Chapter 400: The Lich's Diary (Part 1)
The Valley of Bewilderment, Soulweeper Castle.
Amid the faint calls of wandering souls, there was a subtle scratching sound—the furious scribbling of a pen on paper, though no one could be seen wielding it.
Upon closer inspection, one would notice that the pen was crafted from a human finger bone, and the book was bound with smooth sheets of human skin.
The pen was dipped in fresh blood, and every stroke it made was a vivid red that gradually darkened as the blood dried.
"New Calendar, 1786, September 12, clear skies. Today, I harvested thirteen fresh souls, but among those who ventured into the Valley of Bewilderment, seven or eight had no souls. How peculiar."
"These things have been appearing more frequently. They seem to be called… Starfallers."
"The disruptions are becoming more numerous. That red dragon has unified Anzeta. I need to be more cautious and must not let it discover me. The arrays in Antonio City have all been dismantled."
"Perhaps… I should activate the concealment array and hide this place. But my supply of souls is running dangerously low—if I go too long without sacrificing to the phylactery, I'll become a demi-lich, let alone achieve stable immortality."
"Perhaps I should consider going into slumber."
"Wait, it seems someone has entered the Tomb of Death…"
The pen made from finger bone suddenly froze.
The human-skin pages slowly closed, and on the cover of the book, a sewn, aged face could be seen—the face of Orest in his mortal life. Carved into the forehead were blood-red words: "The Diary of the Great and Immortal Orest."
The dim, frigid chamber was littered with organs, flesh, and bones. Blood spread across the floor, coagulated into dark patches.
Black bone shelves were lined with various potions, scrolls, a plethora of spellbooks, a collection of wands, and even a few staffs.
Liches hoarded spells and magical artifacts, treasures they sought throughout their undying existence, all in pursuit of "immortality."
"Someone dares enter my tomb at a time like this…"
"That's not good news."
Amid shimmering dust and a haze of blood mist, the master of Soulweeper Castle and the ruler of the Valley of Bewilderment—Orest—finally materialized.
The lich's appearance was a gaunt, skeletal humanoid, with withered flesh clinging tightly to its bones.
Its eyes had long rotted away, leaving hollow sockets filled with faint glowing orbs and a mist of necrotic energy.
Orest still wore the red, jeweled robes of his mortal life, but they were tattered and decayed, ravaged by time—though the lich itself seemed unaware of this.
Liches pursued power at any cost and cared little for the affairs of the living unless it directly affected them.
They often operated on plans spanning years, decades, or even centuries, seeking the greatest outcomes, as they were free from the shadow of death.
Orest was no exception.
Although indifferent to the living world, the recent upheaval in Anzeta had grown too great, even disturbing his solitude—he had even considered sinking the Valley of Bewilderment underground to avoid further interference.
Extending a withered arm, Orest retrieved a crystalline skull from the shelf, his voice chillingly cold.
"Who could it be?"
"Let me see… which fool has come seeking death this time."
The phylactery was the vessel of a lich's soul.
Without destroying the phylactery, no one could kill a lich.
When a lich's body was destroyed, its mind and will would retreat into the phylactery.
Days later, the lich's body would reconstitute itself, emerging from the phylactery's flickering dust.
Because a damaged phylactery meant permanent death, liches often hid them in secret, heavily-guarded locations—Orest had chosen the Tomb of the Death Worshippers.
The tomb, once the resting place of Myrkul's priests, housed countless high-ranking undead and hundreds of traps and high-circle magical wards set by Orest himself.
Orest was supremely confident in the security of his phylactery. Even a legendary mage would struggle to claim it easily.
"…"
"Aahhh!"
A wail echoed from the crystalline skull as an ethereal image formed within its dome.
"Is it you?"
"Ignorant mortal."
The image displayed a human noble in a luxurious robe. Aside from his strikingly handsome appearance, he seemed no different from the adventurers who had perished in the tomb.
Yet, for some reason, seeing this man unsettled Orest. An inexplicable sense of dread crept into the lich's thoughts—despite having no heart in his hollow chest.
"Why… is this happening?"
"No, this threat must be eliminated."
Orest gently stroked the crystalline skull as tendrils of necrotic mist spread from his hand.
In the distant Tomb of the Death Worshippers, grotesque winged statues began to stir, shedding flakes of stone from their surfaces—they were gargoyles, predatory creatures that delighted in tormenting their prey, and countless intruders had fallen victim to their claws.
Yet the man in the image suddenly smiled, his pale golden eyes exuding unfathomable depth, as if his gaze pierced through space.
"Did he… see me?"
The thought struck Orest.
As a caster of his caliber, his intuition was often more accurate than meticulous calculations.
Fortunately, the sensation was fleeting.
The man in the image seemed to shift his focus, concentrating on the enemies before him.
Not just gargoyles—the tomb's coffins and corners spewed forth countless ghastly creatures, reeking of decay, as twisted wraiths floated through the air, lunging toward the human figure.
"Uwaaagh!"
A cacophony of sounds echoed—howls, scraping, footsteps—
Death knights emerged from their coffins, hoisting rusted greatswords and unleashing guttural battle cries from their armored frames.
Corpse lords crawled out of rotting mounds of flesh, their faces twisted in expressions of madness and despair.
Heavy stone doors slowly closed, shutting out even the light from the Mount Celestia.
Within the narrow tomb, hundreds of grotesque undead creatures swarmed from all directions, encircling the lone adventurer as the dense aura of death filled the air—a seemingly inescapable doom.
Even the bishops of the Ammanata Church would hesitate to claim they could escape such a peril unscathed.
Over centuries, hundreds, if not thousands, of adventurers had entered this tomb, only to meet their demise and become sustenance for this devouring tomb.
The tomb rarely saw living intruders.
These undead, famished and restless, would even cannibalize each other.
The arrival of fresh prey had driven them into a frenzy, their ravenous hunger for life unleashed.
"Yes…"
"Kill him. Kill him."
"Strip his flesh, crush his bones, devour his soul…"
Orest's low voice echoed ominously.
Any mortal foolish enough to invade his tomb and covet his immortality would face his most venomous curse.
Orest delighted in the terror and despair etched into the faces of intruders—it was the ultimate tribute to his undying existence.
Yet, the man in the image sneered disdainfully.
"Tsk, so many of them."
He calmly adjusted the lapel of his ornate robe, then slowly raised his right hand.
"Boom—"