Necromancy, often whispered about in the darker corners of magical theory, was a craft as beguiling as it was perilous. To summon life from the void of death was a power that inspired awe, revulsion, and ambition in equal measure. And yet, despite its allure, few dared walk the path. The price, after all, was steep—if not in coin, then in one's soul.
The Western Continent, however, was an anomaly—a haven for necromancers, a cradle where dark mana flourished. In these lands, the shadows weren't merely feared; they were wielded, bent, and forged into tools of war. Here, nearly every warrior was either a Dark Knight, a necromancer, or, if less talented, a dark mage dabbling in rudimentary spells. The land itself seemed to pulse with an affinity for the forbidden.
This peculiar phenomenon wasn't born of legend but of lineage. The eleven elements of mana—fire, wind, earth, water, lightning, ice, dark, light, time, space, and gravity—weren't scattered equally across humanity. Affinities varied wildly, and dark mana, one of the rarest elements elsewhere, ran thick in the blood of those born on the Western Continent. It was as though the continent itself whispered to its children, urging them toward the shadows.
For most, necromancy was a web of endless complexities. It demanded mastery over souls and an unwavering will to bend the natural order. Yet, for the Ashbluff family, necromancy was as natural as breathing. Their ancestral Gift, the Necromancer's Touch, imbued them with an unparalleled affinity for souls, allowing them to summon and bind the dead with uncanny ease.
But every strength came with its price. The necromancer's creed was one of sacrifice. To command legions of undead was to tether one's own strength to the ethereal bonds of their minions. Jin Ashbluff, for instance, was markedly weaker than others of his rank when relying solely on his own combat ability. But when his full necromantic army marched forth, he transformed into a force that could rival entire battalions.
Then, there was Valen Ashbluff.
King of the West. The pinnacle of necromancers. A man who had rewritten the very rules of battle.
Valen wasn't merely strong; he was a walking cataclysm. The Savage Communion had thrown itself against the Western Continent for decades that Valen ruled. And yet, they hadn't prevailed—not because the Western armies were particularly formidable, nor because their generals were particularly cunning. No, it was because Valen Ashbluff stood in their way.
He was an army unto himself, his shadowed legions blotting out the sun. And the secret to his unfathomable might? The artifact that pulsed in his chest like a second heart.
The Black Heart.
A Legendary-grade artifact, whispered about in tales of old, the Black Heart was both a blessing and a curse. Its purpose was deceptively simple: it granted its bearer an inexhaustible reservoir of mana. For most mages, the artifact's potential was limited. Their output—the rate at which mana could be channeled—was a bottleneck. But for Valen, a necromancer commanding vast hordes, it was perfection. The Black Heart wasn't merely an amplifier; it was the key to his immortality on the battlefield.
As long as the Black Heart pulsed, Valen's legions would rise. Undead soldiers, skeletal beasts, phantasmal knights—all regenerated in an unending tide. His mana reserves were a well so deep, it seemed to mock the very concept of exhaustion. Battles that would have drained even a Radiant-ranker to the bone were nothing more than practice for Valen.
And yet, even a man of his might wasn't invincible.
I lowered the glowing tablet in my hand, the cascade of information still buzzing in my mind. The details felt sharp, clearer than I'd expected, as though dredged from some forgotten corner of my memory. 'Valen Ashbluff,' I thought, my lips pressing into a thin line. He wasn't just a king or a necromancer. He was the strongest human alive.
The title wasn't just honorary. Ranked first among humanity, Valen's power towered over the rest of us. In the rankings, he was a fortress; the Martial King and the Archmage of Lumina barely cast shadows in his presence.
'The most powerful necromancer ever born,' I thought, my eyes narrowing. And yet, even the mightiest have weaknesses.
The Black Heart, for all its power, was a crutch. It made Valen untouchable in prolonged battles, but it also tied his strength to his summons. If you could disrupt his army, if you could force him into close combat... well, that was a different story.
Of course, exploiting such a weakness was easier said than done. Even without his legions, Valen was no pushover. His mastery over necromancy extended far beyond the battlefield. He understood souls, the weave of life and death itself. To fight Valen Ashbluff was to fight someone who could unravel you with a thought.
