Leo was sitting on the ground near the fire, leaning back on one arm while he turned Briva's sword over in his other hand. The blade glimmered faintly with the runes etched along the fuller, each symbol humming with mana. He studied them carefully, tracing the pattern with his thumb.
It was more complex than the basic light enchantment he'd learned from the books—more intricate layering of sigils and a binding weave that kept the glow steady rather than flickering. Probably a C-rank enchantment, maybe B at best. Impressive craftsmanship for a practical field weapon. The enchantment not only produced illumination but also had a latent purging effect—light that could burn through darkness itself or even harm weaker dark-aligned creatures.
He nodded to himself. He could learn this. Given a few hours to practice, he was confident he'd be able to replicate the structure.
As he focused on the runes, a sudden pressure tugged at the edge of his perception. Like a hand pressing against a locked door in his mind. Someone was calling to him—not just with words, but with raw desperation.
Leo set the sword carefully at his side and closed his eyes. To anyone watching, it would look as though he'd simply drifted off by the fire.
His awareness lifted above the physical world and slipped into the hidden layers of his domain. From his mirror, he could see Marco, trapped in a room. The man's face was twisted in terror as he pressed his whole body against a splintering door. Something on the other side was pounding with brutal, mindless force.
Leo focused his perception outward, pushing past Marco's shoulder. In the gloom beyond the threshold, he saw them, two rotting corpses, their arms blackened and split with decay, clawing at the door. A faint, sickly green thread extended out of their spines and vanished into deeper darkness.
'Those dead bodies are being controlled,' Leo thought. 'That must be a Necromancer's work'
The hammering grew more violent. Marco's hands were slick with blood where the wood had bitten into them. His lips moved, chanting the prayer Leo had planted there himself. With a slow exhale, Leo reached down through the veil. He took hold of Marco's presence and pulled.
As Marco appeared there, Leo layered a powerful illusion over his perception—slowing everything to give the man time to adjust. He still couldn't alter time itself, but with enough skill, illusions could almost feel like it.
Marco had a pale face. His eyes went wide with shock as he looked around at the endless white.
Leo smiled, the cold white radiance of his domain glinting in his eyes—though of course, Marco could see none of it. For Marco, his figure was swallowed in swirling fog, blurring shape and distance. From somewhere within that pall of light and mist, Leo's voice came deep and resonant, filling the air with an otherworldly echo that seemed to vibrate in Marco's bones.
"Your prayer has reached the heights beyond the veil, and so have you. Speak, mortal—why have you come here?"
He used the same words he'd offered Liam before. The tone carried both kindness and the promise of judgment.
…
Marco stood frozen, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened. His prayer—words he'd spoken half out of desperation—had actually worked. He had been pulled from that blood-soaked house and was now face to face with a god. Or something close enough to one that it made no difference.
It took him nearly a full minute to remember why he had prayed in the first place. His hands were trembling as he pressed them together, bowing his head.
"You…you must be the Creator," he said, his voice cracking. "Please—help me kill the man who's controlling that family before he hurts anyone else."
At first, there was only silence. The cold fog around him seemed to press closer, tightening around his chest. A sick, heavy dread sank into his stomach. Then at last the deep, echoing voice returned.
"My very presence in your realm would unmake it," the voice rumbled, vast and ancient. "Such aid is beyond what I may grant.
The dread nearly turned to despair—until the voice continued.
"But…I can grant you power to defeat the necromancer."
"Necromancer?" Marco's eyes widened. His teeth clenched as anger shot up his spine. "That man…he's a necromancer? Then—please—give me that power."
There was another long pause, heavy enough that it made Marco's skin prickle.
"Every request has a price," the being said. "I will grant you power—but only if you pledge your loyalty to me. You will pray to no other, and when I call, you will obey."
A sheet of parchment materialized in front of him, floating in the cold white light. A pen appeared beside it, hovering in the air as if held by an unseen hand.
"Seal the pact."
Marco stared at the paper. The words were written in a language he didn't recognize, but somehow he understood their meaning all the same. A chill crawled down his back.
