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Chapter Text

A rumble burst through the area as two figures stood opposing each other on a great bridge. The temperature here was near-freezing, and two large, imposing figures of dwarves stood on either side of the two. On the far end of the bridge, an armored figure stood holding two broken greatswords, the cyan metal shining in the darkness as an orange glow erupted around its edge.

On the other end of the bridge stood a similarly armored figure, yet the main difference was the black insulated coat that it had on to protect itself from the cold. He held a black sword with blue highlights engraved into it, as a deep blue lightning sparked around its edges. His face held an expression of exhaustion as he held up his blade and got in a fighting stance.

“Not going down just yet, I see.” Said the other figure, his deep voice echoing through the silent caverns. A mist crawled up from below the bridge as spectres all floated upwards and crowded around the sides, eager to see how their duel unfolds. 

The two figures met in combat once more as two slashes met together, a loud CLANG bursting through the region. The one with the coat stepped backwards to block another one, then another one. He leapt backwards and snapped the fingers of his free hand, a lance of lightning forming in his palm. 

His opponent’s red eyes began to glow as the lightning burst from his palm, lightly grazing its cheek as the orange glow around their blades begins to brighten. Heat rushes through the area, and in the blink of an eye, the blades were poised and ready to attack, mere inches from his torso. The blunt sides of the blade slammed between his head as blood spilled from his nose, and his opponent didn’t hesitate to quickly toss him up in the air in a dance of death, before slamming him down onto the ground in a fiery explosion.

When the smoke cleared, the bridge remained unharmed, and the man could only gaze into those gleaming red eyes of his opponent. One blade was held up against his neck, and the other was planted firmly in the ground right beside his head. Had he aimed a bit to the right, the blade would’ve planted a hole through his face. His boot laid on his chest, stomping down onto the light plate armor that he had on.

“I yield.” He wheezes out as his opponent nods.

“Very well.” They take the boot off of his chest and let the blades go, them vanishing in an instant, right as the loser began to cough.

“Father, you couldn’t have…” He wheezes out between fits of coughing. “been a bit more lenient?” His father says nothing, only materializing a set of red potions to give to his son. When the son takes the potions and drinks them, then does his father begin to speak.

“You’re still too weak, Ichor.” He says calmly, like he was recounting a law of the universe.

“Weak? I’m the strongest combatant amongst my batch!” Ichor retaliates against the insulting statement, clenching his fists as he gets up off of the floor.

“Your batch is made up of cowards and backstabbers. People who wouldn’t hesitate to leave you on the front lines to save their own skin, and the quality of their education is… subpar.” He spits out. “ Had I not been busy with managerial affairs again , I’d see to it that a Wither wouldn’t be able to harm you, but…” He turns away from his son. “Your training’s progressing, at least. But at the pace that you’re going, it’ll be… five more years before you’re ready for active combat. Your batchmates? Fifteen.”

“Father, I’m trying my best!”

“I know you are, Ichor. But what good of a father would I be if I didn’t push you to do better?”

“I’m not a former Wither Lord like you. I hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with Storm. You’re Necron, the one who was feared amongst even the strongest.”

“Those are all tall tales. Had even a fraction of them rung true, Storm wouldn’t be the Wither King at this moment. I’m not as strong as you think, Ichor. They only call me a hero because I was able to push back against Storm, and what did that do long-term? Nothing. Goldor and Maxor are still alive, and Storm is stronger than ever now. This is why I’m telling you to keep pushing further than your best. Because your best will never be good enough against them.”

Necron begins to walk away. “Go home and get some rest, Ichor. We’ll resume our training tomorrow morning. Be glad it’s a holiday.”

Ichor walks through the marketplace, orange light from the lanterns cascading down onto the street as fairy lights stretch along every stall. A set of coins jingle in a small maroon pouch that he held as he stopped by one. Books of all kinds stack up high behind him, and the shopkeeper, a sleeping old man, quickly stirs and glances up at who was standing at his shop.

“Ah, Ichor, ‘me old pal! How’s your day been today?”

“Good, Mr. Biblio. Did a lot of combat training in the morning, but since Father had some work to do, he called it off early. Figured I’d come by and see if you have anything new for me.” Ichor explains, and Biblio laughs with a hearty guffaw.

“Ah, that poor fellow… you know, speaking of your Father, I actually got some old records from the Factory for you if you’re interested. Be warned, it’s a lot of boring logs and spreadsheets and blueprints, but…” He pulls out two books from underneath the shelf, one red and one black. “There’s some stuff about mana in here that I think you’d find useful, what with being a battle mage and all… don’t tell your old man I gave you this, alright? It’s on the house.”

Ichor laughs. “Nothing gets past him, Biblio. Is there anything else you have in store that you’d think I’d be interested in?”

“Let me check…” Biblio turns to the stack of books and glances at their spines, the lenses of his glasses glowing a bright purple. He stops at one with a blue cover, and his smile turns into a frown. He sighs. “I have two more for you. Both one of a kind. The Art of War, and Storm. You’re plotting on fighting the Wither King, are you not? Then you’re gonna need both of ‘em.”

A quote from Necron echoes in Ichor’s mind. “A legendary warrior said this to me right before he succumbed to disease, seconds before being the first mortal to defeat a Wither. ‘If you know your enemy, and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.’ I knew who I am. I didn’t know who Storm was. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“It’ll be sad, you know. When one of these days, you’ll pass by this storefront and see it empty. I’m growing old. These are both one-of-a-kind, you know. I don’t sell them specifically for this reason. But it’s no use letting these sit here and collect dust after I’m dead and gone. So, Ichor…” Biblio places both of those books atop the pile. “You have fun with these, alright? And I’ll make sure I live on ‘till I hear your triumph against the Wither King!” Biblio says with another hearty laugh.

Ichor looked through his pouch and pulled out a single golden coin. An old engraving of a star lied on it, with a three-headed figure in the center. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you something in exchange for these books, Biblio. He places the coin down in front of Biblio. “It’s not much, I know, but I still need to buy groceries, you know.”

Biblio nods. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, Ichor. Thanks for keeping an old merchant entertained all this while. It’s your turn, now. Better make it count.”

Necron glances at Ichor from his cushioned seat next to the lit fireplace, the boy seated at the dinner table reading a stack of books. His blue bespectacled eyes glazed over each word of the bright red and gold book with a fervor he’d only seen when it came to training. He smiles as he glances at the small picture frame above the fireplace, one of a younger Ichor and him. 

There was no difference between the Necron in the photograph and the one sitting on the couch, save for the bags underneath the current one’s eyes thanks to the New Catacombs Council position driving him mad with work. When he first escaped from the Catacombs, after he got his bearings on the surface, the first thing he thought of when he woke up was relief of never having to deal with managing an army ever again.

Then came The Withering, and all of a sudden he was back down and sick and tired of needing to manage a government again. Elections were no longer held, rather an ever-rotating committee featuring him, the Dwarven King, and various other strong veterans from the War for the Isles.

Hard to imagine it’s been 25 years since then.

25 years since he, paired with the spirit of everyone, made a defiant stand against the Wither King. And 25 years since his greatest failure. The surface was made inhospitable, no stretch of land not overtaken by the undead, and now everyone was forced to seek refuge deep underground. The Dwarves welcomed them with open arms, and with their collaboration, they managed to make the Catacombs a place that people could call home.

He thinks back to the Academy and to the fear that these old burial grounds spread amongst his classmates. He thinks back to the day he lost his humanity, becoming someone that perpetuated the rumors. If only they would see how much the world has changed…

“Father?” Ichor calls. Necron stands up from his chair and walks over towards where his son was seated. He remembers the day where he found him, a wailing cry muffled by rubble, protected by the corpses of two. “Yes, Ichor?”

He hadn’t noticed that he switched books, the bright red and gold cover now replaced with a black cover. Now, he was reading one filled with records in a very familiar script. Necron’s heartbeat quickened in his chest as he saw his old master’s handwriting once more. “What do these runes say?” He points to a set of runes at the top right of the page, written in red ink.

“Those… are not meant for you. If Biblio gave you this… I’ll need to have a word with him. But… to answer your question… these runes are for a… complicated ritual.” He remembers saying those words multiple times. He considered taking the book away from Ichor, but that would just stake his curiosity further. “Ichor… I only have one request. Please, do not try any rituals or any spells you see in this book. You can ask me about them all you want, just… please don’t try them. And if you do ever want to try them, let me know first. I’ve used some of the spells in this book… countless times. I know what it can do to a person if they aren’t careful. Just… promise me this.”

