Interconnected: Spliced Souls

A partial truth came to light hours before the two necromancers appeared. They were located outside Arcton, waiting for the opportune time to strike. As always, they were going over their gear and ensuring their vile toxin was as potent as possible when a mysterious golden circle inscribed itself on the nearby grass. The mother and son duo would have been alarmed, but those golden worms belonged to an ally. 

“Golden Reliquary,” said the Crowkin, sitting up. “We did not expect you.”   

“Neither did I, weaver of the undead. But I’ve come bearing news regarding your...mission,” replied Golden Reliquary. Those golden worms thrashed around his feet before receding into the ground. He wore a cloak with a mask. That long-sleeved shirt, black gloves, and abyssal-colored pants made him blend into the darkness. His shoes were different sizes and lengths, so you couldn't gauge his physique under that oversized cloak.    

“Has it changed?”   

“Yes, but not in how you might think.”   

“Last-minute alterations are not appreciated. We look down upon them, Golden Reliquary.”   

“Hold your anger, my son. Let’s listen to our stalwart ally.” The Crowkin’s mother spoke from under her helmet. Her voice held much annoyance. She despised plans that changed at the 11th hour.    

“It concerns the one called Servi.”   

“The lich?”   

Golden Reliquary nodded. “We’ve delved deeper into their past, and all is not what it seems. I was mistaken in calling her a lich. Servi's regenerative properties... They are beyond anything ever seen."  

“I still don’t understand why this warranted a visit,” replied the Crowkin. “No one is immortal. Everyone can die.” 

“We believe her to carry the blood of something...outrageous,” said Golden Reliquary under the cold moonlight. “We believe this blood holds the power to dilute her undead nature and force the world to regard her as anything but undead.”   

“Are you saying Servi cannot be affected by [Dominate Undead]?”   

“Not quite, no. [Dominate Undead] will have little effect, but I doubt it will consider her a target.”   

The Crowkin’s mother continued. “Then, by chance, does that extend to holy magic?”   

“It is a theory, but yes. We surmise that holy magic, while effective, will only glance at Servi, whereas the same spell would engulf any other undead with purifying flames. That thing cannot hold a candle to a lesser lich, let alone one so deserving of the power wielded by the one I mistook her to be. It is inaccurate to call her undead in her current state since she exhibits more of a mortal’s nature. But she must not know that we know this.” 

“Does it matter, Golden Reliquary? The ‘lich’ may be difficult to kill, but even she cannot stand up to the might we’re throwing her way. That thing will perish tonight. And we shall take its blood and learn the dark secrets it holds.”   

“Killing her may be more difficult than you think. But so we hope, weavers of the undead. So we hope. Act surprised if your attempts to dominate Servi or that bicorn revenant fail, but expect that to be the case. But I have faith in you. How could I not when the city of Arcton is at your beck and call?” They didn’t see it, but Golden Reliquary smirked under that mask. “Turn it into a den of decay and death. Use it to foster your grand understanding of [Necromancy] and continue to rise, my friends. Help me prod the limits of her uncertain power, acquire her blood, and you shall be forever rewarded by the good graces of Emperor Virin Keywater.”   

“Is the witch aware of this?”  

“No. Let the excommunicated whelp be surprised when the magic fails. And let her death follow suit. Consider it a gift from me, my allies. As someone who shares an interest in the undead...”  

The Crowkin smiled. He hated the Wytchguard Covenant and wished to see the organization exterminated like the corrupt rats they were. But what could he glean from this? The Crowkin knew the witch was heading to the Kaisaku Syndicate’s base. Sakdu, their leader, would be there. And a fight would break out. So, if the witch didn’t know, then Sakdu probably didn’t...  

Golden Reliquary bowed as yellow worms crawled from the ground and encircled his feet. And in a flash?   

He was gone.    

But he didn’t go far.    

He had disguised his presence and watched from a distance as the Crowkin and his mother discussed their new plan, and the fools didn’t notice that the one they trusted was setting them up for failure.    

Golden Reliquary didn’t tell them the entire truth he had discovered about Servi...because this was a test of her abilities and to see what that ‘revenant’ could accomplish—to see if embers of the Puppet Master still burned as fiercely as it did in the past.    

