Today I received permission to take class "C" missions! Since I cannot trust the idiots at the mission and reward centers, I used my savings to hire a retired mercenary who runs a potion shop in the middle district of the city. From the moment I told him I wanted to be a priest with combat skills, he looked at me strangely. He asked repeatedly if I understood what being one entailed. I told him it was absolute dedication to good, facing all enemies of light, using my abilities to dispel darkness wherever I find it, and supporting all who ask it of me. Despite not believing me, he told me it was one silver coin a week.
The first days were difficult—preparing brews, knowing how to mix healing herbs, purifying compounds for poisoning or paralysis. Then in the afternoons, strengthening my body—I cannot tire halfway. At night, reading all the enchantments that allow me to recover companions. When I managed to distinguish this, the difficult part began. Apparently, priests cannot use metal armor, no leather, and few, very few amulets. Until my faith, my resolve is great enough, I cannot use any of this. But I practice protection spells. While they are invoked, he throws objects at my shields. At first, rotten fruit, then old eggs, then stones. After a month, knives. Now he attacks me with bladed weapons. At the time of this news, I withstand twelve blows on my shield, but my enchanted clothing is also more resistant than normal, so I will not die from one or two blows while I invoke an attack or my shield again.
In the last month, I learned to attack with my staff. It is teak—hard, carefully carved with spells according to my power. He says my strength comes from having mage ancestors, that resolve is my amplifier, and my magical field is small, only useful when we have eye contact. I know it is because the goddess of virtue offers me the opportunity to extend her gifts beyond the city limits.
One day, I arrived and found my mentor talking with many old men, each carrying bronze weapons, so they are no novices. He introduces them as a group of adventurers wanting to investigate a cursed cemetery. He tells them a healer would serve them well. I can barely credit his words. I thank him once they leave. He only watches me and asks me to close the shop. When this happens, I know he goes to the roof to drink. I want to think it is to celebrate.
When we venture in, I am not so happy to see the misery. The group consists of five people: the two tanks in front are Quilt and Grump. We travel with an archer—who does not speak—and a warrior—very hard-headed—who insists on wearing only pauldrons and a loincloth. Passing through the poverty zones, they hurry. From all the taverns and dives, invitations to drink come out. From the windows, poorly fed, scantily clad women appear, eager for the money and attention of adventurers. None of them care—they only advance. I want to heal the contaminated children I see, but I cannot delay the group.
It takes us three days to reach the cemetery, and there is nothing worth mentioning. I have heard rumors of deadly beasts lurking, but down here I see nothing but loneliness and pain in the trees. They walk unconcerned. I think they do not care much about the forest's situation, but I say nothing. I settle for waiting. As we approach the cemetery, I smell a stench in the air—something more penetrating than I ever imagined. They notice because they draw their weapons. Before they charge, I place blessings of resistance, strength, and protection on them. Maintaining those invocations requires great physical and mental strength, but I am prepared.
Three meters from the entrance of this sinister place—which, by the way, is a terrain of no more than two hundred meters with a mound at the back—a hand emerged. The silhouette begins to rise from the ground. It is a skeleton with tattered clothes that must have once belonged to a woman, but now it is just an evil entity. They charge and strike her—only the tanks; I imagine the archer has nothing to do there. When they eliminate that abomination, we enter. There are many graves. On all, I can see they are desecrated, so I warn them. Suddenly, skeletons begin to emerge from all of them, some even armed. The archer begins to shoot at their heads. The tanks, using thick plates as armor, strike with their maces. The warrior unleashes his two swords senselessly, without coordination—only brutality.
When the last falls, I can see four remaining at the back, guarding a necromancer. From here, I can see all that power concentrated in a decrepit body. It is strange, for the skeletons we just eliminated had barely any speed and strength—unlike the abomination that watches us with a grimace of pain and hatred. Without more, the archer shoots an arrow. It stops centimeters from the corrupt priest's skull before shattering into a thousand fragments. The warrior lets out a growl of challenge and charges at him. The tanks react a little late. From the enemy's hand, a beam of black light emerges, and I begin to see the warrior writhe in pain.
The impact is strong. My protections almost vanish as the damned one's body lights up and laughs. Then he grimaces in pain, and the nightmare begins again. All the bones scattered on the floor begin to rise. It is a terrifying spectacle. Risking exhaustion, I cast a healing enchantment on the warrior, and he returns to us. He looks very weak—I think without the healing, he would not have survived. The exit is more chaotic. I can only feel the breeze of arrows passing before me. A couple of skeletons cause wounds on the tanks, and I heal them as best I can. The worst is that I am not really healing them. Healing spells force the body to close, activating its scarring process. I lend them energy from my own strength, but I cannot let them exhaust before we exit. At the entrance, one of the skeletons manages to slip through, and I can see it up close—its fetid aroma, dark teeth from poor oral hygiene, and its white skull. In a desperate act, I cast one of the most powerful runes I know, called "Repel Evil." My will tears it apart without harming anyone, but it exhausts me unspeakably. Fortunately, it is the last, and we exit the area.