Ichor’s face grows pale. “O-Ok… Father. I promise.”

Necron nods. “Thank you, Ichor. I’ll tell you more about them one day, but… for now, please don’t try anything.”

Ichor nods and returns back to his reading, though after a page… he decides to switch books to something else. He closes the book and his hand reaches over to the blue one.

“Storm T. Volt, Father, Scholar, General” said the engraving on his throne.

A man of many talents, they called him. A great scholar, making great strides in harnessing one’s mana, the person who trained Solomon to become the academy’s greatest mage, and the person singlehandedly keeping the kingdom’s forces all topped up. They were all mystified by his sudden disappearance, him having left behind a son who wasn’t even two years old, but Storm knew how much he detested the poor thing.

“Sadan, you were quite a dumb thing as a baby, weren’t you? It took you months longer than the other guards’ kids to even learn to speak, let alone walk and crawl.” 

Sadan looked up at his father, the almost ten-meter tall three-headed monster. His cyan crown shone in the dark fortress, illuminating the black stone around him. A ball of lightning sparked and buzzed within his chest cavity underneath a set of ribs, and a cloak was draped over his skeletal form. “Father… why did you do this? Why did you leave me? Why won’t you accept me into your ranks?”

Storm scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I? Any self-respecting father would leave if their son turned out like… this.” He gestures broadly at Sadan with his hand. “You’re pathetic. You’re useless. When I heard that your handiwork defeated one of those Withers, I almost felt proud, only for that to go away when I learned that it wasn’t even a Wither Lord, just a simple Wither. Had it been Maxor fighting you, I doubt you’d even be here to soil my kingdom with your presence.”

Sadan looks away as a flash of anger crosses his face. “You…” He turns back to Storm and claps his palms together. “You don’t understand what I’ve been through! Countless, COUNTLESS hours I’ve spent, training, researching, revising, experimenting…” The air grows thick with magic as Storm raises an eyebrow. 

“Cease your tantrum, child.” He grumbles.

“ NO! Did you even stop to think once why I did this?! Why I wanted you to see my work?! I wanted you to be there in my life! To be a father! Not a general, not a boss, but a father! Mother worked herself to death trying to support us, and you never… did… ANYTHING!” He shouts. Golems and terracotta statues erupt out of the floor, their glowing red eyes locked onto Storm. “I wanted you to tell me that you were proud of me! I wanted you to at least show a modicum of affection to me! And if you’re not going to do ANY of that, then do me a favor…” Four giants stand tall in the throne room as the sclera in Sadan’s eyes goes black. “ AND DIE ALREADY! ”

A smirk forms on Storm’s face as he gets up from this throne. Five black tentacles burst out of his back as a cyan light extends from his palms, arcing and buzzing rapidly. The light extends into ropes as Storm begins to laugh. “You could barely kill a Wither, and you expect to be able to take down the King? How naive.” He swings one of the ropes as the magic collides with a swarm of terracotta and golems, obliterating them in an instant.

One of Sadan’s giants tries to punch down on Storm, its hulking weight and its unrelenting speed promising to do some damage, but Storm just looked at the giant and let out a wave of mana, and Sadan could only watch in horror as one of his Giants exploded in a pile of dust. Sadan clapped his hands together and resummoned it, though Storm snapped his fingers as a bolt of lightning cleaved through it all over again. Another snap, and the rest of Sadan’s giants turned to piles of gore.

Sadan’s army reached Storm’s legs, and when the King looked down to see the forces all try to climb up him, he just laughed. “You try to kill a King with ants?” He leapt up and stomped his feet on the ground, letting out a shockwave so strong, it knocked Sadan off of his feet and into one of his golems. His soldiers who managed to reach his feet were all knocked off.

Sadan coughs as he gets back up, mana flowing through his veins once more as he planted his hands on the ground. More soldiers, more golems, yet it was never enough. Storm used one of his other ropes and cleaved through another portion of enemies, and Sadan could feel a ghost of a smile on his face. He was having… fun?

Sadan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He clapped his hands together and used all of his mana. Whatever he had left, he would expend, even if it meant he couldn’t summon another spirit again! “O Precursors, lend me your souls, for I ask for your ancient wisdom and strength once more…” Sadan cracked one of his eyes open to see Storm continuing to lay waste to his forces. He had to hurry up, since he would be next. “Channel your wrath and your rage once more… awaken from your eternal slumber…” Sadan made his hands into fists and punched them together. “Behold, my magnum opus… the Titan!”

All of Sadan’s forces vanished in piles of smoke, and Storm could only watch as all of their souls combined and coalesced into one orb. Flesh began to build out of it, the fibers and strands all forming at inhuman speeds, like he was watching the birth of an organism playing out at 500 times the speed. The skeleton, then the muscles, then the skin, then the armor. It had a single red eye, a glittering chestplate, pink trousers, and boots so large and heavy, Storm doubted that he could even lift one. It stood at 15 meters tall, just barely missing the ceiling of the throne room, and Storm laughs.

“So this is your magnum opus? This is what you think can defeat the Wither King? I saw your Giant One barely hold out against that Wither, and this just looks like it has another coat of p-” Storm’s vision was quickly met with a giant golden blade, inches from his head. Storm couldn’t react in time, so he let the blade make contact with his neck.

And it shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Looks like I was right.” Storm held up one palm and a ball of darkness formed in it. Lightning sparked and buzzed around it as Sadan could barely stand in its presence. “I’m ashamed to call you my son. Be grateful that I managed to entertain this duel, otherwise you wouldn’t have lasted seconds against me.” The ball of lightning shot out of Storm’s palm and eviscerated the Titan’s torso and legs, leaving only a head and those heavy boots.

The head fell down to the ground with a wet smack, gravity taking its hold and turning it into a pile of sludge. A tentacle shot out from behind Storm and rushed towards Sadan, impaling him. Sadan screamed in pain as the tentacle began to buzz with lightning at a very low voltage, but enough to activate every single one of his pain receptors. “I read some of Kaeman’s old notes, and I must say… I was very, very impressed. The three heads of a Wither grow stronger the more attachment the Wither has to the skull. So, Sadan… I’ll let you live on within me. And I know you won’t be able to do anything to stop it.”

Storm’s hand moved to the skull on his right. “Me… Solomon… now Sadan.” He rips his third head out of his skull and tosses it aside, placing the same hand on Sadan’s head. With a sickening crunch, Storm rips Sadan’s skull from the rest of his body as red fluid streams from its end and splatters onto the blackstone, mixing with the puddles of purple and black blood that the giants bore in their insides, and he begins to chant in a language unknown to Sadan. 

He places the bloodied head where his third head used to be as power rushed and burned around him, as smoke began to fill the room. Storm began to laugh as he could feel his own power grow and grow. When the smoke cleared, there he was. With three heads. Storm snapped his finger as an army spawned in front of him, filled with the forces of the Catacombs… alongside his Giants, Golems, and his Terracotta soldiers. 

A golden light came from the entrance as Storm’s second-in-command, Goldor flew into the room, with his four signature greatswords spinning around him. “Your Majesty, I felt a commotion and immediately rushed to come here, is everything alri-” Goldor stops when he sees the army. “Did you manage to recruit Sadan into our ranks?”

“No… I did something much, much better. Sadan would have held us back, you see. He was weak, too weak, but I did see the potential in his summoning capabilities. So…” He points to his right head. “I did something better.”

Goldor begins to laugh. “How… interesting. Very well then, Your Majesty. I have made plans for a raid into the Catacombs, no doubt where any survivors resided. Soldiers are already en-route to the Dwarven Mines, though because those blasted Dwarves blew up that elevator, it’ll be a long journey down.

“Very well. Tell Maxor to hurry up on those blueprints for the war machines. Doubtless that the survivors sat still, especially that blasted Necron… I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still plotting something for us. But I’ve beat him twice. I can do it again.”

Chapter Text

Ichor looks at himself in the mirror of the bathroom as he gets ready for the day, letting a razor glide over the smallest flecks of facial hair that might have grown since last night. His black hair, still sopping wet from his earlier shower, let water droplets fall onto his glasses, and it ticked Ichor off every time it happened. When he was done shaving, he took his glasses off, washed his face, put them back on, and left the bathroom.

