Chapter 14: The Beginning Of The End_3

The air was thick with the scent of death.

In the deepest reaches of the Swamp of Despondency, where light had long since abandoned its post, a necromancer stood amidst his unholy work. His form was shrouded in shadows that refused to settle, writhing like a living thing, twisting and curling to obscure his true body. No face, no hands—only a mass of shifting black, an entity that should not exist.

The figure standing amidst the carnage wasn't human.

It may have been, once.

But what now remained was something else entirely—a grotesque, shifting enigma draped in the tattered remains of what might have once been a robe. His very presence defied reality, his body refusing to settle into a single, discernible shape.

Darkness clung to him like a second skin—not the mere absence of light, but a tangible, living thing, writhing and curling in ceaseless motion. His silhouette flickered, shifting from thin to broad, from humanoid to something far less recognizable, like an entity caught between countless forms, its identity slipping between the cracks of existence.

And then there was his face.

Or rather, the lack of it.

There were no eyes. No nose. No mouth. No flesh to speak of.

Where a face should have been, there was only an amorphous abyss, an empty, gaping void that swirled like ink in water. Shadows bled from it like an open wound, seeping into the air, devouring the space around him in a silent, insatiable hunger.

And yet, somehow… he spoke.

A voice that was not one voice.

It was many.

A chaotic, overlapping chorus of whispers, screams, and guttural growls, all speaking at once, blending into a cacophony that shouldn't be possible. Some voices were soft, seductive murmurs dripping with venomous amusement. Others were hoarse and broken, like dying men gasping out their final words.

But beneath them all…

A deeper voice lurked.

A voice so low, so inhuman, it seemed to rumble from the depths of something far older than time itself. It was not speech. It was the absence of silence.

And when it spoke, the very air shuddered.

His body—if it could be called that—was obscured by a tattered cloak of unnatural fabric, black as a starless void, the edges moving as if caught in an unseen current. Strange, runic symbols glowed faintly along its hem, flickering in and out of visibility, their meanings lost to time.

Yet beneath the shifting veil of shadows, things moved.

Things that shouldn't.

At times, fingers—too long, too thin, ending in curved, jagged claws—emerged from the darkness before retreating once more. At other moments, glimpses of rib-like protrusions pressed against his shifting form, as if his very skeleton was moving beneath his skin, rearranging itself in unnatural ways.

And then there was his laughter.

Twisted. Warped. Wrong.

It began as a slow, breathy exhalation, like wind whistling through hollow bones. Then it grew—building and splitting into multiple tones, an orchestra of amusement and hysteria, rising and falling in discordant waves.

It wasn't the laughter of a man.

It was the laughter of something pretending to be one.

And yet, his madness was not without purpose.

He was a necromancer, but not the kind whispered about in fearful bedtime stories. Not the kind that merely desecrated graves and commanded corpses.

No.

He was something much worse.

A true necromancer.

One who did not simply control death—but nurtured it.

He did not summon the dead.

He created them.

And the proof of his artistry surrounded him.

The trees wept blood.

The earth pulsed with stolen life.

And deep below, where the light dared not reach, something stirred. Something he had made.

Something that had not yet been born.

And when it rose, when it broke free of its cocoon, when it took its first breath—

The world would never be the same.

His breath hitched in gasping, shuddering intervals, his chest heaving, his shoulders quaking, pure, unfiltered euphoria coursing through his trembling body.

It was working.

Before him, a pulsating, rounded mass of purplish flesh—somewhere between a tumor and a heart—throbbed, feeding on the land itself. Thick, gnarled tree roots, blackened and bloated, had wrapped themselves around it, pulsing in rhythm, pumping life into something that should never have been born. The ground itself was transparent, revealing the monstrous heart buried beneath.

An orb, vast beyond measure, lay in the deep, like the gestating egg of a god. Its surface quivered as something inside stirred, each ripple sending waves of unnatural power through the air.

