Dagmaros was a common mercenary, but his ambition had driven him away from the life of a peasant.
Dissatisfied with the monotony and lack of prospects in his homeland, he boarded a ship bound for the city-state of Misthophoropolis.
Misthophoropolis was known as the City of Mercenaries. For those aspiring to power and glory, it symbolized a unique opportunity.
Situated on the other side of the Ampotis Sea, the city was an imposing and powerful landmark, resisting the constant ambitions of the kingdoms of the Selene continent.
Now, Dagmaros found himself far from Misthophoropolis, accompanying the Brave Hearts, the mercenary group to which he belonged.
They had been hired to protect a colonial settlement in the heart of the Selene continent, a region untouched by civilization and exposed to savages and monsters.
This colony was a bold endeavor by the kingdom of Gizeria, seeking to expand its influence beyond the confined Sabaton Peninsula, known for its iconic shape resembling a sabaton.
Dagmaros had heard the account from Alexandros, one of his companions, about the macabre ritual in the outskirts of the settlement.
Driven by curiosity and recklessness, he decided to investigate alone. Mounted on his horse, he left the settlement and followed the trail.
The trail became increasingly treacherous, and his horse, as if sensing imminent danger, neighed nervously before jerking abruptly, throwing him off.
Dazed by the fall, Dagmaros lost consciousness for a few minutes. When he awoke, the biting cold forced him to recover his senses quickly. He stood up with difficulty, feeling the impact in his muscles and bones.
Snowflakes fell from the gray sky, and his breath condensed into white clouds that danced in the freezing wind. Observing the ground around him, he noticed a pattern that froze the blood in his veins: numerous footprints marked the snow, as if an army had passed through.
This sight shattered his stupor. Drawing his sword, Dagmaros assumed a defensive stance, prepared for an ambush. The forest around him seemed to house invisible eyes, watching him with unknown intentions.
Suddenly, a putrid stench invaded the air, seeping into his lungs and making his breathing even heavier. He recognized the smell even before seeing its source: a miasma of death and decay.
On the horizon, the sight was horrifying. A horde of undead moved toward him, slow but relentless, breaking the whiteness of the snow with their macabre and misshapen forms.
Panic gripped Dagmaros' chest, but he didn't hesitate. He knew that facing them would be suicide.
Without looking back, he ran toward the forest. The white mantle of snow had turned the place into a frozen desert, where silence was broken only by the sound of his hurried footsteps.
The trees, with twisted branches, rose like skeletal fingers pointing at the sky, while grotesque shadows danced to the wind's rhythm.
Every step seemed harder, the snow covering the ground in treacherous layers. The icy wind cut his skin like sharp blades, but Dagmaros, a seasoned mercenary, remained steadfast.
He knew that survival depended on his endurance and his ability to escape that labyrinth of horrors.
With silent steps, he advanced between the dark trunks.
The forest was unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence that makes one's heart race without an apparent reason.
He adjusted his hood and checked his sword's grip, more out of habit than necessity. After all, what could he do against those monsters?
The smell came before the sound. A mix of rotting flesh and something chemical, acrid, that churned his stomach.
Soon, a deep sound began to echo through the forest, a guttural chant in a language he didn't recognize.
Hiding under the snow, he began observing the horizon, watching the undead march.
When he peeked through the branches, his blood froze.
At the center of a clearing, illuminated by torches with greenish flames, was a circle of corpses.
Not inert bodies, but moving cadavers, their rotting flesh hanging from bones, their hollow eyes glowing with sinister light. They stood silent and still, like soldiers awaiting orders.
In the center, a hooded figure murmured incomprehensible words while holding a black crystal that pulsed like a heart.
Dagmaros could barely breathe. His fingers trembled as they gripped his sword. "This isn't real. This isn't real," he repeated to himself, but the scene before his eyes was impossible to deny.
He then remembered his childhood, when his grandmother would tell him stories and legends. Among them, the one that had marked him the most was about the Necros.
Long ago, before the stars shone in the sky and the seas filled with life, the world was a vastness of darkness and silence.