Wiping his feet onto a small mat, he crosses through the living room, glancing at his father sitting by the fireplace once more, gazing into its embers. “Ichor. I’ll be home late tonight. Stop by the council building once you’re done with your training at the Academy, Councilman Paul needs to talk to you about something.”

Ichor tilted his head. “Paul? What does he need me for?”

“He just wants to talk to you. Nothing special, just be on your best behavior. Councilwoman Diaz is very strict when it comes to rules and decorum, and she will have my head in the next meeting if you aren’t careful, you know.” He says with a small laugh. “If you don’t want to attend, that’s fine. You have the keys with you anyways.”

Ichor nods. “That I do. I’ll stop by after I’m done for the day, then.” With a nod from Necron, the man still not looking away from the fire, Ichor takes it as a sign of approval and heads to his room. Locking the door behind him, he rubs his hair with the bath towel he’d tied around his waist before tossing it in a small hamper in the corner of the room. On his left lied a closet, which he opened.

He pulled out a set of clothes, a long-sleeved black shirt with blue buttons, alongside a matching pair of trousers. Placing them on his bed, he turns around to glance at his desk. Opening one of the drawers, he finds a small locket. Opening it, there’s a photo of Necron and an empty slot on the other end. He smiles before closing the locket. He places it down on the desk and gets ready for his day of classes at the Academy.

Situated on what was formerly Floor 3 of the Catacombs, the New Academy is the main hub of education in the Catacombs. Whoever wished to continue their studies from on the surface could do so freely, yet some of the more dangerous and volatile experiments were temporarily banned until more infrastructure could get developed.

Ichor walked along carpeted floors, passing by students in similar outfits, except that their buttons were of different colors. He spots a door and enters through it, finding himself in the men’s locker room, each door engraved with someone’s name. He looks for his own, finding it swung wide open. He sighs as he peers into the locker, internally praying that nothing is gone or missing. 

It seemed that nothing was awry, a set of armor hung neatly at the back, yet when Ichor looked at the sheath strapped to the inside of the locker door, he found that the blade he normally used was missing. He glances at a clock, and if he looked around for it, he’d be late to class. So, with a heavy sigh, he unhangs the armor and begins to put it on.

It’s a set of basic iron armor that, with the help of some magic courtesy of Barry, could be equipped and unequipped with a few swift motions. The metal plates began to slightly glow as they levitated onto Ichor, before attaching themselves into him with a swiftness. Ichor rolls his shoulders back once the armor was fully on, feeling the plates adjust themselves with their movements to the perfect spots. 

He stepped out of the locker room and entered a room formerly named as “Cathedral” according to one of those journals. Walking down the stairs to a large open area, there he was met with a set of twenty or so students, each one equipped with the same armor as him, alongside an iron sword strapped to either their back or to their side. Ichor’s sheath was nowhere to be seen, for a sheath would have been unideal when one lacks a weapon to use.

“ROCHE!” Shouts the teacher, a tall, muscular figure with a scruffy beard. He was dressed in the same armor as everyone’s, yet the main difference between his and the students’ lied in the black and red armor trim on the metal plates. “Where’s your blade?”

Ichor sighs. “Wasn’t in my sheath. Probably stolen, because I kept it there last week.”

“It got stolen? Tch… but you know you’ll have to sit today out. Luckily your performance is good enough that it won’t hinder your final results, but it’s not a good habit you should develop.”

“I can still fight. I’ll just use one of those wooden swords we have next to the training dummies over there.” Ichor motions to a set of three straw dummies in the corner of the room, with a large pile of wooden swords propped against a wall.

The instructor glances to them. “Are you sure?” Ichor nods. The instructor sighs. “Very well, then. Just know that if these get damaged, you’ll be paying for them. Wood’s not cheap nowadays.” He walks over to the pile of wooden swords and hands one over to Ichor, who holds the blade in one hand and gives it a few test swings. 

Ichor nods and walks over to where his classmates were standing, them all slowly lining up in attention. When he joins them and stands silently, the person standing next to him, a man with messy blonde hair looks at his wooden sword, snickering to the person next to him. Ichor could hear their faint whispers. “Wow, look at Ichor here. A wooden sword, how dumb can he be? Considering today’s our practical exam…” Ichor’s eyes widen as he replayed the words in his mind. He’d completely forgotten that today was an examination. 

The instructor blows through a whistle, causing the whispers and murmurs to cease, every person standing in perfect attention. “As you all know, today’s your practical examination. For today’s exam, you’ll be doing one-on-one duels. Standard rules apply, no underhanded tactics, no hits to the head or to any unarmored areas. No magic whatsoever. If I detect even the slightest HINT of mana, your exam will be suspended immediately and you won’t be allowed to ask for a retest. Hand-to-hand combat will be allowed. Whoever passes is whoever disarms the opponent first or whoever surrenders first. You all will only have one chance.”

Everyone begins to pale as the instructors words wash over them, Ichor included. He takes a deep breath to compose himself. His blue eyes calmly wash over the group of students around him. “ROCHE! ANDREW! You two’ll be up first.”

Ichor grips his wooden sword as he turned to Andrew. That same blonde man who was snickering to his friend. He also happened to be the best in the class, just behind Ichor. He smirked and held out a palm, his other hand reaching around to his back to unsheathe his blade. Ichor took his palm and shook it, gripping his wooden sword tightly in his other arm. “Let’s have a good match, shall we, Roche?

Ichor says nothing, only nodding. It wasn’t that he wanted to be arrogant, he just needed to focus. The soreness from his training with Necron over the holiday still blew through him, and Ichor knew that he’d be in a spot of bother otherwise. Andrew turned around and took a few steps away from Ichor before turning around and pointing his blade at him. Ichor did the same, but rather than point his blade at Andrew, he just held his blade in front of him with his right hand. 

There lied an eerie silence in the room. Save for the two’s breathing and the crackle of flames within the rusty iron lanterns hung on the sides of the wall. Ichor’s eyes narrowed. Andrew’s smirk grew wider. There was a sudden ticking from the instructor. “BEGIN!” He shouts.

The two sprung into action, rushing forwards and letting their blades clash. Ichor grunts as he holds his blade up on the defense. Andrew didn’t stop, continually applying more force onto Ichor’s wooden blade as the metal threatened to snap it clean in two. Ichor waited for one more second before pulling backwards, the sudden adjustment of the force needed disorienting Andrew, causing him to swing downwards into the dirt, jamming his blade into the ground.

Andrew yanked it out and swung towards Ichor, and the edge slammed into Ichor’s forearm with a loud clang, causing Ichor to pull his arm back and yelp in pain. A smile forms on Andrew’s face as he follows up his strike with a thrust forwards to Ichor’s chestplate. Ichor steps to the side narrowly before the tip of the blade made contact, and he slams his wooden sword onto Andrew’s left shoulder. Andrew swings his arm backwards and turns towards Ichor as his blade moves upwards in an arc.

Ichor curses as he sees the metal glinting in his peripheral vision, and he can’t do anything to stop it. The tip of the blade collides with the bottom right of Ichor’s chestplate, moving upwards as the metal carves a slash mark through it. Andrew doesn’t stop, doing a full spin and aiming his blade to cut a clean line through Ichor’s chestplate. Ichor grits his teeth and holds up his sword to block the incoming strike.

Andrew keeps applying force, pushing on Ichor’s blade with more and more power. Ichor could feel the wood fibers strain under the force. When he heard the first snap, Ichor knew that it was over. Andrew’s sword snapped the blade in half, wooden splinters erupting out of the broken edges. The blade cut through Ichor’s chestplate and his right shoulder pad, and Ichor internally cursed.

A whistle was blown, and Andrew stopped dead in his tracks. “Andrew has passed his practical exam.” Announced the teacher, and Ichor could only sigh in response. He grabs the parts of the wooden swords and gives them to the teacher. “Ichor, I expected better. For a minute, I was surprised you could hold your own, but clearly, I was mistaken. Your father will receive a letter by the end of the day. You can either stay and watch the other fights, or you can leave now.”

Ichor didn’t think twice, turning to the stairs and leaving the room. When he was in the locker room, he pulled open his locker and began to remove his armor. The metal pulsed and glowed as the slash marks began to slowly close over. He glanced at his chestplate, seeing two lines over them. 

In a fit of rage, he threw the piece of armor across the room with a shout, the metal hurling and slamming into a clock, its glass shattering into a thousand pieces. Anger boiled within him, yet it was quickly replaced with the feeling of despair. Living under a household name provided certain expectations onto him, and it took everything Ichor had to live up to those expectations.

