The problem with being a walking skeleton is that people tend to skip introductions and go straight to the part where they try to kill you.

  The adventurers at the edge of the chamber hadn’t moved yet, but I could see it in their eyes—the frantic mental page-flipping through whatever monster manual they’d memorized, cross-referencing “talking lich” with “acceptable reasons not to immediately set it on fire.”

  The results didn’t look promising.

  Their weapons weren’t raised yet, but their hands hovered, waiting for some unspoken threshold to be crossed. Maybe it would be a sudden movement. Maybe it would be the wrong tone of voice. Or maybe it was just existing for too long.

  Unfortunately, my track record with not making things worse was spotty at best.

  I straightened instinctively, adjusting my posture into something I hoped suggested competence. Professional, maybe? Intimidating? Approachable? I wasn’t sure what I was aiming for, to be honest. Anything that said “things don’t have to be this way” without giving away the terror ringing in my skull.

  “Uh…”

  My voice scraped out, dry and hollow, the sound of ancient crypts and bad decisions.

  The adventurers flinched in perfect, synchronized horror.

  “…Welcome to the dungeon! And thank you for visiting today.”

  Silence.

  Not the usual silence. Not the awkward kind, or the unimpressed kind, or the kind where people are waiting for someone else to speak.

  This was the kind of silence that had mass. Like if I took a step forward, I might bump into it.

  The leader—big guy, shield raised, jaw clenched—shifted his weight ever so slightly, like a man who had just realized he was inside a bear’s mouth and didn’t want to make any sudden movements.

  Great start, Edgar. Absolutely nailed it.

  I coughed, or at least, I tried to. It came out as a rattling wheeze, which, in hindsight, was probably not the reassuring gesture I had intended.

  “Now, I understand you may have questions,” I said quickly, raising my hands in what I hoped was the universal please don’t kill me position. “And I’d be happy to address those for you. But first, let me assure you: I am here to help.”

  The mage took half a step back. “What… is it doing?”

  “Talking,” the rogue muttered. “Liches don’t talk much. They kill.”

  Oh, come on. This was worse than working for an insurance company. But I had to try anyway. “Listen, I think we can all agree that good communication is key to resolving any conflict.”

  She looked at me, dagger in hand, like I was something that she both wanted to kill which had also just suggested she take interpretive dance lessons.

  The mage tightened her grip on her staff. “It’s trying to trick us. Don’t listen!” I could hear the fear in her voice.

  “That’s a valid concern,” I said, nodding as if she’d just made an excellent point, trying to sound as calming as possible. “But I’d like to clarify that I’m not here to harm anyone,” I continued. “In fact, I’d prefer we avoid conflict altogether. Your safety is very important to us.”

  The leader hesitated. Doubt crossed his face, just for a second. “Our safety?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I said. “I understand that this can be a stressful experience. This is stressful for me too. But I want to assure you, this dungeon floor is under new management, and we’re currently exploring less… murder-heavy ways to engage with adventurers.”

  “Boss,” Grib hissed behind me. “That not what you said earlier.”

  “Not now, Grib.”

  I turned back to the adventurers, keeping my voice calm, reassuring.

  “Anyway! I’d be happy to discuss any concerns or work together toward a solution that benefits everyone.”

  The rogue’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of lich talks like this?”

  “What kind of anything talks like this?” the leader asked.

  “The polite kind of anything?” I tried.

  “Is it stalling?” The rogue spoke again. “Preparing a spell?”

  “No, no spells,” I said quickly, raising my hands again. “Just good, old-fashioned dialogue. Liches have a reputation, and I know trust takes time to build, but I promise you… I am not your average undead overlord.”

  The cleric, who had been clutching her holy symbol like it might spontaneously catch fire, finally spoke.

  “It’s lying,” she said, voice shaking with conviction. “It has to be. Liches don’t negotiate.”

