After an unknown stretch of time, the rotten, pungent stench of old corpses crept back into Khajiit's nostrils, pulling him slowly toward consciousness.
"What… happened…" He forced himself up from the cold stone floor, heavy eyelids prying open as he battled the lingering fog of drowsiness.
He was back in the familiar catacomb beneath E-Rantel—dim, damp, lit by flickering ethereal blue torches that cast long, wavering shadows. An enormous, intricate magic circle dominated the spacious floor, its glowing lines pulsing faintly like veins.
At the very center of the circle, Nfirea Baleare floated limply in midair, unconscious, blond hair hanging across his face.
Beside him stood a short dark elf girl dressed in a frilled skirt and white stockings, head tilted as she examined something in her small hands.
Khajiit shook his head sharply, trying to clear the haze. When was Nfirea captured? And who is this child?
The dark elf didn't acknowledge him. Khajiit staggered forward. "Hey. Answer me."
"Hmm… how exactly is this thing supposed to be used…" The girl's voice was soft, timid—almost childlike, the kind that invited bullying. She turned the hairnet-like artifact over in her fingers, brow furrowed in innocent confusion.
The Crown of Wisdom.
Khajiit's heart lurched when he recognized it. Wasn't this in Clementine's possession? Who is this elf child?
I should just snatch it… No. Something's wrong here. The situation is too strange.
His mind gradually sharpened. Suppressing the urge to lunge, he spoke with forced patience. "Little girl—"
"I'm a boy.."
"Ehm, little boy. That is the Crown of Wisdom. It only activates when placed on Nfirea's head."
As he spoke, he noticed the ears: pointed downward.
Yeah.. A Male Dark Elf, indeed...
What kind of adult has such terrible taste that they dress a boy in girls' clothes? he muttered under his breath.
"Is that so? Thank you." Mare nodded politely, genuine gratitude in his heterochromatic eyes. Then he tucked the Crown away and lifted his staff, expression turning serious. "However…"
Without warning, he swung the staff downward at Khajiit's legs.
Crack.
The sharp snap of breaking bones rang through the catacomb like a whip.
"Ah—!"
Agony exploded up Khajiit's body. His scream choked off into a strangled gasp; he collapsed, rolling helplessly across the stone.
Mare's mismatched gaze remained cold as he spoke slowly, almost apologetically. "Lady Bukubukuchagama's aesthetic sense is supreme. Boys should wear little skirts."
Just then a dark portal tore open in the air. A lich in flowing mage robes stepped through, skeletal face impassive.
"Lord Mare. By the order of Lord Momonga, I am at your disposal."
"Yes, Mr. Lich. You know what to do, right?" Mare offered a small, polite smile.
"Lord Momonga already informed me when he created me." The lich bowed deeply, accepted the Crown of Wisdom from Mare's hand, and carefully placed it on Nfirea's head. "I shall sacrifice this body to face Lord Helant until death."
"Monster!" Khajiit rasped, terror flooding him as he stared up at the newcomer.
Even as a necromancer, he could feel it—the vast, oppressive aura of death rolling off the lich in waves. This was no ordinary undead. This was Demon God-class.
Huff. Huff. He gasped, chest heaving.
The lich noticed his pitiful state and inclined its head apologetically toward Mare before approaching. "You must be Khajiit—the mastermind behind the Spiral of Death ritual."
Khajiit pushed himself up on trembling arms. "What… what do you want?"
The Spiral of Death was his life's work: five years of preparation to transform himself into a High Lich at the cost of every soul in E-Rantel. How did they know?
The lich's greenish-black cheeks twitched in what might have been a smile. "From this moment forward, the Spiral of Death ritual will become my—the Lich King's—seal-breaking ceremony."
Khajiit slowly drew the Death Orb from his robes, clutching it like a final hope. "Then… can I live?"
"Heh. No." The lich's sneer was cold. How could a mere scapegoat chosen by the Supreme Beings possibly survive?
"Since I can't live… then LET'S ALL DIE TOGETHER!!!"
Khajiit activated the orb in desperation. Five years of accumulated death energy surged within the deep-purple sphere, brightening rapidly, churning violently as if it would detonate at any second.
"A boring toy." The lich laughed disdainfully and reached out, snatching the orb.
The moment its bony fingers closed around it, the light dimmed. The raging death magic inside calmed, subdued like a candle pinched out.
"What…?"
Khajiit's mouth fell open. The self-destruction had been suppressed effortlessly.
"Weakling. There's no need to rush your death." The lich scoffed, holding up the now-inert orb. "Don't worry. When the time comes, I will die alongside you."
"Will die alongside ME?"
Khajiit trembled as he forced himself upright, confusion warring with pain on his pale face.
Then the lich's expression shifted—strangely, fanatically fervent. "No. I will be the first to die by that person's hand. This is the supreme honor."
Dying by someone else's hand… an honor?
Khajiit collapsed weakly back to the ground and spat, "Lunatic."
Mare stepped forward, clutching his staff tightly, voice small and timid. "Mr. Lich… please make him shut up. It would be bad if he insulted the Supreme Being."
"You are right. We cannot allow that." The lich sneered down at Khajiit. Death magic erupted in a dark wave.
Crack.
Khajiit's arms crumpled, bones pulverized, drooping uselessly like broken noodles.
Before he could scream, an invisible force seized both limbs, balling them up and cramming them forcibly into his mouth.
"Mmph!!!!! Mmph!!!!!!!!!!"
All color drained from Khajiit's face. Cold sweat poured down his skin as pain screamed through every nerve.
Only then did Mare reveal an innocent, almost adorable smile. He reached into his inventory and produced a small Ogre Statue, handing it to the lich with both hands.
"This is a magic item made by Father. It can activate Tier 10 necromancy—Undead Calamity."
The lich accepted the statue reverently, voice thick with fervor. "I will make good use of this treasure bestowed by the Supreme Being."
"Good luck, Mr. Lich," Mare said softly, offering a small cheer.
The lich nodded. Its expression smoothed into solemnity.
It turned toward the distant city of E-Rantel. Magic power surged violently from its body; its form twisted, expanded—five meters, ten, twenty. Boom.
The catacomb ceiling shattered as the lich grew taller still, bursting upward until it towered over fifty meters.
Then its body turned ethereal, blue flames igniting across its massive frame, turning it into a blazing beacon in the night sky.
Facing the brightly lit city, its voice thundered like rolling storm clouds. "Khajiit… thank you for helping me break the seal."
"I am finally free!"
On the ground below, Khajiit stared upward with eyes nearly bursting from their sockets. His own broken arms stuffed in his mouth muffled his desperate, wordless protests.
This is slander!
________
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