Chapter 18: After-Action Report: Existential Crisis

The silence in the burial chamber was heavier and more profound than it had been before. The ambient menace of the Wight was gone, replaced by a vacuum of pure, unadulterated bewilderment.

Kazuma stared at the pile of sand and tattered robes. He stared at the priceless silk socks being lovingly cradled in Deadpool's hands. He tried to connect the two events in a way that didn't make his brain feel like it was trying to fold itself into a pretzel.

"So…" he began, his voice a weak croak. "Just to be clear. You didn't fight him. You didn't outsmart him. You gave a thousand-year-old undead horror a therapy session about his lonely, sock-filled afterlife until he lost the will to live."

"I'd call it an 'aggressive intervention'," Deadpool corrected him, carefully placing the Spectral Silks into a pouch lined with what looked suspiciously like his own sock tribute pile. "I identified his core emotional vulnerability, a desperate need for his posthumous fashion sense to be validated, and I leveraged it. It was a surgical strike to the psyche. Sun Tzu would have been proud."

"I am so confused," Aqua said, shaking her head. The battle had ended without her needing to do anything truly magnificent, and it clearly irritated her. "One minute, it was a terrifying abomination of undeath. The next, you were discussing the archival properties of ancient fabrics and it… it just sort of… gave up. My divine power must have subtly eroded its evil spirit, making it susceptible to your inane babbling."

"A warrior's spirit can be broken by more than a sword," Darkness mused, prodding the pile of sand with the tip of her boot. She looked deeply disappointed. "To be defeated not by a mighty blow or a powerful curse, but by a conversation… It is a strange and unsatisfying end. I didn't even get lightly scratched."

"Nonsense, it was a masterclass in efficiency," Deadpool declared, now turning his attention to the treasure chests. "Why waste all that time with swords and spells when you can win with words and emotional manipulation? It's cleaner, it's faster, and most importantly, it leaves the merchandise intact." He began sifting through a pile of silver goblets. "Tacky. No real artistry. Probably melts down for a decent price, though."

While Deadpool conducted his antique appraisal, Kazuma did the sensible thing and began stuffing every valuable object he could find into a large sack. The haul was impressive. Ancient silver, a few minor magical trinkets, and enough gold to keep them fed for months. For once, a quest had gone according to plan, or rather, so far off-plan that it looped back around to success.

The journey out of the catacombs was, for the most part, quiet. Deadpool was humming to himself, occasionally patting the pouch containing the Spectral Silks. Darkness was sulking over the lack of physical abuse. Aqua was complaining that the treasure wasn't shiny enough. Kazuma was walking ahead, trying to rehearse a version of events that he could tell the Guild that didn't involve the phrase "fatal fashion critique."

"Okay, so, the plaque for the exhibit," Deadpool said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I'm thinking something simple, yet elegant. 'Here lie the Spectral Silks of High Priest Menkare, a man of quiet dignity and impeccable taste. His eternal rest was disturbed, but his legacy of style is now preserved for all time. Generously donated posthumously.' What do you think? Is 'Menkare' a good ancient priest name? It sounds suitably exotic."

"I think you should stop talking before I use this bag of silver to beat you unconscious," Kazuma replied without turning around.

Their return to the Axel Adventurer's Guild was met with the now-customary hush. Their reputation had preceded them. The party that took on the Catacombs of the Forgotten had returned, not battered and bruised, but looking merely bored and dusty.

Kazuma strode to the counter, dropped the quest parchment down, and braced himself. Luna looked at it, then at him, her face a perfect mask of neutrality. It was the calm, practiced look of someone who had seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.

"Report," she said, her voice flat.

Kazuma took a deep breath. "Encountered multiple undead hostiles. Skeletons, ghouls. All neutralized. Proceeded to the main burial chamber. Engaged the primary target, a Wight-class undead."

"And?" Luna prompted, her pen poised over the report form.

"And… uh…" Kazuma glanced at Deadpool, who gave him a thumbs-up. "We… exploited a weakness in its spiritual defenses. Caused a catastrophic failure of its core animating energies. Threat eliminated. Chamber cleansed."

It was technically the truth.

Luna stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. He could practically hear her translating his jargon into "You did something weird and it died, didn't you?" She didn't press. She just sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unbelievable stories. She stamped the form.

"Quest complete. Reward of seventy-five thousand Eris approved," she said, sliding a heavy pouch of coins across the counter.

Victory. Another big score. The party let out a collective whoop. Even Darkness managed a small, satisfied smile. They were rich. Again.

They settled at their table, the massive sack of treasure and the pouch of Eris sitting in the middle like a golden god. They ordered a round of the most expensive drinks, feeling on top of the world. They had done it. They were a real, successful, if deeply bizarre, adventuring team.

It was in this moment of triumph, as he was raising his mug for a toast, that Deadpool froze.

His head turned slowly, his body going rigid. His gaze locked onto a shadowy corner of the Guild hall. The celebratory noise around him seemed to fade into a distant hum.

Kazuma followed his gaze. In the corner, a scruffy-looking adventurer was talking animatedly to a pair of fresh-faced rookies. And in his hands was a large, wicker laundry hamper.

It was the man from the bathhouse. The man with the magic item. The one who had slipped away while Deadpool was distracted.

"...and I'm telling you, it's a real artifact," the scruffy man was saying. "A bottomless laundry hamper! You reach in, and you always pull out one, perfectly clean sock. Never a pair, mind you, that's the mystery of it! That's the enchantment! A thousand Eris, and this conversation piece is all yours."

The rookies looked skeptical.

Deadpool slowly lowered his mug to the table, the clink unnaturally loud in the sudden silence of his world. His white eye-lenses narrowed into slits. The playful, chaotic energy that usually radiated from him was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp, predatory focus. This wasn't a joke. This wasn't a whim. This was business.

The other party members noticed the shift. "Wade?" Kazuma asked tentatively. "What is it?"

Deadpool didn't answer. He just raised a hand, a single finger pointing across the room.

His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, filled with the gravitas of a hero who has just found his true purpose, his ultimate nemesis, his final quest.

"Target acquired."