunset, sending fractured rainbows across the grounds. A series of towers rose from each corner, their copper roofs turned green with age, giving the impression of a castle rather than a simple noble’s residence.

  At the foot of wide marble steps leading to massive oak doors stood a tall, thin man in immaculate black livery. His silver hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and his posture was so perfect it made my spine ache just looking at him.

  “Master Walton,” the butler intoned, bowing deeply as I approached. “Welcome to Lasair Manor. I am Elridge, head of staff. If you’ll follow me, I shall escort you to your quarters immediately.”

  I blinked in surprise. “How did you—”

  “Know that Lord Lasair extended an invitation?” Elridge’s thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. “I have served Lord Duncan for twenty-seven years, sir. I know my lord well. He would never turn away a Hero in need, particularly one who has lost much.” His eyes flickered briefly to my stump before returning to my face with perfect professionalism.

  “I’m not much of a Hero these days,” I muttered, suddenly conscious of the mud caking my clothes and the blood staining my sleeve.

  “Heroism takes many forms, sir,” Elridge replied, gesturing toward the entrance. “Some more obvious than others. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the east wing. Lord Duncan will join you for dinner once he has attended to… more somber duties.”

  The burial of his guards. Right. Another wave of guilt washed over me as I followed Elridge into the manor.

  The entrance hall was cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadow despite the warm glow of numerous crystal chandeliers. Portraits of stern-faced men and women lined the walls, all with the same flame-red hair as Duncan. Their eyes seemed to follow me as I passed.

  “Caw! Quite the gallery you have here,” Osirus commented, his voice echoing in the vast space. “The Lasair family has a distinguished history, I assume?”

  “Indeed,” Elridge replied without breaking stride. “The Lasairs have guarded these lands since the founding of Elska itself. The family’s roots go deep.”

  I couldn’t help but think about Fire-Friend. It was now Andy’s sword, but before that it was a Lasair family heirloom. How old was the magic sword before Andy swindled it from the family?

  Before my thoughts could go further in such a direction, the butler stopped at a door and opened it. He bowed respectfully as he stepped to the side.

  “Here is your guest room. Will you be needing medical attention?”

  “No, I… um I’m good,” I said, as I willed for a healing potion to appear in my hand from the Inventory Box. Admittedly I should save them when I could, but being offered all this after failing to save the guards felt wrong. The least I could do was heal my own wounds.

  Osirus quickly grabbed the potion with his talons, flying near the ceiling. It was so quick I was staring at my empty hand for a second before realizing what happened.

  “Hey!?”

  “Caw! Stop being stupid! Potions are expensive and we are poor. Let their healer do the job!”

  I winced in embarrassment, not crazy about the butler finding out I was practically destitute.

  “We have a priestess on staff who will heal your wounds. I’ll also have her bring a fresh set of clothes for you to wear at dinner. I hope your stay at Lasair Manor is enjoyable.”

  I found myself trying hard not to look directly at the butler as I stepped into the guest room, Osirus gliding inside behind me.

  As soon as Elridge closed the door behind us, I slumped against the nearest wall, my legs finally giving out. The room was opulent—a four-poster bed with silk curtains, plush carpets that probably cost more than everything I owned, and a marble fireplace already crackling with a welcoming flame.

  Through an archway, I glimpsed a private bathing chamber with a copper tub large enough to almost swim in. Just the thought of taking a bath in it reminded me of how much my muscles ached.

  “He didn’t even recognize me until he got close,” I muttered, staring at the ornate ceiling. “Some Hero I am.”

  Osirus flew to the bedpost, still clutching my healing potion in his talons. “Are you going to wallow in self-pity all night? Because if so, I should tell the butler to bring extra pillows. You’ll want to be comfortable while you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

  I glared at him. “I nearly got us both killed out there. Those guards died because I couldn’t even dismount a horse properly.”

  “Those guards died because zombies attacked them,” Osirus countered, his blue eyes narrowing. “Unless you summoned those undead creatures yourself, their deaths aren’t on your hands.”