Now that he’d failed, the fear quickly spread through him. There was no use in lying or hiding it, as the truth would come out eventually. He didn’t know what Necron would be like when disappointed. He didn’t know how he’d react when he’d hear the news of his failure. He went over to pick up the chestplate, only to hear the last voice he’d ever want to hear.

“My, oh, my, how shocked I am that the ‘golden boy’ failed an exam! I thought you were supposed to be the perfect student… or is that just daddy’s legacy playing a part?” Jeered Andrew from the other end of the locker room. Ichor’s free hand balled into fists. “And destruction of school property, no less, oh no!”

Ichor turned around to face Andrew. “What do you want?”

“So now he finally speaks. So confident that you could win against me with a wooden sword, and look what happened.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh? My, such foul language! I didn’t expect the son of Necron, our very own hero, to act this foul! I can’t imagine what this would do to his reputation…” Andrew steps closer to Ichor. Ichor could feel himself shaking with rage as he heard his footsteps get closer and closer. Don’t fight. Don’t make a scene. Ignore him. Those words kept echoing in Ichor’s mind, and Andrew got closer and closer. He leaned forward to whisper in Ichor’s ear when he was close enough. “Besides, it’d have been better off if he’d left you out there anyways.” 

Despite every cell in his body begging him, screaming at him to fight, to teach him a lesson, Ichor didn’t move. Andrew patted him twice on the shoulder as he walked past him. “Good luck on the field, Roche.”

It was Ichor’s fault he failed. He got too arrogant. Too cocky, and now Ichor paid the price for it in his first failure. Necron wouldn’t like this. For now, though, he figured he’d just let it be.

The Catacombs’ government, born out of war-torn veterans frantically trying to manage a set of refugees 20 years ago, assemble every few days to discuss the internal affairs of the tombs. Ichor got off of the elevator as he could hear the hiss of steam, and he finds himself on streets he was so familiar with.

Floor 7 of the Catacombs, one of the largest floors area-wise, was the main base of operations for the government. And directly across from the elevator, separated by a five-minute walk, was a large building, the words “Community Center” printed to the front of it. There was absolutely nothing left of the old rooms that made up this floor, for every single square meter of it was renovated and turned into a replica of the surface’s old Hub Village. 

Ichor began to walk to the community center, taking a glance at the various buildings that dotted the areas beside him. The Bazaar, where Ichor normally went to meet Biblio, was sparsely populated tonight, due to the rush of craftsmen only arriving on the last day of the week. To his right lied an expensive restaurant, titled “Anita’s Artisanal Cooking”, and according to the small sign out front, it was made in honor of Anita’s late husband, Jacob. The insides were packed, as usual. 

The sound of running water alerted Ichor to a fountain that lied in the middle of the town square, a plaque on each side of it. The fountain itself had a statue of two armored figures, one male and one female. Names were written on his back and on the walls in such fine print that they were unintelligible unless you looked through a magnifying glass. The plaque read

Dedicated to Sarah and Kaleb

Who laid down their lives

To give everyone a second chance

Those who weren’t veterans had no idea who Sarah and Kaleb were, for history would be written when the war was won. But their faces, chiseled to perfection, were so familiar to him, for a picture frame of Necron and the two lied on his father’s nightstand, usually face-down. 

Speaking of his father, Ichor turns to the community center and takes a deep breath. He walks over to the front door and slowly pushes it open, making sure to close it after he entered the building. His boots walked on spotless marble floor as he reached a receptionist’s desk. A large wooden door lied behind her.

He didn’t need to open his mouth to ask for the person he was looking for. 

“Ichor?” Said a masculine, if not slightly hoarse, voice. He turned around to see a brown-haired man, dressed in a set of armor similar to his back at school, save for the blue scarf around his neck. A golden badge was strapped to the front of his armor set. There were noticeable wrinkles on his round face, and flecks of white hair were splattered all throughout his hair. Ichor’s eyes widened with recognition.

“Councilman Paul.” Ichor bows, only for the councilman to laugh. 

“Ah, no need to be so formal, Ichor. Wow, how’ve you grown! It feels like it was only yesterday that you were just a wee lad… seventeen years, has it been? How time flies…”

Ichor nods. “It has been a long time, Councilman Paul. Father said you wanted to talk to me about something, correct?”

Paul nods, his smile quickly turning into an expression that belied seriousness. “Yes. And I regret to inform you that it’s very, very dire. Please, follow me into the Council Room.” Paul leads Ichor to the large wooden door and pulls it open. He motions Ichor to follow him, and the door shuts behind the two of them.

Ichor stands at the front of the room, and he sees a set of nine podiums arranged in a semi-circular manner, a person standing behind each one of them, save for one. A plaque containing their name and their position lies on each one. Ichor’s father looks directly at him as Paul moves behind the rest of the council to take a seat at his own podium.

A brunette woman with long hair behind her sits at the podium directly across from the front door, and she glances at Ichor, before turning to her left, where Necron, bearing a grim expression on his face, was seated, his arms folded. Necron glances at her and nods. She clears her throat.

“Greetings, Ichor D. Roche. Welcome to the Council. I am Councilwoman Seraphine, and we have all assembled today to discuss matters… of slaying the Wither King.”

Chapter Text

“Slaying the Wither King?” Ichor repeats. He turns to Necron, Head of Warfare and Management, who clears his throat and stands up from his seat. 

“Councilman Barry’s mana sensors detected a sudden increase coming from the direction of the Wither King’s Palace. The Council has reason to believe that the Wither King is plotting on making a move to invade the Catacombs, and… considering my previous failure to kill him, I don’t doubt that Storm would strike with everything he has.” He turns to Councilwoman Seraphine.

“The reason why you are here, Ichor, is for two reasons. One, to ensure confidentiality. Since you are living with Necron, if any word of this meeting came to you, which in turn came to the public, it would be received… poorly, to say the least. And the second reason…” Seraphine turns to Necron, whose expression shifted to one of anger. 

“Seraphine, you will not have my son enlist in the army this early. None of the troops from the Academy are ready for war. I will fight once more, but you leave them out of this.”

“I understand that you are worried, Councilman Necron. But I have personally seen to it that their training is going as planned, and I feel that they are ready for active combat.”

“Against the footsoldiers, sure, but what if their regiment runs across Maxor? Or Goldor? We are not ready for a one-man assault, Seraphine. If any of the remaining Wither Lords come knocking on our door… we’re as good as dead. And knowing Maxor…” Necron sighs. “We need assistance for this war. Then, and only then, will I give my blessing to this.”

“How long will it take, Councilman Necron?” Says Councilman Diaz from across the room. “We’re already running low on funds when it comes to our daily management. As more soldiers become ready for active combat, our finances will get drained further and further the longer we wait.”

“Not responding, the Crimson Isles are.” Chimes in Councilman Barry. “Queen Nyx and Chief Scorn still have the Island on lockdown. Not available diplomacy-wise, we all are.”

“Councilman Maddox and Aatrox are still banned from the Crimson Isles. They can assist when it comes to escorting a diplomat in case of patrol, but…” Begins Seraphine, however Necron interrupts her. “Maxor or Goldor would turn them to dust in an instant. And if Storm decides to personally visit the Isles…”

No one thinks about what would happen. 

“Why don’t we have the students of the batch join the army, but still get training in the process? Ideally from veterans, that way we’d get first-hand experience of warfare.” Chimes in Ichor, and everyone stopped in their tracks.

Councilman Necron sighs, then raises a hand. “I vote in favor of Ichor’s motion.”

Councilman Paul raises his hand. Then Councilman Barry. Then Councilwoman Diaz. Then Councilman Maddox. Then Councilwoman Seraphine. Finnegan. Cole.

“It seems that all nine of us are in favor, then. Very well, Mr. Roche. The motion proposed passes, and as such we will make arrangements in the upcoming week. You are all now dismissed.” Councilwoman Seraphine slams her fist on the podium to mimic a gavel, and all of the Council members stand up and slowly filter out of the room.

Necron glances at his son while the two were walking side-by-side back home, who, despite his efforts to maintain a neutral expression on his face, still let the corners of his mouth move downwards. “Good job on the motion you made today in the meeting.” He compliments,. “I’m honestly quite surprised none of us even thought of the idea…”

Ichor didn’t respond, only choosing to look forwards at the road. Necron sighs. “I’m guessing something happened at school today, correct?” Ichor’s eyes widened before quickly returning to its original state.

