"I've been waiting for you. Did you know that?"
As Asa jumped into the abyss of darkness that represented the Necromancer King, he heard these words. He froze.
It wasn't just the words that stunned him, though they alone were strange enough to stop him.
Grutt's earth-shattering arrow from the Phantom Devine Bow had torn through the tangible darkness, creating a rift for Asa to plunge into. He had steeled himself for whatever horrors lay within—for the monstrous terror that was the Necromancer King. But instead of any unspeakable nightmare, he only saw a young man in gray standing at the center, gazing at him blankly and speaking those words.
The surrounding blackness had already closed as a circle. Yet, at the very heart of this ultimate darkness—the very source of all the deathly miasma of the Sea of the Undead—there was no darkness at all.
There was nothing unusual here. The suffocating blackness merely formed a closed space around them. From the outside, it was an abyss deeper than the void itself. But inside, it was eerily calm—just like the eye of a storm. A space of pure, absolute tranquility, so still it felt almost like emptiness itself.
A figure clad entirely in gray stood at the very center of this abyss. A swirling mist of gray enveloped his body, shaping itself into a suit of armor. His expression and gaze were as hollow and empty as the space around him. Yet, aside from this eerie void-like presence, he did not seem particularly unusual—except for the black sword hilt in his hand.
A faint, nearly imperceptible aura extended from the hilt, linking him to the surrounding walls of darkness. It was this connection, this thread of abyssal energy, that marked him as the core of the Sea of the Undead—the legendary Necromancer King, said to bring ruin upon all. But in appearance, he hardly seemed fitting for such a title.
He was different now from when he had first appeared at the Glory Fortress. Not just in form, but in presence. There was no devouring abyssal blackness, no crushing terror that sent shudders through all living beings. All that remained was the same void-like emptiness that filled the space around him.
Perhaps this was the true essence of "death." The so-called horror, cruelty, and darkness—were they merely reflections of fear within the hearts of the living?
If not for the ominous aura still emanating from the black sword hilt, Asa might have thought this figure was nothing more than an illusion of emptiness. He found himself unable to summon the will to fight, as if a hunter who had steeled himself—mentally prepared, last words written, courage fully mustered—to slay a lion, only to find that his opponent was nothing more than a painted image.
It wasn't just a sensation of weightlessness—standing before this person, Asa felt a deep sense of emptiness. It seemed there was a black hole of emotions at where this figure stood, physically present yet utterly devoid of feeling. This void seemed to consume all of Asa's emotions, impulses, and motivations, leaving nothing behind.
"I knew you would come. So I have been waiting for you," the Necromancer King spoke, his voice hollow and devoid of inflection. "I can feel it now—everything is guided by fate. That is why I am here, waiting for fate to bring you to me."
"Fate? I've heard that word too many times, and each time it sounds more tedious than before. Especially now."
Asa's words were less of a reply and more of a muttered soliloquy. He had no interest in conversing with this opponent—whether he was the Necromancer King or anyone else. The moment he had charged in, he knew that those still outside were facing the necromancers. Every second that passed, warriors were dying by the dozens.
Words had always been merely a prelude. But what he needed now was not a prelude.
"No matter what you mean by fate, I only know one thing—I am here because I chose to come. And I came for an outcome."
Asa took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the endless void that surrounded him. It wasn't just air he inhaled—it felt as though he was drawing out the deepest essence of his will, his strength, and his very soul. With his blade raised, he pointed it at the figure who had become the Necromancer King.
"It's either you or me—one of us must die, and I don't care which. Now, show me this fate you speak of."
His voice had grown hoarse, not just from the strain of speech, but because every emotion, every ounce of power within him had surged to the surface, resonating through his body.
Whether it was because he had entered this space or because his resolve had reached its peak, the Ghost King's Robe had already fused tightly to his form. Every fiber seemed to merge with his very veins, becoming part of his body. From the outside, it no longer appeared to be an ordinary robe—jagged edges and protrusions emerged, like a beast finally revealing its claws and horns.
Perhaps it was the presence of this boundless emptiness, the impending confrontation with death, or the looming shadow of fate itself, but everything that had ever driven him now surged with greater intensity. In that instant, memories flashed vividly through his mind, connecting, fusing into an unshakable force.
I don't want to die. I refuse to die. You will die. This ends here.
A furious roar erupted from Asa's throat, tearing through the void like a jagged wound in space. In that instant, he became one with his blade and the robe upon his body, a streaking phantom surging toward the Necromancer King with all the force he had gathered. He would use real, tangible power to rip this seemingly hollow foe into oblivion.
