Raw fighter

"Omnipotent doesn't have goals without Omniscient. Just like a dead person walking around."

- Author

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Ray, Joseph, and Wandy stood before the three ominous tunnels carved into the stone of the Wasteland Dungeon. The air buzzed with dark energy.

"I'll take the left path. That's where the dead artifact's aura is strongest," Ray said without hesitation. "Wandy, you take the right. Joseph, the middle."

No time for debate. As soon as he finished speaking, Ray leapt into the shadows of the left tunnel, his cloak fluttering behind him.

Joseph sighed and turned to Wandy. His expression softened.

"Be safe, alright? Don't do anything reckless." He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Remember… someone's waiting for you."

Wandy flushed bright red. "Come on, don't make it sound like we're not seeing each other again." She tried to laugh it off, but her voice shook just a little. "You too, don't die on me. I don't want to be stuck with those two emotionless statues and Elly."

Joseph chuckled. "Fair enough."

With a final glance, they each stepped into their respective paths and vanished into the dark.

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Middle Tunnel

The air grew heavier with every step Joseph took. The smell hit him like a punch—sickly, rotten, choking.

"Ugh, disgusting…" He winced. "Ray might've picked the wrong tunnel. No way that artifact isn't here with this stench."

The deeper he went, the more the darkness peeled away into faint light ahead. He emerged into a wide, open chamber… and froze.

"—Tch!"

A massive axe came swinging from the right. Pure instinct took over as Joseph ducked, feeling the blade slice through the air where his neck had been.

"Wow. That's quite the welcome." He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

Before him stood an army of the dead—skeletal warriors, rotting corpses, empty eyes fixed on him. All armed. All ready.

"Hmph. No consciousness, no talking. Just rotting puppets." Joseph narrowed his eyes. "So where's the puppeteer?"

A figure emerged from the shadows at the far end of the chamber.

A hooded man.

He stepped forward and pulled his hood back.

Disgust twisted Joseph's face.

The man's jaw hung loosely, unhinged. Long, filthy hair draped down his decaying face. His right eye glowed a putrid green—the mark of a necromancer. His left socket was hollow, the flesh on that side of his face gone completely, exposing dry, cracked bone.

"Ugh. And I thought the smell was bad." Joseph tilted his head. "Guess you're the 'boss' of this dump. Where's the artifact?"

The necromancer growled.

"Didn't think you'd be the talkative type anyway."

Joseph cracked his knuckles.

He wasn't an Avatar of Slother—one of the Seven—but he was blessed up to four fingers. And a lifetime of brawling behind him.

"Inventory," he muttered.

A faint glow circled his palm. With a sharp flick, an old, rust-stained axe materialized in his hand.

The weapon looked nearly useless. But anyone who knew Joseph knew that rusted blade of the axe had carved through more lives than most men could count.

He grinned, red eyes glowing faintly under the flickering dungeon light. His red hair, tied back messily, fluttered as a gust swept through the chamber.

"Alright, monsters," he said, planting his foot forward and raising his axe. "Gimme a fun fight."

The undead shrieked as they charged, weapons raised.

Joseph charged back with a roar of his own.

The dungeon echoed with the clash of steel and bone, of screams and war cries. Joseph moved like a beast, every swing of his axe guided by instinct, power, and precision. Heads flew, limbs scattered. The ground was soaked in foul ichor.

And through it all—Joseph didn't flinch.