ctive shields, enhance their weapons with elemental attributes, and deal elemental damage to the undead, a tactic feared by these foes. Unlike widely available scrolls in games, these were precious and rare, like coveted high-end smartphones, unattainable without great expense.

With all preparations nearly complete, Brutols finally relaxed a bit. He had marshaled substantial forces and ensured top-notch gear. If they couldn’t defeat the undead under such favorable conditions, it would be sheer bad luck. Brutols never considered himself particularly fortunate, but neither was he overly unlucky. He believed in relying on his strength rather than luck or fate, focusing his efforts to achieve better outcomes.

The necromancers, on the other hand, had also acquired advanced gear, mostly by plundering graves. They were adept tomb raiders, pilfering not just treasures but also corpses, sometimes more valuable to them than the artifacts.

“Why haven’t they attacked yet?” Brutols wondered one eerie night, perfect for a covert strike with its moonless, foggy conditions. Lying on the wooden bed in the inn, he sneezed, wondering if someone was thinking of him. His instincts were correct; the necromancers were plotting his demise. The night’s conditions were ideal for their malevolent plans, enhancing their power and providing cover for their undead army. Town guards typically harassed citizens rather than battling necromancers, unlikely allies unless it meant the sun rising in the west or an ugly duckling turning into a swan. Brutols just hoped they wouldn’t interfere or wrongfully accuse them of crimes after the battle.

Brutols couldn’t sleep, driven by an instinct honed through years of danger. His unique perception sensed an unusual atmosphere. Soon, the necromancers launched their attack, starting with ghosts—terrifying but not invincible. Unlike horror films, the seasoned inn guards were battle-hardened fighters, not easily frightened.

Seeing the ghosts, guards immediately resorted to magical scrolls, enhancing their weapons with elemental attributes necessary to combat these ethereal foes. Ordinary weapons wouldn’t suffice; only elemental attacks from mages or priests—or imbued weapons—could harm the ghosts. The empowered weapons transformed basic swords into mighty elemental blades, capable of slaying the spectral adversaries.

A cacophony of battle cries erupted in the tavern's lower floor. Mercenaries swung their weapons fiercely, creating a whirlwind of chaos. The necromancers had sent the ghosts as expendable vanguards, indifferent to their destruction. These spirits, bound by the necromancers, gained release upon their demise—a bittersweet end the mercenaries were unaware of. For them, survival was paramount.

“Damn it, there are too many ghosts!”

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