  “That’s a fair point,” I conceded, nodding in the same way I used to when customers told me their toaster had personally wronged them. “And I completely understand your hesitation. But if we could just take a moment to—”

  “Boss,” Grib whispered urgently. “They look very stabby.”

  “Yes, I noticed,” I whispered back. “Please don’t escalate.”

  “But stab—”

  “No stabbing.”

  “Not even a little?”

  I turned slowly and gave him the kind of glare I reserved for people who microwaved fish in office break rooms.

  “Grib,” I said, voice low. “If you stab anyone right now—”

  And that’s when I made the mistake of looking back at the adventurers.

  Something had changed.

  They hadn’t moved, but the air had shifted. That fragile tension—that hesitant maybe we should hear him out—was gone.

  Their fear had settled. Hardened.

  The mage exhaled sharply, like something had finally clicked into place.

  She raised her staff. "He’s toying with us."

  A pause. Barely a breath. But the energy in the room changed.

  "Oh, for crying out loud—" I started.

  But the cleric was already stepping forward, holy symbol flaring.

  Her voice rang out, deafening in the stillness. "By the goddess, we must end this now! By the light of the Ever-Radiant, scourge of shadows, beacon of—”

  “Okay, I get it,” I interrupted, raising a bony hand. “Very holy, very bright. You’re doing great.”

  She glared at me, undeterred. “—beacon of justice, may your radiant chains bind this unholy abomination. Hold Undead!”

  The words echoed through the chamber, carried on a wave of searing energy that raced toward me like divine payback for every irreverent thought I’d ever had. The magic coiled around me, locking onto my form with the kind of relentless efficiency I’d only ever seen in tax audits.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  Before it could take hold, a prompt blinked into my vision:

  Offensive spell incoming. If not countered, First Floor Boss will be unable to act for 1 hour. Would you like to counter the spell?

  [Yes] [No]

  I stared at the prompt, weighing my options.

  If I countered the spell, I might avoid being frozen in place. But let’s be honest, the room was already wound tighter than Grib’s favorite bucket handle. Any sudden display of power would only convince them I was plotting something nefarious.

  “Not helping,” I muttered at the system and selected No.

  The spell hit me like a thunderclap of holy judgment, my entire skeletal body seizing up with an audible crack. My arms froze mid-gesture, one still raised in a reassuring “let’s all calm down” pose. My legs locked, my spine stiffened, and even my glowing blue eye sockets dimmed slightly, as if the spell had decided my vibe was too relaxed for a lich.

  “There,” I rasped, my voice reduced to a hollow echo. “You got me. I’m held. Can we talk now?”

  The room fell silent.

  The adventurers weren’t moving.

  Which should have been a good thing. Except they also weren’t lowering their weapons, and their expressions were locked somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and the kind of reflexive disgust usually reserved for finding out your sandwich has a surprise raisin in it.

  The cleric stood stiff, her holy symbol trembling slightly in her grip.

  Like she hadn’t fully expected her spell to work.

  “I think it’s bluffing,” the rogue muttered, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Liches can fake that, right?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, jaw rattling. “This is all part of my master plan. I wanted to be completely paralyzed. Really adds to the intimidation factor.”

  The rogue’s eyes narrowed. “See? It’s still talking.”

  “Yes,” I said, exasperated. “Because that’s all I can do. Or would you rather I just sit here and rattle ominously?”

  The leader hesitated. His sword didn’t lower, but his grip adjusted. A fraction. A pause.

  “You’re… not going to resist?”

  I exhaled. Dry, hollow.

  “Resist what? You hit me with your big shiny spell. What do you want me to do, wiggle my eyebrows at you menacingly?”

  The leader’s expression shifted. Something cracked, just a little. “You’re not what I expected,” he admitted, voice careful.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

  The cleric’s knuckles went white.

  “We can’t trust it,” she snapped. “Liches don’t negotiate.”

  “Right,” I said, eye-lights dimming slightly. “Because I’m such a textbook example of proper undead etiquette.”

