The city streets were a war zone, packed with waves of undead. But for Zavet and Merlot, it was just an obstacle. Zavet, faster and more agile, wove through the undead with deadly efficiency. His dagger flashed in the dim light, quickly cutting down rotting soldiers. His shadow armor flickered with every burst of speed, allowing him to slip through the chaos like a shadow himself.

  Behind him, Merlot fought his way forward with sheer force. He was slower, more deliberate, but no less devastating. His blade cleaved through multiple undead with each swing, and though he had left his enchanted sword behind in the palace, the raw strength behind each of his strikes was overwhelming.

  As Zavet moved ahead, he outpaced Merlot, his speed carrying him swiftly through the carnage. Within minutes, Zavet reached Razlond’s Keep. Perched on the balcony, silhouetted against the stormy sky, stood Emmerich, the Lord of Death Knights. His imposing figure, encased in dark armor, radiated power. He turned his head slowly, locking eyes with Zavet.

  A twisted smile spread across Emmerich’s face as he leaped down from the balcony, landing with a dull thud. “Alone, are you?” His voice dripped with cold arrogance. “How quaint. I had hoped for more challenges, but I remember you well from our last encounter. You and that knight—Runner, was it? Quite the pair. The other lords fought over who would get the pleasure of turning you into their undead minion.”

  Before Zavet could respond, Emmerich surged forward with lightning speed, his massive blade cutting through the air with lethal precision. Zavet was forced onto the defensive immediately. Emmerich’s strikes were masterful—each blow was calculated, leaving no room for error. Zavet dodged and ducked, his dagger parrying when it could, but the death knight’s strength was overwhelming.

  Zavet tried to create distance, throwing quick counterattacks, but Emmerich anticipated every movement. The death knight’s experience in battle was clear—centuries of combat had honed his skills to perfection. Zavet activated his shadow-stepping ability, attempting to appear behind Emmerich for a surprise attack, but Emmerich read him perfectly, turning to block the blow with ease.

  “You’ll have to try harder than that,” Emmerich sneered, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement.

  Suddenly, Merlot arrived, his heavy footsteps pounding through the chaos. “Zavet!” he called out, joining the fray. With a roar, Merlot swung his sword at Emmerich, the force behind the attack enough to shake the ground beneath them.

  But Emmerich was unfazed. He sidestepped and parried Merlot’s strike with a casual blade flick. Merlot’s heavy attacks lacked the speed Zavet was used to with Runner, making their teamwork awkward and uncoordinated. Emmerich took advantage of the disconnect, weaving through their strikes with an unsettling grace.

  Zavet and Merlot pressed on, but Emmerich was relentless. He delivered a bone-crushing kick to Zavet’s chest, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. Zavet’s shadow armor absorbed most of the impact but left him winded, struggling to regain his composure. Emmerich turned his attention to Merlot, unleashing a flurry of strikes aimed at vital points.

  Merlot blocked as best he could but was disadvantaged without his flaming dragon sword. Emmerich’s swordsmanship was too refined, too precise. Zavet watched from the ground, his mind racing as he tried to think of a way to turn the tide. He realized he couldn’t outmatch Emmerich’s skill with brute force. He needed to be more innovative and faster.

  A plan formed in his mind. Zavet focused, briefly closing his eyes as he reached out with his senses, not to the shadows around him but the ones within Emmerich’s armor. The death knight’s dark plate cast deep shadows, and Zavet knew how to exploit them.

  In an instant, Zavet vanished into the shadows, reappearing inches from Emmerich; Zavet struck, driving his dagger upward toward the vulnerable gap beneath Emmerich’s chin. The lord was fast and skilled, and he severed Zavet's hand at the wrist. But Zavets attack connected.

  Emmerich recoiled, blood spilling from the wound. For the first time, his expression faltered. He snarled in pain, swinging wildly at Zavet, but the surprise had given Zavet and Merlot the advantage.

  Merlot roared, swinging his sword with renewed fury. His blade crashed into Emmerich’s arm, severing it at the elbow with a brutal strike. Emmerich staggered, his confidence shattered, his form weakening as blood poured from his wounds.

  Zavet quickly picked up his severed hand that still had a grasp on his dagger. With a clumsy motion, he plunged his dagger deep into the dark plate of the death knight’s armor, piercing through to the flesh beneath. Emmerich gasped as blood seeped from the wound, but instead of falling, his eyes burned with a fierce, unholy red light. He did not fall. The severed hand hanging from the dagger somehow made Emmerich even more imposing, as it did not affect him at all.

