Chapter Nine: The Throne of the Fallen

As Oliver stepped through the massive gate, he entered a vast hall, its towering ceiling disappearing into the abyss above.

The air was heavy, thick with an ancient presence that pressed down on his very soul.

Torches burned with eerie blue flames along the black stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to breathe with unseen life.

At the far end of the hall, an empty throne sat upon an elevated platform. The craftsmanship was exquisite—made of a dark, obsidian-like stone, its armrests sculpted into the shape of clawed hands grasping at unseen prey.

The sight sent a chill down Oliver's spine.

Lining either side of the hall stood eight statues, positioned in rigid formation—four on the left, four on the right.

Each depicted a different warrior, carved with unsettling precision. They held weapons of various kinds: a mace, a spear, a greatsword, dual daggers, a bow, a halberd, a shield, and an axe.

Their stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked further inside.

Oliver's instincts flared. Something was wrong.

A deep grinding sound filled the hall.

Cracks formed along the statues' joints, dust shaking loose as they began to move.

Their stone bodies groaned under the weight of centuries, weapons raising in perfect synchronization. Then, as one, they attacked.

The first to attack was the spear-wielding statue, thrusting its weapon forward with terrifying precision.

Oliver dodged the attack, but before he could counter, the dagger-wielding statue slashed at his ribs, forcing him to twist away.

"They're fast," Oliver muttered, ducking beneath a sweeping greatsword strike. Too fast for statues.

He wove between their attacks, his body moving purely on instinct. His dagger struck out, but—

Clang!

The blade barely scratched the stone surface.

"Tch." His dagger was useless.

A mace-wielding statue swung at him from the right.

Oliver ducked, then stepped into the attack, grabbing the statue's outstretched arm and using its own momentum against it.

With a grunt, he heaved the massive figure over his shoulder and slammed it onto the stone floor. A loud crack echoed through the hall.

Without hesitation, Oliver pried the mace from the statue's grip.

"If my dagger won't work," he muttered, gripping his new weapon, "then I'll use theirs."

He swung down with brutal force, shattering the downed statue's head. One down.

The remaining seven did not falter. They moved in eerie unison, their attacks synchronized as if controlled by a single mind.

The spear-wielding statue lunged again. Oliver sidestepped, swinging the mace into its knee. Crack!

The joint splintered, making it stumble—just in time for Oliver to bring the mace down on its head.

The dual-dagger statue slashed wildly. Oliver dodged, waiting for the right moment before caving in its torso with a single, crushing blow.

The greatsword-wielding statue brought its weapon down in a heavy arc.

Oliver barely avoided it, rolling forward and coming up behind it before slamming his mace into the back of its neck.

The halberd statue swung in a deadly arc. Oliver parried the strike, forcing the weapon out of the statues hand into the air.

Oliver Caught it before cleaving through its torso.

The shield-bearing statue charged, aiming to slam into him. Instead, Oliver rolled to the side and swung low, shattering its legs before finishing it off.

The axe-wielding statue came next. Oliver was faster. He ducked under its swing, then hurled his mace at its head. The impact shattered its skull.

An arrow suddenly passed by Oliver's head as he shifted his head to the side.

It was the final statue—the bow-wielder—It loosed stone arrows one after another.

Oliver Moved.

He zigzagged to avoid the arrows, closing the distance in seconds. With a powerful swing, he brought the mace crashing down, obliterating it completely.

The hall fell silent.

Oliver exhaled heavily, catching his breath. But before he could relax, the temperature plummeted.

A suffocating chill seeped into his bones, carrying an unmistakable presence—

Death.

His gaze snapped forward.

In front of the throne, a dark flame erupted from nothingness.

The fire twisted and coiled, forming into a towering skeletal figure draped in a tattered black robe. Its hollow eye sockets burned with eerie, red light.

In one bony hand, it clutched a long golden scepter, crowned with a crimson gem that pulsed like a beating heart.

Oliver tensed.

"A Lich…"

Before he could react, the Lich raised its scepter.

A magic circle ignited in midair, glowing with shifting symbols.

Then—

FWOOOOSH!

A blast of black fire hurtled toward him.

Oliver barely had time to react—he threw up his stolen mace as a shield.

BOOM!

The impact obliterated the mace instantly and sent Oliver hurtling backward, slamming into the stone floor. Dust and debris scattered from the sheer force.

He gritted his teeth, flipping back onto his feet. He pulled out his dagger.

Then he dashed forward.

The Lich barely moved. It simply lifted its scepter, summoning another magic circle.

Dark flames. Cursed bolts. Shadow spikes.

Spell after spell tore through the air toward him.

Oliver dodged, rolled, and weaved between them, his body moving purely on instinct. But for every step forward, the Lich responded with another barrage, keeping him at bay.

It wasn't stopping.

And Oliver—

He was slowing down.

He had just fought a Razorbeak Crow, then eight statues, and now he was battling a Lich?

Its no surprise he would be low on stamina.

Then—

His foot dragged slightly on the stone.

A single mistake.

That the Lich didn't miss.

SCHLICK!

A dark spike erupted from the ground, piercing straight through his back and bursting out of his chest.

Oliver's eyes widened. A wet cough escaped his lips—blood splattering onto the floor.

His body trembled. He tried to move. Tried to fight back.

But—

FWOOOOOSH!

The last thing he saw was a wave of dark fire rushing toward him—

And then—

Everything burned.

******

Oliver's room was small yet comfortable, built like the other cabins within the village.

The wooden walls were reinforced with smooth stone at the edges, giving it a sturdy feel. The bed was simple, a firm mattress with a thin blanket draped over it—just enough for rest but not luxury. The only thing missing was warmth.

And then—

A ripple tore through reality.

It was silent. Subtle.

And in the next instant—

Oliver formed into existence on his bed.

The moment his body solidified, his eyes shot open. His breathing was ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum.

His hand gripped the blanket beneath him as if anchoring himself back into reality.

His mind raced, replaying the last moments before his death—the dark spike through his chest, the suffocating heat of the flames, the Lich's empty stare—

But they were gone.

Instead, he was here. In his room.

Oliver exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

Relief.

"At least there is no other undead around other than me."

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

Before inspecting his body.

"So that's how it worked."

Unyielding Rebirth didn't just revive him after 24 hours—it returned him to the place he was most familiar with.

That meant no matter where he died, he'd always end up back here or wherever he became familiar with.

"Good to know."

Without hesitation, Oliver summoned his status screen.

His gaze quickly scanned through the interface, stopping when he saw the time remaining for both trials.

"I wasted a day because of my revival."

He was down to three days to complete both his Main Trial and the Hidden Trial.

A lesser man might have panicked.

But Oliver?

He smirked.

Because he had already figured out how to handle them both.

End of Chapter Nine