The Dead Wastes had become a battlefield, a graveyard for countless beings from various realms. Even the spiritual plane had been shaken here. Beyond the veil loomed a god, eager to expand his dominion. Such places, saturated with necrotic energy, drew him like a beacon. And when he arrived, he came as Mordekaiser.
Some might say that no matter how powerful a mortal may be, they are no match for the gods. Mordekaiser is the exception to this rule. His power drags you into his domain, where you remain bound to him forever, worshipping him as your eternal god. He was once a mere barbarian, a savage who killed indiscriminately, believing that his countless murders would earn him a reward in the afterlife. But when his time came, he realized his faith had been hollow. And so he resolved to become what he had once worshipped: the true god of death — Mordekaiser.
A terrifying warrior clad in dark armor, imbued with the essence of thousands of deaths. His glowing, deep green eyes strike terror into those who glimpse their own imminent demise. His colossal mace, bristling with spikes, ensures no one escapes alive.
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Mordekaiser sat upon his throne, his piercing eyes snapping open. He had sensed a soul of immense power. But it was not this strength alone that captured his attention—it was the entourage of souls following it. They bore a resemblance to his magic, yet were distinctly different. These souls followed willingly, bound by neither hatred nor force. Mordekaiser, in contrast, enslaved souls with his black magic, compelling them into servitude in his domain.
Though his power was vast, crossing into the material world was no simple feat. In that realm, he was far weaker than in his own kingdom. Yet the Dead Wastes offered him a rare opportunity to manifest in his full form.
For now, though, the time had not yet come. And so, Mordekaiser remained still, waiting.
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The deeper Kylen ventured into these lands, the tighter death's grip seemed to grow. More than once, he caught sight of a pair of glowing blue eyes in the distance. Kindred, Kylen realized. It seemed he was indeed walking toward something fatal. Perhaps this was a mistake. The path behind him wasn't long; turning back would be easy.
"Why these doubts?" he asked himself.
Emotions constantly gnawed at him, slipping beyond his control. The land itself pressed down on him, stirring his deepest fears and desires.
"You thought it would be that simple?" a voice sneered, as Lissandra materialized beside him, her presence an annoyance he had come to expect.
Kylen ignored her. Steeling his mind with sheer willpower, he pressed on.
A fierce snowstorm raged around him, obscuring his vision. He tried to suppress it with his power but quickly concluded it wasn't worth the effort. The energy required was too great, and if a confrontation lay ahead, he couldn't afford to be weakened.
It had been wise not to bring Syndra along. This place took too heavy a toll on anyone's mind. Already, Kylen had glimpsed phantom images of his family, shouting and begging for help. He knew they were illusions, mere tricks of the land, but that didn't make them any easier to endure.
Despite Lissandra's less-than-welcome company, she occasionally broke his solitude. From time to time, she reminisced about her past, about when she and her sisters had been united, believing they could conquer anything. Each of them, however, had learned harsh lessons. For Lissandra, it had been Volibear who taught hers, blinding her in an act of ruthless vengeance.
"You're quiet. That's a good trait," Lissandra remarked. "Words have weight, and sometimes their cost is far too high."
"My mind is preoccupied," Kylen replied, his tone measured. "You walk here in your own form. Why didn't you retrieve the Rune Stone yourself?"
"Hmph. Do you think I haven't tried?" she said. "I accompany you now, but soon, you'll continue alone. The next stretch lies in domains where my magic cannot reach."
"You have plenty of followers. Why not send an army?" Kylen asked, pressing the obvious point.
"No matter how many I send, the result is always the same." She gestured to a nearby pile of human bones, frozen in postures of terror.
He could hardly argue with that. The weak of will would succumb here in an instant.
"So, if I obtain it, we'll be able to destroy Volibear?" Kylen asked.
"Of course not, ahahahah!" Lissandra's laugh rang out, mocking him as if he'd told a particularly amusing joke.