  Emmerich retaliated with a growl of rage, pushing Zavet and Merlot back with a flurry of attacks. His blade moved with deadly precision, each strike fueled by necromantic power. The battle raged, steel clashing against steel, echoing through the hall as the two struggled to fend off the lord of death knights.

  Zavet danced around Emmerich, his agility allowing him to dodge the death knight’s strikes, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t land a decisive blow. Emmerich’s skill was too great—every move, every counter was executed with the precision of a master. Meanwhile, Merlot’s slower, more powerful strikes found little purchase against Emmerich’s speed and accuracy.

  Emmerich spun and executed a perfect spinning slash, cutting Merlot’s chest. Not cutting through the ribs, but the force sent him flying through the air. He hit the keeps stone wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. He gasped, trying to find air, fighting the darkness creeping at the corners of his vision.

  Just as the tide of battle seemed to favor the death knight, the air in the room shifted.

  A chilling presence swept through the keep's grounds as if the very essence of death had arrived. Two figures materialized from the shadows—Talich and Mah’nethotep. An overwhelming silence marked their appearance. The very walls seemed to tremble in response to their presence.

  Zavet, exhausted but relieved, stepped back, allowing the new arrivals to take center stage. His eyes flickered between Talich and Mah’nethotep, a glimmer of hope returning to him.

  Mah’nethotep fixed his cold, glowing eyes on Emmerich. Without a word, he extended his hand, his will imposing itself onto the battlefield. Emmerich faltered, his body seizing like an invisible hand gripped his soul. He staggered back, struggling against the overwhelming force now pressing down on him.

  “No...” Emmerich growled, his voice a strained whisper.

  But Mah’nethotep’s power was too great. The Master’s will crashed on the death knight, forcing Emmerich to his knees. His sword clattered to the ground as his body went limp, his once-burning eyes now dulled and subservient. The dark magic that had fueled his strength was now under Mah’nethotep’s command.

  The death knight, once defiant, bowed his head to the Guardian of the Forgotten.

  Zavet released a long, relieved breath, stepping back from the battle. He turned to Talich and Mah’nethotep, gratitude evident in his tired eyes. “So glad to see you two,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with appreciation.

  Talich, ever the calm and composed strategist, gave a slight nod. His sharp and calculating eyes scanned the battlefield with quiet confidence. “We came at the right time,” he said, his voice deep and steady.

  Still catching his breath from the fight, Merlot pushed himself up from where he had been thrown. His gaze remained wary as he studied the two newcomers. Wiping blood from his lip, he struggled to mask his unease at what he had just witnessed.

  “And who, exactly, are you two?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion but tinged with reluctant respect. He had seen their power firsthand—dismissing them was not an option.

  Talich gave a casual wave, his posture relaxed yet assured. “We’re Zavet’s teachers,” he said, amusement flickering in his tone, as if the title hardly did them justice.

  Merlot’s eyes narrowed slightly, his disbelief evident. “Teachers?” he echoed, his tone skeptical. “You just controlled one of the Lords of Necromancy as if he were a mere puppet. That’s no simple feat. You’re not just teachers.”

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  Mah’nethotep smirked, his hollow, pale gaze shifting to Merlot. Ancient power radiated from him, making the air thick and suffocating. “No,” he murmured, his voice a whisper carried on the breath of the dead. “You are right to think we are more than that.”

  He stepped forward with the effortless grace of a long-lost king. “I am Mah’nethotep, the Guardian of the Forgotten.”

  Merlot’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as he felt the weight of Mah’nethotep’s words. There was no mistaking the necromantic magic surrounding the figure before him, which unsettled him profoundly.

  Talich, sensing Merlot’s unease, stepped forward as well, his expression severe but calm. “And I am Talich; I was a knight before your time. You were all children when I retired as a knight of the kingdom. We guide Zavet.”

  Mah’nethotep’s eyes gleamed as he continued. “Zavet is my champion,” he said with pride. “He carries the will of the Forgotten. Through him, I shape the fate of this world.”

  Zavet stood still, feeling Merlot’s scrutiny. He met Merlot’s gaze. He had chosen this path and would walk it, no matter the cost.

  Mah’nethotep and Talich both tensed as they sensed a shift in the air. Without a word, they exchanged glances. Whatever it was, it demanded their immediate attention.

  Merlot, still unsettled but understanding the gravity of the situation, sheathed his sword with a nod. “I don’t care who you are, as long as you’re here to stop the undead.” His eyes flicked to Zavet. “We’ve got more work to do.”

