Chương 95: Chapter 8 - The last leg

Ethan led them back the way he'd come, following his own footprints half-buried in the sand. No one spoke. Their steps were close behind him, steady but cautious, as if any noise might draw something else out of the dunes. He caught Sarah looking at him more than once when she thought he wouldn't notice. He wondered what she was thinking, if she believed he'd abandoned them. If she thought he'd chosen to go his own way, leaving them to fend for themselves. He considered saying something. An apology, maybe.

Explaining that he thought it was the best course of action, that he thought he could take on all the undead and win. But the words felt thin even in his own head. How could he justify leaving when Mark had nearly bled out because of it? So he said nothing, and they walked on in silence. When the rise ahead dipped and Mark finally came into view, Sarah broke into a run. She surged past Ethan, Tom clutched to her side, sand spraying as she dropped to her knees in front of her husband.

Her hands were already moving, frantic at first, then forcing themselves to slow as she took him in. Tom knelt beside her, small hands gripping Mark's sleeve, eyes wide and unblinking. Ethan kept walking. He stopped a short distance away and turned his back slightly, scanning the dunes and the empty stretches beyond. He didn't need to hover. There was nothing more he could do for Mark; he would either survive or he wouldn't. The best thing he could offer now was space and vigilance. He could hear them speaking.

He didn't try to listen, but it was a good sign. If Mark was well enough to speak, maybe the salve had worked better than he hoped. Sarah had both hands pressed gently to Mark's neck, her brow furrowed in concentration. Faint light spilled from her palms, warm and soft, sinking into torn flesh. Ethan remembered—absently—that she was a healer. Now it just depended on whether she had made the correct skill choice. It seemed she'd chosen well. The glow faded after several seconds.

Mark sucked in a shaky breath and coughed, grimacing as he did. But when Sarah pulled her hands back, the bleeding had slowed to a seep, the wound no longer raw and gaping. Relief loosened something in Ethan's chest he hadn't realized was clenched. He had seen plenty of people die. Far too many. But for some reason, he didn't want to see this family meet that fate. Was it selfishness? Ethan could admit that it was. He had set himself a task to see them to safety.

If he couldn't do that, then what hope did he have in changing any of the future events? He watched as Sarah continued her work. She shifted, hands moving to Mark's ribs, his arms, his legs. As the danger to his throat passed, the rest of the damage became obvious, and it was bad. Mark had pushed himself far past his limits. Gashes that had gone unnoticed by Ethan became glaringly obvious. In his rush, he hadn't realized how cut up Mark was. It seemed it had been a very close battle.

Ethan watched in silence, just thankful he had made it in time to save them and glad they had a healer in their midst. At least now his PO wouldn't have been wasted. They stayed there through the afternoon. It turned out that no matter how good Sarah's healing skill was, it was still in its first stage. So she had to heal and rest, waiting for her skill to recharge. Mark faded in and out, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, but he lived. Ethan kept watch the entire time.

He circled the area slowly, eyes always on the horizon, making sure nothing else tried to finish what the undead had started. When the sun began its slow descent, Ethan finally let himself believe they might make it through the day without another fight. Sarah requested they rest where they were. Ethan didn't argue it. He could see Mark needed more time to recover his strength. Sarah was the same, exhaustion weighing on her despite the relief of having her husband alive.

Even Tom barely stirred, clinging to his parents and sleeping far deeper than a child his age should have. The rest was necessary. By the next morning, they were ready to move on. Mark was still hurting. That much was obvious. His neck was wrapped in layers of cloth, stained but no longer bleeding, and his movements were stiff and uneven. Still, he walked. Slowly, but without complaint. Sarah stayed close to him, one hand always hovering near his arm, while Tom alternated between walking and being carried.

By his estimate, they still had a couple of days before they reached the settlement. Normally he would have pushed harder. But now? Now they could afford to slow down. The desert, for once, seemed willing to allow it. There were no signs of undead. No scorpion tracks etched into the sand. No disturbed dunes. No corpses baking beneath the sun. Ethan didn't trust it, but he accepted it. His supplies would last. Barely, but enough. Still, once they reached civilization, he'd need to stock up again.

Maybe find some armor if he could afford it. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Time passed and the days blurred together into a rhythm of walking, resting, and quiet conversation. Sarah talked to Tom constantly, pointing out rock formations, making up stories to distract him. Mark spoke less, conserving his strength, but he listened. It seemed they had drawn away from Ethan.

They still made small talk, but Mark was the only one who really engaged with him, and that was limited due to his healing throat. On the second night, they made camp between two shallow dunes where the wind was weaker. The stars burned bright overhead. Sarah and Tom fell asleep quickly, fatigue claiming them without a fight. Ethan went through his routine a short distance away, drawing his sword and moving through slow, deliberate forms.

