Another room, more skeletons and ghouls reduced to ash and dust. Sooner or later, this had to stop. It wasn’t the prettiest way to bring down a necromancer, but he couldn’t raise them faster than I could break them. Eventually, his cupboard would be bare, and then he’d have nothing left to hide behind.
So I pressed on, as long as my legs would carry me. Once this dance had begun, it could only end with me on top. So why not make the most of it, and expand my spell repertoire while I was at it?
The mana-leech trick kept me going ad nauseam, though it still irked me that I had to physically strike them - spear or fist - before the siphon would work. They were already in my domain; why couldn’t I just will the drain to begin? Why the need for a breach?
Likely, their bodies, if one could still call them that, retained enough integrity to resist the pull. I had to punch through first. A sharp blow, a spear thrust, and only then would their mana begin to trickle in. Same principle as life-drain on the living: crack the shell, and then drink the cup.
Oh well, if I couldn’t drain them at will, I’d just improve the cracking. For the next undead cluster, I conjured a hovering sphere above their heads - composed of dozens of jagged fragments held together by thin magical threads. The moment it stabilized, I detonated it.
The effect was twofold: the shrapnel shredded their defenses in an area-wide burst, and the impact points instantly triggered my mana siphon.
I grinned. Now that had promise. I still need a new name for the spell to better anchor it in my spell memory. Would
Let’s call it
The spell worked well... disturbingly well. Even the black angel, began to leak mana to me with each glancing strike. Occasionally, I even drew a few drops of life.
That raised an unsettling question: was it more than just a soulless construct? Was there something bound within that form?
Annoyingly, the thing caught on fast. Each time the siphon began to bite, it teleported just beyond my domain to sever the connection, only to blink back in and resume the fight. A real nuisance.
Incidentally, at one such teleport-back, it reappeared in the room just as I finished off the last of the undead. Reinforcements would arrive soon, no doubt, but why not try to use the moment to finish it?
As its
I had only one target in front of me now, and I focused on it.
Controlling four, five, or more spears at once had been tricky when juggling multiple enemies. But one foe? That was something I could manage.
Spear tips shimmered into existence - dozens of them - suspended mid-air around me like a deadly halo. At the same time, the air darkened and crackled as my mana spiraled inward. A dozen black blasts coalesced like miniature suns, pulsing with barely contained destruction.
The black angel must have realized I was preparing something nasty. It teleported away - but it was still inside my domain.
It would need two, maybe three jumps to get out and I didn’t give it the chance.
I couldn’t see it, but being within my domain I knew exactly where it was. And before it could teleport again, I unleashed the spell.
I blinked, momentarily stunned by what I’d unleashed.
The walls and everything between us across two entire rooms had been pulverized. The black angel’s death cry echoed through the castle, a chilling, drawn-out wail that rattled the stone around me. Then came the rumble, deeper and heavier, as part of the castle’s aisle collapsed in on itself.
I'm not sure if it was really a death cry, or just the sound of its failing construct, its magic unraveling in one final shriek of agony? Either way, it was unmistakable and final.
The black angel was gone - vaporized - and in its absence, I now had a direct line of sight straight through the shattered rooms. I could see daylight. The sky. And far beyond, a distant hill.
Was that... dust rising? Had my spell really reached that far?
Oh, well, probably my most devastating spell so far.
I found him! Lili’s voice bright and urgent in my head knocked the breath out of my musings.
Him?
For a heartbeat I stood there stupidly staring at the rubble, dust swirling in the air. Because we’d been hunting her, not him. Then the coin dropped: she’d pinned the necromancer. K’hordock.
Finally, the whole bloody circus could fold.
I melted into shadow the instant her meaning hit, streaking toward her. A pair of wards burst as I punched through, jolts sparking through my darkform, feeling on my tongue like licking the ends of a live battery.
Note to self: find out how she slipped past those wards…
*
Grom had rallied every available guard. The monster was advancing with eerie deliberation, methodically tearing through the castle, as if it were enjoying the destruction, and it was getting closer.
He cast a grim glance at the guards assembled around the room. If even the invincible black angel had been defeated, what chance did they have? Sacrificing his men would buy only seconds. Grom wasn’t afraid of battle or death - it came with the life of a warrior - but he could not accept meaningless slaughter. Would you send a child to fight a veteran warrior twenty or thirty levels above them? What kind of commander would do such a thing? His troops would be nothing more than a bump in the road.
He turned toward the Chieftain, ready to urge him to abandon the castle. But he held his tongue. It wasn’t his call, and K’hordock hadn’t made up his mind.
What was the old orc waiting for?
The chieftain’s council was still gathered, still in discussion, as if the palace wasn’t literally burning around them. Grom’s scalp prickled as though caught in an electric field. The monster was just a hallway or two away on an upper floor. What if it sensed them?
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Yes, there was a portal prepared, a quick escape if things turned worse, but why not just go through it now and hold the damned council meeting later?
He sighed.
Yes, there was a logic. Their presence gave a buff to the defending forces, and without K’hordock’s will anchoring the undead ranks, the necromancer’s army might splinter into chaos. There were reasons to stay.
Still, in Grom’s eyes, it wasn’t worth the risk. Not nearly.
The heavy, dragging footsteps of another undead group echoed through the hall as they passed by and he grimaced at their low levels.
Well… “low” was relative. Compared to the monster tearing through them like fire through paper, everything was.
Momoa, the junior recruit, placed another mental tiara on the strongest undead in the group. These tiaras - another of the old orc’s brilliant inventions - allowed him to control any wearer directly through the one fused into his helm. Even better, the tiara-bearer undead could command the surrounding undead, creating temporary squads with a semblance of coordination.
