It started with a coin.
Not a gold coin, or even silver. Just an old, rusted copper piece that rolled to my feet as I stood by my father's grave.
It was the third day of the rain. The cemetery had become a swamp, the air heavy with rot and forgotten names. I wasn't crying. I'd already used up my tears a long time ago. Death and I were familiar strangers. But that coin—dirty, ancient, glowing faintly with a pale green shimmer—was not familiar. Not at all.
I looked around. No one. Just rows of crooked tombstones, a murder of crows circling like clock hands, and the silence of the dead.
Then a voice spoke.
"Pick it up, Cassian. It's your inheritance."
I turned fast, nearly slipping in the mud. No one was there. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the wind whistling through the cracked marble angels.
I should have walked away. Should have run. But I picked up the coin.
The moment my fingers closed around it, the world twisted.
My vision blurred. My ears rang. I saw... bones. Rows of them. Endless tunnels beneath the earth, piled high with skulls, with riches, with death. A kingdom buried under the surface, pulsing with green flame.
And then I heard it again. Louder this time.
"You are chosen. Necromancy is not a curse. It's your birthright."
The voice came from within. Or maybe below. A whisper in my blood.
I woke up on the edge of the grave, mud in my mouth, breath cold.
Something had changed.
My reflection in the puddle was the same—black hair clinging to my forehead, tired gray eyes—but I felt... full. Alive in a way I hadn't since my mother vanished five years ago.
I looked down at my palm. The coin was gone.
But a symbol—a twisted spiral with runes wrapped around it—was burned into my skin.
Necromancer.
The word echoed through my skull like a drumbeat.
That night, I tested it.
I returned to the graveyard with a shovel, a crowbar, and trembling hands. My father's grave was still fresh. I hated myself for what I was about to do. But the hunger to know was worse than the guilt.
I whispered the words that had come to me in a dream. Ancient syllables. Dusty with power. The air turned cold.
The ground shook.
His hand reached up first.
Then the rest of him.
But he wasn't my father. Not anymore. Just a hollow shell with flickers of memory. Eyes glowing faint green, matching the spiral in my hand.
"Command me."
I staggered back.
"What can you do?" I asked, heart racing.
He raised a skeletal hand and touched the ground. Gold coins burst from the soil like blooming flowers.
"Gravewealth," he said. "The world buries treasure with its dead."
That was the moment I realized the truth:
The dead were not just servants. They were banks.
I spent the next week digging.
Not just my father. I awakened dozens. Rich men, nobles, forgotten kings buried in crypts sealed by time. I barely slept. Barely ate. Each time, the dead rose. Each time, they gave me more—rings, coins, artifacts, gemstones. All of it real. All of it mine.
And I was growing stronger.
The spiral on my palm pulsed brighter with every summoning. My body changed. My muscles no longer ached. I could go days without sleep. My mind was clearer than ever. I could see things—ghosts walking in shadows, whispers behind doors.
Necromancy wasn't just a tool.
It was a system.
And I had just logged in.
But the world noticed.
By the end of the second week, I'd laundered enough gold to buy a mansion under a false name. I had mercenaries on payroll, fake IDs, offshore accounts.
And then one night, a letter was slipped under my door. No name. Just a wax seal in the shape of a skull.
Inside was a single line:
"The Dead do not serve for free."
My heart pounded. I turned around. A figure stood at the window. Tall. Hooded. Eyes glowing blue instead of green.
Necromancer.
But not like me.
He raised his hand.
And the shadows in my room began to move.