"Very well, it's decided," Charles concluded. "Now let's discuss team assignments. I'll handle the necromancer. What about the rest of you?"
"My toxins are ineffective against undead," Sephera stated. "I'll deal with the priest."
"I can go either way," Ruth began, then caught Charles' meaningful look and amended, "Though a necromancer controlling undead hordes requires immediate decapitation. Given my expertise, I should accompany Mr. Charles."
All three pairs of eyes turned to Nidalee. "And you?"
Nidalee hesitated. "I..."
She realized she had no real choice. Part of her desperately wanted to assault the necromancer's quarters - the Holy Sword Fragment was likely there, being used in some blasphemous necromantic experiment...
But as a druid, she couldn't find justification for this preference. Taking a deep breath, she reluctantly nodded. "Then... I'll join Miss Sephera against the priests."
Teams assigned, they moved without delay. Nidalee shapeshifted into a leopard, charging the western door with Sephera, while Ruth extended a hand, her nails shimmering with magical energy as she slashed at the wooden door—
CRASH—
The door gave way more easily than expected. What greeted them was a wave of putrid stench so thick it was nearly tangible.
"Ugh—!"
Charles grimaced, unable to believe this was a necromancer's workspace.
What the hell? Why this stench?
Properly preserved corpses should be odorless!
Undead made from rotting flesh would have terrible longevity!
Why would...
"UGH—!"
His face twisted further. He deeply regretted lacking a mask. This was his oversight - after all, who remembered environmental details like "overpowering corpse stench" when rushing dungeon instances in games?
No time for complaints. Gritting his teeth, he peered inside.
The room was shrouded in darkness. He cast Light to illuminate the path ahead, and immediately, his eyes fell upon dried black-red trails of blood streaking the ground—a sight so horrifying it chilled the bone.
Following the trails deeper, he saw them: near the basement entrance, several humans, dwarves, and gnomes bound by coarse ropes, their faces blank, as if shattered by unbearable agony into mere husks of their former selves.
In truth, most were already dead. Those still clinging to life had their arms or legs severed—some reduced to limbless torsos, driven to madness by relentless torture!
These were clearly victims captured by the hobgoblins, offered as experiments to the necromancer. Seeing their mutilated forms, Charles felt his heart tremble, then a surge of grief and rage so fierce his vision burned crimson.
Every soul in this castle deserved death.
Gritting his teeth, he knew even the survivors were beyond saving. He and Ruth ignored them, charging down into the basement.
Though no light pierced the room above, oil lamps flickered along the basement walls, casting a dim glow. As they sprinted forward, a wave of putrid decay assaulted their senses—so vile Charles nearly retched.
But soon, nausea was forgotten. For there, in the center of the cramped basement, stood a monstrosity beyond nightmares.
A hulking undead monster, three to four meters tall. Its torso wasn't that of an ogre or other giantkin, but a grotesque patchwork of stitched-together corpses—humans, dwarves, and other creatures fused into a single abomination.
Atop its mass sat a halfling's head, its skull pried open. Several foreign brains connected via repulsive wires to the halfling's own, amplifying its twisted cognition.
Its body bore not just its original arms, but six additional limbs crudely sutured on, each gripping rusted weapons: kitchen knives, blades—all ready for battle.
Its legs, however, remained just two—thick, dwarven stumps reinforced with grafted bones to support its bloated weight.
Staring at this horror, Charles's face darkened.
Abomination.
A nightmarish stitched corpse monster, typically found only in high-level map.
Reality, it seemed, diverged from games. In dungeons, nameless necromancers raised mere zombies and skeletons—but this Dark Elf mage had grander ambitions.
"Ah, what a perfect creation!"
A theatrically smooth voice rang out. Charles looked up to see a Dark Elf male—long, slender ears, obsidian skin—step from behind the abomination.
His face twisted with revolting fervor as he turned to Charles. "You must agree, no? Behold! It combines the finest organs of humans, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings, yet discards their greatest flaw: disloyalty."
"Thus, it becomes the ultimate weapon—obedient, lethal. Well? Don't you think so?"
Charles's answer was a spit. "Ruth—kill him."
For a necromancer this vile, death was the only dialogue.
Beside him, Ruth moved. In a flash, she darted past the hulking guy, blades aimed at the necromancer—
Whoosh.
The elf dissolved into mist, evading her strike, his true form reappearing near a small door in the corner. "Tsk. Must you be so crude? Elegance, please."
"Now, Mimi—dance for our uninvited guests!"
He called out as if summoning a pet. With his command, the massive abomination let out a series of yowls, eerily akin to a cat in heat—"Rrraaagh!"
The creature roared, then pivoted with surprising agility for its bloated body, swinging a rusted cleaver straight at Ruth's head!
