The crypt was silent.
Not the empty silence of an abandoned tomb, but something deeper. A silence that swallowed sound, that made even the flicker of torchlight seem dimmer.
Arlan's breath came slow and controlled as he stared ahead. The man before them—if he could even still be called that—stood with an eerie stillness, robes flowing as though caught in an unseen breeze. His decayed lips barely moved as he spoke, but his words echoed in the chamber.
"You have returned."
The voice was cold, dry, ancient.
Arlan clenched his fists, the weight of his companions behind him. Mira's grip on her staff was tight, her expression unreadable. Tomas and Beren were already shifting into a ready stance, shields and weapons raised. Leila's bow was half-drawn, her sharp eyes scanning for an opening.
The figure tilted his head slightly. Not at them. At him.
"It was you," he murmured, as if realizing something for the first time.
Arlan's stomach twisted.
The air was thick with the weight of something old. The sorcerer took another step forward, and with it, a cold pressure settled over them.
Mira's jaw clenched. "Who are you?"
The sorcerer ignored her, his piercing eyes locked onto Arlan. He could see it. The magic. The curse.
"You came here once," the sorcerer continued, "You saw what should not be seen."
Leila loosed an arrow.
It never landed.
The second it left the bowstring, the sorcerer flicked his wrist, and the arrow stopped midair. It hovered for a moment—then turned around.
Leila barely dodged as it shot past her head, embedding into the stone behind her.
Tomas swore under his breath. "Okay. That's—cheating."
The sorcerer sighed, almost disappointed. "Still clinging to old beliefs. You think I am your enemy?"
The shadows around the crypt shifted unnaturally, stretching in ways that defied logic.
Then he raised his hand.
And the world collapsed.
The force of the blast sent them flying.
Arlan barely had time to react before he was slammed into the stone wall, his vision bursting white with pain. He gasped, trying to push himself up, but his body felt heavy.
Beren had hit the ground hard, blood dripping from his forehead as he struggled to stay upright. Tomas groaned nearby, his shield having absorbed most of the impact.
Leila and Mira had been flung further back, sprawled against the cold stone.
The sorcerer stepped forward—calm, unhurried.
"You do not yet understand, do you?"
The air around him crackled with magic, and Arlan felt his chest tighten. This wasn't just power. This was something else.
Something ancient.
The sorcerer crouched down beside him, his gaze sharp and deliberate.
"You fear what you are," he said softly, almost like a whisper. "You are shackled by their lies."
Arlan's pulse pounded. He tried to push himself up, but the moment he moved, the sorcerer pressed two fingers against his forehead.
A surge of magic burned through him.
The crypt twisted. Shadows danced.
And suddenly, he was somewhere else.
Visions of the Past
He stood in a ruined hall.
Black banners, tattered and burned, lined the cracked stone walls. The scent of ash and old magic filled the air.
And in front of him—a battlefield.
Countless figures lay motionless, their armor rusted, their weapons broken. But they were not simply dead.
They were forgotten.
Their bodies twisted with necrotic energy, a curse that bound them beyond death.
The Order of Necromancers.
Arlan stumbled back, his mind reeling.
A war. A war that had been erased from history.
And in the center of it all—a man.
The same man who stood before him now.
"We were gods once," the sorcerer's voice echoed through the vision. "We shaped the world, bent death itself to our will. But they feared us. They lied. They erased us."
The battlefield shifted.
The Holy Order stood above the corpses—paladins bathed in light, their blades cutting through the last of the necromancers.
A final purge.
Arlan gasped as he was yanked back into reality.
The sorcerer knelt beside him, watching.
"Necromancy is not a curse." His voice was steady. Unshaken. "It is power."
Arlan felt his body tremble.
The others were still recovering, groaning as they tried to pull themselves up. They hadn't seen what he had seen.
The sorcerer leaned closer, his decayed lips barely moving.
"I will not ask again, child."
His eyes burned.
"Join me."
The Breaking Point
For a single moment, Arlan hesitated.
What if he was right? What if everything he had been told was a lie?
What if necromancy wasn't evil?
The thought sent a shudder through him.
Then—a voice in his mind.
Not the sorcerer's.
The artifact.
For the first time in days, it spoke.
"If you follow him, you will never return."
A warning.
Not of power. Not of magic.
Of choice.
Arlan's breath came sharp. He met the sorcerer's gaze.
And he refused.
"No."
The word was quiet, but it echoed.
The sorcerer's expression remained unreadable.
Then—disappointment.
"…So be it."
He lifted his hand.
The ground split open.
Shadows poured forth.
And the dead began to rise.
Final Moments – The March of the Dead
The crypt trembled.
The walls cracked, stone breaking apart as something vast began to awaken beneath them.
Tomas pushed himself up. "What—what the hell is happening?!"
Leila gasped, staring as skeletal figures crawled from the walls.
Mira swore under her breath. "He's raising them."
Arlan felt it.
The town.
The dead weren't just rising here. They were moving.
The sorcerer's voice was calm.
"Then let the world remember."
"Let them see what they buried."
The magic surged—an unstoppable force.
Arlan's body moved before his mind.
"RUN!"
He grabbed Mira, yanking her to her feet. Tomas pulled Leila up, Beren already stumbling toward the exit.
The sorcerer did not chase them.
He did not need to.
Because his army was already moving.
As they burst from the crypt, stumbling into the night air—
The first screams rang out from Duskhaven.
And the sky turned red.