The silence in the clearing was a thick, heavy thing, broken only by the whimpers of the wounded and the rustle of alien leaves. Derek's body lay cooling on the blood-soaked earth, his final, shocked betrayal forever etched onto his face. His life, and the secret of the wish he'd paid for it with, now belonged to Dante.
A wish. The ultimate prize. The thought almost eclipsed the carnage around them. Almost.
Dante's gaze fell upon the four shadow puppets standing guard. Five is the limit. There's a space to fill. His eyes settled on the most valuable corpse on the field. Derek. Strong, boosted by an artifact, his spirit would make a far more potent slave than the others.
He stepped forward, his boots squelching in the mud, and placed a hand on Derek's still-warm forehead. He could feel the team's fear behind him, a tangible pressure in the air. This was different from raising goblins. This was desecration, enslaving the soul of a man they had known.
"You thought you could be a king," Dante whispered to the corpse. "You were right. You will be the crown jewel of my collection."
He closed his eyes and pulled.
It was nothing like the others. Their spirits had been confused things, easily bent. Derek's was a raging inferno of pride and hatred that fought back with the fury of a cornered animal. A violent, psychic scream of pure agony slammed into Dante's mind, a phantom pain that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his soul.
The shadows around Derek's body writhed, forcibly compressing, forging themselves into a taller, broader silhouette. The edges of the form bled a faint, crimson light—an echo of the artifact's power. The effort was immense, like wrestling a demon in the depths of his own mind, but Dante was the master here. With a final, brutal exertion of will, he shattered the last of Derek's resistance.
His new puppet stood tall: The Juggernaut, his fifth and final summon.
With the task complete, Dante surveyed his new collection of the damned. They were the proof of his power, the instruments of his will.
The Juggernaut: The shadow of Derek, his masterpiece. Taller than the others, crackling with a faint crimson aura, it could manifest a greatsword of pure shadow. Its Spectral Strike carried immense force, and its Aura of Dread could instill fear in weaker minds.
The Guardian: The shadow of the Wardcrafter, his shield. A silent, stoic figure whose Phantom Ward could block both physical and magical attacks.
The Deceiver: The shadow of the Phantasmist. A slender, twitching form that could weave Ghostly Images to confuse and misdirect enemies.
The Anchor: The shadow of the Graviton user, his control piece. Its Weight of the Grave could slow enemies to a crawl, pinning them for the slaughter.
The Corruptor: The shadow of the Toximancy user. A hunched, seeping figure whose Miasma of Decay weakened enemies over time.
Five puppets. A juggernaut, a guardian, a deceiver, an anchor, and a corruptor. His own personal team, bought with the lives of his enemies. A cold satisfaction filled him. This is true power.
But the price was higher than he knew. The backlash from enslaving Derek's furious spirit was a physical toll. A sharp, searing pain erupted in his chest, as if a hot iron had been pressed against his lungs from the inside. The connection to his five puppets felt like heavy chains pulling on his soul, draining his life force to sustain them.
He tried to suppress it. Cannot show weakness. Not now. Control is absolute.
His vision swam, the faces of his teammates blurring into smudges of color. He opened his mouth to give an order, but a hot, wet cough wracked his body instead. He tasted copper. His hand, when he looked at it, was splattered with crimson. His blood.
The world tilted. The last thing he saw before the darkness consumed him was Erica's horrified face as he pitched forward and collapsed.
Panic ripped through the team. For a moment, they were just scared students again, their invincible leader suddenly fragile and human.
"Dante!" Erica's scream shattered the silence as she scrambled to his side, her movements frantic. She turned him over, her hands trembling at the sight of blood staining his lips. "Rina! Get over here, now!"
Masha was next, her composure gone. "He has a pulse, but it's weak," she said, her own face pale with fear.
Rina rushed over, her healer's instincts taking charge. "Get him on his back, gently!" she commanded, her voice shaking. She placed her glowing hands on his chest but recoiled almost instantly. "His mana is in chaos! It's tearing him apart from the inside. My healing isn't working properly!"
"What do we do?" Eric's deep voice was laced with a helplessness he had never shown before.
It was Erica who took control, her obsession giving her a strange, fierce clarity. She cradled Dante's head in her lap, gently wiping the blood from his mouth. "Keep him warm. Masha, get the bedrolls. Eric, Jin, stand guard. Talia, get to high ground and watch our perimeter. No one gets near us."
Her orders were sharp, and the team, leaderless and terrified, obeyed without question. Masha and Rina positioned him on a bedroll while Erica refused to move from his side, her hand resting on his forehead. She looked down at his unconscious face, her expression a mixture of terror, adoration, and fierce, possessive protectiveness. In his moment of weakness, her devotion had found its ultimate purpose. She was no longer just a soldier; she was the guardian of its fallen king.