  Zavet stood tall, his mind focused on the task ahead as Merlot discussed plans for their next move. “We need to go to Erenlond’s embassy,” Merlot began, but before he could say more, a group of heavily armed knights returned to the Razlond Embassy. Their leader, Ulrich, marched forward, his armor bearing the marks of a hard-fought battle. His expression was grim.

  As the knights of the White Orchid approached, Mah’nethotep and Talich exchanged a glance, knowing they would be recognized. Not wanting any trouble or delays, they quietly slipped away before Ulrich could spot them.

  “Apologies for being late,” Ulrich said, his voice strained. “The undead led us on a wild chase through the palace. We had to fall back and regroup several times. I don’t know why I didn’t bring the Sanctifier. It would’ve saved us a lot of time.”

  Merlot sighed, his frustration evident. “From now on, keep that flail with you always, Ulrich.”

  The knight nodded, giving Merlot a respectful bow before turning to regroup with the others.

  As the knights made their plans, Mah’nethotep and Talich quietly slipped away, heading toward Erenlond. Their presence, once noticeable, vanished into the shadows. Zavet remained focused on a different matter. He turned to Merlot, his tone low but urgent.

  “I need your help with something,” Zavet said, his eyes sharp. “I have to retrieve Runner from Krimlond. Can you assist me?”

  Merlot hesitated, caught off guard by the request. But after everything Zavet had done for the kingdom—his valuable information, his insights—Merlot felt a sense of obligation. He nodded. “Of course. But this won’t take too long, will it?”

  Zavet shrugged, offering a faint smile. “It shouldn’t be too long.”

  Without further delay, the two set off toward Krimlond. The city had recently become a war-torn ruin, its streets filled with battle remnants. As they arrived, they were greeted by the aftermath of a fierce fight. The last of the lord revenants, Emmett, lay dead, his body crumpled on the ground. Runner and Hoat stood nearby, both heavily wounded, their armor shattered from the clash. Gauge, knelt beside them, working to mend their injuries with quiet focus.

  Zavet approached Runner, his expression severe but calm. “Hey, I need your help. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Runner, though exhausted, nodded without hesitation. He trusted Zavet despite the strangeness of the request. After a few words exchanged with Gauge, Runner gathered his strength and followed Zavet and Merlot out of the city, leaving the wreckage behind.

  The trio ventured into the wilderness, the bustling city falling behind them. Zavet led them through dense woods, the path growing narrower and darker with every step. After a while, they emerged into a quiet meadow bathed in twilight. The peaceful scene was jarring after the chaos of Krimlond, but there was something unnatural about the silence.

  A lone figure, short and cloaked in black, stood in the middle of the meadow. The figure’s face was hidden beneath a hood, and the air around him was cold and oppressive.

  Merlot’s instincts screamed at him to turn back. He glanced at Zavet, suspicion clouding his features as his hand moved toward his sword. “Who is that?” he asked, his voice tense.

  “Wait. Just listen,” Zavet said, his voice steady. He held up a hand to calm Merlot and Runner.

  Zavet took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the hooded figure before returning to his companions. “This is how we rebuild the Moon of Necromancy. It requires the three of us. We won’t die, but we’ll need to give everything. After we rebuild the moon, we’ll have power to rely on when the other moons fall. And they will fall. We don’t have much time.”

  Merlot’s eyes narrowed as he processed Zavet’s words. His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. “Zavet... I’ve followed you this far, but this? It’s against everything I believe in. I can’t help you with this.”

  Before Merlot could step away, the hooded figure raised a hand, casting a spell faster than Merlot could react. His spell shield flared briefly, glowing blue before it fizzled out. A second spell struck him, freezing his body in place. Merlot’s limbs went rigid, his eyes widening in shock as the paralysis took hold.

  Runner unsheathed his sword, alarmed and ready to fight, but Zavet stopped him. “Runner, wait! This is all according to plan. It has to happen, or the world we know will be lost.”

  Runner stepped back, his sword still drawn, confusion and betrayal written across his face. “Who is that, Zavet?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

  The hooded figure slowly pulled back his cloak, revealing his face. It was Iscariot.

  Runner’s heart sank. His hands trembled, and he struggled to hold his sword steady. “You betrayed us,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “After everything... why? We’re brothers.”

  Zavet’s face was unreadable as he met Runner’s gaze. “There’s no time for this, Runner. Listen to me. Iscariot was under Wispein’s control, but I helped him break free. She still controls the other lords, but not him. We’ve found a way to stop her together, but we must recreate the Moon of the Forgotten. It’s the only way.”

