Three days of running, hiding, and barely surviving had taught Grix a harsh lesson: being alone in the wilderness was a death sentence for an infant goblin.
His mana reserves had recovered, but without undead servants, he was vulnerable. Every sound made him jump. Every shadow could be a predator. He'd managed to catch and eat insects, found some berries, but he was growing weaker, not stronger.
I need shelter. I need resources. I need help.
The thought was bitter. He'd been so focused on independence, on building his own power, that he'd forgotten a basic truth: even necromancers needed a foundation to work from.
As Grix trudged through yet another unfamiliar section of forest, he noticed something odd. Symbols carved into tree trunks. Not random scratches, but deliberate markings. Goblin script—crude, but readable.
Territory markers?
He followed the symbols, curiosity overriding caution. If there were goblins nearby, it could mean danger. But it could also mean opportunity.
The symbols led to a narrow ravine hidden behind thick vegetation. Grix squeezed through and found himself in a small valley, sheltered and secluded. And there, built into the ravine wall, was a structure.
Not a cave. An actual dwelling.
Carved wood formed the frame, with animal hides stretched across for walls. Smoke rose from a hole in the roof. Someone lived here, and they had the skill to build beyond primitive cave shelters.
Grix hesitated. This could be a trap. Could be hostile. But his options were limited.
He approached slowly, ready to run at the first sign of danger.
"Stop there, young one," a raspy voice called out.
An ancient goblin emerged from the dwelling. Female, Grix thought, though it was hard to tell with how withered she was. Her skin was darker green than normal, almost gray with age. She wore a cloak made from crow feathers and leaned heavily on a gnarled staff.
But what caught Grix's attention were her eyes. They glowed faintly with magical energy. Not the green of necromancy, but a deep purple.
"Shaman," Grix whispered.
The old goblin cackled. "Good eyes for one so small. Yes, shaman. Last of the old ways." She tilted her head, studying him with unsettling intensity. "And you... you carry the touch of death. Strong. Too strong for a youngling."
Grix tensed. Had she figured him out already?
"No need to fear, little necromancer," the shaman said, confirming his worry. "I am Zara. I have lived long, seen much. Your kind is rare, but not unknown to me."
"You're not going to kill me?"
Zara laughed, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Kill you? Foolish child. I'm too old for killing. Too old for much, really, except waiting for death." She gestured with her staff. "Come. You look half-starved. I have food."
Grix's stomach growled at the mention of food, betraying his desperation. Slowly, warily, he approached.
The inside of Zara's dwelling was larger than it appeared from outside. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of herbs, dried creatures, bones, crystals, and objects Grix couldn't identify. A fire pit in the center provided warmth and light. The place smelled of smoke, herbs, and old magic.
Zara handed him a wooden bowl filled with some kind of stew. Grix ate ravenously, not caring what was in it. Meat, vegetables, something that might have been mushrooms. It was hot and filling, and that was enough.
"Slow down. You'll make yourself sick," Zara chided, settling onto a pile of furs.
Between mouthfuls, Grix asked, "Why are you helping me?"
"Boredom, mostly." Zara poked the fire with her staff. "I've been alone for thirty years. My tribe is long dead. My students never survived their lessons. You're the first interesting thing to happen in decades."
"Students?"
"I tried to teach goblins the old magic. The way of spirits, elements, life force." She spat into the fire. "They were idiots. Wanted quick power, shortcuts, strength without understanding. All dead within months of learning their first spell."
Grix finished the stew and set the bowl down. "What about necromancy? Is that old magic?"
Zara's eyes gleamed. "The oldest. Death is the first magic, the last magic. Before life, there was death. After life, there will be death. To command it is to command the fundamental force of existence."
"You know necromancy?"
"Know it? No. I studied it once, long ago, but I lacked the affinity." She leaned forward. "Death magic requires something special. A connection to the void between life and afterlife. Most who try to learn it go mad or die. But you..." She reached out and touched Grix's forehead with one gnarled finger. "You were born with it. Born twice, I think. Reborn."
Grix jerked back. "How do you know that?"
"Your soul doesn't fit your body. Like clothes too big for a child. You were someone else before. Something else."
There was no point in denying it. "I was human. In another world."
"Ah. The other-worlders. The gods sometimes play such tricks, pulling souls across the void." Zara settled back. "That explains the affinity. Death touched you, pulled you through, left its mark. Now you can touch it back."
"Can you teach me?" Grix asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Not necromancy—I'm figuring that out. But magic in general. How to grow stronger. How to survive."
Zara was silent for a long moment, studying him with those ancient eyes. Finally, she spoke.
"I am old. Dying. My magic fades with each passing season. Teaching you would be my last act in this world."
"Then teach me."
"Why should I? You're just another goblin. Another creature destined to die young and forgotten."
Grix met her gaze without flinching. "Because I'm going to be different. I'm going to survive. I'm going to grow strong enough that no one—no adventurer, no monster, no god—can kill me without paying a price. And when I do, I'll remember who helped me get there."
