Chapter 544 - ggg

EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC66: Kareth's End

Chapter 66: Kareth's End

The days that followed were filled with fighting and blood.

What started as just Fenric and Aria became three. Laxin—the heir of the Death Supreme—now walked beside them. His very presence was heavy, like a cold mist that carried the feeling of death. But it wasn't his bloodline that kept him here. It was vengeance, tied tightly to the one thing Fenric gave him: truth.

Fenric swore an oath.

Not to protect Laxin.

Not to guide him.

But to always tell him the truth.

And that truth hit harder than any sword. Laxin had grown up surrounded by lies and betrayal. Hearing Fenric's blunt, merciless words left him stunned, unable to hide or make excuses.

So he didn't argue. He didn't fight back.

He only listened.

And slowly, he began to nod—short, silent nods, carrying the weight of Fenric's words in his heart.

That's how the three of them were forged together.

Fenric, the cold-eyed prince who measured everyone.

Aria, fire and laughter, fighting as though the night itself burned for her.

And Laxin, heir of death's throne, venom in his blood and shadows behind him—now standing at Fenric's side.

When the battles ended and smoke faded, he no longer stood apart.

Where there had once been two, there were now three.

Not friends. Not yet.

But fighters, bound together by survival—and Fenric's truth.

The next morning, steel rang across the training yard.

Fenric's blade cut in swift arcs, every movement precise. Aria leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching like a cat amused at mice. And in the dirt stood Laxin, bare-handed, eyes burning as shadows stirred faintly around him.

"Again," Fenric ordered, stepping forward. His silver hair glimmered under the sun, his strikes direct, unrelenting. "You're holding back."

Laxin's fists tightened. "If I use it... you'll get hurt."

Fenric's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Then hurt me."

Steel clashed against shadow. Black tendrils lashed from Laxin's arms, writhing like serpents, meeting Fenric's sword. Sparks flew. Fenric didn't stop; he pressed harder, his strikes sharper, testing, forcing.

"You fear your own power," Fenric said between blows, his voice steady despite the clash. "That fear will chain you. And chains are for the weak."

Aria called out, smirking, "Try not to die, Laxin. He's not exactly gentle with lessons."

Laxin growled as the shadows thickened. This time, when Fenric's blade came down, a wall of black mist rose, halting the strike. The ground beneath cracked. Fenric's eyes gleamed in approval.

"Better," he said. "Now again. Control it—don't let it control you."

And so they clashed. Over and over, sword against shadow, truth against fear, until sweat ran down Laxin's face and his arms trembled from strain. But each time, Fenric's words cut sharper than his blade, driving him further.

By the time the spar ended, the training yard was scarred with gouges of shadow and steel. Laxin stood panting, but his eyes—those no longer wavered.

Fenric lowered his sword. "Good. You're not running from it anymore. Now we can begin."

He tilted his blade, the glint of steel catching the light. "You should learn to use your power properly—to raise an army of the undead. Or, if you prefer, focus on quality over quantity. Either path has its merit."

Laxin's expression twisted, his fists tightening. "That's... wrong. The dead should rest."

Fenric smirked faintly, shrugging as if the matter were trivial. "Might makes right. So what if it's wrong? Necromancy isn't some human invention—it's a natural magic born from the world itself. Humans didn't create it; they only discovered it. The world allowed it. Why should you be ashamed of wielding what already exists?"

Laxin's eyes sharpened, his voice rising. "How can you say that? Aren't you supposed to be a prince? A leader? Don't you care what people think of you?"

Fenric chuckled, brushing aside the question with a careless swing of his blade. "For now, I'll think of saving my own neck. Let the world think what it will."

His strike came fast, sudden. Laxin barely raised his arm in time, a dark tendril lashing out to parry the blow. The impact sent dust spiraling around them.

Fenric pressed forward, eyes gleaming. "So—will you cling to ideals? Or will you grasp power, no matter how dirty it feels?"

Aria's voice rang from the sidelines, half-mocking, half-serious. "Careful, Laxin. He's not testing your morals—he's testing your will."

Steel rang against shadow as their spar stretched on, the air alive with echoes of every clash. Fenric's blade cut arcs of silver light, each strike sharp, measured, and merciless. Laxin countered with swaths of shadow that thickened and coiled, forming crude shields or lashing whips that kept him barely a step ahead of Fenric's relentless offense.

Their movements carved circles in the training ground. Dust rose in clouds, the earth scored with lines where sword met shadow. Aria leaned against a column, watching silently now, her earlier jibes replaced by quiet focus.

Minutes bled into nearly an hour. Fenric's hair clung damp to his forehead, his breath steady despite the long fight. Laxin's chest heaved, his expression tight with strain—but his eyes had steadied. No longer running, no longer recoiling from the powers at his fingertips.

Finally, Fenric pulled back, lowering his sword. His voice cut through the heavy silence.

"So. What is it? Where will you stand, Laxin?"

Laxin's shadows wavered before fading into smoke. He met Fenric's gaze squarely, no hesitation left in him.

"I'll go for quality. Not hordes of mindless corpses. But powerful undead—warriors, champions, things worth commanding. That's the kind of necromancer I'll be."

Fenric's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, his sword sliding back into its sheath with a clean click.

"Good. That path suits you—and it happens to be the one I needed. There are plenty of tales and techniques of necromancers who walked that road. I'll pass them on to you."

Laxin exhaled, relief and resolve mingling in his breath. Aria clapped slowly, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "Well, at least you won't be filling our camp with stinking zombies. That's already a blessing."

Fenric smirked at her, then back at Laxin.

"Remember this—quality means control. And control means strength. Keep to that path, and one day, you won't just be following me—you'll be standing beside me."

Laxin scoffed, shadows curling faintly at his feet as he turned away.

"Who wants to stand beside you? I'm only staying because you're my best chance to track down the real culprits who murdered my family. Don't mistake this for loyalty."

He gave a sharp snort and stalked off, sweat still dripping from his brow.

Fenric watched him go, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

"Well," he muttered, half to himself, "at least this guy isn't bad."

Aria arched a brow. "Not bad? He just made it clear he's only here to use you."

Fenric shook his head, hands folding behind his back as his silvery hair caught the lantern light.

"No. At first, I thought the same—but now I can see it. He's not evil. He lashes out because he wants to save his family's honor. That anger, that obsession—it's a false thread he's been clutching, one that Drake spun to keep him bound. But once the real culprits are revealed... once he finds who truly murdered them..."

He trailed off, eyes narrowing with that calculating glint of his.

"Then he'll cut that thread. And when he does, he'll have a choice to make. Until then—let him cling to his vengeance. It keeps him moving forward."

Aria studied him quietly, then let out a small sigh. "You sound awfully sure for someone who's only known him a handful of days."

Fenric's smile returned—wry, but confident.

"I've seen enough to know when a man's soul is lost, and when it's only clouded. Laxin's shadow isn't corruption—it's grief. And grief can be turned into strength."

Aria nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in her eyes. Still, she didn't argue. Fenric's words carried a weight she was learning not to dismiss.

"Besides," Fenric continued, his tone sharpening as he drew out the heavy tome bound in blackened scales, "I have a job for you."

Aria blinked at him. "A... job?"

Fenric nodded, his gaze drifting to the flickering lantern light. For a long breath, he said nothing, as though weighing whether to unseal the words from his thoughts. Then his silvery eyes sharpened.

"Yes. There is something in this world that was meant to be lost... and yet, it lingers still. The Grimoire of Rahcmis—the Necro-Archmagus."

Aria looked curious as she heard Archmagus, which in simple terms means A Supreme, the pinnacle of power.

"Necromancy?" she asked, voice low.

Fenric smirked faintly. "Not the cheap imitations that survived. The Ragos Dukedom with their Death Puppets—yes, they are just cheap necromancy. Twisting corpses into hollow dolls for battle. Or the lesser families with their mock rituals, clumsy parodies of what once was. Those are not necromancy. They are pale shadows."

"even Laxin abilities to raise those skeletons is just an lesser form of it, to get the true necromancy we need that Grimoire" he said as he looked at her.

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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC67: Kareth's End II

Chapter 67: Kareth's End II

Fenric's smirk stayed as he shut the tome, the last traces of dark energy fading into the night.

"Even Laxin's skeleton tricks," he said flatly, "are nothing more than scraps. Real necromancy—the kind that bends death itself—comes only from Rahcmis' Grimoire. When we get it, it won't just be Laxin to use."

His eyes shifted to Aria. "Your Death Soul Lord class is built for this. Necromancy will answer you just as easily as it will be for Laxin."

Aria crossed her arms. "And while I'm gone chasing this... who's going to protect you?"

Fenric let out a low laugh and turned toward Laxin, who stood just outside the fire's glow, silent and stiff.

"My new butler," Fenric said. "Laxin."

Laxin stiffened, his brows furrowing. "A butler?"

"Yes," Fenric answered without a pause. "You'll be the blade I trust and the shield I use—until you're strong enough to stand beside me. Do you accept?"

Laxin clicked his tongue, glaring at the ground. "Hmph. Call me what you want. When I get strong enough to take my revenge, that's all that'll matter."