He knew she’d go for the Arcton Mountain Range to save Momo, so he could gather information about how holy magic affected someone like her. The Crowkin and his mother were overconfident, and their defeat was inevitable. He cared little for them and only saw them as pawns to help his emperor's grand ambitions.  

The same went for the Kaisaku Syndicate. He knew the group's head would meet their end by Servi's hand.  The Crowkin and his mother only worked with them for Arcton. They weren't allies in any sense of the word.

Keywater’s loose ends would be handled tonight if everything went to plan-- but Golden Reliquary didn’t mind if he had to dirty his hands. If it was for the great Emperor Keywater, Golden Reliquary would do anything to repay a man as great as him, but this was Servi’s trial. She’d surely drop down in his eyes if she failed to accomplish something like this.   

But Golden Reliquary couldn’t stay and watch. He was needed elsewhere for further plans related to the Jewel. Glowing worms enveloped his feet, and before he teleported to his next destination, he anxiously wondered just how far...that thing’s influence affected someone like Servi.    

Either way, he knew how to get the answers he sought related to her limits, if there were any. It would take... 

Time. 

---

Thirty minutes had passed since Servi had taken off to save Momo, and Albert was nowhere close to victory.       

“Why don’t you just give up?! You won’t survive, revenant! You’ll die here! And I’ll have your soul! I’ll force you to be mine!!!” The Crowkin’s mouth continued to flood taunts as it engaged the skeletal warlord in mortal combat. The massive skeletal warrior wasn’t built for speed. It had power in spades and left large craters that split the earth wherever its sword struck.  The Crowkin played keep away with his superior agility, drawing upon more and more of Arcton’s citizens to increase his physical power.      

He had feared the worst when he saw how effortlessly Albert summoned the warlord. He believed it to foreshadow some greater power or prowess, but…     

He wasn’t impressed.    

The lich was one thing—No, it wasn’t a lich. That thing may have been incorrectly called one-- the error stuck-- but Servi couldn’t compare to a lesser lich, let alone a normal one. The only thing Servi excelled at was regeneration--something the Crowkin had experienced first-hand. Golden Reliquary had told the Crowkin that Servi bore the blood of something outrageous. Since [Dominate Undead] didn’t work and that revenant had said the name ‘Itarr,' logic dictated this entity was their creator.     

But could there really be someone out there with blood that could eliminate an undead’s weakness? Holy magic served as a foil to [Necromancy], so removing that would mean offsetting the equilibrium the world followed... So...this Itarr couldn’t have removed the bane of all undead from their specific creations... Even if the undead created by Servi and that revenant still bore the bane of all undead, that was too much for any person to hold...    

The Crowkin began thinking.     

Something was off. Servi wielded a catalyst. But why would their creator give them one unless they had multiple? If that was the case, then why wouldn’t they show up? Unless they couldn’t? If their blood was really this powerful, they had to remain secret. But why risk letting someone like Servi die? If someone could get that blood, learn the secrets it holds, and use it in their own summoning, then...    

The Crowkin didn’t understand what went through this Itarr’s mind. And he would never understand it because the truth was beyond his comprehension.   He didn’t realize Golden Reliquary had left him and his mother to die for the sake of acquiring more information.  

Meanwhile, Albert was engaged with the armored knight. He dashed back and slipped left and right, avoiding jabs and deadly haymakers—almost as if dancing. He observed his enemy’s motions and read their footwork, accurately predicting what would come next. This type of hand-to-hand combat was one he had mastered at the behest of Virin Keywater—back when he considered him the brother he never had.    

The style focused on speed and raw power without defense. A warrior’s body was their most significant asset, and the martial arts discipline concentrated on strengthening your flesh above all else by using spells like [Stoneskin] or [Ironflesh]. It fought by using the flowchart method. Every action flowed into one of several actions, and a master was only a master when they could seamlessly combo the entire tree without any mistakes, performing over 200 strikes, jabs, grapples, and throws without delay or rest.      

However, the catalyst the Crowkin’s mother used enveloped her body like a skin suit, providing superior defenses than the previously mentioned skills.    

