The dungeon entrance was almost invisible beneath a tangle of dead vines and rotting planks, a forgotten remnant of a mining operation from decades past. Khan stood before it, the faint violet light of the setting sun casting long shadows across his tan, lean frame. At 6'1", he towered over the debris and looked every bit the predator he intended to become. His Industrial Revenant loomed behind him like a silent guardian, its joints creaking softly, while his skeletal thralls lingered close, anticipating his command. He had spent weeks preparing for this—studying maps, gathering intel from the marketplace, and cautiously testing the limits of his Mana Thread and Grave Affinity. What lay beneath, however, was unknown. The sunken warrens were said to be home to unstable spirits, twisted constructs, and a core of residual mana left by the miners who had perished during a catastrophic cave-in. It was perfect: dangerous, unclaimed, and full of potential.
Khan stepped into the darkness, feeling the temperature drop immediately. The air smelled of damp stone, decay, and faintly of ozone, the telltale sign of lingering arcane energy. He activated Soul Sight. Pale threads floated above broken mining carts, abandoned tools, and skeletal remains of miners who had been trapped decades ago. Most of them were weak, fragmented souls barely worth the effort, but some shimmered stronger, pulling at him with quiet insistence. His system flickered: "Soul Potential Detected: Moderate to High. Estimated Level: 2–4." He smiled faintly, feeling that familiar thrill. Every fragment he claimed could be strengthened, carefully raised, or fused into more complex thralls.
The first chamber opened into a cavern illuminated by faint blue crystals embedded in the walls. Khan scanned the area and saw movement: a twisted amalgamation of miner and machine, a Remnant of some early arcane experiment gone horribly wrong. Its eyes glowed a pale green, veins of residual mana sparking along its limbs. He took a measured step back, feeling the familiar rush of calculation. Direct confrontation would be costly. Instead, he ordered his Industrial Revenant forward to engage, while the skeletal thralls formed a perimeter, keeping lesser constructs at bay. The Revenant's fists struck first, crushing the Remnant's lower limbs, but its upper body twisted unnaturally, striking back with a burst of arcane energy that sent Khan staggering. Pain flared across his ribs where old injuries had not fully healed. He steadied himself, muscles coiled beneath his tan skin, every inch of his lean frame ready to react.
Khan realized the fight would not be won by raw force. He would have to innovate. He extended Mana Thread through the wreckage and toward the fragmented souls lingering around the Remnant, channeling the energy into a controlled fusion. Sweat beaded on his brow as the threads resisted, pulling back violently, but he pressed on, forcing the shards of life into obedient formation. Slowly, painfully, the energy stabilized. The first skeletal thrall merged with the weaker fragments, enhancing its speed and reflexes. A second followed, combining bones and energy into a small but agile construct. Khan watched as his army of dead became more than the sum of its parts—a miniature unit capable of coordinated attack.
By the time the original Remnant fell, it was not just destroyed; it was converted. Its body rose as a new, more complex thrall, limbs reinforced with shards of crystal and bone, pulsing with managed mana. Khan flexed his fingers, feeling the drain, the exhaustion, and the thrill of command. He had done what few necromancers attempted: he had created a composite underling, a fusion of multiple sources of death into one obedient force. He smiled faintly, pain radiating across his body, ribs sore, muscles trembling. This was slow progress, dangerous and exhausting, but it was real growth.
The deeper chambers revealed more dangers: unstable constructs, lingering spirits, and crumbling tunnels that groaned under their own weight. Khan learned quickly which areas to avoid and which were worth the effort, marking the path in his mind for future expeditions. By dawn, he emerged with three new thralls, fragments of souls consolidated into loyal servants, and several minor skeletons scavenged along the way. His mana pool was depleted, and his body ached from exertion, but he felt alive in a way that Earth could never have given him. He had ventured into the unknown, survived, and returned stronger. And he knew that others in Virellia—other necromancers, ambitious adventurers, and guild operatives—would notice if he continued this pattern.