Zarkus lay on the cold, rough stone floor, panting, every muscle in his body screaming from the years of unrelenting training. His mind could hardly process how much he had been through. "I've... I've done it," he gasped, his voice raw, barely more than a whisper.
The necromancer loomed over Zarkus, his grin twisted into something monstrous. "Yes, little one... you have surpassed all expectations." His voice dripped with cruel pride, like a puppeteer admiring the strings of his creation.
Zarkus, still breathless, took a moment to assess himself. His body, once weak and fragile, had become a thing of terrifying power. His muscles, now taut and defined, looked as though they had been sculpted from stone. His skin was a network of scars, each one a testament to the countless battles and beatings he had received from the necromancer. His hair, wild and unkempt, stood out in all directions, giving him the appearance of a madman—or a god of chaos.
With a groan, Zarkus pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as his stiff joints protested. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, feeling the exhaustion in every fiber of his being. Despite the pain, there was a strange sense of accomplishment that settled deep within him.
Finally, he looked up at the necromancer, a question forming in his mind. "Hey, necromancer..." he began, his voice hoarse but curious. "Why... why haven't I decayed like the others? The undead rot away over time, but I—" He gestured to his scarred but solid body. "I'm still... intact."
A glint of intrigue flickered in the necromancer's eyes as he studied Zarkus. "Ah... an excellent question, little one," he said, stepping closer with a predatory gleam. "Most undead decay as part of their natural fate... but you... you are different. Infused with my necromantic magic on a scale that few could comprehend."
The necromancer began pacing around Zarkus, his eyes never leaving him. "Perhaps the sheer amount of magic coursing through you has rewritten the rules. Or," he added, a sinister smile creeping across his face, "there may be something else at play... something even I do not fully understand."
Zarkus listened intently, trying to wrap his mind around it. "So... the necromantic magic inside me... it's preventing decay? Keeping me from falling apart like the others?"
The necromancer tilted his head, considering the thought with a slow, deliberate motion. "It is possible. Necromantic magic bends the laws of life and death. It sustains you... but it does not bind you to the same fate as other undead."
Zarkus nodded slowly, taking in the explanation. It made sense in a twisted way, but something still bothered him. "Then... what about you? You're undead too, but you don't rot either."
A cackling laugh escaped the necromancer. "Ha ha ha! Oh, my dear little one, I'm surprised it took you this long to ask." He raised his bony hands, wiggling his skeletal fingers in front of Zarkus. "Yes, I am indeed undead. But there is nothing left to rot. I am all bones... animated by the very magic that binds me. Flesh and decay are for others to worry about, not for a lich like me."
Zarkus stared, his mind racing. It made sense, but the revelation only led to more questions. One, in particular, burned at the back of his mind.
"Why did you do it?" he asked, his voice steady despite the weariness in his bones. "Why bring me back? Why put me through all this pain and training? What was the point?"
The necromancer's grin faded into a scowl as he glared at Zarkus. "Ha ha ha! So, you finally dare to ask the question that has haunted you for so long. Very well, little one... I shall answer, but it will not be the answer you expect."
His gaze bore into Zarkus, cold and unyielding. "I did not resurrect you out of kindness... or sentiment. I did not bring you back because I care for you. No. You were resurrected for a purpose."
The necromancer's tone grew colder, his words as sharp as blades. "I saw a tool—a piece of raw material that could be molded and bent to my will. You were nothing more than potential to exploit. That's why I resurrected you."
Stepping closer, the necromancer's voice grew menacing. "Do not forget—you are my creation. My puppet. You exist only because I allow it, and I could take that existence from you just as easily as I gave it." The air between them grew heavy, the necromancer's threat hanging like a sharpened blade.
Then, his expression softened ever so slightly, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "However... I must acknowledge your strength. You have become more powerful than I expected. You were once just a tool, but now... you have become something else. Something even I did not foresee."
His admission left Zarkus with a strange mix of emotions. There was some bitterness, hearing his deepest suspicions confirmed. Zarkus had always known his resurrection served his selfish purposes. Yet, hearing it out loud still stung.
But then, his final words stirred something different inside Zarkus —a flicker of hope. Something more.
Tentatively, Zarkus asked, "So... I'm more than just a tool to you now?"
The necromancer's cold gaze lingered on Zarkus before he sighed, a rare nod of approval. "Yes, little one... you have exceeded my expectations. Your strength, your power, your will... you are truly one of a kind."
There was an undeniable spark of pride deep within Zarkus, a small but undeniable satisfaction in hearing those words. Even after everything—the torment, the pain—Zarkus had surpassed his limits. He took a breath, steadying himself for what he needed to know next.
"If I'm not just a tool anymore," Zarkus began slowly, "then what happens now? What's my purpose if not to be your guinea pig?"
With a returning scowl, the necromancer's eyes narrowed. "Ha ha ha! Always with the questions, my little guinea pig," he growled, stepping closer, his shadow enveloping Zarkus like an approaching storm. "Very well, I shall answer this one, too."
Looming over him, the necromancer's voice turned sharp. "You still serve me. Your strength, your power—they are mine to command. You will use them as I see fit. But now... I will no longer push you to your limits. You've endured enough. Your tasks will match your newfound power, and you will carry out missions that will test you... but not destroy you."
