The ghosts surrounding us numbered at least a hundred—an overwhelming disadvantage. We couldn't strike them without first identifying their types. Each spirit bore a weakness tied to its nature, and without that knowledge, our only hope was to eliminate the troll controlling them.
"I'm guessing you've got an escape plan…" Tom muttered, edging back toward me, careful not to take his eyes off the encircling spirits.
"I do," I replied, scanning the ghostly horde. "But we'll need to lure them into a formation we can break through. This barrier they've formed—it's strong enough to hold us here for a while." My eyes flicked across the apparitions, trying to decipher the threads of their soul forms, to spot clues to their identities.
But one thought gnawed at me—how could a single troll command this many spirits? Was he an elder? Even among elders, this number was excessive... Unless—
"Close your eyes. Just listen!" I warned urgently.
Too late.
To my horror, Tom's eyes had turned pale white.
My instincts had been right. This wasn't the real world. We were trapped in an illusionary realm.
Had I already been affected too?
I tried to move, but something was wrong. I knew I was moving—my body responded—but I couldn't see myself acting. The dissonance was haunting, as if I were back inside that ritual again—the one that once robbed me of all my senses.
"So… it's a wraith," I whispered, summoning the last of my will. Vallum Argenteum.
A silver wall erupted around us, sealing both Tom and me inside its shimmering sanctuary.
AaaaAARRHHHHhhkkk!
The two wraiths clinging to our shoulders shrieked in agony. Their twisted, spectral bodies writhed like serpents along the barrier, clawing at the silver with desperate fury. But no matter how they thrashed, they couldn't reclaim their power within the cage I'd conjured.
Moriarty stepped forward and fired two clean shots—iron bullets. Each round severed their spiritual threads attached to the troll. The wraiths let out one final, distorted cry before disintegrating into ash and silence.
"Great," Moriarty breathed, eyes wide with panic. "We can still feel their spiritual energy. That means those things out there—they're real."
"Can you sense the location of their spiritual strings?" Tom asked, drawing a sleek sniper rifle from his utility belt with practised ease. "Hand me a bullet."
"If you're aiming for the troll, I'd wager he's over there," I replied, pointing toward a cluster of dense spiritual energy pulsing like a heartbeat in the distance. "But I don't have any sniper rounds on me."
"A pistol bullet will suffice," Tom said, snatching one from my hand. With a steady palm, he compressed high-pressure water around it, shaping it into a precision sniper round. "Spirits bind themselves to their contractors through anchoring objects. Destroy the medium, and their control shatters."
"…Isn't it strange," Moriarty interjected, frowning as he slowly raised his gun—not toward the ghosts outside, but at the back of Tom's head—"that none of the other spirits have entered this cage? Even though most of them should be immune to silver?"
He took a slow step forward.
"It's almost as if they believe the job is done," he continued, voice low with suspicion. "I really hate advanced poltergeists."
Then came the reply.
"You should know... no bullets work on us."
The creature's head twisted around—without its body so much as flinching. Its face now stared at us upside down, a grotesque grin splitting across where its temple should have been.
"I know," Moriarty said with a sly smile, lowering his aim from the creature's head to its utility belt. "But you all carry your anchors on you. Without them... you can't transform."
Bang.
The poltergeist didn't even have time to react. One second it stood there grinning—and the next, it disintegrated into nothing.
SCCCRREEEEEiiIIINK—KRRAAAANG!
Suddenly, the silver cage let out a metallic shriek as it split open behind me. From the gash, a surge of water burst through, crashing forward before rising and shifting—moulding itself into the shape of a man.
Bang.
I fired immediately, half expecting another trick. But the bullet passed harmlessly through the figure, distorting it like ripples on a pond before it reformed.
That calmed me. It was indeed Tom.
"What the hell?" Tom exclaimed, stepping backwards and pressing the torn edges of the wall back together.
"Had to make sure you weren't another fake," I said, lowering my weapon.
Clang.
A deep dent hammered into the wall Tom had just sealed, forcing him back with a sharp intake of breath.
"Is it a Shade or an Oni?" I asked, moving away from the dent and sliding my pistol back into the utility belt.
"I tried cutting it with water. No effect. It's a Shade," Tom replied, panting. "But why send them one at a time?"
"He can't control all of them at once," I said. "No troll on our level can do that."
The pressure in the air spiked—the spiritual energy swelling, drawing closer fast.
"Get ready to run!"
Tom gave a quick nod, and as the energy surged toward us, we kicked eachother launching ourselves in opposite directions. I dropped the barrier spell just in time.
The spirit slammed into the ground with explosive force, sending us even further as it went straight ahead to reform the barrier.
Even without looking back, we could sense it—the tether between the spirit and the troll had weakened. Just for a moment, it had lost connection. He was shifting focus, pulling power away to summon something else.
That hesitation in control was all we needed.
Both of us spun midair, twisting our bodies in perfect sync to avoid the ghastly figures that lunged for us. Their claws sliced through empty space, missing us by inches as we landed hard on the ground, knees bent, breath sharp.
It was evident that this time... our opponents were Wendigos.
The first one stepped through the dissipating mist. It was tall—unnaturally so—with thin, bony limbs that bent at strange angles. Its skin was tight and pale, stretched like old leather over a skeletal frame. I could see the outline of its ribs, and its jaw hung slack, revealing rows of jagged teeth set far too deep into its skull. Patches of frost clung to its shoulders, and every breath it exhaled fogged the air with cold.
The second moved differently—lower to the ground, twitching with erratic energy. It was leaner, faster, with sharp joints and clawed fingers that dug into the earth like hooks. Its eyes glowed faintly, and its movements were disturbingly fluid, like muscle and bone weren't quite in agreement. When it looked at us, it didn't blink.
These weren't ordinary spirits that could be taken down by exploiting a single weakness... These were predatory entities, experienced in hunting prey of equal rank.