“N-No… nothing happened…” The stutter in his voice was unusual for a man normally so composed with his words, and Necron nods in response. 

“I know that you’re lying, Ichor. You’ve never been a good liar.” The two reached a house at the corner of the village, dug into the walls. A key materializes in Necron’s hand with an orange glow as he slots it inside the keyhole. The door unlocks, and the door to their house swings open. “We’ll talk about this over dinner.”

Ichor enters the house and immediately retreats to his room, and Necron sighs. He turns to the mailbox beside the front door, spotting a small envelope, bearing the purple seal of the Academy, sticking out of its entrance. He picks up the envelope and heads inside, closing the door behind him. Necron removes the seal and sees the letter inside, his eyes glancing over the contents.

“Confidence, a silent killer…” Necron takes off his boots at the front entrance and tosses the envelope, keeping the letter with him. He enters his room and opens a small drawer in his nightstand, placing it down atop many other letters praising his accomplishments and his awards. Necron didn’t feel disappointed. He didn’t feel angry, nor did he feel mad at Ichor. Mistakes happen. 

With a sigh, he heads over to Ichor’s room door, knocking three times. Ichor swings the door open, him changed out of his uniform and into some comfortable loungewear. “What?” He grumbles.

“I saw the letter.” Ichor’s face grows pale upon hearing Necron’s words, though he let Necron continue speaking. “I’m not mad at you, Ichor. Your performance is good enough that a small failure wouldn’t impact your results. Still…” He gives the letter to Ichor. “Consider this as a valuable learning opportunity. You know now that being confident can lead to your death.”

Ichor takes the letter and places it down on his desk. ”Yes, Father. I understand.” 

Necron holds his arms out and gives Ichor a hug. “The next few years will be tough for you, I can tell you that much. You’ll be fighting on the front lines, and your life will be at stake at every moment. No matter how bad the situation seems, there will always be a way to move forward. Every fight is winnable, even when you’re up against the Wither King himself.” 

Necron pulls away from Ichor and places both of his hands on his shoulders. “So, chin up, shoulders back, stand tall. Because the only time you lose is when you give up.” 

Ichor smiles. “Thank you, Father. Now, on a less serious note…” The sudden phrase was enough for Necron to let out a small laugh. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll get started on dinner. Since tomorrow there’s no classes scheduled for you, head to the Dwarven Mines first thing. You know where the minecarts are, correct?”

Ichor nods. “Floor 2, left of the elevator. Same place as last week, correct?”

“Divan’s Gateway. Bring your blade and your armor. I took the liberty of polishing and mending any damage that might have occurred, and kept them in that blue duffel bag underneath your bed.”

Ichor nods. “Thank you, Father.”

A cloaked and bloodied Necron limps through the war-torn village, ears still ringing from the sheer magnitude of the explosion that Storm used to defeat him. His greatswords lay strapped to his sides, considerably lighter than before on account of them having been split in half. Better than Goldor’s ever were, he called them…

The air grew thick with the scent of smoke and rubble. He had reached Storm’s fortress, and his comrades had sacrificed themselves to hold off Maxor and Goldor, and yet… he’d failed them all. Sarah… Kaleb… 

Necron brings a hand his shoulder, pain rocketing through his entire body as he tries to make his way out of the village. His hands brush over a small stump lying just atop his clavicle, the remnants of where the heads chose to form this time, standing firm and tall. He stops when he hears something.

A wail. It was loud, and it came from somewhere in the rubble, before quickly subsiding. Necron looked around to track its source, finding it come from what used to be a small house. He looked into the rubble, and found nothing.

“Looking for someone?”

Necron’s eyes widened at the unfamiliar voice. It was deep, gravelly, and each word crackled, as if it was being spoken through thunderclaps. He whirled around to see the second Wither King, holding a head by locks of black hair.

A pair of broken glasses fell off of it as Storm held it up for Necron to see. And right as Necron saw it, the brutalized and bloodied face of his son, he woke up with a shout.

Necron placed a hand over his chest, the pale gray-ish skin painted with countless scars and wounds, and he tried his best to compose himself. His pupils were shaking, he was sweating, and his other hand gripped the bedsheets of his hard enough that his sharp nails were starting to puncture through the fabric.

He got up from his bed and immediately rushed over to Ichor’s room, though after glancing at the clock, he stopped himself from slamming the door open, but rather just… slowly peering inside. After gazing at Ichor’s sleeping form for a second and seeing the miniscule movements of his breathing, he let him be. 

Closing the door to Ichor’s room, Necron heads to the main entrance, grabs a coat of his that lied on the small coat rack next to the main entrance, and wraps it around himself. He steps out onto the near-empty streets, the roads periodically covered in warm orange light thanks to the phosphorescent street lanterns shining onto the area. 

Necron liked to call Floor 7’s ceiling an artificial sky when he first moved down here, since Barry had small lanterns dotting the ceiling that were poised to activate every night on the surface. And those lanterns sparkled and lit up the ceiling, providing a sense of calm to its residents, him included.

“Oh dear, Necron? What might you be doing out here this time of night?”

Necron turns around to see Councilman Paul, the man dressed in a set of bright green pajamas. The sleeve that held Paul’s right arm hung limply, and was significantly deflated compared to his left arm, like he hadn’t inserted an arm into it yet. “You hadn’t had another nightmare, have you?”

Necron considers shaking his head, but he sighs. “The war never truly leaves us veterans, do they?” He muses with a slight chuckle, more to himself. “Besides, since you’re awake at this hour, I can’t imagine you’re having a good night’s rest either.” 

Paul laughs. “Yeah, yeah. You get it.” Paul turns around. “It’s… been 20 years since her death. Today’s the anniversary.” Necron tilts his head for a second, confused. His eyes land on a small ring on his left hand, and his eyes widen before quickly softening.

“Your wife, right?”

Paul nods. “Diana was my everything, you know. She’d personally helped nurse me back to health after… well, you’d know more than anyone about the day the factory nearly fell.”

“My condolences for her passing, Paul. I… can’t personally relate to how you might feel, for I possess no interest for that sort of connection… but…” Necron starts, but Paul interrupts him.

“You don’t need to go on a whole speech about how loss can impact someone. I mean, hey, a former Wither Lord of all people taking care of a child… back then, people would’ve called you a comedian. But, really, thank you, Necron. I’m gonna go rest for now. I got some big news tomorrow evening, so come on by to HQ then, alright?”

Necron nods. “Good night, Paul.”

“GOLDOR!” Shouts a booming, thundering voice.

The Second-In-Command to the Wither King can feel Storm approaching before he hears his loud footsteps, and with a heavy sigh, he turns to the door that housed his quarters. A flash of blue light behind it, and a hole was created where a door used to be.

“Good evening, Master Storm. How may I assist you?” 

“You can start,” Storm steps closer to Goldor as lightning charges around his palms. “By explaining to me how the FUCK do we not have enough forces for the Dwarven Mines?!”

“Master Storm, I mean no offense, but the forces that you summoned with help from Sadan’s soul are… not up to the mark. While they might deal a bit more damage than a normal footsoldier of ours, their fragility makes them a liability rather than an asset at the moment.”

Storm’s eye twitches at Goldor’s words. His hand darts out and grabs the front of Goldor’s chestplate, yanking the Wither Lord closer to him. “ Then make them an asset .” He grumbles out through gritted teeth. Storm pushes Goldor back and leaves the room. “And fix this door, will you?”

Chapter Text

Ichor and Necron stood on opposing sides of Divan’s Gateway, the mist spirits watching in rapt attention as Necron wielded both of his broken greatswords. He gripped both handles firmly in his hands as the air around the blades began to glow, letting a soft orange shine onto his gray plate armor, the same kind that Ichor wore.

“I know I might have said that I was still proud of you, despite you failing your practical exam, but...” Necron begins. “That doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook, Ichor.” The sclera in Necron’s eyes begins to turn black. “Since the foes you will be fighting are not human, I will not be fighting you as a human today.” Necron’s skin begins to shift colors, from a pale gray to a crimson red as the colored scales formed underneath his eyes. 

He points one of his blades at Ichor as the orange glow begins to crackle. “Consider it as a punishment, because I, Necron, have never faced defeat at the hands of a mortal like you.”