  “But I couldn’t save them. I was supposed to be this great Hero, and I couldn’t even—”

  “Caw! Enough!” Osirus’s wings spread wide, his feathers bristling. “Do you think Heroes never make mistakes? Do you think they’re born perfect, never stumbling, never failing?”

  “I—”

  “I know all about Heroes! I guard the statues to immortalize them after all. The great ones, the ones whose names echo through time—they all failed. Repeatedly. Spectacularly! But you know what made them great? They got back up. They learned. They kept going.”

  The raven hopped down from the bedpost to land on my knee, his eyes level with mine. “You think losing a hand makes you less? It doesn’t. You think falling off a horse makes you a failure? It doesn’t. What makes you a failure is giving up because things got hard.”

  “But I couldn’t even help in a simple fight,” I protested, though my voice had lost some of its bitterness.

  “So learn to fight differently,” Osirus said, his tone softening slightly. “Adapt. Find new ways. The path to greatness isn’t a straight line—it’s a messy, winding road paved with mistakes and lessons.”

  He dropped the healing potion into my lap. “Now put this away, stop moping, and start thinking about how you’re going to be better tomorrow than you were today. Because that, Will Walton, is what real Heroes do.”

  I stared at the small bird, his white feathers glowing in the firelight. For something so small, his words carried immense weight. With a touch of my finger, I put the potion back into my dimensional pocket of storage and pulled out my journal.

  Osirus flew off to perch on a bedpost as I shakily got up and took a seat in a chair next to the fireplace. I placed the journal onto my lap, flipping to another blank page, another place to put my thoughts into words.

  First decision, what was I going to do about the missing hand?

  The most obvious idea was to just purchase a prosthetic hand. Of course such a hand would be expensive to make and I wouldn’t be able to use it for much… at least not unless magic could cause it to move like a regular hand.

  I was still poor as dirt though so that idea would have to wait until I had more money. A magic prosthetic hand would probably cost a fortune.

  A hook hand just like in pirate stories could prove useful as well though. It definitely would have made dismounting a horse easier.

  It might have been better to wait until I earn a couple of gold coins, but it was doable to get one.

  From there I noted my mistakes in the last fight, it wasn’t just the matter of falling off my horse. Once the guards were dead, there was no need to expose myself by killing one.

  The best strategy would have been to get some distance between myself and them, throw a couple of rocks to get their attention so they chased after me instead of entering the Lasair Manor grounds. From there I could have acted as a decoy until they were a safe distance from the place.

  Then with Darken Stealth I’d easily lose them.

  That would have been the smart move, the right move given the resources I had.

  But I felt so damn useless not saving those guards, I let feeling weak stop me from thinking of the smart move.

  A knock could be heard at the door, nearly causing me to drop my pen.

  “Come in,” I called out awkwardly. Wait, was I supposed to open the door for them? Three years here and I still struggled with etiquette, at least when I was staying at a noble’s home.

  The door opened to reveal a young woman in white and gold robes, her dark hair braided intricately and adorned with small crystals that caught the firelight. A silver pendant in the shape of a sun hung at her throat—the symbol of Liora, goddess of healing.

  “Lord Lasair sent me to tend to your wounds,” she said, her voice melodious but professional. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of my stump, but her expression quickly returned to serene composure.

  I started to rise, but she raised a hand. “Please, remain seated, Master Walton. Your injuries are easily treated from where you are.”

  I nodded, closing my journal. I wasn’t crazy about just anyone getting a glance at what I wrote inside. The priestess approached and placed a bundle of clothing on the bed—a midnight blue silk shirt and supple leather leggings that looked far more expensive than anything I’d worn in years.

  She knelt before me, her hands hovering over my wounded shoulder. “This will only take a moment,” she murmured, closing her eyes in concentration.

  A warm golden light emanated from her palms, seeping into my skin like sunshine through water. The pain in my shoulder faded immediately, replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation. The warmth spread through my entire body, easing aches I hadn’t even realized I had.

