One and a half year passed relentlessly, and with each passing day, Ishlar, Haben, and their army of undead ghouls fought across the island, eradicating any hostile creatures that dared cross their path. Trolls, gnolls, giant spiders, and bats—none were spared from their wrath. Even the wild beasts of the island, like lions, tigers, and boars, met their end at the hands of Ishlar's forces. The island became a shadow of its former self, its creatures slain or scattered, as the undead grew in number and strength.
Amidst the chaos of war, Haben had proved himself resourceful, constructing the Spirit Tower under the harsh conditions. The tower now stood tall, its spires dark and ominous, radiating dark energy that empowered their ghouls. With each passing day, the undead grew more formidable, and Haben's enthusiasm for the art of necromancy deepened. He eagerly began to experiment with the Rod of Necromancy that Vanthelis had gifted him.
The Rod of Necromancy was an artifact of immense power, one that allowed its wielder to call upon the souls of the dead and raise them as skeletal servants. One night, as the group prepared for another skirmish against a growing tribe of trolls, Haben found himself in dire need of reinforcements. The battle had taken a toll on their forces, and the undead soldiers were not enough to fend off the trolls who had become increasingly aggressive.
"Ishlar!" Haben called out, his voice filled with urgency. "We need more soldiers to tip the balance. Let me use the rod!"
Ishlar turned, his cold, unfeeling eyes locking onto Haben's as he nodded. "Do it. But be quick about it."
With that, Haben grasped the Rod of Necromancy, the blackened artifact pulsing with dark energy in his hands. He raised it high above his head, and in an instant, the air around them grew thick with the scent of decay. Shadows seemed to creep from the ground as if the very earth itself was responding to the rod's call. Moments later, the ground split open, and bones began to rise from the earth, forming into skeletal warriors, their hollow eyes glowing with eerie light.
"Good," Haben muttered under his breath, watching as the newly summoned skeletons stood at attention. The creatures were crude, with limbs still covered in the remnants of decayed flesh, but they were no less effective in battle.
Ishlar didn't wait for further instructions. He was already advancing towards the trolls, his sword drawn and gleaming in the pale moonlight. As the first wave of skeletal soldiers clashed with the trolls, Ishlar's gaze was cold and calculating. He would not waste this opportunity.
The battle raged on as the trolls fought savagely, but Ishlar's ghouls and the summoned skeletons were relentless. As Ishlar cleaved through the enemy ranks, a deep sense of weariness washed over him. The battle had drained him, and his wounds began to take their toll. It was time to act.
"Ishlar!" Haben called out again, his voice tinged with worry. "Your wounds… you need healing!"
Without responding, Ishlar turned his attention to the pile of skeletal remains that were still scattered across the battlefield, the bones of the fallen trolls and the newly summoned skeletons from the Rod of Necromancy. He could feel the darkness calling to him, the power of death coursing through the air.
Raising his sword to the sky, Ishlar whispered a dark incantation, the words of the Death Pact falling from his lips like a curse. In an instant, the bodies of the skeletons that had fought so valiantly were consumed by dark energy, their spirits siphoned into the very earth as they were sacrificed for Ishlar's power.
The bones of the dead crumbled, their life essence flowing into Ishlar. His wounds began to close, the pain in his body slowly receding as the Death Pact took hold. The strength of the fallen skeletons healed him, restoring his vitality, and the dark aura around him grew stronger with each passing moment.
Ishlar's sword became an extension of his renewed power, his strikes faster and more precise than before. With each swing, the trolls before him fell, unable to withstand the fury of the Death Knight.
As the last of the trolls fell, Ishlar stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath. The Death Pact had worked—he was whole again. He looked down at the skeletons, their bones scattered around him, and nodded in silent approval.
Haben, who had been watching from the sidelines, approached Ishlar with a mixture of awe and concern. "Ishlar… you used the Death Pact on them. Those were our skeletons—the ones summoned by the rod."
Ishlar wiped the blood from his sword, his expression unreadable. "The dead do not matter. What matters is survival. The Death Pact is the price of power. It allows me to sacrifice the fallen for my own strength. Nothing more, nothing less."
Haben was silent for a moment, clearly processing what he had witnessed. He had heard of the Death Pact by Ishlar stories but never seen it in action. To see Ishlar sacrifice those he had summoned for his own benefit—it was both unsettling and awe-inspiring.
"I… I understand," Haben finally said, his voice quiet but resolute. "You do what is necessary. I'm learning more every day about what it takes to command the dead."
Ishlar nodded curtly. "You will need to learn much more if you wish to survive in this world, Haben. There is no room for weakness here."
With the battle over and the last of the trolls dead, the group began to gather the spoils. The ghouls devoured what they could of the fallen trolls, while Haben collected what loot remained, packing it into the back of the ghouls that had been spared from the fight.
"Let's move out," Ishlar ordered, his tone final. "We've done enough here. We need to return to the Necropolis. There is still much to do."
…With the battle over and the last of the trolls lying lifeless, the twisted silence of finality fell upon the blood-soaked forest. There were no more enemies left to challenge them.
The island—once wild, untamed, and teeming with hostile life—was now under their dominion. From the northern cliffs where the bats nested, to the dark southern caves of the giant spiders, from the gnoll-infested hills to the tribal lands of the trolls, even the predatory beasts that roamed the forests and rivers—lions, tigers, serpents—all had been hunted down and buried beneath the weight of necromantic might.
For two long years, Ishlar and Haben, accompanied by wave after wave of ghouls, skeletons, and unrelenting death, had carved their way through every enemy that challenged them. Spirit Towers rose like grim monuments across the land, their watchful eyes ever-vigilant, ensuring no threat ever rose again.
Now, only silence remained.
Ishlar stood tall, silent in victory as Haben secured the loot onto the backs of the remaining two ghouls. Precious stones looted from gnoll dens, crude but useful armor stripped from troll corpses, and bones—always bones—were strapped and balanced with care. The ghouls shambled beneath the weight, but they marched on without a sound.
"One and a half year," Haben muttered with awe, staring back at the direction they came from. "We cleansed every corner of this cursed place."
Ishlar mounted his undead steed once more, sword gleaming with dried blood and dark energy flickering faintly from his armor. "It is ours now. Every forest, every cave, every inch of soil bows beneath our presence."
Haben grinned, proudly clutching the Rod of Necromancy, his knuckles white. "Vanthelis will be pleased. We've brought more than just loot—we've brought a land ready for our revenge."