Necron immediately leaps into action, dashing forwards as much as possible. The black of Ichor’s blade makes contact with the teal of Necron’s greatsword, and Ichor grits his teeth at the sheer strength of his father. Necron continued to apply more and more force onto Ichor’s edge, though Ichor could see the gears ticking in his mind. 

Ichor gripped his blade tightly and took two steps backwards, Necron still on the offensive as he continued to apply more and more pressure onto Ichor’s blade. Ichor decided not to relent. Mana circulated through his system as he pushed back against Necron, winning the first clash of swords. 

Necron’s eyes widened before narrowing into an expression of focus. His other blade thrust itself forward. Ichor stepped to the side and dodged it entirely, and-

A loud rumble stopped the two of them in their tracks. Alarms began to blare out as the entirety of the Dwarven Mines were coated in a red tint. Necron and Ichor looked at each other for a split-second, and immediately rushed to the entrance of the Mines. They both heard the sounds of battle, and another explosion sent rumbles through the caves.

A zombie soldier, dressed in chainmail armor, stood in front of them, though with a swing of his blade, the soldier was turned into mincemeat. When they finished their arduous climb to the main Dwarven Village, it was a nightmare.

Blood stained the floors and the walls, the dirt having run a deep red color. Dwarven soldiers valiantly did battle against a horde of zombies that were twice the size as that one zombie who they ran into, along with skeleton soldiers wielding bows and arrows that crackled and pulsed with a strange energy. The arrows could shred through armor, Necron found, thanks to a demonstration of its power as it pierced through a dwarf’s shield and, consequently, his head.

A red light glowed from behind the enemies, and Necron cursed when he saw what lied behind it. Pulsing with magic and something more electrical was a Wither-like hunk of metal. Its side heads were not heads, but rather cannons, a barrel protruding outwards from where one’s jaw normally lied.  Wires were tied together in intricate knots when you looked underneath its armored exoskeleton, each one lined with runes and sigils that shone different colors. Its main head was nothing out of the ordinary, save for the mechanical eye that glanced over the battlefield. 

A soft orange glow began to well up from both of its cannons as the machine’s eye lit up. A low hum reverberated throughout the area as the glow began to grow in intensity, the orange light shifting to red as the machine began to curl into itself.

Necron heard a loud clunk from the machine, and its heads shot back up and fired a strange orb in the air. It pulsed once as it traveled outwards. Pulsed once more at its apex. And when it pulsed for a third time as it got closer to a mass of soldiers, Necron rushed forwards in an instant, batting the orb away into a stray mithril vein.

The orb exploded milliseconds after Necron whacked it away, carving a hole where a vein of mithril used to be. The dwarves looked at Necron, his red eyes burning with anger. “Everyone stand back!” He shouts, his voice booming through the region. The dwarves all did as Necron told, moving away from the combat as the small force of undead soldiers all locked their eyes onto him.

Necron takes a deep breath as mana pools around him. A black tint begins to paint itself onto his armor as it grows in size and in complexity. An orange gem, shaped like a skull, forms on the center of Necron’s breastplate, as orange lines begin to paint themselves over his skin. A red banner extends out of the back of Necron’s neck, fastening itself to his collarbone.

His greatswords vanished, disappearing into white light. Necron held out his right palm as a red line cut through the air in front of him. It buzzed and arced with power as the light took its shape. And when it did, Ichor was nearly knocked back by the sheer amount of power that radiated out of it. 

Its handle was a polished silver, so clean and fine that not even an atom was misplaced in its perfect symmetry. The red gemstone in the middle pulsed with power, a sigil of a sword carved onto it. A straight, crimson blade extended outwards, glistening with that same ruby-like material that housed the gemstone. Some of the dwarves, those with graying hair and with scars adorning their face underneath their helmets, gasped when they saw it. And Ichor was no exception. 

Necron uttered a set of three words. “Valkyrie… obliterate them.” It was as fast as a snap of fingers, yet Necron found himself in the center of the pack of monsters. The world was silent as light began to protrude out of his blade in a sphere, rending and scorching the flesh and bone of the undead.

A clearing, six meters across, was made, dust marking the edges of the circle. Necron’s eyes narrowed with a determination. The foes stayed rooted in place, legs struggling to move amidst their trembling. “ICHOR!” He shouts. “GO ALERT THE KING!” 

The son nods, rushing in the direction of the royal castle. When he was out of sight, Necron let out a sigh of relief. The troops, despite being undead, only had one thought running through their minds. To escape, to flee, to survive. The last remnants of instinct from their time as mortals. A smile forms on Necron’s face.

“I wish I could see the expression on Storm’s face as I cleave this army to bits.” Necron rushes into combat after muttering the stupid one-liner, a habit he obtained from Kaleb back when… he didn’t think about it further. The skeletons and zombies, while they may have been larger than most, only gave Necron more flesh to sink his blade into and more bone to split in half.

Valkyrie melted through the armor as the undead’s black blood began to spill all throughout the floor. A clunk from the mechanical Wither sent an orb flying upwards again. Necron didn’t take his eyes off of the zombie whose head was rapidly approaching the tip of his sword, rather opting to point it forwards.

A flicker of light, and Necron was suddenly met face-to-face with one of the cavern walls, an explosion erupting around him. His eyes glinted with yellow for a brief second as the veins on his neck shone with a gold that peeked out from under his pale gray skin. An explosion burned around him, the heat and force sending more rumbles through the Dwarven Mines.

Necron whirled around and saw the mechanical wither charging straight towards him, steam billowing from behind it as it roared. Necron held his blade up towards it, halting the machine in place when it made contact with its edge. Valkyrie pulsed with a red light as Necron slashed, tossing the wither backwards. Another red slash formed across it, knocking it back further. 

He pointed Valkyrie at the machine once more, and he couldn’t resist letting a smirk grow on his face. “Wither Impact.”

The familiar lurch of the teleportation brought him closer than ever to the mechanical wither, until he was face to face with it. He jammed his blade into its central face as the light began to expand out of the red blade, engulfing both him and the mech. When it cleared, Necron stood atop a mess of wires and engineering, his hands and armor coated in flecks of a glowing red fluid that pooled out of it. Its core laid intact, covered in a red crystalline dodecahedron. Necron crushed it in his bare palms, turning back to the rest of the makeshift army.

Ichor ran as fast as he could across the bridge towards a large castle, dwarven guards hurriedly running past him in the opposing direction. Ichor didn’t spare a glance at them as he rushed forwards to the open gates of the castle. Two guards stood on either side of the wide-open doors, though Ichor just ignored them and their look of surprise.

He climbs up the stairs to the elevated meeting platform, and rushes over to a circular table, seven people surrounded it. Ichor glances at the one in the middle and points at him. “Your Highness!” He shouts.

The one in the center tilts his head. “Your Highness? You misunderstand. I am not the King.” Ichor clenches his fist and was about to step forward, but thankfully, a feminine voice cuts through the air.

“Wait. I’ll deal with this.” A dark-skinned woman walks out from behind the throne, dressed in a lavender tunic, with a golden crown and golden armor coating her limbs. A white pigeon rested atop her shoulder, tilting its head at Ichor. “What might be the issue, young one?”

Ichor glances at her and bows. “Greetings, Your Highness. At this very moment, there is an army of undead mobilized at the Dwarven Village. Necron is currently occupied with holding back the foes, but I fear that if backup isn’t quickly given, there could be complications.”

She nods. “I was aware that there were intruders, especially considering that the alarm was sounded, however I hadn’t expected them to be undead of nature. One second…” The pigeon flies up into the air above her as she materializes a piece of paper in her hand. She gives it to the pigeon, and it nods, flying so fast it turned into a white ball, with a golden trail behind it. “The Pigeon has alerted the rest of the forces in the Barracks. Thanks to Necron, we should still be fine, but the backup should be sufficient for any other remaining forces. Still, thank you for bringing this to our attention, young man.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“It is not an issue. Us dwarves owe you all a debt for letting us survive down here when the first Calamity occurred. We are only repaying the favor now.”

The queen turns back to the kings all gathered around the table. “KINGS! RALLY YOUR PEOPLE! FOR WE WILL LIVE TO SEE ANOTHER DAY!” She shouts, raising her fist. The kings do the same and shout. 

It’s been two weeks since the Wither King’s invasion on the Dwarven Mines. Storm sat proudly on his throne of bone, lazily tossing a small ball of magic around the throne room, watching it melt through one of the skeleton guards that stood watch in front of one of the pillars. He sighs and snaps his fingers, another one forming in its place.

