Massacre

Alazaar led the way, his tattered cloak flowing behind him like a whisper of undeath, Lucien trailing just behind in his enchanted bone-forged wheelchair. The skeletal construct lumbered beside him in silence, every step it took echoing with grim purpose. Lucien kept his eyes on the shambling corpses around them—zombies, skeletons, ghouls—all keeping their distance from the archlich. Yet every so often, one wandered too close, and in an instant, it crumbled into dust under the crushing pressure of Alazaar's aura. Even now, the weight of his presence was staggering.

They passed through the rear exit of the catacombs and into a dense forest. Lucien felt it instantly. The shift in atmosphere.

Years within the catacombs had attuned him to death—the rot, the cold, the ever-present hum of necrotic energy. But here? The air was fresh. Alive. It felt like breathing for the first time again.

The trees were tall and wide, their ancient trunks wrapped in moss and twisted roots. Birds chirped above. Butterflies floated lazily between flowers. Rabbits scurried across their path, and deer grazed in the underbrush. It was eerily familiar—fragments of Earth in a world long since claimed by gods and monsters.

Alazaar paused at a clearing.

"A goblin tribe has settled nearby," he said. "They use my presence as a deterrent to predators. I've let them be—until now."

He turned his head, skeletal jaw unmoving, eyes gleaming with cold intellect.

"We made no pact. No contract. I owe them nothing. Let's test your creation."

He pointed to a crude encampment tucked behind wooden barricades. It was a makeshift defense—leather tents, spiked walls of scavenged wood and bone, crude watchtowers. Goblins milled about—short, wiry creatures with greenish-grey skin, long pointed ears, and eyes like red beads gleaming under heavy brows. Their armor was piecemeal—scraps of leather, bone, and whatever they could scavenge—and their weapons were jagged and crude.

"There were twenty-three," Alazaar muttered. "Now I count thirty. A full nest."

Lucien's eyes lit up. He looked toward the camp, then to his construct. A thrill pulsed in his veins.

Lucien, bore the ethereal look of a child shaped in a character creator — thin, long-limbed, and delicate, with a small round face framed by soft locks of silver-white hair. His pale skin almost glowed under natural light, giving him an angelic appearance that could draw double takes. And yet, his silver-blue eyes were piercing, intelligent, and unsettling in their focus — the eyes of someone far older within. There was a strange contrast between the cherubic softness of his form and the dark magic he so effortlessly wielded.

"Time to roleplay," he whispered, adjusting himself with effort.

He crossed his tiny legs, placed his small hands on them, tilted his head slightly, and attempted a smug smile that looked more adorable than intimidating.

"Kill them for me," he ordered with all the smugness of a noble-born tyrant.

The construct responded with a howl—a chilling, unnatural sound imbued with dark and divine power. It bolted forward with terrifying speed, faster than Lucien anticipated—almost like a motorbike tearing through the woods.

The goblins heard the roar. Alarm spread. Warriors with clubs and swords rushed to the barricades. Soldiers with spears braced for the charge. Archers scrambled into place atop rickety towers.

But it was already too late.

The beast leapt.

Spears shattered against the infused bone. Claws ripped through flesh like parchment. Goblins screamed as the chimera carved a bloody path, scattering limbs like leaves in a storm.

Behind the frontline, more goblins surged in. They attacked with crude weapons—clubs cracked bone, swords chipped at ribs—but the damage healed almost instantly. Regeneration kicked in, repairing cracks and splinters before the goblins could even cheer.

The archers? Powerless. Their arrows bounced off, ineffective. They could only watch, trembling, as their brothers were butchered.

And with every death—

> +5 Soul Points: [Lvl 5 Goblin Soldier] Killed. 

> +5 Soul Points: [Lvl 5 Goblin Warrior] Killed. 

> +5 Soul Points: [Lvl 5 Goblin Archer] Killed.

Again and again. Dozens of popups. Soul Points ticking up like a rising tide.

The creature was unstoppable.

Within five minutes, the camp was silent. Bodies lay twisted in the dirt. Blood soaked the grass. The construct stood over the dead—its ivory bones dyed crimson, green fire burning in its sockets.

Then it howled. A victorious, deafening cry that echoed across the woods.

Alazaar stood with one hand to his chin, watching with narrowed eyes.

"Efficient. Durable. Bloodthirsty," he murmured. "Hmm. I wonder how it would fare against... no, not yet."

Lucien, still seated, was speechless.

It wasn't a game.

The horror, the screams, the gore—it was all real. He had caused it. Commanded it.

He looked up at the chimera. It stared back with sockets glowing with an ethereal green light, like ghostfire behind bone.

He forced a smirk, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Excellent," he said, as the Soul Points kept rolling in.