Two months had passed. Two long, bloody, suffocating months.
The once-roaring fires of the Beastfolk rebellion had been reduced to flickering embers. What started as a righteous fury had slowly dwindled into whispers and shattered bones. Ivan had been there—every day, every hour, watching from the shadows as the inevitable unfolded. Forests were burned to ash. Sacred grounds were defiled. Entire clans of wolves, lions, tigers, and panthers were erased as though they had never existed.
The resistance? Gone. Dispersed. Crushed under the armored heel of the Holy Church.
Even Ivan's beastfolk allies—those who once laughed beside him, hunted with him, fought beside him—disappeared. One day, they simply walked into the woods, answering a call to assist the scattered remnants of their kind.
They never returned.
Ivan remained, a shadow among ruins, a ghost in the eyes of a world spiraling deeper into tyranny.
Elsewhere, deep within the heart of the Holy Empire...
In the Pope's sanctum, lined with holy tomes and blessed crystals, a sudden silence fell as the High Inquisitors gathered. The Oracle had collapsed after the divination. Blood wept from his eyes, and his breathing was ragged.
"Speak," the Pope demanded, his voice a deep, thunderous tone.
The Oracle lifted his head, blind eyes trembling. "The Beastfolk War... it was never about them. It was a distraction... orchestrated."
"By who?" the Pope's voice trembled in fury.
"A human," the Oracle whispered. "A man... no, a shadow among men. He commands the dead. His name... Vanthelis Blackthorn."
A stunned silence followed. Then—
CRACK!
The Pope's holy chair slammed against the wall as he stood.
"Blackthorn?! That cursed name still breathes?! They were supposed to have died, gone!"
He paced furiously. "Where is he now?!"
One of the spies knelt. "After investigating, we found that he now goes by the name Ivan. He has risen to S-Rank Adventurer status and is currently stationed at the adventurer's guild of the central neutral city."
"Mobilize the Holy Order," the Pope growled, eyes burning with divine rage. "Deploy every last elite. I want the city razed if we must—but that man dies. No escape. No witness. No survivors."
The Assault Begins
The attack came at dawn. The sky wept crimson as 5,000 elite soldiers of the Holy Empire surrounded the city. Among them were High Priests, Light Paladins, and Church Inquisitors. The holy banners fluttered in the wind like funeral flags.
Ivan had sensed it.
He always did.
Dressed in black leather, his twin daggers sheathed at his side, his gaze turned toward the horizon. The familiar scent of sanctified steel reached his nose.
"So," he muttered, "you finally found me." He gritted his teeth his fist clenched, he know's that he is not ready for this fight yet.
He stood at the top of the guildhall's roof, cloak swaying gently behind him, twin daggers strapped to his sides, his eyes locked on the army beyond the city gates.
He leapt down, vanishing into shadow, and the moment his boots touched stone, the first horn blared.
The First Wave came like a divine flood—300 men in heavy armor, bearing blessed weapons and radiant shields. They tore into the city's defenses with coordinated precision. Buildings crumbled. Civilians scattered.
But Ivan was already moving.
He emerged from smoke, a blur of motion. His Sword, honed to perfection, cut through steel and bone alike. He struck without mercy—every movement precise, rehearsed, lethal.
One paladin raised his shield.
Too slow.
Ivan ducked low, sliced tendons, then pierced the heart in a single motion. He spun, slashing another's throat. Skills rained from the sky—but they never touched him. Repel activated, deflecting each Magic when they touched him.
Within five minutes, nearly a hundred men were dead.
And Ivan had not yet broken a sweat.
But the Church adapted. They unleashed holy flames from siege cannons, magic-imbued trebuchets built for wiping out undead enclaves. The street exploded around Ivan—flames scorching the earth, shaking buildings apart.
He emerged from the inferno unscathed, skin regenerating, armor charred but intact.
Heart of Tarasque pulsed within him, healing wounds before they could even hurt.