Zara cackled again, this time with genuine amusement. "Ambitious. Foolish. Arrogant. I like it." She tapped her staff against the ground. "Very well, little necromancer. I will teach you the foundations of magic. But I warn you—my teaching methods killed four students. They were weak, stupid. If you are the same, you will join them in the grave."
"I won't die."
"We'll see."
Zara stood and moved to one of her shelves, pulling down various items. "First lesson: magic is not power you take. It is power you cultivate. Like a plant, it must be nurtured, grown, shaped. You have death magic naturally, but that alone will make you nothing but a talented corpse-puppeteer."
She set several crystals in front of him. They glowed with different colors—red, blue, green, white, black.
"Magic has elements. Fire, water, earth, air, death, life, and dozens of sub-elements. As a necromancer, death is your core. But you can learn to touch the others, weave them together, create new effects. A fire necromancer can burn enemies with hellfire. A water necromancer can freeze corpses into ice warriors. Do you understand?"
Grix nodded, his mind racing with possibilities.
"Good. Now, before you learn any of that, you must first learn this." Zara picked up the black crystal—the death-element one. "Mana control. Feel the crystal. It contains pure death energy. Can you sense it?"
Grix focused on the crystal. Yes, there it was—a cold, deep pulse of death magic, concentrated and crystallized.
"Draw it into yourself. Slowly. Like drinking water, not gulping air."
He reached out and touched the crystal. Immediately, power flooded into him—too much, too fast. Pain exploded through his skull. He gasped and jerked his hand away.
Zara snorted. "What did I just say? Slowly. Death magic is seductive, eager to consume you if you're not careful. Again. With control this time."
Grix tried again, this time resisting the urge to pull hard. He drew the energy in tiny threads, letting it trickle into his core where his mana pool resided.
It felt good. Right. Like coming home.
"Better," Zara said. "Continue. Empty the crystal completely."
It took an hour. By the end, Grix was sweating and exhausted, but the crystal was dull and lifeless, all its energy transferred into him. His mana pool felt noticeably larger, deeper.
"That's how you grow," Zara explained. "Absorb death energy from the environment, from crystals, from the act of raising the dead itself. Each time you use magic, you stretch your capacity. Each time you meditate, you deepen your well. Over time, you become a reservoir of power."
"How long did it take you to become powerful?"
"Forty years to reach mastery of spirit magic. Ten more to learn the secrets of life force manipulation. I am seventy-three years old, child. Ancient for a goblin. Most die before they reach twenty."
Seventy-three years. Grix felt a chill. He'd been so focused on immediate survival that he hadn't thought about the long term. How long would it take him to become truly powerful? Decades? Centuries?
I'm immortal now, technically. Once I become a lich. But that's far in the future. For now, I'm just a weak goblin trying not to die.
"Don't look so discouraged," Zara said. "You have an advantage my students never did. You have necromancy. You can practice by raising the dead, and each raising builds your skill. Those idiots had to meditate for months before they could cast even simple spells. You're already casting advanced magic."
That was true. Grix had been using necromancy instinctively, but without understanding. With Zara's teaching, he could refine it, make it stronger, more efficient.
"What else can you teach me?"
"Patience," Zara snapped. "You will learn basics first. Mana control. Spell structure. Magical theory. Only then will I teach you advanced techniques." She paused. "But I will give you one practical lesson now, since you're likely to die without it. Follow me."
She led him outside to a small clearing behind her dwelling. In the center was a circle of stones.
"This is a ritual circle. Used for complex magic that requires preparation. Necromancy, especially large-scale necromancy, benefits greatly from rituals." Zara gestured at the stones. "Each stone is inscribed with runes of death, binding, and control. When you raise undead within this circle, they are stronger, more obedient, more durable."
Grix studied the circle with fascination. The runes were intricate, beautiful in their morbid complexity.
"Can you teach me to make one?"
"Eventually. First, you must learn to read and write the death tongue—the language of necromancy. Then you must understand the principles of binding and anchoring. Then you may attempt to create a ritual circle." Zara smiled grimly. "It took me five years to learn, and I wasn't even specialized in death magic. For you, perhaps two years if you're diligent."
Two years. It sounded like forever.
But Grix had time. For the first time since his reincarnation, he had a safe place, a teacher, and a path forward.
"When do we start?"
"Now." Zara handed him a thin piece of slate and a piece of chalk. "Copy these runes. One thousand times each. When you're finished, I'll teach you what they mean."
Grix looked at the slate. Twenty complex runes stared back at him, each one intricate and precise.
One thousand times each. Twenty thousand runes total.
She's testing me. Seeing if I'll give up.
Grix took the chalk and began copying. His hand cramped within the first hundred. His eyes blurred after the first five hundred. But he didn't stop.
Zara watched him work, nodding approvingly. "Good. You have the stubbornness required. Perhaps you'll survive after all."
As night fell, Grix continued copying runes by firelight, his small hands moving mechanically. His mind drifted to the future—to the power he would gain, the undead he would raise, the enemies he would crush.
The adventurers who'd destroyed his tribe. The humans who saw goblins as nothing but experience points. The entire world that had decided he was worthless.
I'll show them all.
But first, twenty thousand runes.
One step at a time.