  Her face flushed. The glow of her holy symbol pulsed, like she was actively considering skipping straight to the smiting.

  The leader didn’t react. But he was still thinking. That was the problem.

  He was thinking.

  And that meant there was a chance—a small, stupid, fragile chance—that this wouldn’t end in blood.

  Until the rogue moved.

  “We should finish this now,” she said, slipping closer, voice low and sharp. “It’s toying with us. Whatever it’s planning, it won’t wait long.”

  “Oh yes, because I’m in such a position to execute brilliant schemes,” I said, tone knife-sharp with sarcasm. “Look, if I had a grand plan, don’t you think I’d be… you know, doing it?”

  “Maybe it’s biding its time?” The mage held her glowing staff, the subtle buzz of magic growing instead of fading.

  “I AM LITERALLY FROZEN IN PLACE,” I shouted. “What do you think I’m going to do? Haunt you with bad vibes?”

  Grib, bless his stupid little goblin heart, picked exactly the worst moment to chime in.

  “Boss, you okay? Should I throw mud at them?”

  I clenched my nonexistent teeth.

  “No, Grib,” I hissed. “No mud. Absolutely no mud. Stay where you are.”

  The goblins muttered among themselves, clearly displeased with this new no-stabbing, no-mud policy.

  And worse, the adventurers noticed it too.

  Their gazes flicked between me and the goblins, their stances tightening.

  “Boss,” Grib said, voice quieter now. “They’re looking at us funny.” A pause. Then, more hesitant: “Can we stab just a little?”

  “Grib, I swear, if you stab anyone—”

  The leader moved first.

  “Enough,” he snapped, voice cutting through the air like a blade. He turned to his party, his decision already made.

  “This isn’t worth it. We’re not equipped for this.” He exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “None of us have a weapon or spell that could even scratch a lich. And we can’t risk breaking Marielle’s spell.”

  For a moment—just for a moment—I thought I had won.

  Then he finished.

  “We should take advantage of the lucky prayer.”

  The cleric’s breath hitched. “You’re saying we should leave it?” she asked, horrified. “Let this… thing keep existing?”

  “I’m saying we kill the goblins, loot the area, and get out before that thing can move again.” His tone was final. He wasn’t suggesting anymore.

  “We’re not here to die.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then the rogue stepped forward.

  “He’s right,” she murmured, her dagger catching the faintest glint before vanishing into the folds of her cloak. “We can’t fight it.” A beat. Then her gaze slid to the edges of the chamber. “But the goblins?”

  She smiled.

  “That we can handle.”

  Something in my chest went cold. “No, wait a second… Just–,” I rasped, my voice bouncing off the stone. “What are you doing? Wait! Stop! Let’s just talk about this!”

  The adventurers didn’t stop.

  They moved with the trained precision of people who had done this before. Quick, controlled, deadly. The leader raised his shield and advanced, slow and methodical, his sword held low but ready.

  The rogue disappeared into the shadows, her dagger glinting before vanishing. The mage muttered under her breath, her staff beginning to glow, power humming in the air.

  “No,” I said, my voice cracking. “Listen to me. You don’t have to do this.”

  The cleric’s holy symbol burned with light.

  The beast tamer knelt beside his wolf, murmuring commands. The animal slinked forward, low and silent, eyes locked on the goblins.

  I couldn’t move.

  But I could see everything.

  I could see the goblins fidgeting, their wide, nervous eyes darting between me and the adventurers.

  They weren’t ready for this.

  They didn’t know what to do.

  Their Bone King had told them not to stab.

  And now their enemies were closing in, weapons drawn, and the only order I could give them was to run.

  I swallowed back the panic rising in my skull.

  “Grib,” I said, my voice shaking. “Run. Get everyone out of here. Now.”

  Grib hesitated. His bucket dangled loosely from one hand, the spear trembling in the other. His wide, beady eyes flicked between me and the adventurers, ears twitching, shoulders tight. He didn’t want to run. He didn’t want to leave me behind.