Outside the void at the center, the darkness had begun to wane. Half of it was due to Grutt's devastating arrow; the other half came from the massive shadow that had soared into the fray from behind.
Strange, colossal notes resonated from this shadow, reverberating through the air—not in any recognizable language, yet more commanding and unfathomable than any speech. The vast desert, as if compressed into a small chamber, echoed with an endless chorus of these sounds. Unlike ordinary noise that would fade, these tones repeated, overlapping, building upon themselves.
Within this once lightless space, where the oppressive black mist had dominated, countless tiny blue sparks flickered to life. The remaining allied soldiers collapsed to the ground, clutching their heads in agony, rolling and groaning under the crushing weight of the sound. Only a handful could still stand amidst the overwhelming waves of resonance.
In the distance, the oncoming tide of undead had come to a complete halt, their bodies unraveling in the presence of this vast and ancient voice.
At the heart of the Sea of the Undead, no elemental magic had ever been able to fight against the suffocating death energy of the Black Star. The dark mist had swallowed not only life but also the very essence of magic itself. Even the grand mages of the allied forces found their spellcasting abilities reduced to a level inferior to that of ordinary mages in this place.
Yet now, this incantation flowed freely, unfettered, eroding the black energy with each reverberation, forcing it to retreat toward the deepest core of darkness.
"Moriel…? Master Sandru, you really went through with it…"
The flames in Vadenina's eye sockets flickered violently, like candles in a raging storm, on the verge of being snuffed out. The moment she saw that figure, she understood exactly what had happened.
Only the Dragon Note Magic of an ancient dragon could break through the Black Star's barrier like this. And there was only one dragon on the entire continent capable of such a feat—the Black Dragon Princess Moriel, whom Akibard had sealed beneath Nigen.
The necromancers behind the lich showed no reaction. Their faces were blank, even more emotionless than the undead lich herself. With the Necromancer King so close to Dehya Valley, the blade of the Black Star was fully activated now. The imprint of the Black Star within them had been activated. Their rational minds were completely subdued, leaving them as beings caught between corpse and liches—between the living and the dead.
This was the unavoidable fate of necromancers—the path Akibard had set for them. Yet at the final moment, Sandru had chosen another path.
The lich suddenly turned, the flames in her eyes flaring intensely. The dark dragon beneath her opened its massive maw, spewing an overwhelming torrent of green corpse fire down at Grutt and the others below.
But the flames barely made it halfway before they halted. The reverberating sounds in the air ceased abruptly.
The countless blue sparks scattered in the space all surged toward the green corpse fire and the dark dragon. In the next instant, the spewing flames froze midair, and then, all at once, both the green fire and the colossal dragon began to collapse.
With an ear-piercing shriek, the lich and the remaining necromancers leaped to the ground. By the time they landed, the dark dragon had disintegrated into countless fragments, vanishing into the void. Not even the suffocating aura of the Black Star surrounding them could preserve its form.
"Is this the soul of Landa that got imprisoned within the Black Star? Your spell is making me a little sentimental, little lich girl…"
In the blink of an eye, the black dragon had arrived. Her massive form shrank and morphed rapidly as she landed, and by the time her feet touched the ground, she had transformed into a black-clad woman with a cascade of fiery red hair. She glanced at the lich and the necromancers behind her, then gave a casual nod.
"For a human, you're quite strong," she remarked. "In terms of magical power, you're probably just a step below Akibard. But I have no fondness for the undead—so all of you can just go die."
Even though the effects of the Dragon Note Magic had faded, Moriel's voice still carried the overwhelming majesty of a dragon. Most of the allied soldiers still struggled to rise to their feet. The orcs, in particular—even the strongest among them, the ogres—now cowered like frightened rabbits. They had faced endless undead without fear, but now, they trembled. It was a primal instinct—an animal's terror in the presence of an overwhelmingly superior predator.
"Spare me your pathetic jokes. Your dragon's might has no effect on us."
Among the undead, only the lich and a handful of necromancers remained unfazed. Even with their dark dragon crushed and faced with the most powerful living being on the continent, Vadenina let out a hooting, owl-like laugh.
"In the presence of the great Undead King, even you are nothing."
"The Undead King? You mean this thing?" Moriel turned to glance at the mass of darkness. Then she laughed.
"You think anyone holding the hilt of the Black Star can be called the Undead King?"
She turned to Grutt and grinned.
"Come on, kid. Show me how much you've improved. First, let's clean up these crawling skeletons—then we'll go rip that guy's head off together."