Dawnblade (Fan-Translation)

As the heavy stone gate creaked shut under the power of an ancient spell, magic coursed through the grooves etched into the walls and floor, forming a closed loop of energy.
The nightmare beyond the gate was cut off—no more shouting from the captain of the guard, no more cries of the dying, no more roars from the monstrous horrors.
All sounds were smothered behind stone and steel.

Even though everyone knew this peace was only temporary, Rebecca couldn't help but let out a long breath—if only the hell outside had been just a nightmare.

But the next second, she shook her head hard, casting out that fragile thought.
The heavy walls might offer a moment’s safety, but they could also weaken the will, lulling them into a dangerous sense of security. Tightening her grip around her dimming staff, Rebecca—heir to the House of Seawright—hoped the weapon would give her a little more courage.

Ser Byron Kirk’s voice came from behind: "My Lady, the passage has been sealed. Those things won't be breaking through anytime soon."

Rebecca turned to glance at the loyal knight. His steel armor was battered and scarred, with a dent over the chestplate and scorch marks staining his greying hair—a grim souvenir from the fireball Lady Hestia had hurled to save him from the jaws of a beast.
It had been a close call—the fireball had exploded so close to his head that, if not for sheer luck, Byron would be ashes by now.

Then again, Rebecca wasn't sure whether to thank luck or blame Lady Hestia’s legendarily bad aim...

"You've done well, Ser Byron," Rebecca lowered her gaze to hide her exhaustion. "At least we can breathe for a moment."

She turned to survey the small group that remained:
Three soldiers holding torches, Lady Hestia carefully examining the walls with a burning orb floating in her hand, and young Betty, the clumsy maid who had followed them all the way here still clutching a dented frying pan, peeking nervously from behind the soldiers with wide, blinking eyes.

Counting herself and Ser Byron, there were only seven of them left.
Everyone else... they wouldn't have made it.

After checking on her people, Rebecca studied their surroundings.

It was an ancient place—a rectangular stone hall layered with dust and cobwebs. Crumbling relics were piled in one corner; even in decay, they spoke of past grandeur.
The walls bore faded murals and worn carvings. Despite the wear of time, the solemnity of the First Dynasty still lingered in every line.

Lady Hestia Seawright, a learned mage, spent a long time studying the murals and carvings. Unlike the gaudy fashions from the northern kingdoms, the art here was dignified and austere—depicting legendary heroes, mythic scenes, and abstract representations of forgotten gods.

Placing a hand on her chest, Lady Hestia murmured, "Forgive us, Ancestors..."

"Lady Hestia," Rebecca approached nervously, staff in hand. "This place..."

"This is the resting place of House Seawright's founders," Hestia said solemnly. "We must show the utmost respect."

Rebecca swallowed hard, glancing around. "It looks like... no one's set foot in here for centuries."

"After Marquis Groman stole a relic from the tomb a hundred years ago and triggered the rebellion that nearly destroyed our house, this place was sealed," Hestia explained grimly.
"Every descendant of Seawright knows how to open it, but none would dare—except in a moment of true desperation."

She looked meaningfully at Rebecca.
"And now... is that moment."

Rebecca took a deep breath. "The Ancestors will forgive us, right?"

Lady Hestia gave a stiff, humorless smile, then turned back to searching the murals for clues to the inner tomb's mechanism.

It didn’t take long for her to find a special stone pillar.
Placing her hand atop it and pressing down, she triggered a low rumble as a slab of stone began to rise, revealing the path to the deeper tomb.

But as the door opened, Rebecca heard something odd—something falling inside, followed by a startled gasp.

"Someone’s inside?!" Hestia cried sharply.
"Byron!"

The knight didn’t wait for more orders—he rushed forward with sword drawn, the three soldiers close behind. Rebecca gathered her wits and hurried after them, barking over her shoulder at Betty:
"Hide somewhere, quick!"

As Rebecca dashed into the inner chamber, she saw Byron already locked in battle with a nimble figure.
The figure—small and fast—danced around Byron’s blows, slipping in and out of the heavy shadows that filled the tomb, moving like smoke.

Rebecca had never seen anyone keep pace with Ser Byron before.

Still, once the three soldiers cut off her escape and Hestia sealed the doorway with a wall of fire, the intruder lost her advantage and stumbled to the ground.

Now Rebecca could see her clearly—a young woman, about Rebecca’s age but shorter, wearing worn leather armor and short-cropped hair.
Even through the grime on her face, it was clear she was strikingly pretty.

But what stood out most were her pointed ears—not long and elegant like a pureblooded elf's, but short and sharp:
A half-elf.

Byron wasted no time—he pressed his sword to the girl’s throat, while the soldiers boxed her in.
"You dare trespass in the Seawright ancestral tomb?!" Hestia stormed forward, her voice shaking with fury.

Rebecca glared too, heart pounding.
This was a sacred place—violated.

The half-elf girl trembled, her voice cracking:
"W-Wait! I didn’t steal anything yet!"

Byron’s blade pressed lower. "You’ve got some nerve!"

But before more words could be exchanged, a clattering noise erupted from the blacksteel coffin at the center of the tomb.
Everyone froze.

Rebecca, heart hammering, conjured a ball of fire atop her staff and pointed it at the trembling half-elf.
"What did you do to our Ancestor?!"

The girl looked like she was about to cry.
"I swear—I didn’t touch anything! B-But your Ancestor’s coffin... it’s about to burst open!!"

As if on cue, the blacksteel coffin began to shake violently, its lid rattling.

"Ancestor, please!" Hestia cried out, panic stripping away her usual poise.
"Please, rest peacefully!"

The half-elf shrieked:
"Screaming at it isn’t going to help! Somebody hold down the damn coffin lid!"

The soldiers stared at each other, stunned. Even Byron seemed at a loss.

Rebecca, though, reacted. She sprinted up to the platform just as the coffin lid was pried open—and a hand thrust out.

Without thinking, she swung her staff and smashed it down onto the hand.
"Ancestor! Please rest in peace!!"

A pained yelp came from the coffin:
"Ow, what the hell—who hit me?!"

Rebecca froze.

Everyone else was staring at her—Byron, Hestia, the soldiers—their faces a mixture of horror and disbelief.

Rebecca lowered her staff, face paling.
"Auntie... I think I just... disrespected our Ancestor..."

But Hestia suddenly screamed:
"Rebecca! Get away from there!"

"Wha—?"

"It might be undead!" Hestia shouted, face white with fear. "The monsters outside... they could’ve corrupted our Ancestor’s remains!"

Cold sweat broke out on Rebecca's back.
She turned to flee—just as the coffin exploded open, its lid flying into the air.

From the shattered coffin, a man sat up—short, chestnut hair, a sharp, noble face, dressed in ancient aristocratic garb.

The half-elf girl, still pinned by swords, sighed heavily:
"See? Told you. Your Ancestor’s totally risen from the dead.”