Chapter Four: Nightfall

Staring at the distant flames, the little ghost grew restless once more. She had originally been curled up in Ved's arm, but now she was wriggling incessantly, squeezing herself between his ribs as if trying to hide inside the hollow chest of the skeleton.

Ved reached out, attempting to soothe her. He sensed a profound connection between himself and the little ghost, as though an invisible thread linked their souls, allowing him to perceive her emotions. She was afraid of the fire in the village—or rather, of the pirates rampaging within those flames. Simply patting her head was no longer enough to calm her.

Ved retreated into the cabin. Under the light of the oil lamp, he glanced down at his lower body—nothing but bare bones. Only then did he realize that his beloved melon-headed hammer and the shroud he used to cover his hips were both missing. He was utterly nude, having brought nothing with him. In his dream, he too was naked; could it be that the self from his dream had entered this cabin?

Troubled, Ved took the hunter’s hooded jacket from the hook. He slipped it on—a gray cashmere hoodie, soft and warm inside, tough and thick outside, yet flexible enough not to hinder movement. For Ved, the garment was quite loose. If he were alone, he wouldn’t care, and running about naked wouldn’t bother him, but with a ghostly girl watching, such exposure felt inappropriate.

He grabbed the curved blade and the longbow as well. Though he preferred hammers, any weapon was better than none. Donning the hood, he straightened the folds of his clothing. The little ghost wriggled from his arm into the hood, her lively eyes peering out like a thief. It seemed she considered the hood her shell, curling up like a snail pressed against Ved’s bones.

Ved wondered what he looked like now. If only he had a scythe, perhaps he’d have quite the image, but sadly, there was no mirror in the cabin. He flexed his joints, bones creaking and clicking.

Just then, an unusual sound drew his attention outside the door. In his field of vision appeared two flames. Different from the soul fire of skeletons—which Ved could only locate by sound in the wasteland—these fires burned steadily, full of vitality.

They belonged to the living. The undead are sensitive to the living; the dead crave life, always yearning for flesh and soul. Who were they? Villagers fleeing the burning settlement? Or pirates? The questions surfaced. Ved didn’t want to frighten villagers; he disliked needless conflict and misunderstanding. But if it was pirates...

Ved approached the wooden door, sprawled low against the planks. Skeletons can sense sound through vibrations; even the faintest noise can be detected. Ved pressed as much of his body to the ground as possible, listening intently.

Heavy footsteps, the clanging of iron. Their pace was unhurried, breathing steady, strolling at leisure. If they were refugees, they wouldn’t be so calm. It must be two pirates approaching the cabin. Perhaps they were tracking the girl’s blood, perhaps her footprints. Whatever drew them here was irrelevant—what mattered was how to respond.

Snow blanketed the ground, muffling Ved’s hearing. The two drew near.

A skeleton who cannot speak clearly has no way to communicate with Viking pirates. Even if he could speak, pirates would never show mercy—even to their own kind, let alone a skeleton. Expecting an embrace and peaceful departure was pure fantasy.

With no other choice, Ved hid his curved blade, lifted the oil lamp, and opened the door.

The cold wind howled, snowflakes swirled. He couldn’t see their faces, but the torches cast soft circles of light. The conical iron helmets and blood-stained swords reflected a cold gleam in the firelight.

The little ghost retreated deep into the hood, nearly at the back of Ved’s skull. Ved stood motionless. Though he had taken the longbow, the wind was strong outside; he wasn’t sure he could shoot accurately, so better not to try.

He deliberately brought the oil lamp out, hoping his appearance might intimidate the pirates. Ideally, he would have removed the hood to reveal his bony skull, but he feared this would frighten the ghost hiding within.

Whether the pirates were exceptionally bold or simply failed to see that he was a skeleton, they showed no sign of retreat, advancing steadily.

One raised a longbow and fired at Ved. The archer’s aim was true—the arrow struck Ved’s chest, piercing the sheepskin and grazing his ribs before lodging in his torso.

Clearly, they hadn’t realized they faced a skeleton. Using arrows against a skeleton is foolish; no matter how fast or accurate, they can do little harm to a framework full of holes. The pirates must have mistaken Ved for a hapless villager.

To pirates, Ved was a chest waiting to be discovered; kill him, and they could loot all the treasures within.