A moan of ecstasy tore from the necromancer's throat.

"Yes… Yes… Awaken! Stir from your slumber!"

He let his head fall back, his laughter warped and twisted, neither fully human nor beast, as if something else was laughing through him. His limbs shook, his entire being quivering with anticipation, lost in his intoxicating creation.

And then… the explosion.

A sudden, violent rupture in the air. The ground convulsed. The trees bent backward, their trunks snapping like brittle bones.

The forest screamed.

The sky itself shuddered.

And amidst it all… The necromancer sighed in disappointment.

-Is that really the end to it? Was that one of the most feared beings- An arch duke?-

The necromancer felt betrayed. He had been warned to avoid anyone above marquis-level, but it felt like an exaggeration. His master had overestimated their enemies. He was going to brag of his exploits, especially to Giselle. Ahhh, Giselle a woman after his heart, a woman he had sought after. The only one who had truly brought out the good in him then broke him.

"I should have killed that bitch." He said as he looked at the sky in thought. "Never mind. I could find her after I am done with this mission.". He needed to find his runaway bride. The very thought excited him,

A single drop.

A warm, thick drop rolled down his cheek.

His laughter stopped.

Another drop followed. Then another.

Drip.

Drip.

Slowly, his clawed fingers reached up, touching the liquid. His mind, fogged with bliss, was slow to register the sensation. But when he pulled his hand away bride. The sheer excitement excuding through his body, his bride was coming home.

Red.

His glee curdled.

His smile twitched.

The necromancer raised his head, his eyes narrowing, his breath catching in his throat.

It was raining.

No.

Not rain.

Blood.

Thick. Warm. Fresh.

It cascaded from the canopy above in slow, deliberate drops, the trees weeping crimson tears onto the defiled land below. The scent was overpowering—the rich, metallic tang of slaughter, soaking the soil, seeping into the earth like ink into paper.

His gaze drifted upward.

And then he saw it.

His decorations.

A hundred souls.

Men, women, children.

The remains of an entire village, twisted into an orchestra of suffering.

Their bodies were strung like broken marionettes, dangling from the branches by strands of sinew and skin. Their faces—frozen in their final moments—were twisted into masks of unspeakable agony. Some had been gutted, their insides spilling like overripe fruit. Others had been impaled, their bodies nailed to the trees with jagged, splintering spikes of bone and wood.

And the children…

The children were the worst.

Small, fragile forms fused into the bark itself. Their little hands reached outward, their mouths parted in soundless pleas. Some were missing faces. Others had been peeled apart, their ribs blooming open like grotesque flowers. Their broken bones had been woven into the trees, their bodies reduced to nothing more than extensions of the cursed forest.

A shudder ran through the necromancer's body.

His breath hitched.

This… this was his masterpiece.

So why?

Why did it suddenly feel so insignificant?

Why did it suddenly feel so… wrong?

His lips parted, but before a sound could escape—

A voice.

"Yes… Quite cruel indeed."

His entire body froze.

The air itself turned solid, suffocating.

Every instinct, every fiber of his being screamed in warning, in terror, in some deep, primal fear that had been buried in the marrow of mankind since the dawn of time.

Slowly—ever so slowly—he turned his head.

A figure approached.

The necromancer's eyes widened.

The forest was dark. The night was deep.

Then why… why was it morning?

The light, cold and merciless, bled into the darkness like the breath of an awakening dawn. And at its center…

A man.

No.

A beast in human skin.

Long, silver-gray hair cascaded past his shoulders. His eyes—void of pupils, two endless orbs of radiant white—pierced through the unnatural dawn like a gaze from beyond death. His lips curled, baring fangs too sharp, too wicked, too wrong. His nails, elongated into something neither claw nor talon, twitched at his sides.

But the most unsettling thing of all?

He was clean.

His black butler's suit was immaculate. Not a single wrinkle, not a single drop of blood—untouched.

As if none of this had ever happened.

Each step he took was slow. Deliberate. Inevitable.