Aria shook her head and glanced at Fenric. "Don't depend on him too much. He's weighed down. Even if he wanted to protect you, he couldn't."

Fenric leaned back, eyes half-shut, calm as ever. "Then he'll have to learn. If he's broken, I'll make him useful again."

The fire popped, and the silence that followed carried Aria's unspoken thoughts. She didn't believe in Laxin, not yet—but she wasn't completely dismissing him either.

The night settled heavier with each passing hour, the silence between them growing like a fourth companion. The fire hissed and spat, throwing sparks into the dark, but Fenric's face remained smooth and unreadable, as though even the flames bent quietly around him.

Aria shifted again, the unease plain in her voice. "You say it so easily, as if walking into a graveyard of ghosts is the same as walking through a garden."

Fenric's eyes drifted toward her, steady and unblinking. "Fear comes from the unknown. Once it is known, it loses its teeth."

Laxin gave a humorless scoff. "Spoken like a man who's never been cornered by the dead."

Fenric tilted his head slightly, almost amused. "And spoken like a man who underestimates what the living can do when they stop shaking long enough to act." His words were not sharp, but they carried a weight that silenced the sound of Laxin's grinding blade.

The boy looked back at him, his jaw set, but Fenric's expression remained utterly calm—an ocean undisturbed by storm.

Aria sighed, rubbing her temples. "Sometimes, Fenric, I wonder if you even feel fear at all."

For the first time that night, a shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Of course I do. I simply don't let it choose for me."

The fire popped. His gaze returned to the flames, serene and unwavering.

"Sleep," he said softly, almost like an order wrapped in kindness.

"We all have work to do tomorrow," Fenric added, his voice low but steady. The others nodded and withdrew to their blankets, the firelight flickering across their tired faces.

Fenric leaned back against the chair, his silver eyes half-lidded, watching the flames dance. His lips moved in a faint murmur, words meant only for himself.

"Fear, huh? I've been living under fear ever since I arrived in this world... It doesn't disturb me now."

His tone carried no pride, no arrogance—just a quiet certainty. The kind of certainty that did not need to be defended.

The night stretched deeper, shadows folding in at the edges of the clearing. Aria's breathing soon steadied into sleep, Laxin's blade lay still by his side. Fenric, too, returned to his chamber and finally allowed himself some rest.

The Next Day

Morning light filtered through the curtains when Fenric stirred awake. A servant entered quietly and bowed.

"My lord, there is an envoy from the Imperial Capital," the servant reported, voice tense. "He says he bears news of... suspicion. The capital fears you may have been behind the recent assassination attempt. At the same time, he claims his mission is to deal with you if those suspicions are confirmed."

Fenric's silver eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression never shifted from its usual calm.

"Keep him in the guest hall," he said evenly, adjusting his cloak. "I will meet him after I've had breakfast."

The servant bowed again and withdrew, relieved by Fenric's composure.

Later, when Fenric finally entered the guest hall, his gaze met the envoy. She stood proudly, clad in polished knight's armor that gleamed in the morning light. Silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing a face of striking, almost ethereal beauty—too sharp to be delicate, too graceful to be ignored.

At her hip rested a longsword inscribed with faint Imperial runes, a mark of distinction. But what set her apart most was not her beauty, nor her armor—it was the insignia on her breastplate.

Fenric recognized it instantly: the emblem of the Numbered Imperial Knights, the elite chosen few who served directly under the Emperor's banner.

His gaze lingered on the mark.

"Number Twelve," he murmured, his voice cool but steady.

The silver-haired woman met his eyes with a knight's unwavering resolve. "I am Seraphina Valeheart, Number Twelve of the Imperial Knights. Envoy of the Capital."

The air grew heavy in the hall, tension lingering like a drawn blade.

Seraphina, Number Twelve of the Imperial Knights, dropped to one knee with precision. Her silver hair fell like a banner as she bowed low.

"Your Highness Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis, Third Prince of the Empire," she greeted formally, her voice resonant in the quiet hall.

Fenric nodded lightly, neither indulgent nor dismissive, simply accepting her courtesy.

Rising, Seraphina's expression sharpened, her knightly aura filling the space. "Tell me, who dared to stain the Vareldis bloodline with such an audacious assassination attempt?"

Fenric waved his hand as if brushing aside the weight of the matter. "It has been dealt with. Their ambition ended the moment they crossed me."

Her silver eyes gleamed, but she did not press further. Instead, her voice grew colder. "I was ordered here to aid you. Yet the one sent before me—Kareth—failed his duty. He stood idle in Lyria City while you faced death. He chose to watch rather than to protect. A betrayal of his station."

Fenric's gaze lingered on her as she spoke of Kareth. He let out a low hum, the corner of his mouth curving faintly.

"Hm. That is why I asked you to come and take his badge from him—dead or alive. A knight who abandons his duty has no right to wear the crest of the Empire," he said, his voice quiet but final, like a verdict sealed.

Seraphina—bowed her head in acknowledgment, though a flicker she vanished from the place as she left the words " I will be back with his head" she left those cold words adn vanished from the room.

Fenric leaned back, as he just looked at the spot where she vanished from. A name stirred in his memory, one from the book he had read in his first life. "The Star Princess Seraphina... one of the greatest Star Aura users in the history of the Vareldis Empire."

The title fit her as much as the silver armor she bore. His fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of his chair. He remembered her story all too clearly.

She was known as a kind-hearted knight, the sort who rescued wounded animals on the roadside, who hated needless war and bloodshed. A gentle spirit wrapped in iron discipline. She had stood against cruelty wherever she found it—even when it meant clashing with her own commanders.

And yet, in the capital's chronicles... her death had been written in tragedy. When she fell, countless beasts she had once cared for had gathered at the city gates, howling in grief, as though nature itself mourned her loss.

Fenric's eyes softened for a fleeting moment as he regarded the woman before him. So this is where her path begins... and if I do nothing, I know where it ends.

The air in Lyria's lower district was heavy with the stink of ale and smoke. Drunken laughter and curses poured out of the tavern where Kareth lounged, boots tossed on the table, a cup in hand. Around him, a handful of thugs and mercenaries roared with laughter, clinging to every crude joke he spat.

Then the tavern doors creaked open.

The noise died in an instant as every head turned. A lone figure stepped into the dim light.

Silver caught the lantern glow—Seraphina, her armor polished to a moonlit shine. A faint shimmer of Star Aura wrapped around her like a second skin, quiet yet oppressive, pressing down on every soul in the room.

The mercenaries shifted uneasily, half-rising from their seats, their earlier bravado draining away in the face of her presence.

Kareth blinked through his drunken haze, but his instincts screamed louder than the ale. His lips stumbled over the words as he paled."I–Imperial Knight... crest number twelve. The Star Princess."

Seraphina's silver eyes locked onto him, colder than winter steel. Her voice sliced through the silence like a blade."Kareth Liopen. You broke the sacred oath of a knight. You turned your back on duty. You stood by and let death come for the one you were sworn to protect. For that betrayal..." Her hand closed on her sword's hilt, the Star Aura around her thickening like the weight of a storm about to break. "...the price is death."

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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC68: Kareth's End III

Chapter 68: Kareth's End III

Kareth staggered to his feet, the cup clattering to the ground. His face was flushed with fear more than drink.

"Wait—why? Why am I condemned? I didn't do anything!" he shouted, voice cracking as his eyes darted around the room for support. None of the mercenaries moved. They wouldn't dare.

Seraphina's gaze didn't waver.

"You did nothing when action was demanded. A knight's oath is not only to fight, but to stand watch, to protect, to bleed before others do. You let your charge die because you chose comfort over duty."

"That's not true!" Kareth barked, desperation clawing at his throat. "I was away, I wasn't even there!"

But Seraphina's hand tightened on her sword.

"The Imperial Court already summoned the Fate Mages. The threads of destiny have spoken. Your guilt is sealed—you abandoned your post. You lie now as you lied then."

Kareth's eyes widened, his jaw trembling. The laughter and arrogance were gone, stripped bare until only terror remained. He stumbled backward, his knees shaking. "No... no, this isn't fair. I can still serve, I can still—"

He tried to lunge toward her, not in attack but in desperate appeal, reaching for her gauntlet like a drowning man grasping at a rope.

Steel whispered in reply.

A flash of silver light cut across the tavern. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then came the sound—a wet, sliding note—as Kareth froze, his mouth falling open. He looked down, as though the world had betrayed him, and saw the impossible: his own headless body still standing.

His vision spun. The tavern tilted. Then darkness swallowed him as his body toppled lifelessly to the floor, the last sound the dull thud of his head rolling across the wooden boards.

Seraphina exhaled slowly, lowering her blade in one graceful motion. She didn't gloat, didn't sneer. She only spoke, her voice heavy with the weight of judgment.

"May the stars forgive what I could not."

Seraphina lifted her hand, and with a soft hum the air rippled. A faint star-glow shimmered around Kareth's headless corpse. Then—whoosh—it collapsed inward on itself, flesh and bone reduced to nothing but a scattering of fine gray ash. In a blink, the tavern floor was clean, as though the man had never existed.