"Then why do I need it?" Kylen retorted, irritation creeping into his voice. If it was meaningless, why was he risking so much to find it?
"It has its purpose, but raw power alone isn't enough," Lissandra explained. "Volibear is a god. As long as the Freljordians believe in him, as long as they spill blood in his name, he cannot be undone. Only when their faith dies and the battles waged in his honor cease will he fade into obscurity. I've been working toward that for a long time."
"Your healers in every tribe," Kylen surmised. These shamans tended to everyone freely, asking for nothing in return. They worshipped no gods—only Lissandra herself.
"Exactly. They influence the clans from within. No one would reject them; it's hard to argue against the benefit of a healer who can cure anyone," Lissandra replied.
"How long will it take?" Kylen asked.
"I don't know. Perhaps a few years, perhaps decades, or even centuries," Lissandra admitted.
"Centuries? My lifespan is far shorter than yours—I won't live to see it through," Kylen said, the weight of his mortality sinking in. Victory might elude him in his lifetime.
"Do you think breaking their faith is easy? It takes time," Lissandra explained calmly. She had already accounted for his eventual death. If age claimed him before the plan succeeded, she intended for his son to take up the mantle. The boy already harbored a burning hatred for the gods after they destroyed his home—raising him with purpose would be simple.
Kylen understood little of the gods' nature, but what he knew sufficed to grasp the truth in her words. The people themselves fed Volibear's power—every battle fought, every hunt undertaken in his name strengthened him. Only in times of war did their faith falter. But how many tribes still believed? How many would continue to do so?
For years, Kylen had thought the warmbloods who fled from their battles were simply cowards, unwilling to fight for their future. Now he realized they had rejected old traditions entirely, choosing to look ahead. His own clan, too, had sought progress, but it had only led to ruin.
He wondered why he had wasted his efforts. Taming boars, escorting caravans, striving for something better—all of it had brought nothing but emptiness. Perhaps if he'd clung to the old ways, his life would have been mundane—hunting, family, skirmishes with bandits—but at least he'd have been home, surrounded by his loved ones.
Now, he stood thousands of miles from the land of his birth, on the edge of the world, chasing an unknown goal.
Lissandra's form vanished, leaving him to walk alone once more. This place drained the life from him. Though only days had passed, it felt as if he'd spent years here.
Fortunately, his body could survive without food for a week. The cold slowed his metabolism, and his magic sustained him.
After nearly a full day's journey, he reached an area where the storm ended abruptly, as though he had crossed into another realm. The snow no longer fell, and the howling blizzard slammed against an unseen barrier, unable to penetrate further.
"This is as far as I go," Lissandra's voice rang out as she reappeared at the boundary. "Be careful—beyond this point, death is far too generous a reward."
Kylen stepped past the barrier and surveyed the alien landscape before him. The area was barren, lifeless stone stretching as far as the eye could see. What struck him immediately, however, were the humanlike silhouettes scattered ahead.
He didn't like them.
They radiated something unnatural, a presence utterly divorced from life. Kylen could feel the suffering and despair emanating from them.
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Preparing his body for battle, Kylen channeled magic vigorously through his veins. He knew they wouldn't let him pass without a fight. His hunch proved correct: as he approached the figures, green fire ignited in their eyes, and they began to stir. A hollow, deathly wail echoed through the valley as the army came to life.
They numbered at least a hundred, scattered across the barren expanse, and they charged at him with a ravenous intensity.
Death had twisted their souls, leaving them tormented, forever trapped in bodies devoid of life. They craved the warmth of the living, driven by a desperate hunger to reclaim even a fleeting taste of life.
Summoning an icy sword, Kylen decided to study them first. He swung the blade at the neck of the nearest figure, severing its head cleanly. The skull rolled down the slope, its jaw snapping hungrily, while the decapitated body staggered forward, waving a rusted sword ineffectively.
"Immortal warriors," Kylen muttered, realizing that brute force alone wouldn't be enough to defeat them.
