The freezing rain, sharp as splintered glass, did little to numb the ache in Toma’s chest. It plastered his threadbare suit to his skin and slicked the dark granite of Goran’s headstone, making the carved letters shimmer like tears. *Goran Mirkovic. Beloved Son, Brother, Husband.* The words were a mockery. Beloved by whom? Not by the Krag Bastion, who had cheered when Ignac Vran’s hunters claimed his unit sacrificed themselves for the greater good, conveniently omitting the part where they’d been abandoned. Only a handful of figures huddled beneath the sickly glow of the Skavna Necropolis’s lampposts. Goran’s widow stood beside Toma, her thin frame trembling, a black veil obscuring her face but not her silent, shuddering sobs. Bojan Dragar, Toma’s oldest friend, stood a few paces back, his hand on the hilt of a worn survival knife, his eyes scanning the perimeter with a familiar, restless vigilance that spoke of more than just a friend’s grief. Then, the quiet of the graveyard shattered. A cacophony of lenses whirred, flashbulbs exploding like sudden bursts of lightning in the gloom. A heavy-set man in a pristine, armored trench coat strode into the small gathering, his movements deliberate, theatrical. Ignac Vran, Guildmaster of the Korsak guild, his polished boots crunching on the wet gravel, a sneer already carved into his face. Behind him, a gaggle of press hounds from *Bastion Echo* jostled for position, their microphones thrust forward like predatory snouts. Lena Volkov, their lead anchor, a woman whose smile was as sharp as her stilettos, practically vibrated with excitement. Ignac paused by Goran’s fresh grave mound, his gaze sweeping over the few mourners, lingering on Toma with undisguised contempt. “A touching display,” Ignac’s voice boomed, amplified by Lena’s mic, “for a man whose bravery was ultimately… insufficient.” He kicked lightly at a loose clod of earth, sending it skittering across the headstone. “Perhaps if his brother, the renowned *Librarian* Mirkovic, hadn’t wasted his life cataloging dusty scrolls, he might have taught Goran how to fight. Or, at the very least, how to survive.” He then spat directly onto the wet granite, the spittle gleaming obscenely on Goran’s name. A collective gasp rippled through the small group, quickly muffled by the eager whir of recording rigs. The widow's muffled sob intensified. Bojan’s hand tightened on his knife, his knuckles stark white. Toma felt a cold fury, colder than the rain, settle deep in his bones. He took a step forward, his voice a low growl. “Get out, Vran. Before I forget myself.” Ignac merely chuckled, a grating, false sound. “Forget yourself? The mighty Archivist Toma? What are you going to do, Mirkovic? Organize me to death? Stamp me with an overdue notice?” He looked at Lena Volkov, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “The System, bless its generous heart, gives everyone a chance. Even… *Librarians*.” He gestured dismissively at Toma, a hand heavy with rings glittering in the broadcast strobes. Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet trembled. A low, guttural shriek tore through the air, silencing the media crew. From beyond the cemetery’s crumbling stone wall, a hulking figure clawed its way over, its pale, gangrenous skin glowing faintly in the dim light. A Frost-Ghoul. Its long, skeletal fingers, tipped with frost-rimmed talons, scraped against the stone. Its single, milky-white eye fixed on the closest source of warmth: the cluster of people. Panic erupted. The journalists screamed, scattering like startled birds, Lena Volkov tripping over her own feet, her mic dropping with a clatter. Ignac, for all his bluster, froze for a split second, his face blanching. The Ghoul let out another piercing cry, then lunged, its icy breath fogging the air. Instinct, or perhaps sheer malice, took over. As the Frost-Ghoul bore down on them, Ignac’s eyes darted frantically. He saw Toma standing nearest, a shield of desperation in his gaze as he stared at the monster, a shield of opportunity in Ignac’s mind. With a savage shove, Ignac sent Toma sprawling directly into the Ghoul’s path, a chilling grin twisting his face as the lenses, still rolling despite the chaos, captured the scene. “For the Bastion!” Ignac screamed, a performative valor, as he scrambled backwards, pulling a stunned Jelena with him, using her as a human buffer against the monster. “Fall back! Korsak will handle this!” But Ignac’s elite retainers had already evaporated into the shadows, leaving Toma alone. He hit the muddy ground hard, the cold seeping into his bones, his head buzzing. The Frost-Ghoul was upon him, its fetid breath washing over his face, a stench of formaldehyde and frozen death. Its talons, long and needle-sharp, reached for his throat. His mind, usually so precise, so logical, screamed with primal terror. But through it all, one thought burned: *Jelena. She’s still here. I have to protect her.* Even if she, like everyone else, hated him. Just as the talons neared his flesh, a voice, cold and precise as a winter’s blade, echoed not in his ears, but directly in the core of his being. [Gallows Protocol detected. Life-or-death wager initiated.] [Stakes accepted. What is your bet, player?] His voice, ragged and raw, tore from his throat. “My… my life. I bet my life. For power. To protect them.” The absurdity of it, in the face of certain death, was almost comical. [Wager confirmed. Life for Power. Outcome: Critical. Anomaly granted: Pyromantic Immolation.] A searing heat erupted from Toma’s chest, a sudden, impossible inferno. It wasn’t just fire; it was pure, unadulterated incineration. The Ghoul’s icy grip disintegrated, its pale skin bubbling and blackening, its single eye melting into liquid slag. A shriek, far more profound than before, ripped from its throat as the flames consumed it, turning flesh, bone, and ice into a fine, black ash that drifted down like morbid snow. Ignac Vran, who had finally dragged Goran's widow behind a gravestone, peered out, his mouth agape. The broadcast feeds captured his disbelief, fixing on the stunned faces of the few remaining news hounds. Toma, rising slowly, his threadbare suit miraculously untouched by the inferno, felt a bizarre calm. The rain hissed as it hit the smoldering ash where the Ghoul had been. A new interface flickered into existence before Toma’s eyes, transparent, ethereal. A single line glowed: [Librarian (Anomalous) – Class Rank: 1 (Initiate)] [Active Anomaly: Pyromantic Immolation (Infinite)] [Victory Condition: 100% Guaranteed] A sharp, agonizing pain lanced through his right hand. He gasped, looking down. His skin was wrinkling, shrinking, drying out. His fingers contorted, decaying rapidly, as if years had passed in mere seconds. It felt like being mummified alive. [First bet won. The House grows hungry. Next wager mandatory in 72 hours.]

The Funeral Wager