The ashes swirled once, caught in an unseen current, before vanishing into the cracks of the wood.

A few mercenaries jolted backward, chairs scraping loudly against the floor. One man nearly tripped over himself, clutching his chest as he gasped. Another had dropped his tankard, and the beer trickled uselessly across the floor toward the vanished remains. None dared pick it up.

They all looked at her differently now—not as a woman, not even as a knight, but as something higher, untouchable, divine and merciless.

A man near the door—voice trembling, yet trying to sound steady—bowed slightly and muttered, "Damn... As expected of the Empire. Treachery is met with death."

Others nodded quickly, their movements sharp and nervous, like chickens pecking at scattered grain. Not one of them dared to meet her eyes directly.

And in the silence that followed, the fear was louder than any blade.

***

Seraphina rode silently at Fenric's side, her silver-starred cloak brushing against her mare's flanks as their small entourage moved down the dusken road. Fenric sat straight-backed, one hand idly adjusting the leather satchel of documents he had been reviewing. The faint crackle of parchment almost masked the lingering scent of ash on the wind.

Without lifting his eyes from the scroll, Fenric spoke calmly, voice even:"You've taken care of him, then?"

Seraphina inclined her head once. "Yes, Your Highness. He will not rise again."

"Good." Fenric let the scroll roll closed with a soft snap. His gaze slid toward her. "When will upu leave then?"

Her lips pressed together, as she looked at him "kareth was sent to not only oberve you but also protect you, but now he have failed Its mine duty now" She said in her same serene tone as Fenric looked at her.

Fenric studied her quietly. The loyalty in her words was clear, yet he could feel the loyalty is not towards his bloodline but to him directly which is weird as he have never met her before.

He even didn't have seen her before today so where this loyalty is coming from, Thanks to Duserdis blessing he can sense other emotions as easily as reading a book and he can sense she is extremely loyal to him.

'Was there an hidden connection in between Fenric and Seraphina in book?' he thought but he couldn't remember, aside from major things its impossible for one to remeber the whole book word by word.

Not to mention Fenric was just an somewhat strong side character so there was not much mention of him in book. But ist not an book anylonger he is living a life here, which means its no longer a perspective from the hero or villains but now all characerts have story, past , present or future.

They are not just some characters who are introduced ones and then forgotten later.

'I will search about it later' He thought and then let it go.

"It was not the Empire alone that sent you here, was it?" he asked, voice low, sharp.

Her silence was enough of an answer.

Fenric leaned back in the chair, thoughts turning like gears. Number Twelve... officially, her deployment came with Imperial sanction. But the manner—the timing—it reeks of another hand. His mind immediately conjured one name.

The Belfrost family.

It fit too neatly. The Belfrost family's influence stretched like roots beneath the Empire, invisible until one tripped over them. They were masters at cloaking intervention as Imperial mandate, and now—through Mavis—they had draped a cloak of protection around him.

His Master was Mavis Belfrost. By blood and bond, that alone tethered him to their house. With his talent blazing brighter each day, it was only natural that Belfrost would ensure he remained... preserved.

Fenric exhaled through his nose, expression measured. "Well," he said evenly, "I am glad you are here."

At those words, Seraphina reached across the belt, a slim bell of silver and star-etched crystal glinting faintly in her palm. She pressed it into his hand. "Then allow me to prove it."

The bell chimed faintly as his fingers closed around it, the sound carrying an almost imperceptible weight, like a ripple through unseen wards. Moments later, a figure in servant's garb slipped into their path, bowing low.

"My Lord," the servant murmured,

Seraphina's voice was low, commanding. "Make arrangements to lodge me near His Highness. I will remain within reach to protect him—always."

The servant's eyes flicked between them, then lowered in obedience. He bowed to Fenric before retreating swiftly to carry out the order.

Fenric's gaze lingered on the bell, then shifted to Seraphina. Her tone had been crisp, her words absolute, yet he noted the careful emphasis—protect him, always. It was a vow that sounded genuine, but also one that could mask a leash waiting to be tugged.

Still, he inclined his head. "Very well. Stay close, then."

Seraphina lowered her lashes, her star-bright eyes veiling a hint of satisfaction.

Fenric watched her quietly, fingers brushing the bell once more.

Seraphina lingered only long enough to ensure her orders were followed. Then, with a graceful bow and a look that revealed nothing, she excused herself. Her presence was like a star dimming—bright for a moment, then swallowed by the veil of the castle's corridors.

Fenric exhaled, leaning back in his chair. The weight of his station pressed against him, yet it was not a burden he resented. Belfrost moved decisively, and for now, their loyalty flowed in step with his will. Allies, not rivals.

The office returned to silence, broken only by the rustle of parchment and the faint scratching of quills. Fenric's desk was already laden with the city's reports—grain shipments, guard rotations, tax collections, and the endless ledgers that measured the Empire's pulse.

He picked up the nearest scroll and unrolled it with steady hands. His eyes moved across the figures, his mind already fitting them into place, weaving order from chaos. Each decision he made rippled outward—affecting merchants, guards, farmers, and nobles alike.

For a moment, he paused, gazing at the silver bell set neatly at the corner of his desk. Its polished surface caught the lantern light, gleaming faintly, as if it were not merely an ornament but a reminder. A subtle weight lingered in its shine, a quiet witness to every choice he penned in ink.

Fenric leaned forward once more, quill in hand, and resumed his work. The city would not govern itself, and as long as he held this office, its fate remained his to shape.

***

Far from the quiet order of Fenric's office, the world breathed different air.

Aria's boots crunched softly against broken stone as she stepped into the shattered bones of Vakrops. Once, this had been a citadel of scholars and artisans, its towers famed for reaching so high they pierced the mist. Now, only carcasses of stone remained, fractured spires clawing at a pale sky.

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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC69: Ruins

Chapter 69: Ruins

The air carried the faint stench of rot mixed with lingering ash. The ruins of Vakrops stretched before Aria, not lifeless, but bound in a state between.

Shattered spires rose like broken pillars through streets of stone. Collapsed halls murmured faint echoes as figures drifted and staggered through the wreckage—skeletal soldiers, gaunt hounds, formless shades gliding through archways. The city lay unsettled, refusing silence.

Aria stepped onto the cracked stones without hesitation. This was no ruin abandoned—it was a dungeon unending, the city itself still breathing with its old curse.

Fenric's words came to her: "The Grimoire lies in the chamber beneath the throne."

She considered them without outward reaction. How would he know? The thought passed quietly, unanswered.

The broken palace loomed ahead, its gates bowed beneath rubble. Dozens of the dead gathered there, faint light stirring in their hollow sockets.

Aria adjusted her breath. Entering would draw all of them. She did not linger on the risk.

A thin haze spread from her form, dark and weightless. The Death Mist slipped along the stones, cooling the air, touching the senses of the wandering dead. Their movements faltered, hunger dulled, instincts lost in the haze.

She moved low, soundless, a trace within shadow. Step by step she passed deeper into the city, her course set toward the throne chamber where the Necro-Archmagus's Grimoire rested.

Aria's steps slowed as the broken avenue bent toward a massive structure. A door of corroded black steel, its surface carved with faintly glowing runes, barred her path. Even from a distance, she felt its weight—not just of metal, but of ancient warding. No force would ever move it.

She paused and drew a slim volume from her satchel. Unlike some forgotten relic, this was a printed Guide to the Ruins of Vakrops, a common handbook published by the Adventurers' Association for those who sought to plunder the undead-haunted halls. She had picked it up before leaving, knowing these ruins—though shrouded in rumors of a greater legacy Fenric had whispered of—were, to most, nothing more than a public dungeon crawling with wraiths and bonefiends. Adventurers came here in droves for rare undead materials, and the Association was only too glad to sell them directions.

She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the practical notes and crude sketches, until one entry caught her attention:

"The Throne Chamber lies sealed. The key is not in stone, nor spell, but in the hand of the Doorkeeper—a guardian cursed to linger. Only by claiming the key from him may one proceed."

A charcoal drawing showed a towering skeletal figure, armored in scraps of rust and regal fragments, with a single arm. The other was severed long ago, leaving his form incomplete. Yet chained across his spine hung a massive iron key, black as pitch.

Aria shut the guidebook with a calm breath. "The Doorkeeper," she said softly. Not frustration, but simple acknowledgment. This dungeon would not open for her until its rules were honored.

It did not take her long to find him. At the end of a fractured courtyard, where columns lay broken and bone dust carpeted the ground, he stood. The Doorkeeper—towering, skeletal, armored in remnants of his lost knighthood. His single arm gripped the chained black key, the other side of his frame a hollow void.

As her footsteps echoed across the ruin, his skull tilted toward her. Pale blue fire sparked in his hollow sockets. Bone ground against bone as his jaw worked, though no words came. The silence pressed heavier than any challenge.

Aria let the mist curl tighter around her shoulders. Her hand slid toward her blade.