I shut off the tablet, the screen fading into black as my reflection stared back at me. My lips pursed as I leaned back into the plush chair, letting my thoughts settle.
Dinner with the Ashbluff family.
Of all the things I had prepared for—cult leaders, Radiant-rank battles, and the possibility of war—dinner with one of the most powerful families in the Western Continent wasn't exactly high on the list. Yet here I was, walking into it as if it were just another chess move in the ever-expanding game.
Hopefully, everything would go according to plan.
The dining room of the Ashbluff estate was a modern marvel that still held echoes of tradition. The long, polished obsidian table stretched under a chandelier of floating lights—glowing orbs that shifted between hues of gold and blue. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting battles of old, interspersed with digital screens streaming news updates and stock market trends.
Camila Ashbluff sat to my left, regal and poised as ever, her beauty tempered by a sharp gaze that missed nothing. Across from her was Valen, the King of the West, a man who could silence a room with a glance. His silver hair gleamed under the chandelier's glow, and his deep blue eyes fixed on me with the calm intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.
And at the end of the table sat Jin, the heir to the Ashbluff family, quietly sipping his wine, looking far too amused for my liking.
"I must admit," Valen said, setting down his fork with deliberate precision, "it's not every day the Guild Grandmaster graces us with his presence. I hope you find our hospitality... adequate."
"It's more than adequate," I replied with a small smile, though I didn't miss the sharp undertone in his words. "Your estate is as impressive as I remember, Valen. And your hospitality remains unmatched, as always."
"Flattery from you, Arthur? I'm honored," he said, though his tone suggested he wasn't entirely buying it.
Camila, ever the diplomat, interjected. "We're glad to have you here, Arthur. It's been a while since you and Jin have had a chance to reconnect. I imagine you're both far too busy these days."
Jin chuckled softly. "Busy is an understatement, Mother. Arthur has been out reshaping the world while I've been dealing with estate politics."
"Reshaping the world might be overstating it," I said lightly, though the conversation had already veered into dangerous waters. Time to steer it in the direction I needed.
I set my glass down, turning to Valen. "Speaking of your family, Valen, I wanted to ask about Rin."
The atmosphere froze. Camila's polite smile faltered, her eyes flicking toward Valen in alarm. Jin stiffened, his wine glass hovering mid-air, his expression carefully neutral.
"Rin?" Camila repeated, her voice laced with tension.
"Yes," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Jin mentioned her briefly in the past, but I haven't heard much since. What's her status?"
Valen's gaze sharpened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. "That's a delicate topic, Arthur," he said, his voice measured but unmistakably firm. "Perhaps it's best left for another time. Let's enjoy the evening, shall we?"
I ignored the warning in his tone, my eyes locking with his. "I understand it's a delicate topic. But she's your daughter, Valen. And I believe she can be saved."
Camila's hand flew to her mouth, her gasp audible in the tense silence that followed. Jin shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between his parents.
"Saved?" Valen repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "What exactly do you think you know about Rin?"
"I know she's still alive," I said, holding his gaze. "And I know you've written her off as a lost cause. But she doesn't have to be. I can help her."
Valen's fist clenched, the air around him growing heavier with suppressed power. "You presume too much, Arthur," he said, his voice cold. "This is a family matter. I suggest you tread carefully."
"You brought me here, Valen," I said calmly, though my own mana stirred in response to his growing ire. "And I didn't come to tiptoe around the truth. If there's even a chance to save Rin, don't you think she deserves it?"
Jin opened his mouth to speak, but Valen cut him off with a raised hand. His expression darkened, the air thick with tension. "Enough," he said, standing abruptly. "If you're so confident in your abilities, Arthur, then prove it. But don't expect me to stand by while you spout foolishness in my home."
Before I could respond, Valen's domain expanded around us—a sudden, overwhelming presence that swallowed the room in an instant. The dining table, the chandelier, the walls—they all vanished, replaced by a landscape of jagged obsidian peaks under a blood-red sky.
"You've crossed the line, Arthur," Valen said, his voice reverberating through the domain like rolling thunder. He stood across from me, his dagger materializing in his hand, its edge gleaming with dark astral energy. "Now, let's see if you're as capable as you claim."