Dullahan

Time had a strange rhythm in the graveyard.

Lucien sat near a cracked headstone, watching his skeletal archers cycle through training routines. Shields raised. Arrows loosed. Formation shifts. Again and again. His mastery ticked higher with each rep—small gains, but gains nonetheless.

He rotated his wrist, channeling commands. His attention flickered between status windows and the low hum of mana rippling through the undead soldiers. Dark Aura remained active, subtly empowering their movements.

Behind him, the crypt door creaked open.

Alazaar's silhouette emerged—a towering figure framed by grave fog and torchlight. He moved with purpose.

"Lucien," the lich said, voice smooth as aged bone. "I have results."

Lucien turned, eyeing him. "That sounded less than enthusiastic."

Alazaar tilted his skull. "Because it is."

He stepped forward. "I've finished my initial experiments. The sword… I am not confident the body will survive it."

Lucien's brows furrowed. "So it's useless?"

"No," Alazaar replied, gesturing with a skeletal hand. "Follow me. There is something else."

Lucien sighed, disappointed but intrigued. With a wave, he unsummoned the skeletal troops. The mana threads snapped in a faint shimmer.

He followed Alazaar back through the crypt's gaping doors. Down the steps. Through the hall. Into the center chamber.

There, on the stone floor, the general's corpse lay fully unbound. The ancient wrappings had been peeled back, exposing the full length of bone and withered flesh. The body's surface was blackened—not burned, but tainted, as if shadow had soaked into marrow.

Dark smoke-like energy bled off the remains, drifting in curling tendrils. The bones pulsed faintly with an inner glow, ethereal and wrong.

The skeleton was clearly detached from the head. Beheaded before sealing—why, Alazaar couldn't say for certain. But he had formed some conclusions.

"This man," Alazaar began, studying the remains, "was not a demon, as I initially suspected. He was human."

Lucien's gaze flicked to the headless form. "Human? Then the corruption?"

"Exposure," Alazaar said. "He spent a long time within demonic lands—lands likely ruled by high-ranking demons. The foul energy clinging to his bones isn't native. It was… absorbed. Saturated over time."

Lucien took a slow breath, absorbing the implication.

"The sealing," Alazaar added, voice quieter, "was likely voluntary. Not a punishment—but containment. To prevent whatever transformation was beginning… or already underway."

"So is the body useless?" Lucien asked.

"No… far from it," Alazaar said. "Although it may not be able to handle the power of the sword, this body harbors quite the resentment—most notably toward demons."

Lucien tilted his head. "And that matters?"

"Necromancy and resentment are quite compatible," Alazaar replied, eyes narrowing. "It could be used to create a very high-level undead being."

Lucien's pulse quickened. So it wasn't a waste of SP after all. His disappointment gave way to rising excitement.

"But…" he paused, brows furrowing again, "what about a catalyst? I don't want to waste such a good body by using a low-level catalyst."

Alazaar chuckled, a hollow, echoing sound. "That is where the good news starts. We may not have to look far for a suitable catalyst."

Alazaar extended his hand. From a side pedestal, the detached blackened skull floated through the air and landed gently into his outstretched palm.

"Try this," he said. "Use the head as the catalyst."

Lucien's eyes widened. "The head?"

Alazaar nodded. "If what I suspect is correct, it could work. The body is a high-tier material. If the resentment and integrity are strong enough, the head may suffice as a catalyst."

Lucien hesitated, doubt flickering in his expression. But curiosity—and excitement—overwhelmed it.

There wasn't a reason to wait. He needed to try.

Even if it was impossible.

Lucien, without wasting time, opened the Necroforge interface. To his surprise, a soft tone chimed and a new prompt appeared: "Materials detected."

The screen populated with the image of the corpse, each section glowing faintly. He dragged the body icon into the appropriate boxes, piece by piece—torso, limbs, armor fragments. Only the catalyst box remained.

He looked at the skull in Alazaar's hand.

Without hesitation, Lucien dragged the icon for the skull into the catalyst slot.

Then he tapped [FORGE].

A thunderous crack split the chamber.

Green necrotic fire erupted from the ritual circle beneath the floor, swallowing the laid-out corpse. More flame burst upward from Alazaar's palm, engulfing the skull. Yet the lich stood unmoved, unfazed, merely observing.

The air shimmered with power. The forge had begun.

The ritual circle pulsed violently—mana thrummed like a heartbeat echoing through the stones. The flames coiled tighter, spinning into a cyclone of necrotic energy that roared like a dying god.

Symbols etched into the chamber walls ignited one by one, ancient language pulsing with brilliance as the Necroforge drained energy from the surroundings.

Then, silence.

The flames began to die down, retreating inward. The swirl of green smoke calmed, and from the center of the circle, a figure emerged.

It stepped forward slowly, rising from the simmering flames.

A skeleton, but unlike any Lucien had ever summoned.

Taller than Alazaar, nearly two meters in height, and broader than most warriors in life. The bones were pitch black, etched with faint demonic scarring and oozing black smoke as if the corruption was alive and still resisting its imprisonment.

Where its neck should have been, a pillar of constant green fire burst upward—ceaseless, crackling like a cursed beacon. And within that fire, the skull floated, its hollow sockets glowing with brilliant green flames of their own.

The being was magnificent. Even Alazaar let out a soft sound of satisfaction.

Then the undead stepped forward.

It turned its head slightly, scanning its surroundings. Its posture shifted—not idle, not robotic.

Conscious.