Whoosh

The key's dull clink against the Doorkeeper's chained spine echoed through the ruined courtyard as Aria struck. She moved with predatory speed, her blade lunging straight for the skeleton's exposed ribcage—aiming to end the fight in one decisive thrust.

But the Doorkeeper's body shuddered, faster than brittle bones should move. His lone arm swung, intercepting the strike with the iron key itself. Steel rang against blackened metal, the force of the block reverberating through the stone beneath them. The impact sent sparks flying like fireflies in the gloom.

Then, with a hollow roar, the Doorkeeper countered. The key—larger than a greatsword—whipped around in his grip. Its arc was a storm wind, and when it landed, the ground cracked, chunks of stone scattering in an eruption of dust and shards.

Aria's cloak snapped behind her as she leapt aside, the blow missing her by an arm's length. The sheer force of it was enough to throw her off balance, boots grinding against the uneven floor. Her heart drummed once, steady, not with fear but with sharpened focus.

The skeletal knight advanced. Each step was a quake, echoing through the fractured courtyard. His sockets burned brighter, the blue flame within them flaring as if in answer to her challenge. Chains rattled with every movement, the iron links scraping bone in a sound like nails over glass.

Aria spun her blade once, adjusting her grip. The mist around her pulsed, gathering at her command, seeping into the cracks of the ruined stone. She dashed forward again, this time weaving left and right, the rhythm of her footfalls changing—baiting, testing, searching for the gap in his one-handed defense.

But the Doorkeeper fought like one who had guarded the gate for centuries. His swings were not wild—they were measured, deliberate. Each block came a heartbeat before her strikes landed, and each counter forced her further onto the defensive. The great iron key, though crude as a weapon, cut through the air with the inevitability of a falling star.

The clash resounded like thunder in the hollow courtyard, steel shrieking against bone. Aria pressed forward, her boots pounding cracked flagstones as her silver-forged blade carved low at the Doorkeeper's knee joint. Sparks flared—iron greaves, ancient yet unyielding, deflected the edge with a metallic screech.

The Doorkeeper did not stumble. Instead, he brought the massive, rune-etched key down like a warhammer. The strike split the ground where she had stood a breath before, stone exploding into jagged fragments. Rolling aside, dust clouding her cloak, Aria rose with fury in her eyes.

She pivoted, sword whistling upward in a fluid arc. The blade met his ribcage, silver mist spiraling along its edge. Bone shattered beneath her strike, splinters scattering like deadly shrapnel. Yet the skeletal knight endured, his spine twisting unnaturally as he absorbed the blow.

Then came the roar.

His jaw unhinged in an impossible gape, and a guttural cry erupted—not sound, but pressure, a vibration of sheer will. Pale fire flooded from the hollow sockets of his skull, a tide of spectral flame that washed across the ruins. The very air grew heavy. Chains binding the monumental key rattled violently, their clamor a dirge for the countless intruders who had perished at his hands. For a heartbeat, Aria's knees threatened to buckle. She felt it—the authority of a guardian who had barred the way since an age long forgotten.

But she did not kneel.

Mist curled tighter around her sword, shimmering like the breath of the dead. The aura of her class awakened fully—Death Soul Lord. The air chilled, frost spreading from her boots as tendrils of spectral essence spiraled upward, wreathing her in a cloak of half-seen phantoms. They whispered, their hollow voices feeding her will, sharpening her strikes.

"Not enough to stop me," she hissed, voice lost to the storm.

The Doorkeeper lunged, swinging the massive key in a crushing sweep. She met it head-on. Her blade clashed against its shaft, mist exploding outward like a shroud of wailing spirits. Sparks rained, the courtyard drowning in echoes of metal and bone.

He roared again, swinging with relentless force. She ducked beneath, thrusting her blade into his side. The impact rang like a bell, cracking vertebrae. The mist along her sword deepened, turning from silver to blackened violet as the Death Soul Lord's essence devoured the knight's lingering soulfire. His body spasmed, bones creaking and groaning under the unseen grip of death itself.

Chains writhed. The key flared. He lifted it again—but this time, her phantom aura surged. A tide of soul energy lashed out, invisible yet suffocating. The skeletal knight froze, caught in a storm of spectral hands pulling, dragging, breaking. His roar collapsed into silence, jaw sagging as his flame sputtered.

Aria's eyes gleamed with killing intent. She spun, blade cutting a crescent through the blackened mist. With a final cry, she cleaved through his chest. Bone burst apart in a storm of fragments, scattering like ashes on the wind.

The Doorkeeper staggered. His towering frame shuddered before collapsing into a heap of splintered bone and rusted mail. The chains slackened, clattering to the stone. The ancient key fell free, its surface glowing faintly with eldritch light.

Aria lowered her sword, breathing hard. Mist still coiled around her like serpents, reluctant to fade. She extended her hand. The key, heavy with the weight of centuries, settled into her palm.

The whispers around her quieted. The courtyard was still.

"Gatekeeper or no," she murmured, eyes narrowing at the sealed ruin ahead, "your watch ends here."

The spectral aura faded as she sheathed her sword. Key in hand, she stepped toward the ancient door of Vakrops, her victory echoing in the silence of the forgotten dead.

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Chapter 70: Ruins II

The key was cold against her palm, unnaturally so, its chill seeping through leather and skin alike. It thrummed faintly, as if each heartbeat she felt was not her own but some echo carried from the ruin itself.

Aria turned toward the sealed door. The runes across its blackened steel stirred, their dim glow pulsing with slow rhythm—as though the door recognized the relic she now held. She advanced with steady steps, the courtyard quiet save for the crunch of bone dust beneath her boots.

When the key met the warded lock, the chains of glyphs across the surface convulsed. Lines of light rippled outward like veins of fire through dark stone. The steel groaned, deep and resonant, the sound rolling across the ruins like distant thunder.

Aria did not flinch. She pressed forward, forcing the relic into place.

The lock drank in the key's glow. The pale fire within the etched runes bled away into darkness, and then—silence. A single click echoed, final and absolute.

The door split open, not outward but downward, collapsing into the earth as though it had never been whole. A wave of stale air poured from the darkness beyond, carrying the scent of old soil and something far heavier—power, preserved and waiting.

Her mist shifted, curling inward toward the threshold as if drawn to what lay beneath.

The obsidian stairway spiraled downward into a suffocating abyss, each step echoing with hollow finality. The air thickened, heavy with whispers that clawed at the edges of thought, never quite resolving into words. Stone walls writhed with ancient carvings—skeletal hosts etched in agony, empires bowing beneath a shadowed tyrant—but nowhere was the grimoire depicted. Not even as a false illusion.

That absence gnawed at her more than presence ever could.

Aria's grip tightened around her sword, knuckles pale beneath the Death Soul Lord's mist that trailed like restless phantoms. Her eyes narrowed when the spiral widened into a vast hall. At its heart stood no book, no throne of carved flame—only a dais where a single iron seat loomed. Upon it rested a withered corpse clad in tattered regalia, its hollow sockets crowned by a jagged circlet of bone and gold.

The whispers deepened, folding into words at last.

"Bearer of death... you would claim dominion? Then come."

The corpse's hand twitched. The hall answered.

From the shadows surged the first wave—skeletal soldiers dragging rusted halberds, shields rimmed with decay. Their hollow eyes glowed faintly blue, lifeless yet relentless.

Aria lifted her blade, its silvered edge wrapped in spectral haze. She exhaled once, steadying her heartbeat against the roar of gathering bone.

"I have to defeat him, huh?" she muttered, eyes fixed beyond the horde, locked upon the crowned cadaver who waited at the throne.

The first skeleton lunged. Steel met mist. Sparks and bone fragments scattered.

And so she moved forward—each strike carving paths of silver light, each step carrying her deeper through waves of the dead. The air shook with the clash of her sword against their endless ranks, her aura consuming them in whispers of unmaking.

Yet beyond the storm of bone and steel, the crowned corpse sat unmoved, watching. Silent. Patient.

Waiting for her to stand before him.

The hall groaned as if the very stones remembered war. Aria carved her way through the skeletal tide, every sweep of her blade a hymn of severance. Mist uncoiled from her form, weaving into phantoms that seized and tore at her foes—snapping spines, scattering skulls to dust.

Dozens fell. Hundreds pressed on.

But she no longer fought like a mortal warrior. The Death Soul Lord's mantle pulsed through her veins, her strikes guided not only by muscle and instinct, but by the weight of dominion itself. Each fallen soldier whispered as it crumbled, its essence siphoned into her blade, feeding the silver haze until it blazed like a second moon in the darkness.

At last, the tide thinned. The final skeleton shuddered before her, halberd raised in a last, futile defense. Aria's sword fell in silence—cleaving it cleanly in half.

The fragments scattered across the stone.

Only the throne remained.

The crowned corpse stirred. The sound was like dry bark snapping, a brittle echo that reverberated through the vast hall. Its withered hand lifted from the armrest, and the jagged circlet upon its brow flared with pale fire.

The whispers swelled again—this time a thousand voices layered into one.

"You stand unbroken. Then face the root of all."