The necromancer's breath hitched.

This… this isn't right.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

This wasn't what was supposed to happen!

His body began shaking. His hands clutched at his throat, his breath ragged, erratic.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to wake up.

"Ahhh… Ahhh, I… I understand now…"

His lips trembled as the words slipped from his mouth, unbidden.

His tears fell freely now.

Not in joy.

Not in madness.

Not in pleasure.

In fear.

Pure, unfiltered, mind-shattering fear.

A fear that had only one name.

Archduke.

And for the first time since his descent into madness…

He felt fear

He...

...wept.

******Flashback: Three days before the destruction of the town**********

The village was alive.

Nestled on the outskirts of the Swamp of Despondency, it was a small but thriving settlement, its people hardened by the wild lands yet warm of heart. Lanterns swung gently from wooden posts, casting a golden glow along the cobbled streets. Children laughed, running between stalls as merchants called out their wares—freshly baked bread, dried meats, and herbal remedies gathered from the edge of the great forest.

The scent of firewood and roasted game filled the air, blending with the subtle perfume of wildflowers that sprouted defiantly between cracks in the earth. It was a place of simple joys. A place where hearts were open and strangers were greeted as friends.

And among its people, few were as beloved as the hunting party of four.

They strode into the forest's edge with the ease of men who had done this a thousand times before.

The eldest, Hale, was a towering figure with broad shoulders and a laugh that shook the very air. His beard, streaked with the first hints of silver, was the only sign of his age. His heart, however, remained young.

"Ahh, you smell that?" Hale grinned, inhaling deeply. "Fresh air, a clear sky—a perfect day for the hunt!"

"A perfect day for you to miss another shot, old man," Joren, the second in line, teased. He was lean and wiry, his dark hair cropped short, his emerald eyes filled with mischief.

Hale roared with laughter. "Bold words from the man who once mistook a rabbit for a bear cub!"

The group erupted into chuckles as Amon, the quietest among them, shook his head with a smile. "It was getting dark," he defended, adjusting the strap of his quiver. "Anyone could have made that mistake."

"Anyone blind, maybe!" the youngest, Renlo, snickered, nudging Amon playfully. Barely in his twenties, he was the newest member of the hunting team, full of boundless energy and an almost annoying amount of optimism.

Despite their teasing, there was nothing but love between them.

Hunting wasn't just a job—it was a bond. A tradition. They shared what they caught, ensuring no family went hungry. They built their homes together, watched over one another's children, and, when the cold nights came, they drank by the fire and laughed until dawn.

They were brothers in everything but blood.

The thickets grew denser, marking the boundary between the safe hunting grounds and the true wilds. The Swamp of Despondency loomed beyond, its trees twisted into unnatural shapes, their roots curling like the grasping fingers of the dead. Mist slithered through the undergrowth, whispering as it moved.

They never stepped beyond this point.

Not out of fear. But because this land was not theirs to claim.

The orcs of the Xōchipilli Tribe called it home—proud warriors, bound by strict laws of honor. They never attacked unprovoked, and the villagers, in turn, never trespassed. An unspoken peace had existed for generations.

Still, something felt different today.

The birds had gone silent.

The wind had stilled.

And then—

A sound.

A rustling in the bushes just beyond their clearing. Something—or someone—was there.

Amon raised a hand, signaling the others to stop. The four exchanged glances, their teasing forgotten.

"Hale," Joren whispered, gripping his bow. "What do you think?"

Hale frowned. No animal moved like that. Too deliberate. Too hesitant.

A survivor from another village? A lost traveler?

"...Who's there?" he called. His voice was firm but gentle.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

She stepped into the light.

A woman.

Thin. Pale. Barefoot, her clothes in tatters, her long black hair sticking to her face, slick with sweat and grime.

Her eyes, wild and desperate, flickered between them. She took a trembling step forward, her lips parting, her voice hoarse from screaming.

"Please... help me."