We take a couple of hours to recover. They take salted pork from their saddlebags, and we eat that with biscuits and some water. No one speaks of strategies. All look at each other frowning, as if accusing each other of the failure. Seeing that the skeletons do not leave the cemetery, we prepare to sleep. No one assigns me a watch—they just expect me to be strong for the next incursion in six hours. Truth be told, I am frustrated they do not trust me, but I can do nothing to avoid it. I am still very inexperienced.
Throughout the next day, we try at least three more times. The archer takes out a rapier and uses it to strike so he does not run out of arrows. But whenever we reach the necromancer, we can only hit him once or twice before he raises the fallen skeletons again, and we must flee again, as we cannot face the "Life Steal" spells or the curses of pain and blindness. But we cannot eliminate him.
At night, they look even darker. The warrior has begun to drink, and the others, arguing the need to recover spiritual strength, begin to consume some things that, according to what my instructor told me, are hallucinogens. I cannot dissuade them. Finally, I lie down while a single thought crosses my mind: to accomplish this mission without anyone dying.
By morning, I see them ready to try once more. But I stop them. I have an idea. It seems dangerous but useful. So I set about enchanting their weapons to give them a +2 holy damage property. Doing this leaves me exhausted. I cannot place any blessings on their bodies, and I definitely cannot heal them if they are wounded in battle. I lament under my breath my lack of strength to increase the enchantment to their armor, but I have decided to enter the battle.
Again, we reach the entrance. Only this time, it takes only one blow to knock down each skeleton. When we do, a transparent, fat man's silhouette floats. The poor man screams at us, "Kill him!" As we advance, each time we eliminate a skeleton, it stays on the ground, suspended in place. The poor imprisoned spirit begs us to kill it. He betrayed them, they say—handed them to the bandits. My staff rises and falls quickly. We all attack without rest. Finally, the four buried warriors remain. When freed from the curse, they smile and ask us to finish the bastard. The necromancer, all this time, howls when we eliminate the skeletons. When my staff strikes him for the first time, behind us, only spirits support us.
The warrior falls when attacked, and without protection, he feels the spell's power to its fullest. But the rest of us are not there to allow more. We strike him with all our strength. He staggers, for he now seems to lack the energy he extracted from all the damned. When I see him ready to finish the warrior, I ask the goddess for help—and I feel her. I feel the power of the sacred word: "Sacred Lash." A light leaves my hand, surrounds the necromancer. He howls and throws himself to the ground. With a fluid blow, Quilt decapitates him.
Once my head clears—that faith attack is the most exhausting thing I have done since leaving the city—I check the warrior's condition. The magic used against him is Mental Torture. If he had used something stronger like Lethal Air, we would not be here. I can hear the rejoicing of all the freed souls. All smile and fade, except one—a somewhat pretty woman. I approach her, and she tells me they were ambushed by a priest of light. She does not trust me, but she has no alternative but to hope for a proper burial—with the blessings proper to followers of light.
As she fades, I turn and see everyone digging through the bodies, the graves, and the corrupt priest's body. I limit myself to carrying each cleaned body to their respective holes. I pray and ask they be protected by light. When I go for the third body, they all approach. It seems they have gathered everything of value and withdraw. Reluctantly, Quilt hands me a +2 spirit amulet. It seems it belonged to the priest. None offer to accompany me. I do not ask them to stay. I simply nod, and they leave. I still have much work to do.
It takes me over two weeks to return to my master. The journey was exhausting—without food, exhausted. If one of the mysterious slimes appeared, I would be a dead man. But nothing happened. I entered the city with sepulchral calm. Entering his shop, he waits with a flask of alcohol. I snatch it and take a drink. The liquid burns like fire—it is my first drink, and it is very strong. He does not laugh as I cough. He merely tells me that is what being an adventurer is, what being a warrior priest is. I can think about it, he says. These men were hired by him. He explains that otherwise, there are many stories of priests killed once a mission ends, as they are the ones left weakest. He says goodbye with a hug. With the shame of knowing what I chose and that he helped me achieve it.
I walk home and collapse on the straw bed. From the kitchen comes my mother's voice: "Son, I hope it was a good trip. I made you a cake. Happy sixteenth birthday." If only she knew—if only she knew what I lived! I cry all afternoon, and at night I go to the kitchen for cake. I cannot let her suffer. I swallow my tears with her bread.