His body was still adjusting to the strain he had been putting on it, even with the added strength and endurance each level granted him. But each repetition, each hour spent practicing, honed his body into something that could wield the sword more comfortably. He felt Mark approach before he heard him. His neck looked rough in the firelight, angry red lines cutting across skin. He had his bandages off for now, letting the wound breathe.

"Can I join you?" he asked after a moment.

"If you're willing." Ethan studied him.

"You're not in any shape to fight."

"I know," Mark said.

"That's not what I'm asking." He hesitated, then added, "I just want to learn the basics. You clearly know what you're doing. Anything will help." Ethan chuckled.

"Alright," he said.

"But we'll take it slow." Mark nodded immediately.

"Slow's fine." Ethan stepped aside and motioned him closer. He adjusted Mark's stance first, hands firm but careful, shifting his feet in the sand until his balance settled.

"Weight through your hips," Ethan said.

"Not your shoulders. If you lean forward, you'll get dragged down." Mark grimaced as he adjusted.

"Feels wrong."

"Good," Ethan replied.

"That means you're not doing what you did before." Mark huffed but listened. They worked quietly, Ethan demonstrating simple cuts, Mark copying them as best he could. His movements were stiff, limited by injury, but he tried. Every time his breathing hitched, every time pain flashed across his face, he kept going. After a while, Mark stopped and leaned on his sword, chest rising and falling hard. Sweat beaded down his face, and he looked frustrated.

"If it wasn't for the taunt skill," he said, voice low, "they would've died." Ethan didn't interrupt.

"That thing pulled everything onto me," Mark continued.

"Every time I used it, it felt like I was painting a target on my back. But it worked." He swallowed carefully.

"If I didn't pick that skill… I hate to imagine it." Ethan nodded.

"You made the right call." Mark looked at him then. Really looked.

"Still almost wasn't enough."

"No," Ethan agreed.

"But it bought time. And in the end, you took out a lot of the undead." Mark glanced toward where Sarah and Tom slept, their shapes small beneath the stars.

"I need to get stronger," he said quietly.

"I won't get another chance. That's the second time I've been saved. I don't want there to be a third." Ethan rested the tip of his blade against the sand.

"I understand. And it's good you realize you need strength to survive the trials."

"Is that what you realized? Is that why you're out here alone? So you can grow stronger?" Ethan sheathed his sword.

"I've already told you—I'm looking for someone. But yes. Strength is the only thing that matters now. Forget the rules we used to abide by. Take what you can and grow strong enough to protect everything you care about."

"That seems like a fast way to lose who you are." Ethan nodded.

"I guess you just need a reminder. You're lucky. Your family is there for you to see what really matters."

"And what about you?" Ethan chuckled.

"You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself." Mark nodded, but didn't continue the conversation. Instead, he excused himself and moved to rest by his family. Ethan sat down by the fire. His mind had been a mess for the last few days, going over every decision he'd made, questioning his ability to save humanity. So he closed his eyes and fell into meditation. He stayed like that for hours until meditation finally turned into a restless sleep. When he woke, they set out at first light.

The desert greeted them the same way it always did—silent, vast, and uncaring—but something about it felt different now. He needed that rest. Ethan took point as usual, eyes scanning the dunes ahead, while Mark followed a few paces back with Sarah and Tom between them. Ethan had slowly picked up the pace without comment. He was eager to get out of this desert and see Mark and Sarah to safety. They must have wanted the same thing, because no one complained. The land began to change as the hours passed.

At first it was subtle, patches of sand broken by stone, the dunes interrupted by jagged ridges poking through like the bones of something ancient. Then the rocks grew larger, rising higher with each mile they covered, forming long, uneven spines that cut across the desert. They were close. The air began to cool. Still hot, but not suffocating, as the massive rock formations grew into towering mountains, casting shadows on the dunes below. Mark noticed it too.

"Man, that's good," he said quietly.

"The view's not bad either."

"It is," Ethan replied.

"This is one of the bigger settlements on this level. And the largest landmark there is." They kept walking, moving through the outskirts of the stone fields, winding between towering pillars and narrow passes where the wind howled low and constant. The terrain forced them closer together, breaking their formation, but Ethan didn't mind. At this point, speed mattered less than awareness. Then Ethan stopped. He raised a hand, and the others froze with him, likely expecting danger. Mark even drew his sword.

Ethan realized he should have clarified. Too late now. He stepped forward slowly, cresting a shallow rise of stone and rubble. The ground fell away on the other side, opening into a wide basin nestled between the mountains. And there it was. The settlement. Highrocks. It clung to the stone like a parasite that had learned how to survive. Structures carved directly into the rock faces. Crude walls reinforced with scavenged bone and carapace. Cloth canopies stretched between pillars for shade.

Behind him, Sarah gasped softly. Mark stepped up beside him, eyes wide, disbelief plain on his face.

"We've made it?" Ethan nodded.

"Looks like it." Tom tugged on Sarah's sleeve, peeking around her side.

"Are we safe?" Sarah swallowed, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she nodded.

"Yes, sweetheart. I think we are."