That was how Grom had already fought - and died - at least twenty times against the monster. He knew by now that any undead under level ninety was just cannon fodder, crushed in a single strike. It hadn’t started that way. At first, they’d slowed the monster down, even landed a few hits. Now? It tore through them like wet parchment. It felt as though its power grew with each battle, feeding off the chaos and violence, becoming stronger the longer it fought.
More than once, he hadn’t even gotten a chance to react before being obliterated. The creature seemed to have learned that the tiara-bearers were the key and began targeting them first.
So, Grom had adapted at his turn. He learned to hide behind the meat shield of lesser undead, using their bodies to shield himself. Not exactly heroic, but it gave him precious seconds to act.
But just as he took control of this undead the wards around him exploded. Not around the undead, but around his real position!
In the cacophony of sound, flying sparks, and thick clouds of dust, he saw it: legs forming out of swirling dust, moving as they took shape, as if the dust itself was coagulating into a humanoid form. The body followed, then the armor, layering itself over her frame as she calmly strode forward, straight toward K’hordock.
More explosions shattered the room. Splinters sliced into his skin. Grom instinctively shielded his face with one arm while drawing his longsword with the other. But it was futile. A second wave, like a giant broom made of raw force, swept through the chamber, sending them all flying. As he slammed into the far wall, he felt something worse—his life essence being drained.
To be a level ninety-six warrior and tossed aside like dirt... it was humbling.
And then, to his surprise, she spoke. Her voice rang out like a judgment:
“K’hordock, you old fool! She is mine! How dare you!”
She didn’t shout, but her voice reverberated through the hall, resonating with mana. It struck with the weight of command, and the old orc finally did what he should have done long ago.
He knelt, and raised the crown he had never worn.
The crown he had refused all his life. He had always rejected the title of King.
“She rightly belongs to you. Let us serve, my queen,” he said, his voice steady, solemn.
One by one, everyone in the hall bent the knee.
Even Grom knelt, though he could feel the last threads of his life slipping away.
Was he going to die on his knees?
*
I blinked, stunned. That was… unexpected.
I hadn’t been talking about his stupid crown!
Then it hit me: orcish didn’t have an “it.” All nouns were gendered, everything was either he or she, depending on the word. And apparently, a crown was a she.
After the initial confusion, and after several of them - including K’hordock - collapsed to the ground, I stopped the life drain. Guilt prickled as I looked around at the fallen. I hoped they weren’t dead, just unconscious.
I sighed. Now that I’d finally found some living people, people I could drain to recover some of my own life, they decided to surrender?
At least it had stopped the bleeding.
And while I was still trying to make sense of the situation, Lili had already zipped off to investigate further.
*
There had been a renewed tremor, and the rows of books had briefly swayed. Gidyon tilted his head, listening, but there was only silence. The library’s wards were doing their job well.
Except from the first explosion they hadn't heard anything. But for that kind of shock to be felt even through the wards… it must have been serious.
“That was the shields breaking, wasn’t it?” the lady of the house finally said.
“I believe so, Your Highness,” he replied with a respectful nod.
“It’s been some time already. I wonder what actually happened?” she mused aloud.
“I don’t know, Your Highness. Shall I go and inquire?”
She shook her head.
“No. We’ll find out soon enough. If no one’s come to check on us, they must be very busy.”
Then she looked up and met his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to call me that when Andy’s not with us.”
Andy. She was calling the old abomination Andy. His full name was Androchius K’hordock, the High Chieftain.
Gidyon nodded.
“I know, Your Highness, but Sir K’hordock ordered us to address you this way. I cannot disobey.”
She clicked her tongue but let it drop.
He returned to sorting the books, the silence punctuated only by the rustle of parchment and distant, muffled rumblings, until a flicker of movement caught his eye. At first, he assumed it was just another of the book-motes, those curious magical motes that fed off enchanted texts. But as he turned to identify it, his spell came up blank, as if he were trying to identify empty air.
The being looked straight at him and smirked before darting toward the elf lady. For a heartbeat, Gidyon considered casting a mote-cleansing spell, but then he froze. Even the most mundane insect would register something. This... didn’t. And it was clothed, cloaked in shimmering threads of enchanted fabric, subtle motes of power dancing around it.
No fly wore fashion.
Just as the strange figure approached her, the elf woman lifted her gaze from her book.
“So, here you are!” chirped a high-pitched voice.
The creature landed squarely in the center of her open pages, grinning up at her with unmistakable familiarity.
The lady raised a brow, visibly surprised at the talking dragonfly.
“Oh my, even flies speak in this manor now?” she said coolly. Then, with a nod, “Yes, I am here. Astute observation. May I point out, young… ahm, dragonfly, that it is rather rude to speak without offering your name first?”
The tiny being giggled, plopped herself down in the center of the open book, and rested her chin on her hand. Shimmering with a faint aura, she had delicate wings, tiny horns - or perhaps antennae - and a mischievous glint in her eye.
“And to think I was digging through dungeons to find you!” the dragonfly scoffed. “You seem awfully relaxed for a damsel in distress, Ju.”
“Excuse me!” the lady snapped, eyes narrowing. “It’s quite rude to scan someone without permission. And you dared use a nickname?” With that, she clapped the book shut.
Gidyon braced himself, half-expecting to see the insect’s crushed remains smeared across the parchment. But when the book reopened, the pages were spotless - and the dragonfly was gone.
Then, with a soft crackle of magic, wisps curled through the air, and the creature reformed in front of the elf, wings buzzing indignantly.
“Now that was rude!” she scolded. “And you’re not Ju! Who the hell are you?”