The cold winds howled across the barren landscape, whipping the gray and lifeless earth into a frenzy. A dark cloud, an eternal storm, hovered over the land of Vrasha, casting the land in shadow. The once-vibrant plains were now empty, save for the twisted trees that stood like silent sentinels, their limbs reaching towards the sky in grotesque mockery of life. Here, in the heart of the wasteland, where the forgotten gods once reigned, there lay the ruins of the old temple.
Elias stood before the crumbling stones, his breath rising in the cold air, the sound of his heart pounding in his chest. The weight of destiny pressed upon him like an invisible force, but he had no choice but to bear it. He had been called here, summoned by forces beyond his understanding. The words of the ancient texts had led him here, to this forsaken place where only death lingered, waiting for something to break the silence.
The necromancer—no, the Divine Necromancer—stood at the threshold of power.
His fingers twitched as he reached out to touch the ancient altar that had long been abandoned, its once-sacred surface now covered in dust and grime. He could feel the energy thrumming beneath the stone, an ancient and dark force that pulsed with life—yet not life as he had known it. This power was different. It was older, something primordial that lay beneath the very fabric of existence.
Elias had always known he was different, even as a child. The villagers in his hometown of Solis had whispered rumors of his strange abilities—the way his eyes would flash with unnatural light when he was angry, or how he could heal wounds with but a touch. But it wasn't until he had ventured beyond the familiar borders of his village, seeking answers in ancient texts and forbidden rituals, that he began to understand the full extent of his power.
He was no mere necromancer.
He was destined to be something far greater.
His fingers grazed the altar's surface, and as they did, a ripple of energy surged through him. The ground beneath his feet trembled, and the air around him crackled with electricity. The long-dead spirits of this forsaken place stirred, their restless souls reaching out to him, drawn by the pulsing rhythm of his heart. Elias felt the power surge within him—an overwhelming force that threatened to tear him apart.
And yet, he embraced it.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the ancient power. A low chant escaped his lips, an incantation that had been buried in the forgotten scrolls of the old kingdom. The words echoed through the temple, their meaning lost to time, but their power—immense, limitless—remained.
The ground shook violently, and from the darkness below, the first of the dead rose. Bones cracked and twisted, and from the soil, skeletal hands clawed their way to the surface. Elias opened his eyes, and before him stood the army of the dead—wretched, yet strangely beautiful in their undying form.
But it was not just any army. The dead that now rose were not mere minions. They were the long-lost guardians of the old gods, their forms twisted and corrupted by the very power that had called them back from the grave.
Elias's heart raced, and a grim smile crossed his lips. This was only the beginning. He had unlocked something far greater than he had ever anticipated.
With the snap of his fingers, the undead obeyed his will, forming into a silent legion at his command. He could feel their ancient spirits, still tethered to the remnants of their past lives, eager to serve him. His power was not just over death. It was over time itself.
As the spirits of the ancient warriors stood before him, Elias could hear their whispers—fragments of a forgotten world. Their memories echoed through his mind, and within them, he found the secret he had been searching for. The prophecy.
The Divine Necromancer.
He could feel it—the weight of the title. The burden. The promise. He was not merely a servant of death. He was the harbinger of a new age, a ruler over life and death alike. The gods had abandoned the world, but in their absence, Elias would rise to take their place.
The old world had ended, but this wasteland would be his kingdom.
A sudden shift in the air brought Elias's attention to the shadows at the edge of the temple. Out of the darkness emerged a figure cloaked in robes of silver and black. The figure moved with the grace of a predator, its eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood, fixed on Elias with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.
"You've come far, necromancer," the figure said, its voice soft but carrying an undeniable power. "But do you truly understand what you have awakened?"
Elias's eyes narrowed. "I understand more than you think," he replied, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. "This power—this destiny—it is mine."
The cloaked figure stepped forward, its form flickering for a moment as if it were not entirely of this world. "Destiny is a fragile thing. Power like yours is not meant to be wielded by just anyone. It consumes those who seek it."
Elias's gaze locked with the figure's glowing eyes. "Then I will be the one who masters it."
The figure tilted its head, studying Elias with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "The gods have forgotten this world, but there are others who still watch. And they will not take kindly to your rise."
Elias's lips curled into a smile, dark and unyielding. "Let them come. I will welcome their challenge. This world is mine to reshape, and no one will stand in my way."
With a final glance, the figure vanished into the shadows, leaving Elias alone in the ruins of the old temple. The undead stood in silent reverence around him, their hollow eyes watching his every move.
The wind howled once more, but this time, Elias felt no fear. He was no longer a man, but a god reborn.
The first step had been taken. The Divine Necromancer had risen.
And the world would never be the same again.