Albert wasn’t infallible. He had already taken four or five clean hits that brutalized his body. But he was immortal if he didn’t instantly die. Itarr had configured his manifestation to the vault, and a crystal was automatically used to heal his wounds.  

“Where’s your weapon? A revenant worth their salt must even have that!”   

Albert couldn’t talk back. He was weak. He couldn’t compare to his prime, but it wasn’t Servi’s fault. No—the fault for everything belonged to the two foul villains who desired to turn a city into their den of decay and death to further their power.    

It belonged to the kobold and koena driven mad by revenge to create a poison that had hastily found itself center to the criminal underground.    

And it belonged to the young man who had himself controlled by rage and anger and tempted by a cruel devil to kill those who had nothing to do with the loss of his family and village.    

All that unfolded in the present moment stemmed from a solitary decision made eons ago. Every event, every triumph, every tragedy could be traced back to that pivotal point in history. It was the genesis of all the world's joys, sorrows, light, and darkness.  

But what good would come about of blaming it? At this point? Nothing. Albert looked like a child, but the revenant had long since passed the stage where he whined incessantly about the cruel world.    

Instead, he doubled down, focusing more on discovering a plan to emerge victorious. He had blood crystals—a lot of them. But he knew Servi and Itarr would need them for their fight.  But what about the hostages? A city of them was right there. And the longer this fight lasted, the more the innocent would perish for a clash that wasn’t their fault.    

So, the revenant butler was determined. He focused inwards, extracted the depths of his skill, and continued to fight. Even if it meant taking non-fatal injuries to scrape his rapier against his opponent’s armor. He lost an arm and ducked low, sweeping his leg against his knight. It broke, but two crystals cracked inside a vault a handful of people knew about and repaired his body in a flash.     

“[Skeletal Hold]!” Weak, paltry hands of bones failed to restrain the knight. She laughed at his attempt and shrugged off his attack. His new sword wasn’t strong enough to break the defenses.    

But someone could.    

Albert saw the ground vibrate and jumped away, barely avoiding a bed of spikes that ruptured the ground.   

It was Merka. He circled the fight from above and cast his magic whenever he had an opening, but those moments were rare. The enemy had two ebonwing carriers that kept chasing after him.  The one he rode had avoided the icy barrages erupting from their wings. He formed a rocky rope from his body and willed it around the bird’s neck. He even crafted spikes from his thighs that altered into barbed hooks after his mount told him he needed to hang on.    

But his raven often had to travel away from Albert’s clash, and during that time, he bombarded the undead army with a hailstorm of rocks. Or he chipped his soul into microscopic fragments and airdropped exploding golems, bombarding the horde.    

Merka did anything to not be a nuisance—to not be a coward who refused to fight when the opportunity arrived. But that desire didn’t explain how he knew how to wield a forbidden skill like it was second nature. The spells came to him with a mere thought. He used his newfound connection to the almighty earth and body crafted by a geomancer to slice slivers of understanding. His prowess grew with each spell cast—with each hailstorm launched—with each bed of spikes that skewered the undead.    

It was almost like another Merka took over—a unique facet born about by his unique circumstances. But this power? He’d give it all up to have his family back. Merka didn’t look at it like a boon. It was a reminder of loss. But what choice did he have but to fight? Servi was out there—fighting against the ones responsible.    

And Merka wanted to be as dependable as Oskar. That brave young man would help anyone in need. Even if it meant going against the law, facing trouble, or getting hurt. He was the model gentleman Merka strived to be.    

But far behind the ebonwing carrier flew the lesser lich, Nyxaris the Darkmagus. He faced the unholy amalgamation of hundreds, if not thousands of corpses in combat. The towering beast was driven mad. It carried no common discernible thought and only acted out of instinct. It lifted trees and grabbed giant chunks of rock, throwing and swinging them to knock the lesser lich away. But Nyxaris was smart. He avoided the strikes with an acrobatic flourish and charged up his spells, creating a field-sized arrow of jittering spikes that impaled the monster.    

But the bodies were too densely packed. They acted like natural armor, but no doubt it was heavily reinforced with its necromancers’ unholy magic. The bones chipped, causing Nyxaris to turn to another plan.    

