Professor Eckhart spoke with a voice that carried both weight and sorrow.
"There are people in this world with powers strong enough to challenge the gods. Once, their numbers were many, but they dwindled until they were thought extinct. Some say they still exist. Some even claim to be their descendants, the ones who dethroned gods from their lofty seats. Yet no one has ever found true proof."
He paused, his expression heavy. His eyes lingered on one of the students.
She wore black robes and a veiled hat that shaded most of her face. Her eyes, just barely visible beneath the fabric, reflected a deep violet hue. They reminded one of the abyssal lake people whispered about, a place of both beauty and dread.
Her name, if memory served me right, was Abigail Moriarty. She belonged to the family said to rule over the abyssal seas.
Professor Eckhart continued, his tone more grave now.
"They took it upon themselves to bring sorrow to mankind. And we, as mages and necromancers awakened by the dark miasma of the Lord of Death and Purity, are destined to resolve the unnatural deaths these beings have caused."
This tale was the most common one told, the story used to stir hearts and draw recruits into the army. Nobles, too, were bound by law to serve at least a year.
For me, it became something more than duty. I called it my purpose. Politics never suited me. They were too tangled, too heavy with deceit. Adventure was what I longed for, and yet I stayed. I did not abandon my family, for the key to saving the world ten years from now rested with them.
Professor Eckhart's voice echoed through the hall.
"These are called Usurpers. Both common folk and nobles alike have suffered under their hands."
I gave a small nod, pretending to listen, though my thoughts were elsewhere. The memories of this body's original owner had already given me the basics I needed. What mattered now was not the lecture but learning how to wield my power.
This world moved on two great currents. Magic, flowing through mages. Miasma, coursing through necromancers. I belonged to the latter.
Classes were about to begin soon. The students would be divided into paths, each one guiding dark mages and necromancers toward their specialties. I could hardly wait. The thought of shaping death into something I could control filled me with restless excitement.
When Professor Eckhart's class ended, the students split into their assigned groups.
---
The Necromancer Class
Those from lesser families stood in line, each taking turns to perform their summoning. Only one instructor was available, a stern necromancer who oversaw every attempt with sharp eyes. Families with necromancer blood were far fewer than those tied to dark mages, so the class felt smaller, quieter, and heavier somehow.
The difference between the two paths was clear. Dark mages could bend mana to mimic necromancy, drawing upon shadows and corruption. Necromancers, however, could not touch the dark mana of mages. Their strength came solely from miasma, from the whispers of death itself.
That was why dark mages had more instructors, more options, more numbers. They were versatile, feared, and respected.
We necromancers were not so many. Fewer teachers, fewer families, fewer heirs. Yet to me, that made it feel even more meaningful.
The way we handled miasma was not the same as the way mages bent mana. The paths could not be shared. What they studied and what we studied stood apart like two rivers flowing side by side but never joining.
I watched as the first student stepped forward to summon the dead. Her eyes slowly turned crimson, a deep dark red like coagulated blood under dim light. A cold ripple ran through the air around her as dark miasma began to coil from her sides. The air tenser creating pressure around her, it carries both the faint scent of iron and decay.
From that living shadow, something began to take form. It rose piece by piece, as if shaped by an unseen creator.
Muscle and sinew knit together in the air, crimson and glistening, until a grotesque shape stood before us.
It was raw flesh given life; it was imitating breathing but its presence dreadful and terrifying.
The instructor's eyes burned with approval as he spoke.
"A lesser human. That is an A-grade summon. Well done, Miss Misa Sanguis."
A faint murmur spread among the students.
"Did you see what she did?"
"Yes, her miasma didn't even touch the corpse, it materializes a summon itself."
"As expected of Sanguis, they are something else."
Amidst the murmur, an unaware student asked, "What is the difference?"
Rolling his eyes, the student beside him answered, "She didn't just summon a high-tier creature; she did so without using a corpse or a dark artifact. Instead, she relied solely on her own miasma, which is nothing short of extraordinary. It is advanced necromancy, based purely on talent. Even among upperclassmen, there are many who can't achieve this. Such talent is incredibly rare."
Another interjected, "Yes, I've heard only six in our upper class can do this."
The murmur lingered through the room while the instructor, showing little interest in quieting the class, continued talking with Misa Sanguis. Gradually, the noise faded as the moment came for the next student to step forward.
A thin boy stepped forward next. His skin was covered in scales that caught the light in strange patterns. His hair was the same shade as mine, but his eyes were unlike anything I had seen before a vivid green, flickering like serpents in the dark. He moved forward on his knees, crawling toward the instructor with a strange, fluid grace.
"May I begin?" he asked, his voice low and hissing. There was something almost unnatural in the sound.
The instructor studied him briefly before nodding.
"Yes, Mr. Serpentine."
