In the unknown higher world, the soul of Arkeia appeared, and the soldiers bowed to him in reverence. The king was shocked, his eyes wide with surprise, as he beheld the soul of his grandfather.
"Grandfather, what brings you here?" the king asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and respect.
"I have come to demand justice, my grandson," Arkeia's soul replied, his voice like thunder. "Eryndor, that cursed individual, has taken my life with his wretched bad luck. I want you to mobilize the army and bring him to justice."
The king's face darkened with anger, and he nodded resolutely. "I will not rest until this Eryndor is brought to justice, grandfather. I will mobilize the army and visit this lower world to ensure that he pays for his crimes."
Arkeia's soul nodded in approval. "See that you do, my grandson. I will not rest until Eryndor is punished for his role in my demise. And make sure to bring back his head as a trophy, I want to see it mounted on the wall of our throne room."
The king bowed, his face set in determination. "It will be done, grandfather. I will not fail you."
Meanwhile, in the lower world, Eryndor was oblivious to the danger that was brewing. He had already forgotten about the incident that had led to Arkeia's death and was busy training with his sword for the upcoming tournament. He was determined to win and change the way people saw him, to prove that he was more than just a bad luck spreader.
As he trained in the forest, the animals instinctively avoided him, sensing the aura of bad luck that surrounded him. Two rabbits, hiding behind a bush, whispered to each other.
"I don't know how he does it, but every time he's around, something bad happens," one of the rabbits said.
"I know, right? I've seen him trip over his own feet and face-plant into a tree. It's like he's a magnet for disaster," the other rabbit replied, shuddering.
Just then, a bird flew overhead, and Eryndor looked up, trying to shoo it away. However, his sword slipped from his grasp and fell, landing on a nearby beehive. The bees, startled, flew out of the hive and began to chase Eryndor, who ran around in circles, trying to escape them.
The rabbits watched in amusement as Eryndor stumbled and tripped, causing a nearby tree branch to break and fall on top of him. The bees, still chasing him, flew into the branch, getting stuck in the leaves.
"I think we can safely say that Eryndor is not going to win any awards for 'most coordinated person' anytime soon," one of the rabbits said, chuckling.
The other rabbit nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and I'm starting to think that his bad luck is not just a myth. I mean, who else can manage to get chased by bees and have a tree branch fall on them all in one day?"
Eryndor, finally managing to escape the bees, stood up, brushing himself off. He looked around, trying to locate his sword, but it was nowhere to be found. He sighed, realizing that he would have to spend the rest of the day searching for it.
Meanwhile, Lord Ravenswood was preparing for the tournament, his mind focused on the task at hand. He was determined to win, to prove to himself and to others that he was the best swordsman in the land.
As he practiced his swordplay, he couldn't help but think about Eryndor. He remembered how talentless Eryndor was, how he stumbled and tripped over his own feet. But he also remembered how Eryndor's bad luck seemed to make up for his lack of skill.
"I've seen him defeat opponents with nothing but a broken sword and a handful of mud," Lord Ravenswood said to himself, shaking his head in amazement. "And I've seen him win battles by sheer dumb luck, with his opponents tripping over their own feet or getting hit by stray arrows. It's like the universe itself is conspiring to help him."
Lord Ravenswood's eyes narrowed in determination. He would not underestimate Eryndor again. He would be prepared for anything, no matter how unlikely.
At the heart of the forest something was brewing
The Lich, a powerful and malevolent being, had finally escaped the Netherworld, a place of eternal darkness and suffering. He was currently wounded, his dark magic depleted from the ordeal, but he was ecstatic about his newfound freedom.
"Woohoo! I'm finally out of that dump!" the Lich exclaimed, his voice like a rusty gate. "I mean, don't get me wrong, the Netherworld has its perks - the whole 'ruling with an iron fist' thing, the 'making minions tremble with fear' thing... but the decor? Ugh, it's all just so... dark and gloomy. I'm more of a 'light and airy' kind of guy."
His loyal servant, a skeleton named Steve, nodded in agreement. "Yes, my lord. The Netherworld can be a bit... depressing. But this new world is... well, it's definitely different."
The Lich's eyes gleamed with excitement as he surveyed his new surroundings. "And the inhabitants of this world... they're so... fluffy. I mean, I've seen more intimidating creatures at a kindergarten playground. I'm pretty sure I can take over this world with just a few well-placed evil laughs and some dramatic hand gestures."
Steve chuckled, his bony fingers clicking together. "Well, my lord, you do have a bit of a reputation for being... over-the-top. But I'm sure you'll be able to conquer this world in no time."
The Lich cackled, his eyes glowing with malevolent intent. "Oh, I'll conquer this world, Steve. I'll bend it to my will, and all will tremble before me. Muahahaha!"