The eye returns, popping up in the darkness some undefined time later. It pushes itself out of a minuscule crack, forming in some distant shadow, where nobody can see it high above their heads.

 

Nichodemus floats down the hallway of the purple-robe’s fortress, running a lazy hand along the wall as he goes. Cultists, brought back to life by the reset that the dungeon-master had initiated, run around in all directions like a swarm of bees, as they tear the entire floor apart, unhinging doors and taking down banners. Not in an uncontrolled, chaotic fashion, but rather in an orderly and neat one.

 

It’s not a ransacking. They’re packing everything together, folding it into boxes and stowing it all away.

 

Looking inside of a room, he sees an old man sitting hunched behind a table. Very much human, unlike him.

 

“Hello, Valnik,” says Nichodemus. “Walk with me, talk with me, will you?”

 

“Nichy boy!” cries Valnik happily, getting up from his alchemy table that is covered in old alcohol bottles, as he spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture. “We are done with this story, yes?”

 

Nichodemus nods to the man, as he gets up and walks out of the door together with him. The two of them walk down the hallway of the fortress. “It didn’t go as expected. But we managed to squeeze it out in the end,” explains Nichodemus.

 

Valnik pats the floating skeleton’s back. “So, does it count? I mean, we taught the lesson to the wrong person?” asks Valnik, thinking.

 

“The resurrection ritual didn’t work, because he rejected it,” says Nichodemus as a group of cultists, carrying a wooden bench walk past them. “You can’t teach someone who doesn’t want to be taught. But still. It counts.”

 

“So, you are sad, yes?” asks Valnik. “About your boy?”

 

Nichodemus shakes his head. “The lance-hero gave his resurrection and lesson to another soul. That was his choice to make.” An empty wine bottle rattles over the ground as the force of the air holding Nichodemus aloft, blows it away. They watch as it rolls into the distance with a loud clamber. “Stubborn until the end,” sighs Nichodemus. “After all the effort we spent making this reverse-dungeon layout for him.”

 

“Yes,” laughs Valnik, picking the bottle up. “I suppose you must be. To defy the dark-lord not once, but then to do it again after his punishment is bestowed.” The old man laughs again, shrugging. “What is more destructive than a young man with principles?”

 

“An old man with principles,” replies Nichodemus, as the two of them meander through the construction site of a floor.

 

“Ach!” Valnik waves him off. “We aren’t so bad. Is just a job,” says the old alchemist. “Is important to believe in something, yes?”

 

Nichodemus looks over at him, his hands clasped behind his back as he floats forward. He says nothing, turning back to face ahead.

 

“So what of the other? The… uh… ‘parasite’, as you call them?”

 

“They’ve left the dungeon with his old body. What they do from there is none of our business,” replies the caster with a hint of deep agitation to his tone.

 

“Aaah," sighs Valnik. "Is always sad to see the young leave home,” sighs Valnik. “You know? They weren’t so bad. A little slow in the head, yes,” shrugs the man, tapping his temple with a finger. “But not so bad.” He spins the empty bottle around in his hands. “You are just mad, because your boy rejected you and sent them instead. Is not their fault.”

 

“That seems like a fair response to me,” replies Nichodemus, as the two of them head towards the citadel and start walking up the giant ramp. They stop, taking a moment to look at the massive statues on either side of them, depicting all of the members of the anti-hero party.

 

“Bigger than life, yes?”

 

“Bigger than life,” repeats Nichodemus dryly.

 

“Is a little funny, no?” asks Valnik, looking at the statue of the lance-hero, the wine-bottle still in his hand as he looks at the statue of a slender elf next to the lance-hero.

 

“No,” says Nichodemus plainly, continuing to move up the incline.

 

Valnik hobbles up after him. “I just mean, imagine being taken from that terrible life and then being reborn as a hero,” says Valnik, looking back at the statue. “But then you defy the dark-god who saved you, because that is exactly what a hero would do! Is funny!”

 

“It is not,” says Nichodemus.

 

“Bah! You are too close to the situation, Nichy boy,” scoffs Valnik. “We must impart our lessons to the young, not leash them to them.”

 

The two of them rise up the incline, walking past a few cultists up on some large ladders, who are busy taking down the high hanging, giant banners which drape over the walls from the ceiling downward. Nichodemus and Valnik stop in front of the mural at the top of the incline of the cultist’s citadel and stare at it for a time in silence.

 

The two of them gaze at the many drawings of monsters and people on the giant stone, staring at the colorful depictions which tell the story of the true lance-hero’s horrible, prior life. Nichodemus doesn’t like looking at it, but he forces himself to look over the tale of the two siblings from another world. The dark tale of the boy who tried to protect his sister and himself from a violent, animalistically abusive, alcoholic creature of a father. The story of the boy, who died in the fight to protect himself and his loved one from the man, the entity, whose name was Miller. The story of the boy, who vowed, after being gifted a chance of rebirth together with his sister by the dark-lord, who was in need of a champion, that he would never let any innocent creature suffer an unjust cruelty, no matter which person, god or entity had sanctioned it, even his own. Even if he would be punished for the betrayal.

 

Nichodemus sighs a tired, world-weary sigh. Valnik quietly pats him on the back.

 

The eye, peeping out of the darkness in the furthest corner of the citadel, creeps away as it vanishes in search of something new to behold. It slithers excitedly through the inky void behind the rocks.

 

There are so many new things for it to see.

 

 

---