Far below it sat the gross, overcrowded army belonging to its enemies.  It was chaotic. Really, it held no organization and only followed basic instructions. But the same was true for Servi’s army. Albert was in command, but his hands were full. Nyxaris was busy, so leadership fell upon the skeleton captain, who didn’t shy away from battle. It was at the front lines, directing a unit of squires. Their abilities were boosted when near a superior variant.    

The captain let its steel armor stave off the weakened attacks and returned to strike, cutting four or five undead rats down to size. It flowed like butter, coordinated specific strikes and counters, and held its own. Vanessa had spun her beautiful webs far and wide, using the astral projections from [Spectral Arachnomancy].  

Her legion of ghostly spiders scuttled in formation and used their synchronized movements to bring down scores of undead. Their large fangs cut away rotted legs, allowing the others to target the brain with a fierce, severe snap. And all the while, Vanessa’s ear-piercing laughter echoed across the battlefield until she used [Spectral Vanish] to meld into the shadows. She sleuthed across the battlefield—drunk on overconfidence. A dozen fell by her sharp legs. Another two dozen died from manipulating her webs to be as sharp as steel.    

Until her luck had run out.     

It happened when Vanessa targeted a group of icy ghouls. They were thin, screeching creatures with pale blue skin. Ice dripped from their elongated, unnaturally wide mouths. They were berserkers—mad undead who fought with the long, ice-covered claws protruding from their disfigured hands.    

It was easy to take out one. The second was killable. Even the third was doable, and the ghouls saw Vanessa’s sharpened legs pierce their brain since they were slaughtering 500 members of their army that turned against them when Nyxaris used [Mass Dominate Undead].     

No, the trouble came from the undead lions and tigers. Like Vanessa, they knew how to slink into the darkness. Their superior sense of smell identified her amongst the shadows and pounced, latching their rotted teeth around her legs and body.    

She screamed, of course. The spider was being devoured alive. She couldn’t break their grip, and the remaining icy ghouls turned their sights on her. They cackled madly and approached, swarming her until Vanessa’s screams could no longer be heard.    

And that signified the turning of the tide. It was always a loss when a mid-tier perished. Nyxaris, however, desired to turn the loss around, but they couldn’t leave the towering giant alone.    

However, Nyxaris would have to deal with this amalgamation of corpses-- this unholy monstrosity- before showcasing the magic befitting their title as the mightiest mid-tier undead. 

Nyxaris continued to fight and adjust to the corpse monstrosity’s varied attacks. Those slimy tentacles accelerated faster, uprooting trees with renewed haste before throwing them. They missed by a mile, but the monster’s objective?   

Chaos.  

The lesser lich heard more walls and buildings being destroyed behind it and figured the tentacles needed to go. The underside was too durable, so why not change it?   

Nyxaris flew fast and low to force the giant undead to aim at its ‘allies’ before pulling up, soaring right in front of its face before dashing away, jutting hard to the left while soaring over the tentacle that came within inches of swatting the lesser lich like a pesky housefly.     

Ring!   

Nyxaris’s staff rung, and they darted away, leaving behind a floating, hazy, fuzzy black light.    

Ring!   

Ring!   

Ring!   

Three more tolls of the bell birthed three more dark spots that devoured the space around them, and Nyxaris continued to defensively soar until the last one—the fifth— had been placed. The lich flew forty feet away and stared down the massive beast.    

And then they lifted their staff high in the air, ringing the bell one last time.    

Ring!   

As the final toll of the bell reverberated through the air, the five black lights flashed with ominous intensity, weaving together in a sinister dance. With each flicker, the darkness coalesced into a swirling vortex, forming a sinister pentagram that pulsed with eldritch energy. The monster's instincts felt threatened. Like an animal, it roared with each mouth that made its body and charged towards this unknown force.     

Nyxaris gathered their skill energy and chanted in an ancient, untranslatable tongue, their voice echoing with power and authority before uttering the name of its second-greatest magic. “[Pentagram of Oblivion: Soulcleaver's Dreadblade]!”   

The pentagram shimmered with vile intent, and from its depths emerged a colossal, shadowy blade that gleamed with an otherworldly sheen.   

It was the same size as the monster born by unholy rituals.     

