8: Short chapter

The wind howled softly over the lonely island, where thick mists coiled around gnarled trees and black-stoned cliffs overlooked crashing waves. Far from their fallen continent, nestled deep within the heart of this eerie land, stood a mansion surrounded by fields newly tilled by the hands of children. It was old, grand, and unfamiliar—its architecture foreign even to the learned eyes of Ishlar Tondir. Yet, it was now their home, a sanctuary carved out of tragedy.

Days had passed since they escaped.

In the highest room of the mansion, the air was heavy with grief. Behind the locked door, Vanthelis Blackthorn lay curled on his side, his eyes red and hollow, lost in the silence of memory. Every breath was a battle, every heartbeat a reminder of what had been taken from him.

Tak-tak.

A knock came from the door.

"My lord, I'm coming in," Ishlar's voice rang with gentle urgency. He stepped into the room and saw Vanthelis, unwashed and gaunt, slumped in a corner. His eyes stared blankly, barely acknowledging his presence.

"It's been four days," Ishlar said, trying to steady his voice. "Please, come to your senses. Our clan needs you. We need someone to lead us."

Vanthelis turned his head, his expression blank. "Just be the clan leader," he whispered hoarsely.

Ishlar's hands curled into fists. "Enough of this."

He stormed forward and slapped Vanthelis across the face—not out of anger, but desperation. "Get up and train with us!" he shouted. "We're all hurting! But if you give up, then everything your father, your mother, our people died for—it's all for nothing!"

Then, pulling him up, Ishlar half-dragged the stunned Vanthelis down to the kitchen, where the children had laid out a modest meal. Plates of fruits, bread, and stew waited on the wooden table, slightly steaming.

"Sit," Ishlar commanded. "And... happy birthday."

The children began to sing—quietly, awkwardly, yet with genuine smiles. One of the younger girls held out a smooth black orb, its surface glimmering faintly in the candlelight.

"It's your birthday today. You're fifteen. That means today... you awaken."

Vanthelis looked at the orb, then at them. Their eyes sparkled with hope—hope he thought had died. His chest tightened.

Maybe...

Maybe he couldn't afford to grieve anymore.

He reached out and touched the orb.

At first, nothing happened. Then suddenly, a cold pulse shot through his arm, and the orb turned pitch-black. A low hum resonated in the room.

Ding!

System initializing…

Magic detected in host. WIII System Loading…

Name: Vanthelis Blackthorn

Race: Undead

Skills: None

Gold Coins: 0

To Build: Necropolis (Tier 1 Base)

Status: Undead Race Locked In. Other races unavailable.

A glowing blue screen appeared before Vanthelis's eyes—visible only to him. His heart pounded.

This… wasn't an ordinary awakening.

His mind raced. He remembered this. It wasn't from this world. This—this was the system from one of the games he used to play in his past life. Warcraft 3. The undead race was the only one unlocked, but the moment he saw "Necropolis," he knew.

He could build.

He could command.

He could rise again.

His lips curled into a slow, dark smile.

Vanthelis didn't say anything to the others. He simply turned and began to eat.

Something had awakened within him. Something greater than magic. A power born not just from bloodline—but from destiny.

And revenge.