The old coachman sat on his rickety carriage, anxiously rubbing his heavily calloused hands as his cloudy eyes remained glued to the ash-white mist swirling in the direction of the graveyard.
Dusk was gathering, and the wind blowing through the woods turned chilly, causing his worn-out robes to snap and flutter.
"This isn't right... something is very wrong..."
he muttered under his breath, his brows knitting into a tight knot.
He looked up at the sky once more, roughly counting the time on his fingers, his unease growing heavier by the second.
"Normally, even if the young lad put in extra effort, an hour should have been more than enough for the whole thing. Even if they spent some time... whispering sweet nothings afterward and lingering a bit, an hour and a half would be the absolute limit, right? But this..."
Looking toward the graveyard, his face turned sour. "It's been almost two or three hours! Why hasn't he come out yet?!"
Unbidden, bad scenarios flashed uncontrollably through his mind.
"Could... something terrible have actually happened to him?"
The old man's heart violently tightened.
Although the young lad was a bit odd, he was a good person at heart and had even given him a gold coin to help out in a pinch.
The more he thought about it, the more panicked he grew. He began seriously considering whether he should whip his horses immediately and rush back to the city to report, even if it meant getting the City Guard...
Just as he hesitated, his hand already reaching for the whip, the wild grass at the edge of the distant mist suddenly rustled.
A familiar figure stumbled out, struggling to emerge from the dense, unbreakable gray-white fog.
It was Greg!
Although he looked considerably more exhausted than when he had entered, at least he had walked out completely in one piece!
"Oh, thank the Goddess of Night for her protection!"
The old man let out a massive sigh of relief, his tense shoulders slumping as a smile of profound relief spread across his face. He quickly hopped off the carriage and prepared to greet him:
"Young lad! You finally—!"
His enthusiastic greeting choked dead in his throat.
Because right after, directly behind Greg, three more figures stepped out of the churning mist one after another.
One was a pretty girl with long gray hair and an obvious look of resentment on her face, turning her head to speak to Greg. Though her clothes were dusted with dirt and leaves, her vibrant vitality was unmistakable.
Another was a delicate girl with long pink hair and a gentle, pretty face, looking at Greg and the gray-haired girl with a trace of concern.
The last was a gorgeous young woman with cascading golden hair and tranquil green eyes. Even out here in the wilderness, with her dress slightly soiled, her aura of elegance and detachment remained unblemished.
The old man froze on the spot, his mouth agape and one hand half-raised.
His eyes went wide as his gaze darted back and forth between Greg and the three uniquely breathtaking maidens, his jaw nearly dropping to the ground.
"Good... good heavens..."
An utterly absurd thought—yet one that seemed to perfectly explain the long delay—exploded in his mind like a thunderclap!
"No wonder! No wonder it took so long! So... so it wasn't just one, but three at once?!"
The old man felt his heart beat wildly against his chest. Having lived to such an age, he prided himself on having seen his share of wild sights, but this lineup... this scale...
"And looking at these three girls' looks, demeanor, and attire... how are they ordinary noble daughters? This is clearly..."
His eyes involuntarily swept over the exquisite faces and figures of the three young maidens, which remained striking despite their slight exhaustion. The combined impact of their distinct temperaments—one proud, one soft and gentle, one cool and distant—left even the well-traveled old coachman feeling dizzy.
"Holy crap... this young lad... has this much stamina?!"
The old man uttered a heartfelt gasp of admiration in his mind.
He automatically constructed a grand drama of a brilliant young hero having an extraordinarily long, heart-pounding, and thrilling multi-person secret rendezvous with three noble ladies of extraordinary status at the edge of a dangerous, secluded graveyard, feeling utterly awestruck by Greg's physical stamina and sheer audacity.
However, reality was the complete opposite of the dashing, blissful scene the old man was imagining.
At this moment, Greg felt utterly exhausted in body and mind, plagued by a massive headache.
His original plan to keep a low profile had failed, which was bad enough, but it had even led to a huge misunderstanding!
What kind of mess was this supposed to be?!
"Little Gray... Ahem! No, Victoria!"
Greg attempted to explain:
"Listen to me. I really didn't mean to steal your thunder or hog all the credit! I truly did this for your own good! There was originally another, far more powerful enemy inside that tomb that you wouldn't have been able to handle!"
Victoria stood with her hands on her hips, the flames of anger still burning in her gray eyes. She gave Greg a harsh glare before turning her head away in a huff.
"You're still lying! We all saw it when we went in! Aside from that Undead Knight that was already smashed to pieces, where was there any 'more dangerous enemy'?"
"Uh... well..."
Greg was momentarily at a loss for words, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.
Regarding the whereabouts of that more dangerous enemy, he really couldn't explain it.
Because he couldn't very well come right out and say that he had literally devoured that powerful undead enemy until nothing was left, could he?
That would sound way too terrifying!
Seeing Greg falter, Victoria grew even angrier.
Along the way, she had worked so hard relying on her own strength to rescue numerous classmates from the undead, earning countless looks of awe, gratitude, and admiration.
That feeling of being surrounded by the crowd, regarded as a leader and a beacon of hope, had largely dispelled the frustration and disappointment she had felt because of Lilith, boosting her confidence to unprecedented heights.
She had ambitiously led the team, preparing to charge into the core of the graveyard in one fell swoop, defeat the culprit with her own hands, complete the mission, and thoroughly solidify her standing among the new intake of students. She had even begun imagining the scene when her fame reached back to the academy...
And what happened?
When she led a group of followers eagerly waiting to watch Lady Victoria show off her magnificent power, bursting through the mist and scattered undead to charge into the final underground tomb with boiling blood, what they saw was—
The once-flat ground in the center of the catacomb was now covered in ugly, deep cracks like a spiderweb, as if hammered repeatedly by an invisible giant force.
On several walls, dense webs of fractures extended outward around massive impact craters, with fine pebbles rattling down from time to time.
Most eye-catching of all was a pile of heavy armor fragments scattered in a corner of the tomb, reflecting a dim, faint shimmer.
A lingering remnant of powerful energy clung to the edges of those fragments; even shattered into pieces, they still radiated the heavy pressure belonging to an elite undead creature.
Farther off, a massive black iron sword, broad as a door slab, was stuck slantwise into the ground, the black mist entwining its blade not yet fully dissipated.
All of this silently attested to how fiercely terrifying a battle had raged here just a short while ago.
And right in the center of that mess and silence, Greg Sass stood quietly, facing them.
His clothes were damaged in multiple places, covered in dust and mysterious stains, with several fresh scrapes and bruises visible on his bare arms and calves.
Yet his back was held straight as an arrow.
Like a spear that had weathered a violent storm without bending, he stood firmly rooted into this soil steeped in the aura of death and destruction.
In the dimness, the profile of his face was illuminated by the lingering faint light deep within the tomb, appearing extraordinarily sharp and... serene.
There was no victor's arrogance, no wild joy of surviving a disaster—only a profound quietude, as if he were still quietly observing the battlefield he had brought to an end with his own hands.
Rate on N.U.
