The thick fog still blanketed the battlefield like a heavy gray curtain, stubbornly refusing to lift. Scorched earth still smoldered with lingering embers, and the air reeked of blood and burnt flesh. Every breath felt like swallowing a mouthful of ash. The silence pressed in, heavy and unnatural—no crows to pick at the corpses, no distant cries, only the faint crackle of dying embers and the sickly stench that clung to the back of the throat. Shattered armor, broken weapons, scattered limbs—everything screamed of the carnage that had just unfolded.
In the distance, a lone figure crouched behind a charred boulder, nearly burying himself in the cracks of the rock. He was a reconnaissance agent sent by the royal capital's intelligence division, assigned to monitor the outskirts. He had expected to witness the retrieval of the prince's corpse—or at the very least, confirmation of his death.
But what he saw instead… was a nightmare.
The elite six-man squad from the capital—annihilated.
They hadn't fallen to enemy forces or monsters. They had been slaughtered by a being that shouldn't exist.
The third prince—who was supposed to be dead—or rather, the shadowy figure beside him, cloaked in the aura of the dead… had torn through the squad with brutal efficiency.
"That… That's necromancy?!"
His throat tightened. Cold sweat soaked his back. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears it threatened to drown out the world, each thud a reminder that one wrong breath could summon death upon him. His body froze in place, barely daring to breathe, terrified that the undead creature might turn its gaze toward him next.
The art of controlling corpses, fusing flesh, and drawing power from death had long been banned across the continent.
Except in one place—the undead kingdom of Thalorim.
That forsaken realm had severed ties with the kingdom over a century ago, and few even dared speak its name now. Yet here, on this battlefield, beside a prince of the royal line… necromantic power had reappeared.
He couldn't keep watching.
"This… must be reported immediately!"
Biting his tongue to stifle any sound, he began crawling backward, slowly retreating from the rock. His boot crunched against a piece of charred debris, and he froze in panic. Only when he was sure the undead hadn't noticed did he turn and bolt.
Each step away from the battlefield felt like walking the edge of a cliff, one misstep away from death.
The wind howled at his back, whipping his cloak violently. His pace quickened into a full sprint, heart pounding like a war drum.
There was only one goal: the capital.
The prince was alive.
But he had returned... with necromancy.
That Day – Central Palace of the Kingdom, Whiteflame Council Hall
As the Intelligence Chief uttered that single phrase—
"...Necromancy."
The entire hall fell into immediate silence.
It was the kind of silence that crushed words before they could form, as if the air itself had thickened, weighing on every chest.
Dozens of floating magical lamps burned softly overhead, casting a pale glow that lit up the stunned and grim faces of nobles and generals alike. Gasps were heard. Faces turned pale. Brows furrowed in disbelief.
"Are we certain it was Eleres? Not some surviving remnant from a hostile nation in disguise?" An elder noble spoke up anxiously, his voice trembling with incredulity.
"The report came from a forward recon agent," the Intelligence Chief replied solemnly. "That undead bore the prince's exact likeness. More than that… he acted during the ambush, and eliminated every enemy targeting His Highness."
"Acted to protect him? " A minister wearing a gemstone-studded ring gave a cold chuckle, lips curled in skepticism. "Or perhaps a calculated ruse. A puppet wrapped in the prince's skin to deceive us. Need I remind you all—when Prince Eleres was born, a golden dragon and auspicious clouds appeared above the palace. A sign of divine favor, rare across the continent. If the undead covet anything…"He lowered his voice, "…it may not be his life, but his body."
A wave of hushed murmurs swept the council. The tension thickened.
"Enough."
A deep, authoritative voice sliced through the noise.
At the head of the chamber, an ivory scepter struck the armrest with a dull thud. The Elder Regent—acting ruler in the king's absence—rose to his feet. His white hair gleamed under the lights, and his gaze was fathomless.
"This matter is not to leave this room."
"The kingdom is locked in a critical stage of war. Even the slightest rumor could spark panic. Any talk of a 'necromancer prince' is to be silenced. Immediately." His gaze swept over the room. Calm, but absolute. "Anyone found spreading such tales… will be tried for treason."
"Then..." a deputy general ventured cautiously, "Shall we issue a royal search order?"
The Elder paused, a shadow flickering through his expression.
"Not publicly."
"Deploy covert agents. If the prince is confirmed alive..."He spoke slowly, heavily—"…bring him back to the capital. At once."
The officials nodded in unison, offering respectful assent. Yet behind each nod were eyes full of quiet calculation and hidden wariness.
Because everyone in that hall understood one thing:
This prince—Eleres—blessed by the heavens at birth, stood as the greatest obstacle to the second prince's path to the throne.
And now… he wasn't dead.
But more unsettling still was how he had returned.
His mere presence was enough to tip the balance of the entire kingdom.
At the same time, deep within the Royal Palace of the Capital.
The secret chamber was silent. Only the candle flames flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the stone walls. A faint scent of herbs and ash lingered in the air, as if even the darkness itself was holding its breath.
Suddenly, a low and familiar voice broke the silence:
"…He's still alive?"
The speaker sat at the head of the table—a young man clad in a black-gold robe, his features handsome, yet his eyes cold as winter frost. He was the Second Prince of the kingdom—currently the most powerful contender for the throne.
He toyed with a silver fire sigil between his fingers, his tone laced with ice. "Six men from the special unit. Handpicked by me. Loyal to the bone."
He looked up, a sneer tugging at his lips.
"Not one of them made it back alive?"
For a fleeting moment, something colder than anger flickered in his gaze—an unease he refused to name, quickly buried beneath the steel of ambition.
Below him, a grey-robed elder bowed his head. "Please calm yourself, Your Highness... According to reports, they were slain by necromantic power. It's possible... that this power has taken control of the Third Prince's body."
"Heh."
The Second Prince chuckled lightly—but the sound was like a blade drawn in silence.
"Necromancy… What a convenient excuse."
He tapped his finger rhythmically on the chair's armrest, as if weighing the cost of a storm yet to come. Then, rising slowly, he stepped toward the window, staring out at the royal tower faintly visible through the moonlit haze. His voice lowered, darker than the night beyond the glass.
"My elder brother chose to become a general. He abandoned his claim—I don't care about him."
"But Eleres… if he returns to the capital, he becomes the greatest threat to my succession."
His voice dropped another octave, sharp as steel:
"Mobilize the Shadow Corps."
"Even if it costs us, we must—find him."
"I won't give him a second chance."
As he spoke, the candle flames trembled slightly, as if they too sensed the malice stirring in the air. A few strands of smoke curled upward before one of the flames sputtered out, plunging part of the chamber into darkness.
In that shadow, the quiet plotting of death took root.
Unaware, Eleres remained far from the capital, still standing at the edge of fate—yet the tides had already begun to turn.
This was only the beginning.
Far beyond the palace walls, storms gathered unseen, each faction sharpening its blades in the dark, waiting for the first drop of royal blood to spill.