So, Ved decided to play along. He feigned severe injury, dropped the oil lamp, and clutched his chest. With a soft thud, he collapsed face-first into the snow.

Not far away, the pirate Hobert cheered. “Did you see that, Nelson?” Hobert boasted, waving his bow. “Even wood elves couldn’t shoot better than me. You’ll never learn my archery skills in your lifetime!”

Nelson did not reply, striding toward the fallen villager. “Stop, Nelson!” Hobert’s face changed. “That’s my prey—you can’t claim the spoils before me!”

People said Nelson was simple-minded, but Nelson knew who the real fool was. He took large strides, his short-legged companion unable to keep up, and reached the cabin first.

Nelson saw Hobert’s arrow protruding from the victim’s chest; whether he was dead or not, he certainly could not resist. The priority was to snatch anything valuable. Once belongings were pocketed, Nelson never gave them back. With a harmless, honest smile, he bent down to search the corpse.

Suddenly, an icy sting gripped his ankle. He saw a white, twig-like skeletal hand emerge from the sleeve, grasping his ankle.

Bones!

Nelson’s hair stood on end. He raised his sword to strike, but a curved blade shot out from beneath the loose hoodie, sweeping across his throat in an arc.

Blood spattered the snow. He was too close—a single slash and his neck was cut. The longsword slipped from his grasp, sinking into the drifts.

Ved severed the pirate’s carotid artery; blood gushed like a fountain under pressure. Life and death, sometimes, are decided in a single moment.

The tall pirate fell; the arrow-struck Ved stood up in a bizarre posture.

Hobert was stunned. That was no human movement—not rising, but as though lifted by some unseen force.

Hobert’s heart raced. He spun around, transforming his forward charge into a desperate retreat.

Ved raised the longbow. Skeletons aren’t swift runners; though lighter than the living, he lacked the muscles for agile motion. He could perform feats impossible for most—splits, maintaining a squat all day—but quick running risked joint dislocation and wear.

He knew he could not catch a pirate in this snowy terrain. His only hope was a precise shot—if he missed, the pirate would escape and spread word.

Ved did not wish to expose himself. He nocked an arrow, drew the string, and fired. An indescribable harmony filled him as the arrow struck the pirate’s back perfectly, likely piercing his lung.

The pirate crashed, carving a fan-shaped trail in the snow.

Two flames of life extinguished. Without much effort, Ved had killed them both.

Surprisingly easy.

He listened intently to the darkness; no other signs of life nearby. He crouched to search the pirates’ pockets. They had tried to loot his body after shooting him—he had every right to take their valuables.

He hoped to find something useful, ideally a map to learn his whereabouts. Unfortunately, he found nothing written, only a pouch of silver coins sewn into the lining.

There was also oil. Both pirates wore bags of oil at their waists—not animal fat that would solidify in the cold, but some kind of plant or mineral oil. If Ved could smell, perhaps he could identify it, but skeletons lack noses.

He guessed it was used to keep their torches burning. More pressing, something else drew his attention.

He turned to look at the eyes within his hood; since the killing, the little ghost’s gaze had never left the pirates’ corpses, as if something there held her captive.

“You want… to eat?” Ved vaguely sensed her thoughts—not entirely sure, but he replied affirmatively. “If you’re hungry, go ahead.”

Then he witnessed something miraculous.

The little ghost slipped from beneath his hood, floated above the corpse. A pale fire drifted from the pirate’s still-warm body, twisted with a human face—the pirate’s soul, writhing in agony, as if burning.

But the suffering quickly ended; the soul was swallowed in a single gulp by the ghost. Though just a small portion, her form grew firmer.

After devouring the pirate’s soul, she returned to Ved, attaching herself to his right shoulder bone.

A faint warmth spread; it felt much like when Ved defeated a skeleton and consumed its soul fire.

This convinced Ved once more he was not dreaming. He had truly left the wasteland and arrived in a land where the sun rose.

If all this was real…

He turned to stare at the burning village under the night sky. After a moment, he bent and picked up the pirate’s sword.

One more thing remained.

Ved returned to the cabin, gently brushed the girl’s eyes with his palm. He pulled the arrow from her abdomen, wiped the blood from her lips with a cloth, and laid her body flat on the boards.

Now, she looked as if she were merely sleeping.

Good night.

Ved said in his heart, closed the cabin door, and walked toward the village…