“What is taking Goldor so long? I asked him to get the report to me already…” He mutters. 

On cue, the doors to the throne room swing open, revealing Goldor, a stack of reports in his palm. His golden eyes were mad with anger, pupils shaking, and Storm hadn’t seen the Wither this mad in his entire life.

“NECRON!” Shouts Goldor. “OUR WHOLE OPERATION FELL AT THE HANDS OF NECRON!” 

Storm’s eyes widen. “Including the mech? The one that I specifically requested you to make powerful enough to defeat Necron?”

Goldor nods. “When I sent a bat to do recon in the Dwarven Mines, it saw the battle unfold, and brought it back to me.” He pulls out a crystal ball from his pocket and tosses it in the air. Magic circuits spark and buzz around it, before beams of light begin to draw over the empty space between Goldor and Storm.

A diorama of the battle taken from aerial view was shot from the bat, and a red dot was able to carve through blobs of gray light with relative ease. Goldor waved his hands around in the air, and the view panned to see Necron in greater detail. “Every single soldier, Your Majesty. They fell like ants. Some even tried to escape. Could you believe it? Even the elite guards, the ones who I personally trained, couldn’t handle him. And the mech…” The battle becomes a blur of light, and it stops at a specific shot, of the hologram Necron standing atop a hunk of white light. “Destroyed in an instant.”

Storm glances at the floor with a disappointed expression on his face. “Were these the soldiers that I personally summoned? Or were they part of our reserves?” Goldor tries to answer, but Storm holds up a palm. “If you say that they were our reserves, then I will rip out one of your heads.”

Goldor grimaces. “They were our reserves, Your Majesty. After checking the condition of some of your soldiers that you summoned, I… personally felt that they would do better once they had time to settle.”

“Time to settle? Goldor, these aren’t made of souls. These are constructs. They follow orders perfectly, with no room for error. Are you doubting your king? Are you doubting my abilities?” Storm stands up from his throne and walks over to Goldor. Storm cranes his head down to look at Goldor, his eyes flashing a bright blue. “I’ll forgive your insolence just this once. But the next time you insult me like this…” Storm snaps his fingers, and a nearby guard turns to dust. “That will be you. You’ve disappointed me, Goldor. Had you used my forces, we’d have the mines under our control. Tell Maxor to continue working on those machines I ordered him to do, and in the meantime, I’ll work on something of my own.”

Goldor nods, and bows. “I apologize greatly for my error, Your Majesty. I will not make this mistake again.”

A smile forms on Storm’s face. “Good. Now get back to work.”

Chapter Text

Ichor stood rapt in attention in his suit of armor, standing perfectly still next to people similarly suited-up. Some of his classmates were interspersed amongst the crowd of soldiers, yet a good majority of them were older. They were not in the classroom that Ichor was used to, but rather an area that Ichor had never seen before until now.

An area of The Catacombs restricted only to soldiers, just above Floor 1. The Entrance. Due to its proximity to the surface, the Council restricted the entrance to be solely for the Catacombs’ armed forces to train and to fight, while also acting as the first line of defense in the event of an invasion. 

Ichor hears footsteps, and looks past the others who were in line to see a small stage in the center, bright orange lights shining onto it. “ATTENTION!” Shouts a bold, gruff, voice. Everyone stood and saluted. Three people walk in from Ichor’s right, and get onto the stage, one at a time.

The first one to get on stage was a shirtless man, his muscular figure marred and highlighted with scars, particularly an ‘X’ shaped one in the center of his chest. He wore a blue helmet that covered most of his face, leaving three holes for his eyes to look out of, and one for his mouth and nose. He stood tall and firm, and the way that his loud footsteps could almost shake the ground beneath him made Ichor know that he was strength incarnate. “MY NAME! AATROX! MY POSITION! GENERAL!”

The second person was similarly shirtless, though his body lacked a majority of the first one’s scars, and he was a bit slimmer compared to the first one. He wore a golden helmet similar to the first one, except bright green eyes glanced out of two eye-holes with an analytical gaze atop everyone, and Ichor could feel that the man already knew his strengths, weaknesses, and shortcomings. “My name is Maddox! My position is also General.”

The third person stepped on stage, and everyone’s eyes simultaneously widened, Ichor’s included. He stood at the center of the stage, dressed in the orange and black armor that Ichor saw him use, and Ichor can’t help but let a smile cross his face. “Good day, everyone. My name is Necron. My position is Chief. I’m the leader of this army, and I expect you all to give your best. Maddox and Aatrox will be your generals, and they’ll be reporting to me.” Necron gets off from the stage and begins to walk around in a circle in front of the armored soldiers.

“Due to extenuating circumstances and… unfortunate events, I’ll say, the Council has made the decision for all of the final-year students of the New Mage Academy to enroll into our armed forces early. While I don’t personally like that it came to this, our choices are limited, and ultimately, this was the only decision we had on hand that had the least risk. All of you, step forward and line up.”

Ichor does what he says and walks to the front of the group, standing in line with his classmates. Necron’s eyes wash over everyone, stopping for a second onto Ichor, before moving to the other end of the line. “Since you are all entering the army earlier than most, I regret to inform you that you will be held to the same standards, despite the fact that some of your regiment will have more expertise regarding certain matters. I expect all of you to catch up and adapt quickly.” Necron stops in his tracks, glances at Ichor, and sighs. “A lot of you… might not make it to the end of this war. There is a constant risk of death at every single moment, especially once we reach the surface. So, to anyone who wishes to resign, this is your last chance. I will not view you as cowardly, nor will anyone else.”

A few of the soldiers standing in formation, raised their hands. One of Ichor’s classmates did so too, and Necron nodded, dismissing them all with a wave of his hand. When a minute went by with no one choosing to raise their hands, Necron nods. “Since you’re all aware and ready for what you’re signing up for, I shall tell you one, very important thing. In seven days, I will assign those who do the best within these seven days to accompany both Maddox and Aatrox in a highly important mission on the surface. I will not be able to disclose any details at the moment, for some of the finer details are still being finalized, but if you manage to succeed, you will be greatly rewarded. Additionally, the experience on the field that you gain will be the difference between life or death once war actually breaks out. That is all. Thank you.”

Necron bows, and Maddox and Aatrox take over.

Maddox walks through the training grounds, surveilling the students’ training as his eyes glazed over every movement they could make. Maddox felt… disappointed. The first regiment, the one which he, Aatrox, and Necron all fought in, were the ones to nearly win the war. Up until the last second, if Storm had taken just one more hit, they wouldn’t have needed to resort to these measures.

The memory of people he’d fought with, seeing their bodies litter the soil… his nightmares of that final day, when everything came crumbling down, still rang in his head when he’d tried to sleep. He couldn’t blame Necron for it, for at that point, it was either him or Storm that would have fell.

But this batch… Maddox was worried. They lacked finesse, control, precision. But most importantly, they lacked time. Their regiment was fighting and training for seven years, seven years of combat and active preparation, without even a single day of rest. At least at the surface, there were more people willing to battle, and the Village wasn’t reduced to a pile of rubble.

But now, with the Dwarven Mines having been invaded by undead forces, it was only a matter of time before they did the same for the Catacombs. Their time was running thin, and Maddox was worried. There were a few members with active potential, that much was certain, but only one could meet the standards of the Legendary Regiment.

The black-haired boy in the center, carefully dodging and weaving around strikes of a blade from his sparring partner, the one who Maddox saw as an infant in Necron’s arms on the day they came back home. He landed a final strike onto his opponent’s chestplate, causing her to drop her blade and hold her arms up in surrender. “Ichor, is it?” Calls Maddox.

Ichor turns to Maddox and stands in attention, a nervous expression on his face as he brings his hand to a salute. “Yes, General Maddox, sir!”

“At ease, at ease. You’re Necron’s boy, are you not?”

He nods, posture loosening in the process. “Yes, General Maddox. I’m Necron’s son. Is there anything you need from me in particular?” He asks, an inquisitive look on his face. Maddox thinks for a second before shaking his head.

“No, nothing at all. I must commend you on your performance so far. Even though you’re still a bit… rough around the edges, I’ll say, you’re doing excellent work in your sparring. Keep up the good work.”

Ichor bows, and Maddox turns away from him. Stretching his arms, he spots Necron slowly walking towards him. “Maddox, I need you for a minute. There’s been some developments regarding the…” Necron looks over Maddox’s shoulder. “Tell you what, follow me. I’ll explain once we’re alone. Top secret.”