Bone cracked and reknit. Ligaments of shadow lashed across its frame. The corpse rose, shedding tattered regalia as if discarding memory. From its chest, a furnace of ghostlight ignited, burning brighter with each step it took down the dais.

Where it passed, the air warped. Torches guttered. Stone wept black ichor.

Aria raised her sword, but her grip trembled—not with fear, but with recognition.

This was no puppet. No hollow guardian.

This was the Throne Warden, first king of the dead, keeper of the key she sought.

Its jaw opened in a soundless roar, and the force struck her like a wall—an exhalation of every soul it had bound across uncounted centuries.

She slid back, boots grinding against stone. The mist at her shoulders flared, coiling tighter around her form, whispering in defiance.

Aria bared her teeth. "Then I'll take it... even from you."

The Warden lunged, bone-forged claws arcing down with the fury of falling stars. Aria met him head-on, silver mist screaming against pale fire, their collision shaking the hall like thunder.

The impact resounded like a temple bell struck in rage. Silver mist and corpse-fire burst in rippling waves, rattling the broken pillars and shaking centuries of dust from the vaulted ceiling.

Aria was hurled back, her boots grinding against fractured stone until she drove her sword into the ground to anchor herself. The floor split beneath her weight, fissures spidering outward in jagged lines. She lifted her gaze through the storm of ash and fire—and there it was.

The Throne Warden emerged, looming out of the haze like the very embodiment of death. Each step rang like a funeral drum, each movement dragging chains of soul-light that trailed and wailed behind it.

The clash of dominion had begun.

Aria moved first. Mist unfurled from her shoulders like wings, thrusting her forward. She vaulted high, blade flashing in a crescent arc aimed at the Warden's crown. The skeletal monarch caught the strike between its claws. Ghostflame hissed where steel kissed bone, shrieking like tortured iron.

The Warden twisted. With monstrous strength, it flung her aside. She smashed through a collapsed pillar, the stone erupting in a spray of shards. Pain lanced her body, but already the silver haze wove itself into her wounds, sealing them shut.

Then came the voices. Thousands of them—souls crying, whispering, screaming. From every corner of the ruin they crawled, spectral phantoms drawn to the Warden's call. Their claws scraped the air as they hurled themselves toward her.

Aria's hand rose, palm open. The mist surged. It swept outward in a great tide, boiling across the ground. Every phantom caught in it shriveled like paper set alight, their forms unraveling into dust. Her eyes glowed pale white—no longer mortal eyes, but mirrors of dominion.

The Warden's ribcage flared. A lance of soul-fire erupted from its chest, ripping the hall apart with its passage. Aria spun her blade, splitting the strike in two. The explosion drove her back, her arm numb and scorched, ghostflame crawling across her skin like living serpents.

"Unyielding..." the Warden's thousandfold voice reverberated. "But you are still... alive."

"Alive enough to end you," Aria spat, her breath ragged but her stance unbroken.

She leapt once more. Her blade rose, not as steel but as a vessel. Every soul she had claimed poured into its edge, silver radiance roaring like a storm. She carved downward, cleaving from ceiling to floor in a single stroke of annihilation.

The Warden crossed its arms, bracing for the strike. The impact detonated. Walls split apart, statues crumbled, the ancient hall itself groaned under the force. When the haze cleared, half its form was charred black, ghostflame sputtering.

But it did not fall.

The Warden stood, and as it stood, it healed. Blackened bone knit anew, the flames flaring higher. Its jaw opened wide, and a vortex of wailing spirits spiraled inward, feeding its rebirth.

Aria's shoulders trembled—not with fear, but from the sheer immensity of the foe before her. Her sword pulsed, swollen with silver light. It throbbed like a living heart, hungry, insistent, demanding to consume the storm itself.

She lowered into her stance, the mist wrapping her like a mantle of kings.

The Throne Warden took a single step forward. The hall shuddered, as though even the ruins remembered the weight of this duel.

The stones beneath Aria's boots screamed as the Throne Warden advanced. Each step was a decree, each toll of its chains an edict of death. The ruin itself bowed before its dominion.

Aria exhaled slowly, her breath turning to ash in the air. From her body burst a corona of black fire, death's flame, devouring the light and drowning the shadows. Her silver eyes burned like cold steel, unshaken.

The Warden raised its arm, and the vortex within its ribcage surged. A thousand howling voices condensed into a sphere of corpse-fire so dense the air itself warped around it. The ruin darkened as if the world recoiled.

Aria lifted her sword, black fire wreathing its edge. Her aura swelled into a raging inferno, a storm of death given flesh.

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Chapter 71: Ruins III

The Warden hurled the sphere.

It tore through the hall like a meteor, stone crumbling in its wake. Aria charged forward instead of retreating, black flames lashing from her body. She swung her sword in a wide arc, her death-fire colliding with the sphere. The impact detonated in a shockwave that split the floor open, slabs of stone tumbling into the abyss below.

The explosion threw her sideways, but she rolled with the force and came up running. The Warden was already on her, claws like scythes cutting through the air. Aria ducked under the first strike, sparks bursting as the claws shredded the wall behind her. She drove her blade upward into its ribcage, black fire surging with the thrust. Bone cracked, but the Warden's other hand swung around and caught her across the chest.

The hit sent her flying. She slammed into a fallen pillar, coughing blood, flames flickering wildly around her body. Before she could recover, chains lashed from the Warden's back, spectral hooks snapping toward her. She raised her sword, slashing furiously, sparks and fire scattering as she cut through one after another. Still, a hook grazed her arm, tearing through armor and burning cold against her skin.

Aria gritted her teeth, forced herself up, and sprinted. She met the Warden head-on again. Her sword hammered against its claws in a rapid exchange, each strike throwing bursts of black and white flame across the chamber. The ground shook beneath their blows, stone breaking apart with every impact.

The Warden reared back, opening its chest. Another surge of corpse-fire erupted, a beam that ripped through the hall in a straight line. Aria jumped, flipping over the blast, and landed hard on the Warden's shoulders. She drove her blade down through its spine, black fire flooding into the wound. The monster roared and twisted violently, throwing her off.

She crashed to the floor, rolled, and barely dodged as a claw slammed down where she had been. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the impact. She lunged in low, carving through one of the Warden's legs. Bone splintered, the limb nearly giving way, but the creature caught itself, flames surging to mend the damage.

Chains whipped around her again, dozens this time. She set her feet, black fire bursting outward in a wave. The storm burned through them, hooks shattering before they reached her. She pushed forward in the opening, her sword blazing hotter, every strike heavier. She hacked through the Warden's arm, severing it at the elbow.

The Warden staggered back, shrieking without voice. But even as it fell, the ghostfire swarmed around the wound, reattaching what had been cut. Its frame twisted, bone reforming, the body refusing to break.

Aria stood with her chest heaving, her blade burning like a torch of night. She glared up at the Warden, steadying her grip.

The Warden's hollow sockets glowed brighter, green fire bleeding like tears down its skull. Its entire body rattled, bones vibrating as though some unseen choir was screaming through it. The sound was enough to make the ruined hall quiver, dust falling in waves from the cracked ceiling.

Aria steadied her blade, feeling her knuckles whiten around the hilt. Her chest burned where the claw had struck her, ribs throbbing with every breath, but her gaze never wavered. She stepped forward, each footfall echoed by the low thunder of black fire coursing through her veins.

The Warden lunged—its entire frame collapsing into motion, like a skeletal hurricane. Its claws cut the air faster than before, chain-hooks spiraling around like a storm of blades. Aria whirled with it, her sword flashing arcs of shadowfire. Each slash burned apart a hook, each parry flared as her blade met the creature's claws. Sparks and fire burst with every collision, light and shadow painting the shattered ruins like a storm-lit battlefield.

The Warden pressed harder, bone grinding against steel. Its claws locked with her sword, pushing her back inch by inch. Aria snarled, blood trailing down her chin, and let the black fire consume her arms, her shoulders, her chest. Her whole body ignited as a vessel of deathflame. She shoved back with every ounce of strength, and the deadlock broke—the force hurling the Warden off-balance.

She didn't hesitate. Aria darted forward, leapt, and carved a vertical strike from its collarbone down to its hip. The black fire roared through the wound, splitting bone apart, tearing the Warden nearly in half.

It howled—soundless yet deafening—and collapsed onto its knees. Ghostfire gushed from the wound like blood, trying to stitch the ruin back together. But this time, the damage resisted. Her flames gnawed at the corpse-light, devouring it where it tried to mend.

The Warden's body convulsed. Chains exploded outward, embedding themselves in the ground and walls like stakes, holding its body upright in some grotesque parody of life. Its ribcage cracked open wider, and deep within, a black core pulsed—a shard of death magic, the anchor of its existence.

Aria froze, her sword still burning at her side. Her eyes narrowed.

"There you are," she whispered, voice low and fierce.

The core throbbed again, and the Warden roared—not with voice, but with the raw detonation of ghostfire erupting through the ruins.

The detonation struck like a tidal wave. Ghostfire poured outward in a dome, the raw essence of death clawing at stone, air, and flesh alike. The ruins screamed as walls shattered and ceiling beams gave way, collapsing into the storm.