Immediately, everyone and everything felt immense pressure. The Crowkin froze for a brisk moment in astonishment and fear. “No! I won’t—” He bared his teeth after fending off the skeletal warlord, raising his hand as more of Arcton’s citizens’ life force was forcibly sucked dry… He knew the lesser lich had to remain still during the channeling. But…   

The Crowkin fought against more than just the warlord. Merka knew he had to stop the Crowkin from interrupting Nyxaris. He focused deep and held tight to his raven as it aimed for a downward draft of frozen air, surging fast towards the ground before righting itself. They cut through the air like a blade from hell. It opened its mouth and screeched, unleashing a beam of frozen magic at the necromancer. From above, the two ebonwing carriers chasing Merka unleashed a downpour of icy arrows that followed the raven’s every move, but it was just a hair too fast.    

Merka’s ebonwing carrier’s spell failed to hit the Crowkin—his speed and agility were much too fast to be caught, but that wasn’t the trap.    

No—the trap was Merka. The ground was his domain—it now belonged to him, but he didn’t discover this plan alone. No—this was something Nyxaris and Albert had developed after telepathically communicating. Merka’s raven relayed the plan to him, and the onus was on him—and he wouldn't let them down. The raven gave the order, and Merka acted, manipulating the entranced earth below his opponent. He entrapped his lower half like a snake entrapping its prey by creating a pit of quicksand to slow his movements long enough to restrain him.     

The skeletal warlord didn’t waste the chance. Its rune-etched sword flashed dark green and red as it pounced, cutting through the necromancer in a clean, flawless swipe. The bottom half remained locked in a prison of earth. The top half flew into his mother, who didn’t expect it. She was caught off guard and lost momentum, and Albert took the chance. His clothes were almost gone, but his fighting spirit was as high as ever. He aimed for the head and focused, chipping his new rapier. But the blade’s damage was worth it because Albert struck true through the helmet, piercing the armored knight’s left eye. She screamed, kicking Albert away with a deadly fast combo that shattered his side before retreating with her son’s torso.    

“Heal! My son, heal yourself!” Slowly, the woman received a deadly spike from her armor to rejuvenate her eye.     

The bisection wasn’t fatal, but the Crowkin's bone armor was destroyed. A hundred innocent citizens were sacrificed to regenerate the damage, but the progress was slow-- their regeneration had limits. The warlord was already upon them. His mother threw him to safety and met the warlord in mortal combat, matching the mid-tier’s powerful blows that clashed like thundering booms.   

The ground was already dusty, and the impacts caused a blanket of tiny particles to vibrate upwards. Albert raced around and charged for the Crowkin. Now was the best time to end one of their problems.     

“I WON’T LET YOU KILL MY SON!”   

And I won’t let you hurt Albert!   

Merka would grit his teeth if he could. He channeled the dust and forced the particles to tightly lock around the armored knight. He didn’t have to stop her. Or even keep her still for a second.    

He just had to slow her, and Merka achieved his goal admirably, halting her amid a convergence move—a strike created by her preferred discipline to specifically jump ahead in a combo. Even being a heartbeat off destroyed the flow and ruined the momentum…   

Creating that specific, precise interruption offered the hesitation he needed.     

Albert raced around and headed for the Crowkin. His rapier was chipped, but the wounded armament could still pierce a heart and destroy a brain.    

Meanwhile, Nyxaris still channeled the mighty spell. The sword roared and surged forward with unstoppable force, slicing through the air with terrifying precision. It descended upon the giant undead like a vengeful wraith, cleaving through its monstrous form with a single, devastating strike, cutting deep into the ground.    

The earth was torn asunder by the awesome power belonging to the lesser lich’s otherworldly magic.  The fissure went on for a hundred feet, trampling everything in its path.     

“GGGGOOOAAAARRRHHHHHHHH!!!!!” The two halves of the giant beast began to fall—every corpse erupted in a unified, unsanctimonious roar…until fleshy tendrils bolted from one partition to the other. The force of one pulled on the other, and its regenerative prowess was showcased. In ten seconds, forty more tendrils had accelerated the process.   

If Nyxaris could smile…   

They would.    

Because the tide had changed…   

And the bell was toiling…   

Ring!   

Ring!   

Ring!   

Ring!