He rushed the siege lines.
Five mages focused on him—Sanctify, Light Chains, Purge, Silence, Radiant Bind.
He blinked behind them.
Morph.
He became one of them—cloaked in white, hands glowing with false divine power.
He used Sanctify on their own soldiers.
Holy fire erupted under Church knights, incinerating dozens. Before they could react, he threw his dagger, enhanced with Wraithstrike, splitting a bishop's skull in two.
They screamed. They faltered.
The Second Wave arrived—commanders, crusaders, holy beasts bred for war.
One rode a divine gryphon, mace glowing with judgment.
"BLACKTHORN!" he shouted.
Ivan looked up.
He vanished.
A second later, he was on the gryphon's back, daggers embedded in the rider's ribs.
The gryphon shrieked. Ivan jumped off, flipping midair, landing on the back of a Church chariot.
Boom.
He hurled a bottle of soulfire into their ranks. Green flames erupted, turning soldiers into screaming ash.
But even he had limits.
The Third Wave came, led by twenty battle clerics, each one anointed by the Pope himself.
Ivan's breath grew heavy. His wounds began to lag behind his regeneration.
He clenched his fists.
Heart of Tarasque
Morph: Tidehunter
Repel
He became a monster.
Six arms. Hardened skin. Searing red eyes.
He screamed, leapt into the center of the Church's army, and began slaughtering them en masse.
Clerics exploded. War Generals lost limbs.
His roars drowned the weeping chants of the priests.
But then—
The Fourth Wave.
Saintess Myria.
She descended like a divine warden, clad in ethereal armor, her spear forged from condensed holy laws.
"Ivan..." she whispered, voice like a bell, "no... Vanthelis Blackthorn."
He turned slowly, blood-soaked and panting.
She pointed her spear.
"I banish you from this world."
Divine Judgment.
The sky tore apart. A beam of light surged down. Ivan activated every ability—Repel, Morph, Overload.
Still—
It wasn't enough.
The light struck.
The ground cratered.
For a moment, silence.
Then—he stood.
Burned. Broken. Bleeding. But still alive.
He laughed. Coughed blood. Laughed again.
Myria flinched.
"Come on," he said. "You're going to need more than God to kill me."
They rushed each other.
Their final battle lasted hours.
It shattered buildings. Split the sky. Sent shockwaves across the continent. Clerics died just from the backlash.
Finally, Ivan's dagger pierced Myria's side—
But her spear entered his chest.
They collapsed together.
Ivan stared at the sky. He smiled as his vision darkened.
"Guess I wasn't done yet…"
His body turned to stone. A perfect statue. Charred, cracked… and still standing.
On the Distant Island
The moment Ivan died, the world shifted.
Ishlar, training by the cliffs, felt a stabbing pain in his chest.
He looked down.
His body turned to ash.
Back at the Necropolis, ghouls fell to the ground like puppets with cut strings. The Altar of Darkness cracked and exploded. The Spirit Towers crumbled. The Crypt melted into the earth.
Dorothy's grave split. Her name faded.
Jayson dropped to his knees, gasping. His acolyte robes shimmered once—then dulled. The magic was gone.
The undead were no more.
Five Years Later
The world changed.
Elves? Gone. The Holy Empire declared them demonic and burned their forest to the ground.
Goblins? Hunted for sport.
Orcs? Enslaved. Later, exterminated.
Necromancers? The last was executed publicly, his bones crushed beneath the Pope's cathedral.
Beastfolk? Wiped out during the Purge Wars.
Trolls, Merfolk, Druids, Warlocks—all forgotten names. Lost in time.
The Holy Church ruled all.
A single language. A single race. A single god.
And no one remembered the name Vanthelis Blackthorn.
Except one.
Buried deep in a mountain, sealed in the last remaining Book of Forbidden Curse, was a single line.
"He who walked with the dead shall one day rise again, when the world begs for its sins to be judged."
The End