The morning sun cast a dull light across the charred lands, casting eerie shadows behind the jagged towers of the Necropolis. A gust of wind rolled through the land, rattling bones and whistling through the spiraled peaks of the Spirit Towers. It was a domain carved from death itself—silent, grim, and powerful.
But today, the wind carried something else.
"I see it!" Haben called, eyes wide with excitement as he pointed toward the distance.
There, just over the hill, the dark spires of the Necropolis came into view.
"Finally," Ishlar said, his voice deeper, colder now, a reflection of what two years of battle and blood had shaped him into. He remained atop his skeletal horse, his black armor glinting with scratches of war. Behind them, two ghouls lumbered forward, hunched and silent, carrying supplies strapped tightly to their backs.
Haben's grin widened as he adjusted the Rod of Necromancy slung across his back, still faintly pulsing with residual energy from their battles. His eyes sparkled with hope and anticipation. The thought of finally reuniting with their brothers and sisters in death, of standing once more in the presence of Vanthelis, stirred something warm in his chest.
Unbeknownst to them, Vanthelis already knew.
A week ago, deep inside the Necropolis, Vanthelis had been overseeing the latest deployment of Ghouls when a new prompt appeared before him.
Ding!
You have successfully built your area of influence (Decay) in the island.
Unlocking: Dethir Island
(Dethir Island is an island consisting of unknown lands. Pirates are known to come here from time to time to hunt or capture Gnolls.)
New Feature Unlocked: Map (Only see the area of Influence)
Green - Allies
Red - Hostiles
White - Non-intelligent/Neutral Beings
Yellow - Intelligent Neutrals
As he examined the newly unlocked island map, his gaze was immediately drawn to four glowing green dots steadily approaching the heart of the island.
"They're back," he murmured to himself.
With a sense of purpose, he rose. His appearance had changed drastically in two years. No longer the boy reborn into a world of war, Vanthelis stood tall and broad-shouldered. His once-pristine face had matured—his gaze was sharper, haunted yet determined, and his body bore the results of relentless training. His black hair flowed like the color of the Necropolis.
He ordered the children—now no longer children but hardened survivors—to prepare a feast. The last remaining boars, goats, and other beasts they had raised were brought out. Dorothy, now a stunning maiden despite her disfigurement, helped Kristine, who had grown lanky but alert. Jayson, muscular and proud, organized the preparations.
By the time Ishlar and Haben reached the gates of the fortress, the banners of the Blackthorn Clan waved proudly. A chorus of cheers rose as the gates opened.
"Welcome back!" Kristine called out, waving.
"Took you long enough!" Jayson shouted with a smirk.
Dorothy offered only a soft smile as she watched Ishlar ride through, his gaze meeting hers. A thousand words passed in a single glance.
Vanthelis stood at the center, arms crossed, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "It's been two years since we were stranded here, all of us," he said, his voice strong and full of conviction. "But I promise you, the wait is almost over. The day we reclaim everything stolen from us draws near. Until then, be patient with me."
Cheers erupted around the camp. Ghouls howled in eerie celebration. Children clapped and laughed. The dead mingled with the living in a bizarre, joyous harmony.
"Tonight," Vanthelis continued, raising a fist, "we feast!"
The boars were roasted over open flames, seasoned with rare herbs grown near the graveyard. The meat was juicy, and laughter filled the ruined halls of the mansion. The scent of celebration wafted through the air, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.
Later that evening, under the light of torches and surrounded by murmurs of stories and camaraderie, Vanthelis, Ishlar, and Haben sat together at a round stone table.
"So," Vanthelis said, leaning in. "Tell me what happened."
Ishlar, still wearing his dented helm, removed it slowly. His face was marked with scars, but his eyes glowed with something unbreakable. "Trolls, gnolls, spiders in the caves, beasts in the forests. We wiped them all. Some were clever, some relentless. The gnolls had poison-tipped arrows. The spiders nearly got Haben once. But we adapted. We crushed them."
Vanthelis nodded, absorbing every word.
"The Rod of Necromancy came in handy," Haben added, grinning. "There were times it saved me when Ishlar was too far. I'd summon skeletons, and when their bones piled up..."
"I devoured them with Death Pact," Ishlar finished, his tone grim. "Their deaths sustained me."
Vanthelis gave a faint smirk. "Efficient."
Then he glanced toward the ghouls, gesturing toward the loads they carried.
"What did you bring back?"
Haben quickly stood and listed the items:
"Five iron spears, seven bows, eighty arrows with iron heads. Two liters of troll blood—we tried to preserve it. There's more, but it spilled. We've also got troll teeth, boar tusks, a few lion and tiger fangs. Maybe good for something like blacksmithing? a dagger maybe."
Vanthelis listened intently, his smirk widening into a grin. "Good. Very good."
But then, something changed.
His grin faded.