As far as the eye can see, the ground is lit up by white-gold runes, tongues of blue flame and roving God Rays. The mountains ahead look like someone applied a “Heaven” filter to a demonic hellscape.

“Consecrated Ground. I’ve never seen a patch this large.”

“I’m guessing it’s not Undead-friendly?”

“You could say that. Wait here.”

Nyra walks up to the boundary of the Consecrated Ground, whispering spells under her breath.

She darts through the traps, dancing and weaving past the patchwork of holy flames, seals, and rays of light. A thousand feet into the Consecrated Ground, she’s visibly fatigued and the runes grow denser.

“Shit!” A slight misstep sets off a nearby rune, which explodes in a ring of blue fire.

Stymied, she dashes back to me.

—

“Go on without me. Consecrated Ground doesn’t hurt the living.”

“What? No way!”

“Put on these rings. This one will boost your HP, and this one will take you to Mencius when you arrive in the Valley. Show it to any Undead who trouble you.”

The girl begins slipping rings off her fingers, ignoring my protests.

“I’ll find another way.”

“Only one road leads to the Valley of the Dead,” I repeat her words back to her.

“Murphy, just go!” Nyra glares at me, “Cast Heal as soon as you see the enemy.”

Think, Murphy! There has to be a way to get her through with me.

“This is more important than me, idiot!”

Think!

The words – drawn from distant memory as if by narrative force – stumble off my tongue.

“Curious is the trapmaker’s art, his efficacy never witnessed by his own eyes.”

“What?”

“Trapmaking, however effective, is almost impossible to learn because it lacks feedback loops. Trapmakers never witness their own creations in action. So they always miss things.”

I start stripping off my clothes.

—

“What are you doing, pervert?! Have you lost your mind?”

“I’m going to keep casting Heal in your direction. Keep contact with the orb and it’ll outheal the Holy damage.”

The plan dawns on her.

“Good idea!”

I check my stats. With only my Salamander Leggings of Knowledge on, my INT comes out to 85. Heal orbs will travel at the speed of a brisk jog.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

—

What a strange sight we must have been. The purple-haired mummy girl jogging next to a moving dark-purple orb the size of a sphere. The shirtless youth running a cautious distance behind, pausing every so often to cast another orb.

The hill steepens and grass all but disappears underfoot, but the Consecrated Ground continues to stretch up into the clouds.

While I’m soaked with sweat, Nyra shows no signs of fatigue.

I take five second pauses to cast each Heal, setting me further and further behind.

One step at a time.

Holy fire feels like a gentle tickle, but lactic acid eats into my thighs.

“Have to slow down…” I croak.

Jogging in place, Nyra glances back in alarm.

There’s no way to slow down without slowing down the orbs.

There’s no turning back now.

Off come the pants.

—

You might think that coming up with a clever idea would assuage wounded pride.

You might think massacring a dozen high-level Inquisition soldiers would heal a bruised ego.

You might think getting more exercise than ever is worth celebrating.

You would be wrong.

None of that compares to the humiliation of shivering in sweat-soaked underwear while a little girl rifles through her knapsack for your clothes.

Pride is a funny thing.

Just when you think you’ve lost it all, it turns out there’s more to lose.