Alec knew there were thirteen towns on the outskirts of Carbuth. If each town received the same set of royal orders, then thirteen sheets of demonhide vellum were just waiting to be claimed.
And thanks to his earlier low-level quests in the region, he already knew exactly where to find the best crafting materials nearby.
It would cost him five days, but with that time, he could forge a new grimoire worthy of a High Lich.
And when the time came to escape, he wouldn't just run, he'd disappear like he was never here.
Just as Alec was about to leave the town hall, a voice whispered directly into his mind.
"Whoever you are... if you can bring the Princess back, I'll trade my soul for it…"
"....!"
In the Arthelian region, centered around the vast Arenthis Forest, the title Princess was extraordinarily rare.
In fact, there was only one woman in the entire region ever referred to that way.
She was the daughter of the royal house of Amiria. Unlike neighboring duchies and kingdoms, Amiria's line of succession was packed to bursting—seven sons, twenty-one grandsons. And as the king's only daughter, she was never in line for the throne.
That was precisely why she retained the uncommon title of Princess, while female heirs from other realms were simply called Lady Sovereigns.
But fate had carved out a path for her that no other noblewoman could match.
A year before the great calamity that tore through Arthelia, Amiria announced that the Princess had died of illness. A tragedy, they said—quiet, noble, sorrowful.
A year later, the Princess returned.
As a demon.
She marched on Amiria at the head of an undead legion, reduced her homeland to ruins, and turned Amiria into the first nation to fall in the coming dark tide.
The whispers, the inconsistencies, the betrayal—most people didn't care to dwell on the details.
All they remembered was that after that day, Amiria became the game's first high-level raid zone: Demonhold Amiria. And the Princess?
She became the game's very first ultimate-tier boss: Ilyss, the Demon Princess.
Alec remembered it well. He could still picture himself camping at the entrance of Demonhold Amiria, queued up for three days just to get a shot at clearing the instance.
So when he heard that word—Princess, his heart nearly stopped.
He didn't care about the magistrate or the guard captain or their wandering eyes.
He just ran.
Bursting out of the town hall, he followed the pull in his soul, sprinting through the village gates and out toward the main road.
He didn't stop to breathe. Didn't stop to think, not until he reached the battlefield.
The scene was carnage.
A carriage lay overturned and ablaze. Nearby, over a dozen armored guards lay dead in pools of blood, their plate cracked and broken.
Surrounding the wreckage were at least thirty corpses—werewolves, all of them. Cut down mid-charge.
But Alec's eyes weren't on the bodies.
They were on the woman slumped beside the carriage.
She wore silver light armor, though the breastplate had been split open by a brutal blow. A sword and square shield lay beside her—both stained in drying blood, their original crest nearly obscured.
Nearly, but not to Alec.
He recognized that set instantly, they belonged to the Royal Guard of Amiria. And the woman, with her crimson-red hair and helmet tossed aside—he knew her.
Enna.
The Demonblade Warden. The second boss of Demonhold Amiria. Commander of the Princess's elite guard.
Alec's heart pounded. If Enna was here, then that meant… the Princess had to be nearby.
But why had Enna fallen here, on this random roadside? Where was Ilyss?
Before he could think further, the voice returned—echoing not in his ears, but in the core of his mind.
"Whoever you are… if you can bring the Princess back, I'll give you my soul…"
So close now, Alec didn't even need to search. He could feel it—that voice came from Enna's corpse.
As a Necromancer, whether in-game or in this strange new reality, Alec needed protectors. Undead guardians.
And this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Without hesitation, he reached into his robe and pulled out the demonhide vellum. Pointing at Enna, he spoke with iron in his voice.
"In the name of Vincent the Necromancer, I offer you a soul pact. I will find Princess Ilyss. When I succeed, you will rise and serve as my guardian."
The moment the words left his mouth, a ripple passed through Enna's body. A moment later, new words began etching themselves across the surface of the vellum—glowing faintly in black ink.
The text now inscribed on the demonhide vellum outlined a pact, an agreement between Alec and Enna.
It came with a condition, he had three days.
If he failed to rescue Princess Ilyss within that time, the contract would dissolve. Enna's soul would be free to seek another champion.
Alec wasn't worried.
He mentally calculated the time it would take to get out of Carbuth. Three days was more than enough—especially for him.
What did concern him now… was what to do with Enna's body.
He remembered her final form—Enna, transformed into a corrupted Warden, wielding the same sword and shield but fighting with awkward, jagged movements. Her skills hadn't matched her physique. Her reactions had been sluggish, her power raw but unrefined.
It had always bothered Alec, but now he understood why.
That wasn't her real body. It had been reforged, hastily reconstructed—likely after her original corpse was lost.
Or never preserved.
Had anyone safeguarded it, Enna could have been properly restored. Not just by necromancers, but by higher powers—demonologists, infernal pactbinders, even warlocks of the Abyss.
Instead, she'd been twisted.
Alec wouldn't let that happen again.
Without hesitation, he carefully lifted Enna's corpse into his arms. He paused only briefly to collect her bloodied sword and shield, gently placing them atop her armor.
Then he turned west and disappeared into the forest shadows.
Not long after Alec left, someone else arrived.
A figure in a long black robe, gliding silently across the ground, his feet making no sound. He didn't walk so much as drift—his form barely disturbing the air.
But wherever he passed, the earth beneath him darkened—scorched in his wake. The air grew heavy with the acrid stench of sulfur.
When he reached the burnt-out carriage, he paused.
His eyes swept over the battlefield—calculating, searching.
He inspected every corpse: the royal guards, the werewolves, even the remains of the coach itself. One by one, he flipped them over.
But whatever he was looking for wasn't there.
He should have left.
But something in his bearing shifted—a tension, a crack in composure. As if something important had slipped through his fingers.
He began pacing in tight circles, muttering to himself.
Then he snapped.
With a wave of his hand, searing flames engulfed the werewolf corpses, reducing them to charcoal. He vented his rage in silence, the blaze crackling hungrily around him.
Only once the fury had ebbed did he grow still again.
He extended his right hand from beneath the robe—inhuman in every sense. Crimson scales covered the skin. Claws extended from each fingertip, each burning faintly with scarlet flame.
He was no man.
Kneeling beside the scorched earth, he etched symbols into the ground—careful, methodical strokes. A summoning glyph formed beneath his claws.
Once complete, he stepped back and began chanting softly. The air shimmered, warped.
And then it came, the illusionary replay of the past.
Everything Alec had done here unfolded before him: the pact with Enna, the raising of the demonhide scroll, the oath, the moment Alec carried her away.
As the image vanished, the robed figure's body radiated a surge of killing intent. He turned sharply, ready to pursue.
But just then—another shadow appeared behind him. Another figure in black robes emerged, resting a hand on the first one's shoulder.
His voice was calm, measured. "Agrae. Don't be reckless. Leave the tracking to Graul. Focus on your task."