The skeleton's jaw opened, voice deep and ragged from disuse.

"Where am I… and who are you?"

> [Inspect] 

> [Dullahan General – Tier: High] 

> HP: 3200 

> CON: 187 

> STR: 202 

> DEX: 148 

> INT: 55 

> WIS: 50 

> CHA: – 

> Traits: Resentment, Sentient, Headbound Catalyst (if head destroyed, summon ends), Hates Demons, Killing Intent, Martial Prowess

Lucien stared at the status window in stunned silence.

Those stats… they were ridiculous. Even without mana infusion.

But what stood out the most—what truly gave him pause—were the INT and WIS values. Every summon he'd made so far, every undead he had seen—apart from Alazaar—had never surpassed 1 in either stat unless directly boosted by mana infusion. Yet this one stood tall, glowing with a mind of its own.

He glanced at the Dullahan, then back at the screen.

"Huh," Lucien muttered, almost to himself. "Could this be the reason for its sentience?"

The Dullahan stepped forward again.

"I asked… Who are you… and where am I?"

Lucien blinked, still slightly flustered, unsure how to respond.

Alazaar, seeing his hesitation, took a step forward. His voice was calm and steady.

"You are in a crypt that borders between the Prava and Aurelloux Kingdoms," he said. "As for who we are… I am Alazaar. And this young mortal is your savior."

The newly born Dullahan tilted his head and looked at Lucien. "Savior?" he asked.

"Yes," Alazaar replied. "He found your corpse, corrupted by a surprising amount of foul energy—"

Before Alazaar could finish, flashes began to flood the Dullahan's mind. Images of war and death, steel clashing with magic. Humans and demons locked in brutal combat. Screaming children. Burning villages. Kingdoms collapsing beneath demonic hordes.

A low rumble escaped the Dullahan's hollow chest. Then a roar—guttural, violent, filled with rage.

Green energy exploded from his body, rattling the walls of the crypt.

"Those damned demons..." he growled, his voice echoing like thunder. "I will kill them all."

Alazaar's expression didn't change, but his tone grew more clinical.

"Your corpse was riddled with demonic corruption," he explained, stepping closer to the Dullahan. "Your body had been eroded—twisted by dark exposure. But Lucien's Necroforge... it did something unique."

He turned to Lucien, nodding slightly.

"His power subdued the rampant corruption. Instead of purging it, the forge adapted it—subdued it. The demonic taint did not resist. It settled. Integrated. It became yours."

The Dullahan looked at his hands, flexing the bony fingers slowly. He lifted his gaze.

"And what of my king… my kingdom? The Myridian Kingdom?"

Alazaar paused. "Oh my..."

He tilted his head, studying the Dullahan anew. "I had suspected your corpse was ancient—but not this ancient."

"I'm afraid, general," he said slowly, "your kingdom fell to the constant attacks of demonkind. As for the last king of your people... it ended at King Erevard the III."

The Dullahan slumped. "...I see. Erevard… such a young boy became king while this old man was gone…"

Alazaar looked at the general. "...Yes, so it would seem. Erevard the III went down in history as a tragic hero… a king born in the wrong time, but a hero who halted the demonic march at the cost of his life and kingdom. His sacrifice dealt devastating damage to their numbers—forcing the demons to retreat and lick their wounds. A decisive moment for humankind."

The Dullahan looked up. "Really?"

Alazaar nodded.

"...Then I have no complaints…"

He turned to Lucien, who had remained quiet throughout.

"And so… this young mortal found me and rid me of that demonic filth…"

He stepped forward and knelt.

"I am Volkar, High General of the Myridian Kingdom… Was."

He paused.

"Lord Lucien, please allow this old general to serve you…!"

Lucien looked at the kneeling Dullahan offering his loyalty. He told Volkar to rise and said he would be honored to have such a renowned general lead his legions.

But Volkar did not rise.

His gaze remained fixed to the floor.

Lucien tilted his head. "Is something wrong?"

Volkar's voice came low, like a storm barely restrained. "I do have one request, my Lord... To aid you in destroying every last one of those wretched demons who dared set foot on this world."

Lucien's eyes gleamed. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"General Volkar," he said, voice solemn and sure, "you have my word. Every demon will regret ever existing. And you will be the one leading my armies when the time comes."

Volkar slammed his fist to the floor, the sound echoing like thunder through the crypt. "Thank you, my lord!" he shouted, rising with a newfound weight behind his voice. His skeletal hand crossed his chest in a fierce salute, green fire flaring around his neck where his skull hovered in eternal flame.

Alazaar turned, his robes sweeping behind him. "Now that it's settled... follow me, General. If you are to command again, you must *look* the part."

Volkar looked to Lucien for approval, his flaming eyes bright with anticipation. Lucien gave a silent nod. The Dullahan followed.

When they returned minutes later, Volkar's presence had changed entirely.

His armor had been reforged—an obsidian exoskeleton bristling with jagged edges and demonic etchings. Plates of ancient black steel layered over him like the carapace of some long-dead war god. His towering frame now radiated killing intent, and emerald flames licked the air from the helm-shaped void around his neck where his skull floated like a ghostly crown.

In his hand, he now carried a colossal halberd—its darkened blade etched with runes that shimmered faintly with green flame. The weapon seemed to hum with ancient malice, resonating with his fury.

The room went still.

Volkar's aura filled the chamber with weight.

A general reborn in wrath and fire.

And with him, centuries of hatred—focused like a blade toward one singular purpose.

Annihilation. Of every demon that still drew breath.