Academic gathering with a lich-Chapter 884 - 821: Undead Scourge

He pushed open the cold iron gate, the damp moss covering the bars causing his fingers to tremble involuntarily. Taking a deep breath, he watched the rotating hinges nervously. Carefully, silently, he stepped into the inner grounds. Pulling his robe tightly around him, the icy wind stirred its hem as he timidly crept forward, his thin silhouette betraying a hint of panic.

Like a thief tiptoeing under the veil of night, every rustle of wind or grass made him shrink back and pull his hood lower over his face. Glancing left and right, he surveyed the desolate expanse around him, holding his breath as he maneuvered his body across the barren land with the furtive agility of one moving through a crowded marketplace.

"So cold..."

"So cold..."

He muttered eerily, dragging his shivering frame toward a small wooden cabin with a faintly illuminated window within the grounds. The closer he got to the light, the more his body trembled, as though the frigid air had truly frozen him. Reaching the window, he pressed himself tightly against the cracked and splintered wooden wall, his back hunched as he rummaged through his clothes. From inside the cabin came faint noises, akin to a mouse scurrying frantically within. His movements quickened, increasingly frantic as the sound grew louder, teetering on the edge of chaos. Finally, he pulled out the item he was searching for.

A small glass vial, its stained brown surface obscuring the label completely. He tapped it lightly with his fingertips a few times, then gave up. When the stopper was plucked open, a sharp "pop" reverberated—far louder than he’d expected. The "mouse" inside the cabin seemed to grow startled at the sound and suddenly went silent, sending him into a flurry of panic. Forgetting his earlier carefulness in his anxiety, he spilled the liquid from the vial along the windowsill, shaking it forcefully until he nearly hurled it through the window. Then, crouching in the corner, he began muttering an improvised prayer with trembling hand gestures.

"Work quickly..."

"Work quickly..."

Thud!

A noise echoed from inside the cabin, accompanied by faint vibrations—the "mouse" inside had seemingly succumbed to the concoction.

He exhaled deeply and only then realized he was nearly crumpled on the ground, the hem of his robe stained with mud. Steadying himself against the wooden wall, he rose to his feet. The wind still roared relentlessly. He pushed open the window and stretched his slender arm into the cabin.

"...Good evening, sir."

He stole an oil lamp, its golden-yellow flame shielded by a lampshade. In the darkness, he held the lamp high as if he’d found courage itself. Taking several steps deeper into the grounds, his stride grew proud, like a triumphant general.

But as the wind howled, the flame inside the drafty lamp wick began to flutter. His newfound demeanor cracked, and he nervously cradled the lamp within his robes, hunched over, shuffling forward with small, anxious steps.

"Too cold..."

"Too desolate..."

His voice grew louder as he muttered, the first traces of fear fading away. What poured out now within the cemetery was a blend of discomfort and unease, accompanied by the chilling presence of death’s magic, frost rising through the night.

His shadow elongated and grew upright amidst the thick mist; the thief transformed, becoming the master. Picking up withered flowers, he placed the lone stems back into bouquets. It was only moments later that frost set on the petals gracing his bony fingers. He righted fallen gravestones, while encroaching frost seemed to hum a mournful tune. Stepping onto the stone-paved path, the golden flame inside the lamp shifted, its hue morphing to an eerie bluish-green—a reflection of the ghostly light hidden beneath his hood.

"Tranquil repose, eternal cold of the grave..."

"Too desolate..."

"There won’t be any friends for me here..."

"This isn’t the right place to recruit..."

With a sigh, his breath scattered the tightly closed fabric of his robe. The lamp’s glow illuminated his skeletal form, devoid of flesh or skin. The Necromancer stood poised at the center of the graveyard, holding his lantern.

"I sincerely apologize for introducing myself to you in this manner..." He bent down deeply in a bow before the rows of gravestones.

"I am a Necromancer, here to disturb your eternal rest." From the lamp, ribbons of unnatural mist spilled out, drifting across the graveyard. They seeped into the soil, and the power of death rapped upon casket lids with ghostly fingertips. The graveyard stirred awake as the Necromancer continued his lamentations in its midst.

"I often work in Mass Burial Mounds and other corpse-strewn desolate lands. With impeccable professional integrity and proficient Spirit Summon skills, I take pride in my craft, guiding the departed onward. For they desire this, and I always believed it a noble, altruistic act."

"Yet I should never have stepped into this mournful garden. The very air reeks of lifeless stagnation, laden with sorrow and regret. You must have been laid to rest with the prayers of priests, buried solemnly before your families. Surely you parted with love, surrendering peacefully to death. Truth be told, I prefer noisier settings—a wailing realm like the academy I serve. Awakening the dead, that should have been consensual, mutual at heart. I abhor coercion, yet reality often forces our hands..."

The soil began to shift; pounding noises rose from the earth, growing fervent. Soon, a hand emerged from below. Then many hands. The graveyard "lived," rising to consciousness.

"The circumstances have changed, sleepers."

"The ancient gods have ascended to the land, bringing with them floods of divine cleansing. We must struggle; we must resist; we need power. Consider this: when the gods arrive, no one will be spared. Your descendants, your surviving lineage, everything that enables your rest—they’ll be obliterated in the tide."

Heads surfaced, bodies crawled forth; tombs opened, gravestones were scaled.

"In Andrey’s name, slumbering dead, you shall be conscripted by us."

"Your crumbling bones, your fragmented souls shall become strength for the dead, warriors of the fallen."

The Necromancer raised his lamp high, its pale flames roaring fiercely. Beneath the light, every emerging skull ignited with a soul, enslaved bones wailing in lament. Mist enshrouded all, isolating the realm of death within its veil.

"Rise, skeletons!"

"Your every bone, your every thread of soul shall be well-utilized. Your demise will fuel the survival of the living."

"Wake now, undead!"

"Fight for the ones who cannot pass on."

"Fight for the children, fight for the living."

Across every human settlement, similar uprisings of the undead erupted. People anxiously hid within their homes, watching the bones of their kin reassembled into armies of death, marching forth into the distance.

As the holy lights dimmed, death began its macabre dance.