  [HP: 151/151]

  “Dinner will be served at eight bells in the west dining room,” she said, rising gracefully to her feet. “Lord Lasair suggests you might enjoy a bath before then.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the mud caking my clothes, her expression remaining perfectly neutral.

  “Thank you,” I managed, feeling awkward and underdressed in her pristine presence.

  She nodded once, then turned and glided from the room without another word, closing the door silently behind her.

  I quickly found myself reopening the journal. Besides the stump, there was one last issue I had to address— the weapon I used. Short swords often required two hands to use. When I wanted to do an especially strong thrust, one hand was supposed to hold the hilt while the other hand moved under the hilt and pushed.

  I was positive the reason the System was giving my Opportunity Killer and Initial Strike Bonus penalties was because the short sword I normally used often required two hands for the strongest technique.

  A dagger though never required your off hand, all the techniques for it were one handed. It didn’t have the same reach as a short sword, but if I fought smarter than I did today it should still work.

  I’d have to test first, get a dagger and see if the System removed my penalties, but my gut instinct told me it would work. The System might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but it was always… fair about both the good and the bad it gave you.

  “Caw! You are making good plans.”

  I nearly shrieked as I heard Osirus speak right above my ear. I didn’t even notice him move to perch at the top of the cushioned chair, staring at my journal. Could the bird actually read?

  “Thanks, I’m just doing what you suggested. I’m… trying to adapt.”

  “And adapt you will! Now go get a bath, you stink.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk and the hygiene advice,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Truly, your wisdom knows no bounds. What would I do without a bird telling me I smell bad?”

  “Probably continue to stink,” Osirus replied cheerfully, preening his pristine white feathers.

  I heaved myself up from the chair with a groan, tucking my journal back into my Inventory Box. The bathing chamber was even more impressive up close—polished marble floors, gleaming fixtures that looked like gold (and probably were), and a copper tub large enough to swim in. Steaming water already filled it, scented with something woodsy and pleasant.

  Undressing one-handed was a challenge, but I was getting better at it. I had to sit on a stool to pull off my boots, and my belt nearly defeated me, but eventually I managed to strip down and sink into the gloriously hot water.

  “Sweet merciful System,” I moaned as the heat seeped into my aching muscles. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been until that moment, when every knot began to unwind.

  I took my time scrubbing away the grime of travel and battle, watching as the clear water turned murky with dirt and dried blood. By the time I finally emerged, pruned and pink-skinned, I felt almost human again.

  The clothes left for me fit surprisingly well. The midnight blue silk felt cool and smooth against my skin, and the leather pants were supple enough to allow free movement while still looking formal. A silver belt with an intricate buckle completed the ensemble.

  I studied myself in the full-length mirror. With my hair combed back and wearing clothes that actually fit, I looked… different. Not like a Hero, certainly, but not like the bedraggled failure who’d tumbled off a horse either.

  “You clean up adequately,” Osirus observed from his perch on a towel rack. “Though your posture needs work. Stand straighter! A slouching Hero inspires no one.”

  I squared my shoulders, then immediately felt foolish for taking direction from a bird. “I’ll add ‘posture coach’ to your growing list of talents,” I muttered, turning away from the mirror. Beside my very battered and overused leather armor on the bed, I noticed the Holy Symbol of Liora pendant next to it.

  It was already around my neck before I realized what I was doing. And with it worn, those strange feelings came again. Feelings of someone watching out for me, someone wanting to keep me safe.

  The thing was definitely messing with my head, but it was too valuable not to use. It was beginning to feel like second nature to be able to sense where Osirus was without even looking. Not only that… but I could feel another’s presence.

  I walked to the door and opened it, just in time to see Elridge look up startled with his hand raised to knock.

  “Hello Elridge, is it time for dinner?” I asked, already knowing the answer. The butler raised an eyebrow before speaking.

  “Indeed Master Walton, please follow me. Lord Lasair looks forward to seeing you.”