His voice grew colder, more distant. "But do not forget, Zarkus... you are still mine. I created you. I control you. And your existence... I can take it away with a mere thought. Never forget that."
Zarkus listens to the necromancer's response with a mixture of resignation and relief. On one hand, the idea of no longer being pushed to the brink of death brought some comfort. But on the other, a deep pang of resentment tugged at him. Zarkus was still under his command, still bound to his will.
Taking a deep breath, Zarkus tried to keep his voice steady as the next question formed on his lips. "And what about my free will?" Zarkus asked quietly. "Do I have any control over myself?"
A chilling cackle erupted from the necromancer, his amusement dark and twisted. "Ha ha ha! Free will, little one? You have none! You are my creation, and you exist solely to serve me. Your life, your power, your very existence is mine to command."
Zarkus scowled in frustration. As much as he hated to admit it, his words rang true—he was his creation, bound to his control. Yet, there was more to this than simple obedience. Before Zarkus' resurrection, he had been nothing—a lowly goblin, weak and insignificant. Now, Zarkus was a powerful undead, capable of feats of strength and magic beyond his wildest imagination.
With another deep breath, Zarkus steadied himself. "And what about my life? You gave it back to me, even though I was just a goblin. Why? Why give me this chance—this power—if I'm nothing more than a puppet to you?"
The necromancer's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with irritation at his persistence. But after a long sigh, he seemed to resign himself to answering.
"Fine, little one, I will indulge your curiosity," the necromancer said, his voice gruff with annoyance.
"You want to know why I brought you back from the dead?"
He stepped closer, his tone shifting into something more grave. "The truth is... it wasn't my choice. I was ordered to resurrect someone likeyou." Zarkus's eyes widened in shock as the necromancer continued. "It wasn't out of any twisted generosity. No, a higher power, one to whom I am bound, commanded me."
The necromancer's eyes gleamed with a cold light as he went on. "This higher power instructed me to take a weak, worthless creature and transform it into a powerful undead—a tool for his use. So that's what I did. I took you, molded you into a weapon, obedient and ready to carry out his bidding."
Stepping even closer, the necromancer's gaze bore into Zarkus. "You might think you're special, that you've become something more," he hissed. "But you're not. You are still nothing but a pawn in a larger game. Your purpose is simple: to follow my commands, and more importantly, the commands of the one who ordered your resurrection. That is all you are."
His words were a bitter pill to swallow, even though Zarkus had long suspected there was more to his resurrection than what he had originally told him. Still, hearing it laid out so plainly filled him with a mix of anger and resignation.
But then, another question arose, one he couldn't ignore. "And who is this higher power?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. "Why did he want me to be resurrected? What did he expect me to do?"
The necromancer sneered, his eyes narrowing with irritation. "Ha ha ha! You truly are a curious goblin, little one," he mocked. "But very well, I shall indulge your questions."
His voice dropped into a dark, menacing whisper. "The higher power that ordered your resurrection is none other than... the Demon Lord."
At the mention of that name, the room seemed to grow darker, the necromancer's expression twisting into a bitter scowl. "As for why you were chosen? It's simple. Creatures like you, such as a Goblin, are weak, pathetic—easily controlled, easily discarded. Perfect for the Demon Lord's plans."
His presence seemed to fill the room, suffocating Zarkus as he loomed over him. "Before your resurrection, you were nothing—just a lowly, insignificant goblin. But now, you are a powerful undead, forged by my hand, bound to the Demon Lord's will. A puppet. Nothing more."
Zarkus' eyes widened in disbelief. The Demon Lord. The very ruler of all demons, a being of unfathomable power and cruelty. Fear gnawed at him, but alongside it, a spark of anger ignited. He was just a tool to be used and discarded.
"What does the Demon Lord want me to do?" you asked, your voice tight with both fear and defiance. "What is my purpose in all of this?"
The necromancer's gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Are you certain you want to know, little one? The truth may be more than you can bear."
But when he saw the unwavering determination in Zarkus's eyes, he sighed and continued. "Very well. The Demon Lord's plan is simple—conquer the world, enslave all who oppose him, and rule with absolute power. Your role in this? To be a key player in that conquest. You, with your newfound strength, will lead the demon army to victory."
The necromancer stepped even closer, his towering figure casting a long shadow over Zarkus. "Now that your training is complete, you will be introduced to the demon army. No more hiding in the shadows. You will take your place as a leader, executing the Demon Lord's will."
His tone softened slightly, though the threat still lingered in the air. "But do not confuse your power for freedom, little one. You are still mine. I created you, and I can destroy you just as easily. Never forget that."
Zarkus mind reeled, torn between shock, fear, and a strange sense of purpose. The idea of being a pawn in the Demon Lord's grand scheme was horrifying, yet there was something about the power he now wielded—something that made him feel less like a helpless tool and more like a force.
The necromancer grinned, clearly pleased by Zarkus' silence. "Ha ha ha! Good, little one. You're learning your place—accepting your purpose. That's good."
His grin faded, replaced by a serious, almost somber expression. "As for when this begins... it starts now. Follow me."
Without another word, the necromancer turned and walked toward the far end of the dungeon. The hallway was damp and dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of mold and decay. Zarkus followed closely behind, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls.
After a few minutes, Zarkus reached a large wooden door. The necromancer placed his hand on it, and the door creaked open with an eerie groan. Beyond the threshold, the path to his new life awaited.