Reralt had cleared the forest by midmorning.

  The mountains now stretched before him—

  white, snowy peaks catching the sun like polished bone,

  granite cliffs rising sheer and unscalable.

  Just like me, Reralt thought,

  running his hands through his hair,

  inviting the mountain wind to admire it.

  Something clenched his finger.

  Reralt yanked his hand back in alarm.

  Perched on his glove sat a creature of pure nightmare:

  mandibles nearly as long as its legs,

  teeth like razors, poised to devour,

  its body a glistening, unnatural green.

  A horror from another world.

  A grasshopper.

  Roughly the length of his finger.

  “Not today, you beast!” Reralt roared.

  He growled.

  He blew on it.

  He shook his hand wildly, panic rising.

  The grasshopper held fast—

  clinging with uncanny devotion.

  Poisoned, Reralt thought. Definitely a smoking-poison-type.

  “No… mighty Reralt cannot fall to a simple bug,” he muttered,

  panting now. “Not even one so gross. And uncanny.”

  The entirely average-length grasshopper twitched its antennae,

  tilted its head,

  and made a slow, disinterested gesture to leave.

  Reralt, flushed with righteous fury, slammed his hand against a rock.

  A sharp crack rang out.

  He had broken one of his own fingers.

  The grasshopper happily hopped off.

  “HA!” Reralt shouted, voice laced with pain and triumph.

  “I win again, Nature!”

  He reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a small bottle labeled HEALING.

  Normally, someone traveled with him who actually knew how to use it.

  But today, he was alone.

  So, he did what any brave, self-reliant hero would do:

  he poured half the contents over his throbbing finger,

  and drank the rest.

  The finger healed.

  Magically.

  One of the two methods must have worked.

  Pleased with his victory—over the finger, and the bottle—

  Reralt smiled.

  And with that, he entered the pass.

  ***

  The pass was eerie.

  Even for a place made entirely of rock and wind, it felt... wrong.

  Reralt felt uneasy.

  Which could only mean one thing:

  Undead.

  He had never actually encountered the undead.

  But if he were about to, he was sure this was exactly how it would feel:

  Cold. Silent. Not a living thing in sight.

  Then again, that also described most mountain passes.

  Reralt didn’t remember any mountain passes.

  He had never left his castle alone before.

  But now he climbed higher and higher,

  the air thinning, the cold deepening.

  Still, Reralt wore only his trusted leather bodywarmer.

  “If you have arms like these, you show them,” he always said.

  “One look, and half the villains flee.”

  He kissed each bicep in turn.

  He was still cold.

  ***

  It grew even colder when Reralt heard a sound.

  Thousands of beings, threading nearby.

  “Good thing I have such incredible hearing,” he whispered. “Gives me time.”

  Just a hundred meters ahead, he saw them—

  Ten, maybe a dozen, human-shaped figures

  shuffling slowly up the pass.

  “Zombies,” Reralt diagnosed instantly.

  Wrinkled skin. Barely any hair.

  A slow, wooden gait.

  Classic undead.

  He forgot the cold.

  Forgot his finger still ached.

  Reached for his sword—

  And dropped it.

  The “zombies” turned to look.

  “Sir,” one called out in a hollow voice,

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Do you have enough room to pass us?”

  Reralt froze.

  Talking zombies.

  Advanced necromancy.

  Without breaking eye contact, he dismounted.

  Retrieved his sword.

  One of the undead stepped forward.

  “Let us help you, milord,” it said kindly.

  Reralt panicked.

  (Not that he’d admit it later.)

  He fumbled in his saddlebag and pulled out a bottle.

  FIREBOMB, the label read.

  “Good,” Reralt thought.

  Nerves steady now.

  “Eat this, zombies!” he roared, and hurled the bottle.

  “Nobody gets to use my brains!”

  The bottle landed perfectly.

  Shattered in the center of the group.

  And…

  Nothing.

  Reralt had forgotten to light the fuse.

  ***

  “Sir,” one of the zombies pleaded,

  “We are just old monks… returning to our monastery.”

  Reralt squinted.

  Now that he looked closer—they could be just old men.

  Very old men.

  He had never actually seen a zombie before.

  He whispered to himself,

  “Can you really take that risk?”

  He already knew the answer.

  Heroes don’t overthink. They just do.

  With that, he charged the senior monks.

  All of them easily over the age of eighty.

  The first three fell quickly to his sword—

  Sticking and cleaving,

  Slashing and hacking,

  Reralt in full heroic flourish.

  Then his arms got a bit heavy.

  So he stepped back ten meters

  and assumed a defensive—ish—stance.

  The elderly monks stood where they were,

  looking at each other in baffled silence.

  Reralt took another pass.

  He kicked one square in the stomach,

  then rammed the hilt of his sword into another’s knee.

  The monk collapsed almost instantly.

  One tried to grab his sword arm—

  Reralt headbutted him. Twice. Then a third time,

  until the old man let go.

  Then, with a mighty effort,

  Reralt hurled himself at another,

  smashing his head into the cold, rocky ground.

  The three that remained turned and fled,

  shouting prayers as they stumbled down the pass.

  “Yes, you’d better run!” Reralt bellowed after them.

  “You foul undead creatures!”

  He was panting now.

  A bit peckish.

  Also—his boot was stuck beneath one of the bodies.

  So pursuit was… out of the question.

  On foot?

  That’s for footsoldiers.

  Not for heroes.

  ***

  Reralt looked out over the aftermath of his third heroic battle of the day.

  He nodded, content.

  He had saved so many.

  Who knew where those zombies might’ve gone next?

  All the brains they could have eaten.

  He gave one a final kick as it twitched.

  Then turned, mounted his horse, and rode triumphantly across the scene of his victory.

  Up ahead, he spotted a small cart—

  Loaded with bread, wine, meat, and other delightful goods.

  “Huh,” he muttered.

  “These zombies must’ve raided a caravan or something.”

  He glanced around.

  No survivors. No witnesses.

  “Well—shame to let it go to waste.”

  With heroic efficiency, he stuffed his pockets and the horse’s saddlebags with the best of it,

  and rode on.

  Reralt exited the pass.

  The air grew warmer. The wind less cruel.

  Shrubs lined the roadside. Small trees stood politely.

  Birds—actual birds—chirped with reverence.

  “Yes,” Reralt thought. “The undead threat has lifted.”

  He nodded with solemn pride.

  Reralt, for the win.

  The songs they would sing of this glorious day…

  Oh yes.

  There would be songs.

  ***

  Reralt and the Restless Pass

  From the controversial third verse of Narro’s tavern tour setlist

  Reralt beheld the mountain pass—his eyes set on a quest.

  He swore it swarmed with undead fiends (a thing he so detests).

  Yes, he so detests.

  Perhaps his eyes were not so keen—but that, he won’t confess.

  He lobbed a fire bottle bold, with flair and hero’s jest.

  It hit dead-center… more or less—he hadn’t lit it, lest

  The blast alert more foes nearby (or so he’d later say).

  The "undead" turned and calmly asked, “Good sir, might you make way?”

  But Reralt knew a necromancer's trick when on display—

  And so he raised his sword once more to cleanse the light of day.

  He slashed, he kicked, he headbutted until they ceased to sway.

  Yes, ceased to sway.

  He fought them all with righteous strength until they ceased to sway.

  With pride he strode across the pass and praised his mighty sword.

  …They may have not been undead fiends—

  Just monks. A bit… ignored.

  Next… Reralt faces the devil himself.