I've lived a long fucking life. Most people don't get that chance.
Being a necromancer is exhausting sometimes. Especially now.
You ever tried fighting a battle so lopsided the gods themselves start taking bets on your death? No? Lucky you.
Because that's exactly where I am—standing at the center of a ruined cathedral's shattered courtyard, mud thick with blood and broken armor underfoot.
Surrounded on all sides by zealots, bastards who'd rather piss holy fire than admit defeat, and one particularly angry Paladin King who's made it his life's mission to turn me into ash.
Every spell I loose tears the battlefield wider. Paladins scream as dark force flings them skyward—bones splinter, flesh sears—and still they charge, zealots stumbling over their dead like pigs to slaughter.
I pivot, raising my staff high. The ground splits, swallowing another wave whole. For a heartbeat, silence. Then the shouting resumes.
"Stand your ground, men!"
The Paladin King.
Clad in golden armor, striding over corpses like they're nothing. Even in the chaos, one jagged scar cuts through his cheek beneath the helm, a faint tremor in his voice betraying the calm façade. His presence alone steels the cowards around him, their weapons glowing brighter in the dark.
I sneer. Finally. His golden highness decides to grace the battlefield.
"Balzar of the Black Trinity," he roars, voice echoing like a church bell. "Your reign of terror ends here. You will answer for every soul you've stolen, every shadow you've unleashed."
I chuckle, bitter and hollow.
"You paladins always did love your speeches. Makes for a good story, I suppose."
My staff thrums with dark energy, shadows slithering along its shaft like serpents eager to strike. I drive that power into the ground, and the earth groans in reply. Bones claw their way free, skeletons rising with sockets burning cold blue.
The line of zealots falters. Shields dip, swords waver. Even zealots taste fear when death itself stands before them.
But not Salomon. Of course not. The bastard doesn't even blink.
"You think your puppets will save you?" he calls, voice sharp enough to cut. "I've faced your kind before. Your tricks are nothing new."
"Tricks?" I grin, baring my teeth. "Oh, Salomon. Eternity is dull—sometimes you need to shake the cage a little."
A berserker from their side charges, axe raised like an adversary from hell. I send a shadow soldier into his path. He cleaves it in two. I barely flinch. From the remains, black tendrils surge, wrapping around his axe and yanking it free. He roars, thrashes, but the shadows tighten, dragging him to a stop.
I yawn, glancing at Salomon, who presses forward undeterred. Predictable.
Another wave of skeletons rises from the mud, stumbling into fanatics. I lean on my staff, inspecting the chaos as if it were art.
"Couldn't you have made this a bit more interesting?" I murmur. The berserker struggles, pinned, until his axe clatters across the stones and his body crumples.
Salomon's eyes narrow.
"You are nothing but a monster."
I shrug, shadows curling around my arm.
"All this death? All this destruction? It's mercy, Salomon. Unlocking the Void isn't cheap. Sacrifice is part of the price."
Golden light flares from his armor, searing my eyes. His voice thunders. "This ends now, necromancer!"
He charges. I barely throw up a barrier in time, shadow clashing with light. The impact rattles through my bones, my arms trembling under the strain. My feet skid across the shattered stone, but I don't fall.
"Aww. Is that all you've got?" My grin is sharp, sweat stinging my eyes. "No wonder they made you king—your sermons are far more dangerous than your swordplay."
"You won't win, Balzar," he growls, pressing forward. "Your darkness dies here."
"You self-righteous idiot," I laugh coldly. "You think I care about winning?"
Even as I speak, the truth flickers behind my eyes. Eternity is endless, repetitive, dull—this is the only excitement I've had in centuries.
"You're a fool," I murmur, almost pitying. "This was never about glory. It's about freedom. No matter the cost."
"Freedom?" He sneers, sword blazing brighter. "You call genocide freedom? You enslave the dead, slaughter the living, shatter peace. You don't seek freedom—you seek escape. Escape from your own sins."
"Maybe I do," I smirk. "But can you blame me? Eternity is long, and I am so bored."
Salomon doesn't answer. He raises his blade. Light erupts, flooding the battlefield, swallowing every shadow clinging to me.
The strike lands, and pain rips through me—nerve, soul, memory—all of me unraveling at once. My flesh, my magic, my name—all of it burning away.
And yet… peace. For the first time in centuries, I feel it.
The battlefield fades to a hum. My knees buckle, but I don't fall.
So this is it. The end of everything.
I smile, blood wet on my lips.
This was always the plan.