'So this being…really is a god?'
He looked down, breathing hard. He didn't feel any evil here, no malice—only something vast, ancient, and utterly beyond him. And he had no other choice. He had to end this. He had to save the rest of the village.
His hand closed around the pen. His fingers were slick with sweat as he brought it to the page and signed his name. The parchment vanished in an instant.
A second later, agony tore through him. He fell to the ground, writhing, clutching his chest as if something were trying to claw its way out of his ribs. His bones burned. His muscles stretched and shuddered. The pain was so severe he couldn't even scream—only gasp in broken, ragged breaths. It felt like every cell in his body was being remade.
It might have lasted seconds or hours. When it finally stopped, he was lying on the cold floor, covered in sweat and shaking uncontrollably.
The voice came again, echoing all around him.
"I have given you as much power as your body can contain. The rest is up to you."
Before Marco could even open his mouth, the fog dissolved—and he was back in the real world.
His mind was still reeling, trying to process what he had seen, when a massive impact smashed against the door. The wood splintered and crashed in, throwing him back. He hit the floor hard, blinking away the stars in his vision.
Through the wreckage of the door, the two dead creatures stepped inside. Their eyes were blank and unblinking, fixed on him with sick, unnatural stillness. Then, almost in unison, they moved to the side—clearing a path.
From the darkness beyond, a man in a tattered black cloak stepped into the room. It was Carter.
"You…" Marco rasped, his voice hoarse. "I know it was you."
Carter tilted his head slightly, studying him with faint amusement.
"You were a pain in my ass, Marco," he said. His voice was smooth and casual, as if he were talking about a bad harvest. "I wasn't planning to take you. I was going to grab a few more bodies and be on my way. But you just couldn't leave it alone."
Marco gripped his sword tighter, rage mixing with a strange energy coursing through his veins.
Carter smiled thinly. "So I've decided," he went on. "I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to kill every last soul in this village. Easier that way. I'll have all the corpses I need in one place."
"Why?" Marco demanded. His voice broke on the word. "Why are you doing this?"
Carter raised his eyebrows. "What kind of stupid question is that?" he scoffed. "I'm a necromancer. I need bodies. The more I practice, the stronger I get." He paused, squinting. "And when did you dye your hair?"
Marco blinked. His hand lifted automatically to his head. 'Dyed my hair…?'
He focused inward. His exhaustion was gone, replaced by a raw, terrifying vitality. His muscles felt as though they'd been forged from something stronger than flesh. He could hear the rush of blood in his veins like a roaring river.
'This…this is the power he gave me.'
Slowly, Marco stood up, his sword steady in his grip. A grim calm settled over him. Right now, he felt as if he could do anything.
"What?" Carter sneered, the smirk never leaving his pale face. "You want to fight?"
Marco raised his sword, feeling the unfamiliar strength pulsing in his limbs. His voice came out low and certain. "I will kill you."
Carter's smirk widened. "Is that so?" He flicked his fingers at the boy's corpse. "Then try this."
The zombie child lunged, crossing the space in a blur of motion—but to Marco, it felt as though the creature were moving through syrup. He pivoted, bringing his blade in a smooth arc. Steel met rotting flesh with a wet crunch, cleaving the boy's torso clean in half.
Before the body hit the floor, Marco stepped forward, striking again—once, twice, three times—severing the legs and arms so thoroughly that even if the thing somehow retained movement, it would be unable to crawl.
Carter's eyes widened, the amusement draining from his expression. Without a word, he gestured to the second zombie and turned to bolt for the door.
The second corpse lunged. Marco didn't slow. He sidestepped, whipping his sword across its throat, and the head tumbled free, rolling across the floorboards. He sprinted after Carter, out into the cold night air—only to skid to a stop.
Five more figures waited outside in the moonlight. Their frames were larger than the others—broad shoulders, barrel chests, long arms ending in gnarled claws. Their skin was pale and rubbery, stitched in places like crude leather sacks, with jagged seams where different pieces had been joined together. Some arms were mismatched lengths, and in the stark light, Marco could see patches of skin that clearly came from more than one body—smooth young flesh sewn beside shriveled, liver-spotted sections. A single monstrous head might have two jaws fused into one grotesque grin. The stench that came off them was foul enough to make his eyes water.