Aria hurled herself backward, cloak snapping like torn wings, her body barely clearing the blast. The pressure hit her midair, flinging her across the ruined hall. She rolled hard along broken marble, her ribs stabbing with pain, before planting her sword into the floor to stop herself from sliding further.

When she lifted her gaze, the Warden was no longer just a skeleton bound by chains.

The core had burst its ribcage wide, hovering in the open like a heart of black suns. Every beat cast shockwaves that twisted the air. Bones reassembled around it, but wrong—lengthened, jagged, reforged into an abomination of cage-like ribs and spines. The chains it drove into the walls now pulsed with necrotic veins, siphoning power from the ruins themselves.

The Warden's form towered, its skull swelling with a mane of ghostfire. It was no longer just a guardian—it was the Ruins of Vakrops themselves, given rage and shape.

Aria spat blood, wiped her mouth, and rose to her feet. Her body ached, her veins screamed under the weight of the black fire still gnawing at her soul, but her eyes burned with clarity.

If the core anchored this nightmare, then her path was clear.

The Warden unleashed another wave. Chains lashed in unison, hundreds of them, weaving into a storm that spun across the chamber like a bladed tempest. Aria charged into it.

Her sword became a streak of black flame, every slash carving arcs through steel and bone. She rolled beneath a hook, vaulted over a rib spear, twisted through a gap as if the storm itself bent around her fury. Sparks and shadows showered in her wake.

One chain caught her ankle, snapping tight like a viper. Pain flared as it burned through skin to bone. The Warden yanked, dragging her off her feet, hurling her toward the gnashing core pulsing within its chest-cage.

Aria roared, spun midair, and drove her blade down through the chain. Black fire surged, severing it in an eruption of sparks. She hit the ground in a crouch, ankle bleeding, but she was already moving again.

The core throbbed louder, like a heartbeat of death.

Aria's fire rose higher, wrapping her blade in a mantle of annihilation. She sprinted, the ruined hall collapsing around her, the storm of chains tightening to crush her.

And with one final cry, she leapt straight for the Warden's chest—

Her sword aimed at the black core.

Her blade struck true.

The core cracked.

The core screamed like a star torn in half, a wail that rattled bone and thought alike. Black suns split apart in its depths, shattering the ribcage of bone and fire that shielded it. Aria's strike pierced through, and for a moment the chamber became nothing but brilliance—black and silver flame colliding, devouring, reshaping.

The Warden convulsed. Its form rippled outward, ghostfire bleeding from every joint as chains snapped loose in a frenzy. Hundreds of links shot outward, not toward Aria but everywhere, thrashing the walls, the floor, the very air, as if the ruins themselves were in agony.

Aria clung to her sword, driving it deeper, her roar drowned beneath the cacophony. The black fire in her veins surged, threatening to devour her flesh from the inside out, but she held on—held tighter than her own heartbeat.

The Warden's massive skull tilted back, jaw unhinging, releasing a column of flame that split the collapsing hall in two. Statues of forgotten kings melted into slag. Aria's cloak ignited and burned away to ash, but still she pressed forward, step by brutal step, blade biting deeper.

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Chapter 72: Ruins IV

The core writhed like a living thing, its cracks bleeding rivers of black fire that sizzled against Aria's skin. Each pulse was a hammer-blow against her soul, trying to tear her apart from within. She forced herself onward, boots grinding against shattered stone, every muscle trembling with the strain of keeping her grip.

The Warden shrieked without sound, its whole colossal frame convulsing as if its very bones were being ripped apart from their bindings. The chains anchoring it to the ruins went wild, stabbing through pillars, floors, even the air itself in a desperate attempt to anchor the collapsing form. The entire hall lurched, as though the Ruins of Vakrops themselves were trying to tear her away from the core.

But Aria did not relent. She drew upon the deathfire coursing through her veins, allowing it to burn hotter, darker. Her sword became a black sun, each inch driven deeper into the core blazing with annihilation.

"Fall," she hissed through clenched teeth.

The core screamed again, and this time the sound was more than noise—it was memory. Shadows flooded her mind, visions not her own. She saw Vakrops in its prime, the city alive with splendor. She saw legions bow before its kings, armies forged in endless war, and finally, the black rites that chained their guardian into existence. Centuries of despair, of blood, of sacrifice—all poured into her skull at once.

Aria staggered under the weight of those echoes. Her knees nearly buckled. Her grip trembled. The Warden seized upon her hesitation, ribs snapping closed like a cage, trying to crush her against the core.

But Aria's eyes snapped open, burning with defiance. She bared her teeth, snarling as she flared her power. Black fire erupted outward in a tidal wave, exploding from her body in jagged wings of flame. The ribs shattered under the surge, bone fragments scattering like meteors across the hall.

"I am not your tomb!" she roared, voice tearing her throat raw.

With one final thrust, she drove the blade completely through the core.

The world broke.

A shockwave of black and silver erupted outward, consuming everything. Chains burst into shards, ghostfire imploded, walls and pillars crumbled into ash. The Warden's colossal skull cracked down the middle, ghostlight pouring from its eyes before flickering out. The ruins themselves groaned like a dying beast as the last of the anchor unraveled.

When the dust finally settled, silence reclaimed the hall.

Aria knelt amid the wreckage, her sword buried in the fractured remains of the core. Her chest heaved, blood and soot caked across her skin, her cloak nothing but tatters. The ruins around her were unrecognizable, reduced to jagged rubble and burning embers.

And in front of her, the shattered core pulsed faintly still—its fragments glowing with a weak, unstable light. Amid them, a single shard floated upward, streaked black and silver, beating softly like a heart that refused to die.

Aria's hand trembled as she reached for it.

Aria's fingers closed around the shard with a reverence born of exhaustion and instinct. The fragment was warm, its faint pulse echoing against her palm as if it sought to merge with her heartbeat. She summoned a whisper of her black fire, weaving it into a warding seal, then slipped the shard into a small bone-carved reliquary at her belt. The moment it was secured, the oppressive weight pressing on her spirit lessened, though not entirely. The shard was still alive—and watching.

She rose unsteadily, every step crunching over ruins and charred debris, until she stood before the throne. The Grimoire of Vakrops was said to lie beneath it, but all she saw was a monolith of stone, blackened by centuries of ghostfire. Her hand brushed the armrest, feeling runes hidden beneath the ash.

Something resisted her touch. The throne breathed—not with life, but with memory, the same echoes that had plagued her when she pierced the core. A whisper slid along her mind: "Only the worthy may unveil the scripture of kings."

Aria bared her teeth, half in defiance, half in grim amusement. Worthy? After all this?

She pressed harder, tracing the grooves of the rune, and felt it shift under her hand. Somewhere deep within the throne, gears groaned. A dull click echoed, followed by a heavy grinding as if stone protested against centuries of stillness.

But nothing moved.

Her brows furrowed. She crouched, searching the wreckage around the dais. Her instincts clawed at her—there was another switch, a twin to the one she had already touched. Vakrops was not a city of trust; it was a city of traps.

Minutes bled into an hour as she combed through the hall. Dust filled her lungs, her wounds throbbed, and more than once she nearly collapsed. But at last, beneath a cracked slab near a shattered pillar, she found it—a second rune, half-buried, faint but intact.

Her fingers pressed into its grooves.

A rumble surged through the ruins. The throne shuddered. Slowly, ponderously, it shifted aside, scraping stone against stone until it revealed a black stair spiraling downward into darkness. From below drifted a breath of air colder than the grave, heavy with the scent of ink and bone.

The spiral descent spat Aria into a cavernous vault, its walls carved with necrotic glyphs that pulsed like veins of black lightning. At first glance, it might have been a dragon's hoard—mountains of gold coins gleamed in the light of her fire, jeweled chalices glittered like captive stars, and crystalline obelisks hummed with sacred resonance. Weapons older than empires rested against the walls, their blades still sharp enough to whisper.

Her breath hitched. For an instant, her battered body screamed to collapse among the treasures, to claim them all and stagger out rich enough to buy kingdoms.

But then Fenric's voice rang sharp in her memory, cutting through temptation:

"Don't touch others. This chamber is cursed. Take more than one, and you will never leave. The vault is a snare. The only treasure of worth is the grimoire—seek it and nothing else."

Her jaw clenched. The coins seemed to shimmer more brightly, as if mocking her restraint. The crystalline blessings called to her bloodline with siren clarity, promising strength, healing, and transcendence. A blade that dripped shadowfire from its edge thrummed so near her aura that her hand twitched forward instinctively.

She forced herself to exhale, slow and harsh. "No. I won't be another skeleton for this grave."

Pushing past the glittering mountain of deceit, she followed the pull in her veins. Her flame responded, black and quiet, guiding her toward a pedestal of cracked obsidian at the chamber's heart. Upon it rested a tome bound in necrotic hide, its surface shifting with the faint impressions of screaming faces. The Grimoire of the Necro Archmagus Rahcmi.

The book exuded an authority far greater than any jewel. Shadows bent toward it, as if bowing in worship. The air itself chilled around it, and the wards of the chamber thrummed in acknowledgment of its primacy. This was the true prize.