  Runner’s grip faltered, his sword slipping from his hand. He shook his head in disbelief. “This is madness, Zavet. You can’t trust him. This will backfire. I know it.”

  Zavet stepped closer, his voice pleading. “I’ve done the research. I asked the right questions. I spoke with Ta'Ffair and Mah’nethotep. This will work, Runner. You have to trust me.”

  With trembling hands, Zavet pulled out a pair of shackles, the cold iron glinting in the dim light. “Put one on each hand,” he instructed, securing the shackles around Merlot, Runner, and himself. Iscariot stood in the center, his expression grim.

  Zavet placed a black vase in the middle of their circle. “We needed a descendant of Nuri and two strong-willed individuals like us,” he explained. Iscariot nodded and began drawing a ritual circle in the earth. The symbols glowed faintly as he cut each one, letting their blood flow into the vase.

  Zavet and Iscariot poured their magic into the vase as the necromantic essence began to gather. At first, it was slow—a soft pull at their life force, almost gentle. But soon, the process sped up, becoming overwhelming. The energy siphoned their life force at an alarming rate—one pulse, then two, then ten, then thirty. It felt like being resurrected repeatedly, each more painful than the last.

  By the time the ritual slowed, Zavet could barely lift his head. He found himself lying on the grass, his body aching with exhaustion. Above them, the Moon of Necromancy had begun to form, its dark magic swirling in the sky.

  “Look,” Zavet whispered, his voice barely audible.

  Still regaining control of his body, Merlot could only stare up at the moon, too weak to resist. Runner, Merlot, and Iscariot all gazed at the dark orb in the sky, the culmination of their sacrifice.

  “We did it,” Iscariot said, his voice trembling with awe. But then, as the words left his lips, his form began to waver. His body flickered, dissolving into necromantic magic.

  “Zavet...” Iscariot’s voice quivered with fear. “What’s happening?”

  Zavet gave a weak smile, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Oh... I forgot to mention. Whoever creates the moon becomes the moon. Your consciousness will merge with it. That’s why Mah’nethotep didn’t do this himself.”

  Iscariot’s face twisted in disbelief. “You... tricked me,” he gasped, his voice fading as his body fully dissolved into the Moon of Necromancy.

  Zavet chuckled weakly, his voice rasping from the strain. “You shouldn’t have killed our family, little brother.”

  As the last remnants of Iscariot vanished, Zavet's head collapsed onto the ground. He struggled to lift his head but couldn’t. “Oh no... I don’t have the key,” he muttered, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  Merlot, barely conscious, let out a soft laugh, joined by Runner and Zavet. “You sneaky little lizard,” one of them muttered, the tension broken by their shared exhaustion.

  The toll of the ritual was too much, and all three of them passed out, their bodies drained of life.

  In the quiet aftermath, Mah’nethotep emerged from the trees with a satisfied smile. He approached the three fallen figures, his eyes gleaming with approval. With a wave, he teleported them back to their homes, safe and out of harm’s way.

  As he stood in the moonlight, Mah’nethotep turned to Talich, who had been waiting in the distance. “These two,” he said, his voice filled with authority, “are heroes. They will be known as the ones who saved the Forgotten. From now on, they will bear the title, Lord of Necromancy.”

  Talich nodded solemnly, recognizing the importance of Mah’nethotep’s words. Soon, the world would know the names of Zavet and Runner.

  I was asked why I chose to end Iscariot the way I did. My response is that he was never the antagonist. The true antagonist was controlling him. His story is not over. In The Larp, the heroes kill "used" him around 10 years after we rebuild the plane of necromancy. But I felt it was a way to remove him from the game because people would want to use him every year, and the person who created that plotline did not want to keep playing the NPC. But with lords of necromancy, we don't have 100+ players trying to abuse NPCs for power. It took me a long time to understand it's about the journey, not power. Zavet was strong during these first few calls of heroes. He lost a lot of his power after the moon was recreated.

  I was told I should convert this into a LITRPG book. In contrast, I see where it could work if I create a basic ruleset. The book already has magic items, rituals, and a magic system, which I think are good enough. This story was based on a LARP game. One of the reasons I stepped away was because it seemed like nobody could see past the items they gained. They only seemed to care about their character's power rather than the stories we told. Countless times have I heard people brag about their items but never brag about what they had to do to get them.

  I do like LITRPGs, but I don't think this story is meant to be one.