Carter stood behind them, chest heaving. His face was pale, but a twisted confidence glimmered in his eyes. "I don't know how you suddenly grew so powerful," he said, voice rising, "but it's not enough to stop my army." He swept his hand toward the undead. "Kill him."
The five zombies charged as one.
Marco's muscles tensed. He ducked low under a swipe, spinning past a second creature and driving his blade into the back of its knee. Bone cracked. With a heave, he wrenched the sword free, pivoted, and slashed open another one's chest. Rotten organs spilled across the ground.
They were strong—far stronger than the smaller corpses—but he was faster. Stronger. He stepped, struck, dodged. Every movement was precise and economical.
One by one, the zombies fell. The first lost its legs. The second collapsed with half its skull gone. The third went down in a heap, ribcage split open.
Marco drew a sharp breath and stepped forward to finish the fourth, he brought his blade down in a heavy chop. Just as the steel sheared through the creature's shoulder, severing the arm, a burst of dark smoke hissed out of the wound, curling around his face.
Before he could turn away, he breathed it in. His entire body went rigid. It felt like his veins were freezing. His muscles seized and spasmed, his vision swimming. He gasped, but no air seemed to reach his lungs.
The last zombie struck him full in the chest. He flew backward. The world blurred around him as he crashed into the wall of the house. Splinters exploded around him as he tumbled, landing in a heap on the packed earth.
Pain lanced up his spine. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled uselessly under him.
Carter began to laugh. The sound was thin and sharp, scraping at Marco's ears. "That," the necromancer said, his smile back in place, "is paralyzing smoke. It seeps into your nerves, clogs them—shuts you down piece by piece." He flexed his fingers, watching Marco with a cold gleam in his eyes. "And soon, it will start to eat you from the inside out."
He looked around at the carnage—the shredded corpses of his creations. For a moment, he looked almost impressed. "I have to admit, you did quite a bit of damage," Carter said, sounding almost regretful. "I could leave you here to rot. But no… You've earned a more personal touch. I'll kill you myself—and then raise you as something special."
He lifted his hand. Darkness gathered at his palm, swirling into a dense, roiling sphere the color of old bruises. The shadows pulsed with an oily, unnatural life.
Marco's body throbbed with pain. His limbs shuddered as he tried to move, but all he could manage was a twitch of his fingers. The smoke was still in him—his vision fogging, his lungs burning.
Yet…even in the agony…he felt something else. A spark.
As Carter began to draw back his arm to hurl the dark magic, Marco gritted his teeth. The veins in his arms and neck began to swell, pulsing with a strange, crimson glow beneath the skin.
He could feel it—the power that had been given to him—rising again. Bit by bit, the numbness receded. His jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He forced his hands to close around the hilt of his sword.
…
Carter could see his enemy already standing up. He had no idea how it was possible, how the paralytic had worn off so quickly, but it was too late to question it now. All around them, the mangled zombies he'd created were beginning to stir again, reassembling as bone and muscle knitted themselves together. He tightened his grip, willing the shadow ball in his palm to grow, ready to launch his final attack and end this.
But just as he was about to release the spell, two massive white eyes opened in the darkness behind Marco. They were unblinking, cold and inhuman, staring straight into him. A chill ran down Carter's spine so sharp it felt like icewater pouring into his bones. His breath caught in his throat.
His body began to tremble, and fear squeezed around his heart until he couldn't move at all.
'What the hell is that?' The thought flickered across his mind, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.
Before he could gather the will to react, Marco was already on his feet, moving with impossible speed. In the same instant the zombies were still rising, Marco's form blurred, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Carter's paralyzed limbs refused to lift in defense.
With fear still etched in his wide eyes, he watched the gleaming blade sweep toward him. And then, without even time to scream, his head was severed cleanly from his shoulders.