Aria stepped closer, every instinct warning her that even touching it might cost her soul. Yet the reliquary at her belt pulsed—the shard she had sealed within whispered in resonance with the grimoire, as though urging her to claim it.

She reached out, fingers trembling not from weakness but from knowing this was the point of no return. The moment her fingertips brushed the surface, black flame erupted from the tome, surging up her arm in serpentine coils.

The vault shook. The mountains of gold shrieked as if alive, the crystal obelisks cracked, and the cursed weapons rang in unison. Chains of spectral iron manifested around the pedestal, binding her in a circle of trial.

And then, from the pages of the grimoire, a voice older than the ruins growled:

"You dare claim Rahcmi's scripture, child of embers? Then prove you are no thief but a sovereign of death itself."

Aria closed her eyes, steadying her breath. The weight of the grimoire throbbed in her palm before she slipped it back into the Storage Ring. The moment she did, the vault dissolved—the skeletal kings, the jeweled archmages, the tide of golden warriors—gone, as if none had ever existed.

Her shoulders eased, a shaky exhale slipping past her lips. "Phew... I almost thought they were real," she muttered under her breath. If Fenric hadn't warned her about these kinds of death-ward illusions, she might have drawn her blade and wasted precious strength fighting shadows.

The silence of the true vault pressed in around her once more, cold and heavy, yet infinitely less suffocating than the false battlefield.

Aria brushed a hand through her hair, forcing the last echoes of the illusion from her mind. The chamber's oppressive chill clung to her skin, the stagnant air carrying the faint stench of centuries-old dust. With a final glance at the cracked stone pillars and treasure mounds that had birthed phantoms, she turned away.

Her boots struck the ground with a steady rhythm as she crossed the vault and ascended the stairwell carved into the ruin's spine. Each step seemed to groan under her, as though the city itself resented her intrusion.

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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC73: Necro Archmagus Grimoire

Chapter 73: Necro Archmagus Grimoire

Aria climbed back up into the ruined hall. The throne was silent now, its secrets revealed. She touched the reliquary at her belt, feeling the shard pulsing faintly in answer to the grimoire she carried. Both promised power—but also danger.

By the time she left the ruins, the sky over Lyria was already darkening. She walked until the city's banners came into view. The guards opened the gates quickly when they saw her, word of her return spreading ahead.

Fenric waited in the council chamber, sitting at a table covered in maps. He stood as she entered.

She was exhausted, her armor broken, but she placed the reliquary and the grimoire on the table.

"Did you get it?" Fenric asked, serious but calm.

Aria nodded and pushed the relics forward. "Yes. These are the ones."

She gave a tired smile. "Thank you. Without your warning, I might not have made it out."

Fenric studied her. "So... you resisted the traps."

"Just barely," she admitted.

He placed a hand on the grimoire. "Now you see why I said this book is dangerous?"

Aria's eyes lit with determination. "Yes. But I think I can use it."

Fenric nodded. "You can. Your class fits well with necromancy."

Aria whispered, half to herself, "Then I'll master it before it controls me."

Fenric pulled his hand back and allowed himself a small smile.

Fenric looked at her, then told her gently, "Go and rest for now. You've done enough."

As she left, he sat back down, his eyes on the grimoire. He muttered to himself, "I wonder... can I read it too?"

He knew if he could, he might understand the old language it was written in.

Inside him, the voice of Dusverdis stirred. "Of course you can, brat. With my blessing, there's nothing beyond you. All arts, all knowledge—you can learn it. That's why I was unmatched in my time."

Fenric nodded quietly, reassured. He opened the grimoire and began reading.

Fenric spent hours with the grimoire, turning page after page. At first, the words looked like shifting symbols, but as Dusverdis's blessing flowed through him, the text began to make sense. Fragments of chants, diagrams of soul binding, the lost paths of necromancy—all unfolded before his eyes.

When the door creaked open, Aria stepped in. She stopped when she saw him reading.

"You... you can read it?" she asked in disbelief.

Fenric looked up and gave a short nod. "Yes. And more than that—I've found I can also use necromancy."

Aria blinked, staring at him, half unsure if he was serious.

Before she could speak again, Laxin entered, stretching lazily. "So," he said with a grin, "was this the grimoire you were planning to give me?"

Fenric leaned back in his chair. "That was the plan at first. But now that both Aria and I can use it, we should learn it together."

Laxin raised an eyebrow. "Learn it together? When?"

Fenric answered calmly, "We can start and add it into our daily training sessions."

Aria bit her lip, then gave a small nod. She wasn't against the idea.

Laxin sighed, shaking his head. "So that's it then? You're keeping it between the two of you?"

Fenric's gaze stayed steady. "It's not that I don't trust you, but this book is bound to me. I can lend it for a short while, but it won't obey anyone else for long."

Laxin clicked his tongue, half annoyed, half amused. "Tch. Figures. Guess I'll just have to watch and see what kind of monsters you two turn into."

Fenric gave a thin smile. "Then watch closely. Necromancy isn't just about death—it's about control. If we don't master it, it will master us."

Fenric's eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward. "And besides, Aria can teach you what she learned with me. That way, you'll still get to study it too."

Laxin blinked, then gave a crooked grin. "So I get the lessons secondhand, huh? Not the worst deal."

Aria crossed her arms. "Don't complain. If the grimoire rejects you, you'll be grateful you didn't touch it directly."

Laxin chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Fair enough. Better to learn from you two than end up a pile of bones."

Fenric closed the grimoire with a heavy thud. "Then it's settled. I'll use it as the core reference, and Aria will pass down what she masters. You'll still gain the knowledge—but safely."

Laxin gave a mock bow. "Fine, fine. I'll be the diligent student."

Aria smirked. "We'll see how long that lasts."

Fenric stood, his silver hair catching the torchlight. "We begin tomorrow. No delays."

The next morning, the three of them gathered in one of the sealed training halls beneath the castle. The air was cool and quiet, the kind of place built for practice that no one outside should disturb.

Fenric placed the grimoire on a stone pedestal. Its cover pulsed faintly, like it was alive.

"First lesson," he said calmly. "Necromancy isn't dark or cursed—it's just another branch of magic. As long as you're not out robbing tombs for bodies, it's fine. Think of it as learning to guide what's already gone."

Aria nodded, stepping forward. "I'll show you what I practiced last night." She raised her hand, letting her black fire curl around her fingers. Whispering the words she had picked up from the grimoire, she directed her energy at a pile of animal bones laid neatly on the floor.

The fire sank into the bones. They rattled, shifted, then slowly took the shape of a small, half-formed creature. Its eye sockets glowed faintly before it collapsed gently back into dust.

Aria exhaled, brushing hair from her face. "That's as far as I can push it for now. It's draining, but manageable."

Laxin whistled softly. "Strange, but impressive." He looked at her and smirked. "So... you're my teacher now?"

Aria raised an eyebrow. "Only if you actually pay attention. This isn't a game."

Fenric smiled faintly, resting his hand on the grimoire. "She's right. You'll start small—just learning the flow of the energy. Once you understand it, shaping it is simple."

Laxin raised both hands. "Alright, alright. I'll behave. Teach me."

Fenric opened the grimoire, its pages shifting on their own. "Good. Then let's begin."

Fenric flipped another page of the grimoire, the faint glow of runes dancing across the parchment. His voice carried a calm authority, not ominous, but matter-of-fact, as if he were explaining any other structured art.

"Step one," he said, pointing to the script, "is resonance. The body is just a vessel, an instrument. You don't treat it as flesh—you treat it as a frame waiting for energy. First, you anchor your mana into the core—the heart or the place where life once flowed strongest."

He pressed a hand gently against the chest cavity of a training corpse laid out on the stone slab. A dim current of dark mana pulsed from his palm, threading into the ribcage. The body gave a faint shudder, like a puppet touched by strings.

Aria leaned closer. "That's what I tried yesterday—pouring power into the bones. But without resonance, it just scattered."

Fenric nodded. "Exactly. Without anchoring, the flow leaks and collapses." He glanced at Laxin. "Your turn. Just focus. Place your palm, let your energy seep in—not forcing it, but guiding it."

Laxin crouched by the corpse, swallowing once before resting his hand on its sternum. He closed his eyes, letting dark mana stir in his veins. At first it was shaky, spilling in uneven waves, but then he steadied his breath. A faint black glow sank into the chest, and the body's fingers twitched.

"Good," Fenric said, steady. "Step two is circulation. Think of it as weaving new veins—an artificial lifeline. You let your mana branch outward, mapping itself through the body, like blood vessels of shadow."

He demonstrated, his energy tracing along the arms and legs of the corpse in fine black streams. The body shifted, eyelids fluttering though no true life was there.

Aria added, "Once circulation holds, the last step is flow. That's where you let the mana cycle back to the core, forming a loop. That loop is the soul substitute. Not a real soul, but enough to animate."

Laxin frowned, concentration deepening. He followed their instructions, mana threading out, linking, looping back. The corpse's chest rose slightly, then fell again, the imitation of breath. Its hands curled faintly, and for a heartbeat, it looked almost alive.

