"Those things... they crawl like men but move like spiders," Aragorn said, his jaw tight as they hurried through the darkening trees of the North. "They've been harrying my kin's camp for two nights. We drive them off, but they always return to the shadows of the graves."
"They're Ghouls," Keith replied, his System-given knowledge flashing icons of rotting flesh and jagged claws. "A nasty bunch. They prefer carrion and corpses, but they'll take a living human as a side dish if they're hungry enough."
When they reached the hidden Ranger camp, the air was thick with the smell of iron and decay. The Dúnedain were holding their perimeter, but they were exhausted. Reports were already coming in from the scouts: a larger number of creatures were arriving from the surrounding wastes.
Keith saw men with deep, jagged gashes, their skin already turning a sickly grey. Without a word, he pulled the red vials from his pouch. "Drink this," he commanded, handing a vial of Swallow to a wounded Ranger.
The man took a gulp and immediately gagged. "By the Valar! It tastes like a sewer!" But as he spoke, the jagged wound on his thigh began to steam, the flesh stitching itself back together in seconds. The Ranger stood up, his strength returning even as dark veins pulsed momentarily in his neck.
Keith turned to Aragorn. "I need the bodies of the ones you killed. Can I gather parts from them?"
Aragorn nodded solemnly. "Do what you must, Keith."
While the other Rangers watched in horrified confusion, Keith knelt by a fallen Ghoul. He worked with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon, extracting Ghoul Blood and marrow. He ignored the whispers of "grave-robber" and "sorcerer." He set his cauldron over the camp's central fire, adding the blood, a splash of Dwarven Spirit, and crushed Sewant Mushrooms.
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[NEW FORMULA DISCOVERED: BLACK BLOOD]
[+30 SYSTEM POINTS EARNED]
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He filled several vials with the dark liquid and distributed them. "This is Black Blood. It makes your very blood a lethal poison to these necrophages."
Aragorn took a swallow, his face contorting. "It is foul," he wheezed, "but I feel the heat of it."
"Wait," one of the younger Rangers asked, looking at the empty vial of the red tonic that had saved his leg. "If this one is made of blood... what was the red one made of?"
Keith didn't look up. "Drowner brain," he said simply.
A wave of nausea hit the camp. Two Rangers immediately turned away to vomit, their faces pale with disgust. They looked at Keith with a mix of awe and terror, realizing that the "miracle" saving their lives was brewed from the guts of the things they hated most.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoed from the darkness—louder and more intelligent than the rest. The System flared a deep, warning red.
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[THREAT DETECTED: ALGHOUL]
[WARNING: REGENERATIVE ABILITIES AND SPINED DEFENCE ACTIVE]
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An Alghoul, larger and more twisted with jagged bony spikes, emerged from the gloom. It let out a bone-chilling roar, commanding the lesser ghouls to charge. The battle for the camp had begun.
Keith acted with frantic, focused energy as the shrieks grew closer. His hands flew over his cauldron, mixing saltpeter and calcium equum with a steady hand. He wasn't just a schoolboy anymore; he was a munitions officer.
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[CRAFTING SUCCESSFUL: GRAPESHOT]
[+20 SYSTEM POINTS EARNED]
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He began handing out the heavy, iron-cased spheres to the Rangers. "Listen to me! These are Grapeshot bombs. Pull the pin and throw them into the center of the pack. They spray silver shrapnel that tears through necrophage hide like paper!"
Next, he produced a thick, foul-smelling sludge he'd rendered from the dog tallow of a nearby dead hound and crushed blowballs. "Apply this Necrophage Oil to your swords and arrowheads," he commanded. "Every strike will burn them. Every cut will fester."
The Rangers—except for Aragorn—looked at the greasy oil and the strange iron balls with deep doubt. To men of the West, this felt like the tricks of a street performer, not the noble warfare of the Dúnedain. But as the first wave of Ghouls crested the hill, desperation overrode their skepticism.
The attack was a whirlwind of fire and steel. The Grapeshot bombs detonated with thunderous roars, turning the tightly packed Ghouls into piles of shredded meat. When the Alghoul lunged at a younger Ranger, it bit deep into his shoulder—only to recoil instantly, screeching in agony as the Black Blood in the man's veins acted like acid, melting the monster's jaw from the inside out.
The Rangers' swords, slicked with Keith's oil, sliced through the Alghoul's spined hide as if it were soft parchment. Within minutes, the battle was over. Not a single Ranger had fallen.
The silence that followed was heavy. The Rangers stood amongst the corpses, staring at their own glowing, oil-stained blades. The previous disgust they felt toward the Swallow potion had vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed curiosity. They looked at Keith not as a grave-robber, but as a walking arsenal.
"It works," whispered the Ranger who had vomited earlier. "By the stars, it actually works."
Keith wiped a smudge of black ichor from his face and shouldered his spatial pouch. He didn't offer a celebration. He merely looked at the survivors with a cold, practical gaze.
"Follow me," he said.
Keith led the group to a desolate stretch of earth where the soil was unnaturally pale. Just as he suspected, the ground was riddled with the tunneled entrances of an underground monster nest.
"Ready your bows," Keith commanded, his voice low. "If anything crawls out of that hole, don't let it reach the line."
The Rangers notched their Arrows, their tips still glistening with the oily sheen of Necrophage Oil. Keith moved with calculated stealth, creeping toward the dark maw of the primary burrow. He pulled the pin on a Grapeshot bomb, dropped it into the depths, and sprinted back. A muffled roar shook the earth, followed by a geyser of dust and the screeching of dying creatures.
------
[NEST CLEARED: +50 SYSTEM POINTS]
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Over the next few hours, they repeated the process, systematically finding and destroying more nests. As the last burrow collapsed into a heap of silver-shredded remains, the oppressive weight that had hung over the region lifted. The land felt lighter, safer.
While Keith knelt among the ruins to harvest Alghoul bone marrow and Ghoul hearts, the Rangers stood in a semi-circle, watching him. The earlier revulsion was gone, replaced by a profound silence.
Aragorn stepped toward them, his voice carrying the authority of a chieftain. "Do not look upon his work as a desecration," he told his kin. "Keith practices an art called Alchemy. He is not playing with the dead; he is dissecting the nature of our enemies. He turns their very essence into the fire and steel that kept you alive today. It is a grim necessity—a way to turn the monster's strength against itself."
The Rangers nodded slowly. They finally saw the logic: by "looting" the dead, Keith was ensuring the living didn't join them.
------
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: REPUTATION WITH DÚNEDAIN: TRUSTED]
[CURRENT SP: 215]
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Keith stood up, his vials clinking as he secured his pouch. "The immediate threat is gone," he said, looking at the Rangers. "But we have enough materials now to brew something stronger."