Chapter 57: Zephyrus: Pool of rotting flesh

I didn't expect the apocalypse to smell like pig shit and regret.

"I'm telling you," Froilan said, jabbing a stick into the rocky soil like he was performing farm surgery, "this here's prime boar land. Red Boars love it muddy, shady, and with just a kiss of filth."

"Sounds like your ex-wife," I muttered, squinting at the slope ahead.

Froilan snorted. "She wasn't that bad."

"You named your chicken coop after her."

"Exactly. And that coop's still producing eggs. Unlike her."

I rolled my eyes. The man had a gift, turning casual hikes into passive-aggressive therapy. We'd hauled a wagon up behind Zenya to scope out a half-abandoned clearing Froilan swore was perfect for red boars. And, hey, maybe it was. I wasn't a pig expert. I was just the guy with a glowy tattoo, a suspiciously sarcastic skill, and no idea how I'd gotten dragged into the fantasy version of rural startup culture.

Then the air changed.

Sharp. Metallic. Like copper pennies dipped in stomach acid.

I stopped mid-step, my boots crunching against dry pine needles. "Do you smell that?"

"Yeah…" Froilan's voice lost all its usual sass. "What in the seven swamp gods is that?"

It wasn't just rot. It was wrong. Like something had died, been forgotten, and then remembered too hard.

I gagged. "Ugh—did you fart?"

"Don't be stupid," Froilan growled. "This is death. Old death."

We both turned toward the thicket.

Now, to clarify, we weren't adventurers. Or warriors. Or remotely qualified for mystery-solving that involved corpse-stench and ominous forests. Just a guy with magical imposter syndrome and a farmer with commitment issues. But manhood is a curse sometimes.

So of course, we walked toward it.

The brush grew thicker with every step. Thorns tugged at my cloak like angry hands. Froilan tripped on a root and cursed under his breath. 

"If this turns out to be a bloated cow, I swear—"

He stopped.

I stopped.

We stared.

It was a pit. Not a hole. A pit—sunken into the earth like something had scooped it out with a divine ice cream ladle. The trees bowed inward, like even they were mourning.

Inside were bodies.

Dozens. Maybe more. Twisted together in a grotesque pile of skin, bone, and blackened flesh. No burial, no grace, just a heap of rot.

"Oh…" Froilan's voice cracked. "Gods. Oh no."

The stench hit me again, and my knees buckled. I slapped a hand over my mouth. My stomach lurched.

And then something moved.

No wind. No insects. Just a twitch, an arm, jerking like it remembered being alive.

"Did you see that?" I whispered.

"See what?" Froilan was already backing up. "Don't you say something moved, Troy. I will leave you here."

I pointed. 

"That arm. It twitched."

"I'm gonna barf."

"Hold it in." I reached for the dagger strapped to my belt. Not that it'd help if we were about to be eaten by a zombie stew, but I'd rather die looking prepared.

"Cherubim," I whispered. "Tell me this is a hallucination."

[Negative. Confirmed: multiple deceased entities. Estimated 47 bodies. Cause of death: unknown. Anomalous decay detected. This is not natural.]

I grimaced. 

"Then what killed them?"

[Unknown. No remnants of magic or anything as I scan]]

That froze my blood. Cherubim always had an answer. If it didn't now…

"Light's fading…" Froilan muttered. "It's the middle of the day, why is it darker here?"

The shadows felt heavy, like they were pressing on my skin.

[Activating Necromancer]

[Note: The skill will let you see the dead and communicate with them]

Why the hell did you activate it, Cheru?!"

[Maybe to talk since you already stick your nose in this pool of death]

I swallowed. "That's a thing I can do now?"

[Yes. Leal can also do this]

You imitate it?"

[He had it]

Froilan grabbed my sleeve. 

"Troy. Let's leave. We'll raise the pigs somewhere less cursed. Maybe a sunny hill! A hill with zero murder pits."

"I just need to know," I whispered.

"Need to know what!???" Froilan started to panic. 

[Activating Necromancer: Soul communicating]

A jolt went through me, like someone poured ice water down my spine and then slapped me with a wet ghost towel. The world turned gray. Colors drained out. Even sound felt muted.

And then I heard them.

Whispers.

Screams.

"Don't go near him!"

"Stay away from them! They offer help, but they will kill you instead!"

"They kill without a blade!"

My heart punched my ribs.

"Cherubim," I said, barely breathing. "Who are they talking about?"

[Souls that have been resting since their death. They lingered here]

Froilan was now thirty percent panicked, seventy percent don't-you-dare-go-nearer.

"Are you—are you talking to ghosts?" he squeaked.

"Yes."

"I hate you. I hate this forest. I hate that I didn't stay in bed today."

A ghost rose from the pile of decaying bodies, smoke and sorrow wrapped around a shattered face. It opened a mouth that shouldn't speak, and yet—

"Do not trust those guardians of light."

My veins turned to ice.

"They bring peace but they are monsters…"

I stepped closer. "Who are you? Who killed you?"

The ghost's face twitched, like it was trying to hold onto a thought.

"Them! The justice! The manipulators. Master of deciet! If they see you… they will end you, too."

Then it faded.

Gone.

I stumbled back, heart pounding. "We have to go."

Froilan didn't argue. We ran.

We tore through that thicket like it owed us money, scrambling back to the wagon like scared cats. When we hit the clearing, Froilan punched me in the arm and shouted, "What the hell was that?! You said pig land! Not Cursed Corpse Carnival!"

I bent over, catching my breath. "We're not just dealing with a crooked bishop we're dealing something unknown!"

"You think? The man smells like incense and dry snakeskin!"

I ignored him, still seeing that broken spirit's face in my mind. The knight. The Bishop. Something darker.

That pit wasn't just a mass grave.

It was a warning.

And now we were in the middle of it.