  "Grib," I said, my voice raw. "Please. Take the others and go."

  For a second, I thought he might. He took a half-step back, grip tightening on his spear, ears drooping just slightly. The other goblins murmured, shifting their weight, waiting for an order that might never come.

  Then his back straightened. His ears flicked up. He planted his feet.

  "No," he said, and raised his spear high. "For the Bone King!"

  The goblins froze. Then, one by one, they echoed it back.

  "For the Bone King!"

  A rusted blade lifted into the air.

  "For the Bone King!"

  A crude club. A stolen kitchen knife. A sharpened stick.

  "No," I rasped, the sound rattling in my skull. "Not for the Bone King. Run."

  But it was already too late.

  Grib charged, little legs pumping, spear aimed forward, his war cry ringing through the cavern. The others followed, a ragged wave of mud, sticks, and absolute, misplaced loyalty.

  The rogue struck first. A blur of steel, a flash of movement. A goblin with a bent stick didn’t even have time to turn before the dagger found his throat, a clean, quick line across his skin. He crumpled instantly.

  The mage’s staff flared, and a dart of flame ripped through the air. It struck another goblin square in the chest. He let out a strangled, choking cry as his body went up in flames, his crude leather armor igniting like dry tinder. His limbs flailed, mouth open in what might have been a scream if his lungs weren’t already burning.

  The smell hit next. Burning flesh.

  I screamed, my voice cracking. "Stop! You don’t have to do this!"

  The adventurers didn’t even look at me.

  The wolf leapt, fangs flashing, locking onto a goblin half its size. The goblin shrieked, flailing wildly, but it was already over. The wolf ripped out his throat. A twitch. A gurgle. Stillness.

  The leader waded through the chaos like a force of nature, shield raised, sword moving in brutal, methodical arcs. Each swing ended something. A goblin rushed him with a sharpened stick, screaming all the way. Markus didn’t even blink. His shield slammed forward, smashing the goblin to the ground, and before the poor thing could even lift his head, the sword followed. A sharp, clean thrust. Through the chest. A sickening, final crunch.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away. My Deathly Perception forced me to see everything—the blood that splattered the stone, the way the wolf tossed a body aside like a ragdoll, the faint, awful sound of bones breaking under steel.

  And still, Grib was standing.

  His bucket in one hand, his spear in the other. He was shouting, voice raw, body shaking, rallying the last of the goblins. "Fight!" he roared. "For the Bone King!"

  "No!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "Grib, run!"

  He didn’t.

  The mage turned, staff flaring. Another dart of flame shot across the room, crackling with heat. It struck Grib’s bucket. The flames engulfed it instantly. He staggered back, the fire licking up the sides, his fingers singing black.

  But he didn’t drop it.

  He lifted the flaming bucket like a shield, teeth bared in a snarl, and hurled his spear with everything he had.

  The spear flew true. It buried itself in the mage’s leg. She screamed, a sharp, raw noise, and collapsed to the ground. The goblins let out a ragged cheer. A fleeting, desperate, moment of triumph.

  It didn’t matter.

  It was already over.

  Grib turned to the others, eyes blazing with something fierce, something unstoppable. "See?" he shouted. "The Bone King guides us! We can—"

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  The warrior was already there.

  He loomed over Grib like a storm rolling in, his shield casting a long shadow that swallowed the little goblin whole. For just a second, just one awful second, Grib froze. His spear hand was empty. His bucket still smoldering.

  Then the sword came down.

  A single, brutal arc.

  Through Grib.

  It split him nearly in two. A wet, visceral sound ripped through the cavern, the spray of blood painting the stone. Grib hit the ground in nearly two pieces. His bucket clattered next to him. The flames snuffed out as it rolled to a stop.

  I screamed, my voice breaking against the chamber walls. I begged. I howled. But it didn’t matter.

  Grib didn’t move.

  Love,