He opened his eyes with a grin. "Ha! Did it—well, kind of."

Fenric gave a small smile. "That's the foundation. Anchor, circulate, flow. Once you master the cycle, you'll be able to create a stable construct. From there, shaping is just refinement."

Aria folded her arms. "And the more control you have, the less energy you waste. Remember, a messy weave drains you twice as fast."

The corpse stilled again, the mana fading as Laxin lost focus. He let out a long breath. "Alright... not creepy at all. Just a craft. A strange, exhausting craft."

Fenric closed the grimoire with a firm sound. "And like any craft—it takes discipline. We'll continue tomorrow."

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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC74: Necro Archmagus Grimoire II

Chapter 74: Necro Archmagus Grimoire II

The following morning, they returned to the same sealed hall. The stone walls seemed to remember the echo of their practice, the still air waiting for the next attempt.

Fenric set the grimoire back on the pedestal, his silver hair catching the dim light. "Today we move from basics to structure. Yesterday you learned how to spark movement. Now we'll build something that lasts longer than a twitch."

Aria stepped forward first. She rested her hand on the training corpse and breathed slowly, repeating the pattern: anchor, circulate, flow. This time her mana threaded cleaner, each vein of energy settling into place like well-laid roots. The corpse's limbs shifted and stayed that way, rigid but holding.

She exhaled with a nod. "It's steadier. The trick is keeping the rhythm even."

Fenric gestured toward Laxin. "Your turn. Mirror her pace."

Laxin crouched and placed his hand over the ribs. His mana flared too quickly at first, causing the corpse's arm to jerk unnaturally. Aria frowned. "Too much pressure. Pull back."

He gritted his teeth, focusing, and this time eased the flow. The energy spread evenly, the veins of shadow wrapping into place. Slowly, the body sat upright, its head tilting stiffly toward them.

Laxin's eyes widened. "Ha! Look at that. He's—he's listening."

Fenric corrected, "Not listening. Just responding. There's no thought, no will of its own. What you see is the echo of your mana, nothing more."

Aria smirked. "Still, not bad for your second day."

Laxin grinned and wiped sweat from his brow. "Feels like balancing on a tightrope. Push too much and it falls apart, too little and nothing moves."

Fenric nodded. "Exactly. Which leads us to step four: stability. You don't just give motion—you give endurance. That requires shaping the mana into a cycle strong enough to run without your constant attention."

He demonstrated by placing both hands on the corpse Aria had worked on. His mana locked into the weave, and the body stood fully, its limbs moving fluidly as though guided by unseen strings. Fenric stepped back, and yet it continued standing, arms lowering at his unspoken command.

"That," he said calmly, "is the difference between practice and success. A construct that can remain upright without draining you dry."

Laxin whistled low. "So we're basically... engineers of fake life."

Aria shot him a look. "Don't make it sound cheap."

Fenric's expression softened, though his tone stayed steady. "It isn't life. But it is a tool. And in the right hands, tools save lives as much as they take them."

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, watching the corpse hold its place—no longer just bones, but a vessel moving under their command.

Fenric finally broke the quiet. "We'll continue this cycle until each of you can hold a construct for an hour without breaking the weave. After that, we move to coordination."

Laxin groaned. "An hour? You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Aria smirked. "You said you'd be a diligent student. No turning back now."

Fenric's thin smile returned. "Tomorrow, then. Come prepared."

The days that followed became less like lessons and more like battles against frustration itself.

Day Four – The First Collapse

The three gathered in the chamber again, the stench of old death beginning to cling to their clothes. Fenric had rolled out three corpses, each in varying states of decay, so the students had to learn to adapt.

"Your objective is simple," Fenric said, voice calm as always. "Anchor. Circulate. Stabilize. Maintain for thirty minutes without collapse. Do not rush."

Laxin, of course, rushed.

His mana flared hot and greedy, forcing the corpse's chest cavity to balloon unnaturally. For a few moments it looked almost alive—until the energy slipped, surging straight into brittle bones.

CRACK—SNAP!

The ribcage burst apart, shards of bone whipping outward like knives. One sharp fragment smacked across Laxin's cheek, leaving a thin bloody line.

"—Ow!" he yelped, clutching his face. "That thing tried to kill me!"

Fenric didn't flinch. "No. You lost control. Dead mana answers to your intent alone. If you treat it carelessly, it will turn on you."

Aria grimaced, half-concerned, half-annoyed. "Maybe next time, don't shove your whole soul down its throat."

Laxin muttered under his breath, "...I was just giving it some enthusiasm."

Day Six – The Misfire

Aria tried next, working carefully as Fenric instructed. Her corpse did rise, standing stiffly, but then she tried to force more precision—attempting to make it walk.

The result was disastrous.

The mana threads she anchored tangled at the knees, and instead of a smooth step, the corpse's leg snapped clean off. The unstable surge lashed outward, sending a pulse of dead mana like a shockwave. Laxin, unlucky as ever, caught it square in the chest.

"Ughhh—!" he grunted, flying backward into the wall with a thud.

Aria gasped. "Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean—"

From the floor, Laxin groaned. "...I think my ribs are negotiating a surrender."

Fenric finally sighed. "This is why we practice on the dead. A misstep here with the living would mean a massacre. Control, not ambition, Aria."

Day Nine – The Burnout

Laxin had recovered enough to try again. Determined to prove himself, he poured everything into stabilizing his weave. This time, the corpse not only stood—it moved smoothly.

"Yes! Ha! Look at that, he's walking like a soldier!"

But within seconds, his body began trembling. Beads of sweat soaked his forehead, his mana reserves bleeding too fast.

The construct shambled forward, then collapsed mid-step as the flow cut off. Laxin himself fell with it, gasping.

Fenric crouched beside him, eyes steady. "You're feeding it too directly. A true necromancer builds cycles, not leashes. Otherwise you'll burn out long before your puppet does."

Aria offered him a hand up. "Congratulations, you're officially worse than the corpse."

"Shut up," Laxin wheezed, but he still grinned faintly.

Day Twelve – A Breakthrough, and Another Disaster

They tried again and again—stumbling, weaving, snapping bones, burning mana, even nearly collapsing half the chamber when Aria's corpse exploded from over-compression.

The ceiling rained dust, and Fenric finally raised his hand. "Enough. No further until you understand balance. Watch closely."

He stepped forward, placing his hand on the least damaged body. Mana seeped from him not in waves, but in measured drops—like water feeding a wheel. Slowly, deliberately, the corpse rose. Its limbs moved with eerie smoothness, its joints flexing without fracture.

Then he released his touch. The body kept moving, turning its head toward them, then pacing in a lazy circle, the flow stable and self-sustained.

"This," Fenric said, "is mastery of a single vessel. Once you can all achieve this, we'll move on to coordination. Until then—expect more broken bones. Hopefully not your own."

Laxin groaned, rubbing his bruised ribs. "I'm going to need a second corpse. Mine's suing for retirement."

Aria smirked. "Don't worry. I'll make sure your bones are the next test subject."

Fenric almost smiled. "At this rate, that might be accurate."

The training stretched on for hours, their rhythm a strange dance between breakthrough and disaster.

At first, Laxin actually managed to get a skeleton to stand. Its limbs wobbled like a drunkard on stilts, but it moved. He grinned proudly. "See? Not so hard."

The skeleton promptly lost its balance and pitched forward, clattering apart into a heap of bones at his feet. Aria pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Congratulations," she said flatly. "You've invented the world's first self-destructing minion."

Fenric chuckled, though he hid it behind his hand.

But the more they practiced, the more they began to get results. Soon, Aria managed to stabilize her flame long enough to animate a skeleton that could walk a short circle around the hall before the magic unraveled. Fenric himself showed them how to weave mana into the bone core, binding it so the body didn't fall apart instantly.

Laxin, eager to prove himself, tried to push further. He poured too much mana into the bones, muttering the command words like he was scolding a misbehaving pet. The skeleton lurched upright with surprising force—only to trip on its own leg bones.

It toppled sideways and crashed directly onto another skeleton Aria had just finished animating.

The two piles of bones collapsed into one another, scattering ribs and femurs everywhere. The skull rolled across the floor and smacked straight into Laxin's shin before spinning away.

Aria clutched her stomach, laughing despite herself. "Oh spirits, you're hopeless."

Fenric sighed, shaking his head but smiling faintly. "Lesson learned: balance the mana, or your minions will fight each other before they even take a step."

Laxin groaned, rubbing his shin. "I don't think they fought. I think mine just... body-slammed yours."

The next day, they tried again—better rested, better focused, and slightly more cautious about bones flying in unexpected directions.

Fenric drew the formation carefully on the stone floor, his chalk marks glowing faintly with infused mana. "This time, focus on the core," he instructed. "Anchor the mana first, then guide it through the skeleton's frame. If you let it run wild, the body collapses or worse—"

"—it blows up in my face," Laxin muttered, rubbing the faint bruise still visible on his cheek.

Aria smirked. "You learn fast."

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