Spirit of War

As the group delved deeper into the darkened corridor, the air grew heavy with the scent of moss and the palpable weight of centuries. The walls, lined with ancient stones, whispered echoes of a forgotten past, leading them into an expansive hall. It was a cavernous space, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows, dominated by an imposing statue in the center.

The statue was a majestic and lifelike representation of Eldrian Shadowbane, the demigod known for his defeat of Satan. Its presence was awe-inspiring, and as the group approached, they observed the intricate carvings and the runes etched into the base of the statue. Everyone leaned in, reading the inscriptions, trying to decipher the lore and significance of this grand figure. The atmosphere was thick with the thrill of discovery, each member absorbed in unraveling the history before them.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a spectral figure that burst forth from the statue with a startling shout of "Boo!" The group recoiled in unison, their postures instantly shifting to defensive stances, ready for confrontation. But then, the ghost began to laugh—a hearty, echoing laugh that filled the hall and seemed utterly incongruous with their surroundings.

The ghost wiped away imaginary tears of laughter from his ethereal face, managing to say between chuckles, "I'm sorry... I'm sorry. I just couldn't resist." His laughter continued, unabated, as if he had played the best prank of his centuries-long existence. The group exchanged bewildered glances, their readiness for battle slowly melting into confused amusement as the ghost's laughter rang out.

After several moments, the spirit finally composed himself, still chuckling occasionally. Yosue, visibly annoyed by the interruption and not quite sharing the spirit's sense of humor, demanded, "But who are you?"

Catching his breath, the ghost replied, "I am the guardian of this place, a spirit bound here for eternity—or well, as long as Satan remains truly defeated, which isn't the case, so... eternity, I suppose." He paused, then added with a sudden realization, "Oh, and I forgot to mention, I am the combined spirit of everyone who died at the hands of Satan during the war."

The group looked at one another, their expressions a mix of incredulity and skepticism. The notion that this somewhat scatterbrained and jovial spirit was a composite of countless souls who had faced such a dark fate seemed almost absurd.

As the spirit continued to giggle at his own joke, the initial tension gave way to a surreal acceptance of the absurdity of the situation. The room, moments before filled with the solemnity befitting a sacred site, now echoed with the bizarre laughter of a ghost who found endless amusement in his eternal guardianship.

Amukelo, trying to bring some sense to the conversation, ventured, "So, what can you tell us about this statue and the artifacts? Is there anything here that can help us in our quest?"

The spirit, now somewhat more composed, glanced around the group with a mischievous twinkle in his translucent eyes. "Ah, seeking the wisdom of ages, are we? Well, you've come to the right—or perhaps the wrong—spirit! Let's just say, my methods are a bit... unconventional. But worry not! I'm here to help, in my own peculiar way."

As the spirit's attention zeroed in on Amukelo, a flicker of recognition sparked in its ethereal eyes. "You! I know you! Well, not you exactly, but what you are wearing," he exclaimed, pointing at Amukelo's armor with an air of excitement. "How did you get that armor? How strong are you? You know what, asking won't help—let's test this."

Before anyone could react, the statue of Eldrian at the center of the hall sprang to life. Its eyes glowed ominously as it adopted a battle stance, its stone figure somehow imbued with sudden agility and menacing intent. As it lunged toward Amukelo, the rest of the group tensed, ready to leap into the fray to assist their friend.

However, the spirit swiftly interjected, his voice booming through the hall, "Don't interrupt him, nothing will happen to him... unless he's weak." His tone was playful yet carried an underlying seriousness that held everyone in place, their hands stayed by his assurance.

Amukelo, caught slightly off guard by the statue's swift attack, quickly regained his composure. He leaped back, putting distance between himself and the animated stone, and began to focus inwardly, gathering mana around him. Although he had not yet mastered the creation of a mana flow, he knew he could enhance his speed by forming a protective coat of mana around himself.

But as he concentrated, the statue wasted no time. It charged, its movements surprisingly swift for something crafted from stone. Meanwhile, the spirit cheered on the statue with a zeal that bordered on the comical. "Come on! Get him! He's yours!" he shouted, fully engrossed in the spectacle.

Amukelo, his focus split between defending himself and gathering mana, found that accumulating energy in the heat of battle was far more challenging than during training. He managed to muster only about sixty percent of his maximum mana capacity—less than he had hoped but still significant. Even with this reduced power, his reactions were enhanced, allowing him to dodge the statue's blows with a speed that would have been impossible under normal circumstances.

He wove through the statue's attacks, his movements a blur as he also attempted counterattacks with his swords. Each strike met the hard surface of the animated statue, resulting in a resounding clank of metal on stone, a clear indication that he was dealing no damage despite his efforts.

Observing the exchange, the spirit seemed both amused and slightly disappointed. "Ahh, too bad," he remarked casually. Then, turning his attention to the statue, he issued a new command, "Use forty percent."

At his words, the statue's demeanor changed instantly. It became noticeably faster and stronger, its next movements charged with increased power that made its previous attacks seem sluggish in comparison.