The boy lowered himself further, placing both hands on the cold stone floor. His breathing slowed as his gaze fixed on the corpse before him. Dark miasma began to coil around him, thick and silent, curling upward like living smoke. The air seemed to tighten around him, charged with some unspoken force.
He started speaking, his words foreign, twisted, and eerie, carrying tones that made the hairs on my arms rise. The syllables were incomprehensible, yet they felt like a summons, something deep and ancient responding. It felt as if I was once again standing before the darkwood door.
From his glowing green eyes, a dark substance slid forth. It was miasma, but it moved like liquid, slick and serpentine. It poured across the corpse with deliberate intent. The body twitched, muscles tightening. Bone creaked softly as flesh reshaped itself.
The corpse rose, shifting, transforming. Scales crawled across its skin and its eyes burned with green light. A long tongue flickered from its mouth, thin and snake-like. The creature moved with slow, deliberate grace toward the boy and lowered its head before him in solemn allegiance.
A murmur swept through the room as the instructor's eyes locked onto the boy.
"Remarkable. This is genuine necromancy."
The boy stayed on his knees, silent and still, his gaze unwavering on the Naga before him. For a brief moment, the hall fell into a hushed stillness, broken only by the faint hiss of the creature.
After the Serpentine boy, the other lesser family members stepped forward one by one as their turns came. Some managed only to summon skeletal soldiers, brittle and fragile. Others could call forth mere shadows, insubstantial forms that were little more than drifting wraiths. Shadows were useless as creatures for either defense or attack. At best they could serve as scouts, but even then they offered little advantage.
The air was heavy with murmurs as each summoner performed their ritual. The hall smelled faintly of decay and iron, the dark miasma lingering after every attempt.
Then came the summoner who drew the most attention. He stepped forward with quiet confidence. His name was Enzo Marcescente, heir to the infamous Marcescente family. The moment he began, the air thickened. His miasma was dense, heavier than anything before. It spread outward like oil across water, pooling over the stone floor until the ground itself seemed to suffocate beneath it.
The other students shifted uneasily. The miasma seemed to breathe, slow and deep, carrying a scent of rot. It crawled toward him, drawn by his will.
Enzo moved with calm precision, chanting in low tones that made the air hum. The darkness at his feet began to swirl violently, rising as though it were alive. When the shape took form, a hush fell over the hall.
Before him stood a creature unlike any other summoned that day. It resembled a demon in humanoid form, grotesque yet strangely majestic. Thin, membranous wings stretched from its back, appearing as if crafted from shadow and bone. Its torso was narrow and nearly translucent, with veins coiling beneath the surface like living threads. Beneath the fragile exterior, its heartbeat echoed not with life but with something darker. The sound was slow, wet, and disturbingly rotten.
The creature remained motionless at first, yet its very presence filled the room with a chilling dread. A murmur rippled through the gathered students.
The instructor's gaze hardened. "That is an A-grade summon," he said in a low, measured tone. "And it is dangerous."
Enzo Marcescente stayed silent. He stepped back, letting the creature stand in unsettling stillness, its wings twitching faintly as the miasma around it seemed to throb.
The rest of the class could only watch, caught between awe and unease. Whispers floated through the air, half in wonder, half in fear.
"A demon?"
"Not it's a devil!"
"It looks like a human though!"
"You idiot! that's not a human."
Faint voices murmured, though this time I noticed the instructor himself seemed a bit on edge, slightly scared by this summon.
Causing me to feel a little scared, I took a step back toward the door, ready to bolt if something went wrong. Slowly, I crept back...
But soon all eyes shifted toward me, for it was my turn.
From somewhere in the back came sudden mocking laughter, faint at first but growing louder. Giggles and cruel murmurs spread like wildfire through the crowd. They were gossiping, cursing me before I even began, wishing for my failure.
I took a step forward, every eye on me like a heavy weight. The hall felt smaller, the air thick and tense. The instructor's voice cut through the quiet.
"You may begin."
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. I reached inward, seeking to call forth the miasma. It should have been natural, effortless, like breathing.
Yet it was foreign to me, like trying to speak a language I had never learned.
My chest tightened as I searched for that unseen current within me.
The instructor's eyes narrowed, their expression turning sour. There was a flash of something in them despise, perhaps doubt. I could not meet their gaze. I averted my eyes and focused on the space before me.
The laughter from my peers grew sharper. They whispered and pointed, their voices a low chorus of mockery. It was both distracting and infuriating. My mind tried to drown it out, to block out their voices, but the sound clawed at my thoughts.
My breath came in ragged pulls. I tried again to summon the miasma, but nothing stirred.
A chill settled in my bones. My palms were cold and slick with sweat. I could almost hear the instructor sigh.
The mocking laughter grew louder, impossible to ignore. I clenched my fists and stepped further into the center of the summoning circle. My heart raced, but I stood my ground, refusing to waver even as my power threatened to falter.