He conjured a wave of ice magic, freezing the creature's body solid. The frozen limbs twitched in vain, unable to free themselves.
Bringing his hands together, Kylen channeled his magic into a freezing beam, aiming to neutralize the entire horde at once. Over a dozen undead were encased in crystalline ice, their movements halted. Yet, the others were too far away to be caught in his attack.
Kylen paused to analyze. These creatures were dead in both body and soul, yet something held them tethered to this plane, preventing them from passing into the natural cycle of life and death.
He tore the chest plate from one of the fallen corpses, revealing an empty ribcage within. At its core burned a small, green flame—a soul left unburied.
Curious, Kylen reached out to touch it. The instant his finger brushed the flame, searing pain shot through his body. Looking at his hand, he watched as blackness spread rapidly across his skin. Acting quickly, he severed his own finger, watching it fall to the ground. Even so, the corrupted flesh continued to decay, turning lifeless and dead.
"That was a mistake," Kylen muttered grimly, staring at the stump where his finger had been.
Now wiser, he refrained from physical contact. Instead, he unleashed his frost magic upon the flame, snuffing it out. The moment the soul was destroyed, the corpse fell lifeless, truly dead at last.
Understanding now that the flame was the key, he charged into the next wave of undead. This time, he knew where to strike. The frozen horde crumbled before him, their cursed souls finally released.
His sword, forged of true ice, cleaved effortlessly through their corrupted armor, breaking the chains that bound their spirits. The undead army fell one by one, and with each strike, Kylen granted them the peace they had been denied for so long.
After vanquishing all the restless dead, Kylen finally had a moment to breathe. The battlefield was strewn with the remains of fallen warriors, their broken forms a grim testament to the clash. With the path cleared, he pressed onward.
More undead appeared as he advanced, though he dismissed them as minor nuisances, easily dispatched with his magic. However, that confidence wavered when he encountered a new breed of adversaries.
These warriors bore armor that, while scarred with scratches and dents, was far from the decayed remnants he'd faced earlier. Their gear was sturdy, and their combat was precise and coordinated. No longer solitary stragglers, these undead moved in disciplined formations, denying him the advantage of isolating targets. Dispelling their souls required more than a casual strike; their cores resisted fiercely, demanding significant effort to destroy.
The deeper Kylen ventured, the stronger the death magic suffusing the land became. In this cursed dominion, the undead were far mightier than those on the outskirts. His foes now included liches, wielders of necromantic power that posed a deadly threat. Their spells corrupted flesh, and even a single hit could mean a slow, agonizing death.
When a bolt of necrotic energy hurtled toward him, Kylen raised a wall of ice just in time to block it. The eternal chill of his magic proved to be his salvation. Death itself seemed powerless against the unyielding frost. Encasing one of the liches in ice, he shattered it with a massive hammer, reducing it to splinters.
This hammer, he realized, was proving far more effective than his blade in dealing with the undead. Its wide, crushing surface obliterated bones with ease, a sharp contrast to the precision required by a sword.
For the first time, Kylen noticed something strange—a voice calling to him. It whispered directly into his mind:
"You are close."
"Take the power that awaits you."
"Become unstoppable. Destroy your enemies."
The voice was unrelenting, a persistent murmur at the edge of his thoughts. Lissandra had warned him about this, claiming the runestone held a sentient will that deeply influenced anyone who sought it. Perhaps this was the voice of the stone itself.
Though irritating, the whispers seemed to guide him, an unseen force steering him toward his destination. Yet the closer he got, the more resistance his own instincts offered. Something deep within him recoiled at the path he was taking.
His destination lay at the heart of this forsaken realm. The journey there grew increasingly harrowing, as undead swarmed the surrounding lands. Yet to his surprise, none of these creatures attacked him. Instead, they merely stared, their hollow eyes tracking his every move.