Two primordial forces danced in the immensity of the void: Aether, the vital energy that gives shape and purpose to all things, and Chaos, the anti-Aether, the force that consumes and reduces everything to nothingness. These forces were opposites but inseparable, like light and shadow in the same world.
It is said that the world as we know it was born from the violent clash between these two essences.
When Aether triumphed, it shaped mountains, rivers, and skies, breathing life into the creatures that now walk, fly, and swim.
But Chaos was not destroyed. Banished to the depths of reality's fabric, it became a persistent echo a shadow that never completely disappears.
The Necros, the legend says, are more than mere mortals.
They are said to have been sages from immemorial eras, fascinated by Chaos's destructive power.
Driven by a hunger for power, or perhaps an insane desire to understand the cycle of life and death they sought forbidden corners of the world to unlock the secrets of anti-Aether.
They were consumed by it, their souls undone and remade by the chaotic essence. What remained was something beyond human creatures cloaked in darkness, capable of bending death to their will.
The Necros don't merely manipulate Chaos; they are a part of it. Wherever they go, life unravels, and fertile lands become barren deserts. Their power is sustained by legions of undead, soulless bodies animated by the anti-Aether that flows from their masters.
Their ultimate goal remains uncertain. Some say they wish to destroy Aether, extinguish life, and plunge the world into eternal night. Others believe they serve an even greater force, a Chaos entity whispering its will.
The greatest fear in these legends is the coming of the Long Night, the end of the natural cycle of life and death.
Under the Necros' dominion, death would no longer be a transition but an absolute state. Stars would extinguish, seas would evaporate, and all living beings would perish. In this absolute void, the Necros would reign as the sole remaining entities, shaping a realm of eternal darkness and silence.
Many dismiss these stories as mere fables, told by bards around campfires to frighten children. Yet, there are countless records of them across cultures.
Dagmaros, witnessing this scene, no longer doubted their existence.
Suddenly, a sharp crack.
His foot had crushed a frozen branch beneath the snow. The sound, though subtle, echoed like thunder in the clearing.
The undead turned, their movements rigid and clumsy but deadly. The glowing eyes of several disfigured heads locked onto Dagmaros' direction.
He held his breath, pressing himself against a tree trunk. His heart pounded so fast he was sure they could hear it. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, even in the icy air.
"They can't see me. They can't see me."
The undead began to move, slow but determined, sinking their feet into the snow like predators smelling prey.
He heard the sound of cracking bones and tearing flesh as they advanced.
Dagmaros almost gave in to the impulse to run. But he knew it would be futile; the slightest movement could reveal his position.
Slowly, he withdrew, pressing against the ground, almost burying himself in the snow for camouflage. His lungs burned for air, but he forced himself to remain still.
The corpses passed close, so close he could smell their unbearable stench of decay and hear the creaking of their heavy footsteps.
When one stopped, turning its head toward him, his body froze completely. "If I move, I'm dead."
The undead hesitated, as if listening to something distant. Then, without warning, it resumed walking, following the others.
After what felt like hours but was only minutes, the group disappeared in the direction of the ritual. Dagmaros released a silent sigh, his entire body trembling.
He knew he needed to return to his group, but he couldn't risk drawing attention now. Slowly, he began crawling away as quietly as possible.
What he had seen that night would be etched in his mind forever. He cast aside his disbelief; there was no longer room for skepticism.
Now, he knew the legends of the Necros were not just ancient stories.
They were real, and the darkness they brought was more terrifying than he could have ever imagined.
And yet, as he retreated, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him.
Something not among the dead but lurking in the deepest shadows of the forest.
After surviving this ordeal, Dagmaros promised himself he would return to his homeland and settle for a peasant's life.
The experience had been traumatic for him.
However, he found himself trapped in the forest, spending the winter lost and in scarcity. When winter passed, he found himself where it had all begun, the settlement he had been hired to protect.
Walking with fatigue and weakness from the malnutrition caused by the fierce winter, he collapsed in front of the village.