The basement was cramped, leaving little room to dodge—but Ruth was undeterred. Unfazed by the filth and blood beneath her, her petite frame rolled toward the wall, baiting the abomination's blade into striking stone—
Clang!
Metal met brick. Seizing the moment of recoil-induced stiffness, Ruth lunged again at the necromancer—
But the Dark Elf was ready. With a flick of his wrist, he completed an incantation: "Vortex Warp!"
Bzzzt—
A surge of magic twisted the space around Ruth. This time, she couldn't evade. A spatial vortex swallowed her, spitting her out directly beneath the abomination's descending weapon!
Vortex Warp—a 2nd-level spell that warps space, relocating a creature within 100 feet to another spot within range.
Like now.
"Rraagh—!"
The abomination let out a grotesque snarl, its rusted cleaver crashing down. With no other choice, Ruth flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the blow.
But the cost was clear—she was back at Charles' side. Every effort to break through had been undone.
Aside from burning two of the necromancer's 2nd-level spell slots (six points in total), the assault had yielded nothing.
Though, apart from a slight dip in cleanliness, Ruth herself had expended nothing.
"Oh-ho, a nimble little mouse," the necromancer mused, lightly clapping in mock admiration. "Then again, I should've guessed. Only someone of exceptional agility could slip in unnoticed and slaughter all my soldiers."
Charles, poised for another strike, froze at the words. His voice was thick with disbelief. "You knew we were coming... yet you sounded no alarm. You let us infiltrate, even kill all those hobgoblins?"
The Dark Elf's smile never wavered—whether in taunt or habit, it was impossible to tell. "Correct. My, what a clever little mouse."
Charles' heart pounded. The sheer audacity of the admission sent his mind racing through a thousand horrifying implications.
He could already piece together the scheme: with the hobgoblins dead, Zenith would lose his forces, leaving this Dark Elf as the strongest power here. And with forty to fifty fresh, robust corpses now at his disposal, he'd only profited from the bloodshed!
Gritting his teeth, Charles felt his pulse hammer. He'd executed over a dozen vile bugbears, the mental toll heavy enough to make his heart quake. And yet this elf...
Truly, this was a Dark Elf—willing to betray allies for personal gain without a second thought.
And truly, this was a Dark Elf—so arrogantly certain that this abomination alone was enough to crush them.
"Ruth, we press on!" he growled. "You keep attacking him—I'll handle this abomination!"
Ruth gave a slight nod. "Understood, Master."
At that moment, with Nidalee no longer by their side, she could finally revert to addressing Charles as she always had.
"Come now, Mimi, my dear little kitten," the necromancer cooed, still smiling despite their aggression. "Catching mice should be your specialty. Devour them, and you'll grow even stronger~"
His voice dripped with saccharine persuasion, as if coaxing a child. Whether the abomination understood his words or simply obeyed a magical command, it let out a guttural snarl before charging at them on stubby legs!
Thud. Thud. THUD—
The stitched-together monstrosity weighed at least a ton, and with every step, the entire castle seemed to tremble.
Ruth paid no mind to Charles' safety—she trusted her Master's judgment. Instead, she leapt again, her booted foot kicking off the wall mid-air to accelerate like a fish darting through weeds. Slipping past the abomination's flailing limbs and desiccated skull, she shot straight toward the necromancer!
"Hey! Over here!"
Charles raised his shield, descending the final step as he taunted the abomination, eager for the fight.
He lacked Ruth's agility, his frame was far from petite, and the basement's cramped space left little room to evade.
But he had his own approach—one most would never choose.
Go head-to-head with it.
Large abominations like this were creatures of glaring strengths and weaknesses. Their advantages? Raw power, multiple weapons, and—being stitched together from corpses—an absurdly massive health pool.
Worse, their rotting flesh often hosted mosquitoes and plagues, forcing enemies to split focus mid-battle to avoid infection, drastically reducing combat effectiveness.
In short: a tanky, high-damage, physically repulsive melee unit.
But their flaws were just as obvious. First, mobility—despite that "surprisingly nimble fat guy" impression earlier, their dwarf-leg bases (reinforced with extra parts for stability) made them slow. Any adventurer under Longstrider could outrun one easily.
Second, as undead, while their bulk resisted brute force, spells and abilities targeting their nature crippled them.
So, plenty of tactics existed: speed buffs, kiting, crowd control—anything but "face-tank it."
...Well, except for paladins. Divine Smite melted fiends and undead alike; two solid hits would vaporize even this thing's health bar.
Ahem.
Though Charles lacked a paladin's invincible Divine Smite, wore no plate armor, and had no divine protections like Shield of Faith—
He possessed purified abilities.
And so, brute-forcing his way through became a viable option.
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