"I don't like this," Kylen muttered, a cold dread settling over him. Someone—or something—was waiting for him.
As he moved closer to the stone's call, the undead became stranger. Their forms varied wildly, some clearly not of this world, and yet all shared one thing in common: they watched him silently.
The whispers intensified, growing louder and more insistent. At the same time, a suffocating weight pressed down on him. Looking at his hands, Kylen saw with horror how the vitality was draining from his body. Slowly but surely, life ebbed away from him.
Forming a sheet of ice in his hand, he caught his reflection and removed his mask. What he saw chilled him more than the frigid air—his face had aged by a decade since entering this cursed domain. Time was against him. He had to move faster or risk succumbing to the decay of this place.
Finally, the undead thinned out, and Kylen emerged into a vast open square. At its center stood a towering figure, a giant wielding an enormous hammer.
"Mortal, daring to trespass into the realm of death, kneel before Mordekaiser," the giant declared.
"I don't wish to fight you," Kylen replied.
"Huhahaha! You have no choice. You will serve me one way or another, and not even death will spare you from my grasp," Mordekaiser retorted.
"Then you shall fall by my hand," Kylen declared boldly.
"Death at my hands is a blessing," Mordekaiser responded as he hefted his massive hammer onto his shoulder.
Kylen's eyes flared with brilliant light, and a blizzard began to coalesce from the air itself. Snowflakes materialized from his magic.
"How amusing," Mordekaiser said. "The realm of the dead is mine." A surge of necrotic energy erupted from him, overpowering Kylen's burgeoning magic with a wave of deathly essence.
The magic struck Kylen like a thunderclap, his body trembling as weakness seeped into every fiber of his being. Realizing the futility of resisting directly, Kylen expelled his magic outward, purging the deathly energy from his body.
He unleashed a barrage of icy spears, sending them hurtling toward Mordekaiser. The death lord didn't even flinch, watching the mortal's efforts with an air of amusement. The spears shattered against his armor like glass.
With deliberate menace, Mordekaiser began advancing, his massive hammer resting casually in his hands. His fighting style was straightforward—pure, brute force with no concern for finesse or strategy. Strength was all that mattered.
A powerful swing from over his shoulder sent the hammer crashing down toward Kylen. But Mordekaiser's movements, though powerful, were slow, allowing Kylen to dodge the blow. The hammer struck the ground with cataclysmic force, shattering it into fragments. Cracks radiated across the plaza, releasing waves of necrotic energy.
"You're only delaying the inevitable. Nothing can save you," Mordekaiser thundered, continuing his relentless pursuit.
Kylen realized that ordinary magic was useless against this foe. Only True Ice could tip the scales in his favor. His armor thickened with ice, and in his hands, a blade formed, sharp and glimmering with the essence of frost.
Channeling his power, he encased Mordekaiser in a thick layer of ice. The death lord paused momentarily, giving Kylen the chance he needed. Closing the distance in an instant, Kylen plunged his blade through Mordekaiser's helmet, driving it to the hilt.
"ARRGH!" Mordekaiser roared, unleashing a massive blast of energy that shattered the ice and sent Kylen flying backward.
No longer content to toy with his opponent, Mordekaiser decided to reveal his true might. Raising his left hand, he summoned zones of death, where the souls of the departed began to dissolve into raw energy, filling the air with an oppressive, otherworldly power.
Extending his hand toward Kylen, Mordekaiser unleashed a life-draining spell.
Kylen could feel the life being pulled from him. His hair turned white in an instant, his skin wrinkling and aging as vitality drained away.
Desperate, Kylen fought back with his magic, but Mordekaiser's spell grew hungrier with every passing second, devouring his efforts and leaving him weaker.
"You will become my warrior and serve me for eternity," Mordekaiser mocked.
With no other options, Kylen began burning through his magical reserves, pouring every ounce of power he had to buy just a few more seconds. But even as he fought, he could hear the whispers of death growing louder, beckoning him ever closer.