Maddox turns around to see Ichor staring at them inquisitively, as a tinge of red forms on his face as he quickly turns away, embarrassed at being caught. Necron smiles. “Ichor, get back to work!” He calls out.

Taking Maddox to a small corner of the large training ground, far enough that they were out of earshot, but close enough to still keep an eye on their soldiers. “We’ve received word from Queen Nyx of the Mage Faction that she and Chief Scorn would be open to discussion… but on the condition that we only bring five people onto the Crimson Isles’ mainland. With the envoy, you, Aatrox… that only leaves two people.”

“Did she give a reason for why?”

“It’s for security purposes, according to her. Five people would be easier to track and keep secured compared to an army of 50.”

“You also mentioned that both Aatrox and I would be going to the mainland. But… if you recall, I told you that we’re permanently banned from entering the Crimson Isles. What changed?”

Necron sighs. “Queen Nyx asked for you and Aatrox specifically. I’m not sure for what, but the letter she sent was clear. Send the envoy, you, and Aatrox, alongside two others to the mainland.”

Maddox nods. “Very well, then. Is that all?”

Necron shakes his head. “I also have an assignment from Seraphine. She’s asking you to make miniature Batphones for the army to allow for communication between the surface and the Catacombs. You can talk to Barry for a starting point, since he’s in the process of setting up the network, and that he has the necessary documentation with him. By next week, I want fifteen of those Abiphones. Ten of our guards will be accompanying the five to the Crimson Isles, in case of a sudden attack from Storm.”

Maddox nods. “I’ll do my best, Necron.”

Goldor walks through the basement of the Wither King’s fortress, moving down a large dimly-hit hallway. There was a low hum underneath the floorboards as vibrations beat down the hall. Blueprints are pasted onto the side walls, of failed projects and designs that had no use to them now that they were out of that accursed Factory.

The sounds of metal crashing and the whirring of a saw get closer and closer as Goldor reaches a large metal door at the end of the hallway. With a deep breath, Goldor clenches his fist and knocks on it twice. The sounds of metalwork continue on in the background as a hiss echoes from the door.

They slide open, revealing a short, dark-skinned man, hunched over a large plate of metal. His hair was spiky, and Goldor always warranted it to an explosion. Black soot stained his beige overalls, and a pair of clunky safety goggles, tinted red, turn towards Goldor. The man smiles, a manic grin on his face. He points his metal saw at Goldor. “Oh, hello there, Goldor! Hadn’t seen you in a while! Storm’s been giving me so many assignments, you see…” Maxor places his saw down onto a table next to him with similar tools stacked high atop it.

“I can tell. I’m here to drop off some reports on the mechanical wither you sent to the Dwarven Mines.” Goldor holds up a stack of manila papers, which Maxor immediately snatches out of his hand and begins to flip through it at high speeds.

Maxor’s expression immediately contorts into one of rage as small explosions begin to pop around his feet. “I SPENT TWO MONTHS DESIGNING THAT BLUEPRINT, GOLDOR! TWO MONTHS! AND YOU’RE TELLING ME IT’S GONE?! TURNED TO A PILE OF SCRAP?!” He shouts, his voice booming. A shockwave bursts through the workshop, shaking a large metal skeleton that hung from the ceiling. Maxor rips the report in half and tosses it onto the floor.

Goldor nods. “Storm is not pleased in the slightest with the results, so he’s asked me to check in on your current project.”

Maxor sighs. He picks up the saw again and turns to the skeleton on the ceiling. “Well, Goldor, that up there’s my own personal project. My Wither Form could use a little more durability, you said, so I’m doing my own personal spin on it! Magic’s just so boring sometimes, so I’m gonna make me a new suit of armor! Once I’m in it, I’ll be just as strong as Necron was!”

Red sparks buzzed from Maxor’s fingertips. “Aside from that, though, I’ve been working on the army’s suits of armor. Not easy being a blacksmith and an engineer at the same time, y’know! But I did find something interesting…” He turns to his table and picks up a vial of red powder. “Redstone here’s got some fun properties when you add some magic to it. When you apply it to any electrical impulse, it becomes supercharged. Human reflexes are still quite fast for our undead, but once I add this to ‘em, they can become a fighting force to be reckoned with! Takes a LOT of power to make one chip, though, I’ll tell you that much.” Maxor puts the vial down and turns to a small stand behind him. 

Goldor nods. “Storm’s fighting forces are already at the same level as those in the Catacombs, though. They have the same reflexes. What if we add chips to them?” 

A manic grin forms across Maxor’s face. “I like your style, Goldor! Let me think…” Maxor stops for a second as lights dance across his lenses. Numbers and calculations and diagrams pop up, before quickly ceasing. “If we add one of these chips to a soldier’s armor, they’ll be about 1.2 times faster. But if we add ‘em to a soldier’s spine, neck, or even embed it into their heart… one soldier’ll have the power of 3. Thing is, though, that it then makes their body highly unstable, and you said something about Storm’s forces’ durability, no? But basically, unless we can outheal the damage it causes, no chance they make it out alive.”

Goldor nods. “So it’s good for a glass-cannon type foe. Tell you what… make three chips for each one of us, will you? Have them be on a switch, so we can use them if the situation is dire. A last resort. While I doubt Storm will budge, I’ll graciously accept it if it means taking one more foe down with me. Not that it’d happen in the first place, but…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re an undefeated swordsman, unmatched in close-quarters combat. Now get out of my workshop.”

Goldor does as Maxor says, leaving with a bow. He walks up the staircase and enters the main quarters of Storm’s palace. He turns to the main entrance and walks outside, being immediately bombarded with the sensation of cold. A snowstorm blew on the mountaintop as the air thickened with mana. He holds out a palm and whistles once. A bat begins to form in his hands, a construct of magic poised to record and surveil. 

“Scout the entrances to the Catacombs, and report back to me if you see anything emerge from them.” The bat immediately flies off after hearing Goldor’s words. The Wither Lord steps back inside the castle, only to see Storm approach him. Goldor immediately bows. “Your Majesty. Goldor here, at your service. What may I do for you?”

“Keep our soldiers trained and ready for combat. While they may lack brains, their skills can still go rusty. I plan on removing that thorn in our sides called the Crimson Isles in two weeks’ time. Make sure that each one of them is perfect, Goldor. Do you hear me?”

Goldor nods. “Perfect soldiers. That can be arranged.”

A smirk forms on Storm’s face. “Good. If it turns out that a situation like the Dwarven Mines had happened again…”

“It won’t, Your Majesty.”

Storm nods. “Good. Now, return to your quarters or head to your office. We’ll begin preparations tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Despite what some rumors and some texts about them say, Withers still held the capacity to dream. The transformation from being human to Wither is not a complete metamorphosis, but it’s restricted to a physical metamorphosis, where they transform into those black three-headed monstrosities that hold the capacity to cause so much ruin. 

However, the souls used in the formation of a Wither stay with them in the deepest depths of their soul. And on some nights, when the moon was highest in the sky, and the surface and the underground, didn’t stir…

Necron stood in a black void. He begins to hear whispers behind him, which slowly grow louder and louder. Tinges of cyan appear in the corner of his eye, and he turns towards the light. Two formless figures made of light stand, and the void began to brighten up, as everything began to take shape.

Light filled his vision, and he was back in a place oh so familiar to him. The same layout as the seventh floor of the Catacombs, yet this time, the sky above them wasn’t made of stone, and the buildings weren’t made of gray. Those two cyan figures further take shape and form, as more colors begin to fill their forms.

What stood before Necron’s eyes were two people. One was a brunette light-skinned woman in her mid-50s, with her hair tied in a bun dressed in the same suit of armor that everyone in the Catacombs wore. Her eyes glanced upon Necron with kindness. The person standing next to her was a black-haired, dark-skinned man, dressed in the same armor as the woman. The two had matching golden rings on their gloved hands, a size larger than the fingers underneath so they could wear it in battle as a sign of their commitment.

A smile forms on the Wither’s face. “It’s good to see you two again, Sarah. Kaleb.”

The woman begins to laugh, letting out a hearty guffaw as she rushes towards Necron. “Oh, you sentimental fool! How many times ‘as it been, huh? Tell me, how’s our grandson been doing? You’ve been keeping him busy, haven’t you?” She pulls him into a hug, to which Necron quickly returns.

Necron nods. “Ichor joined our army a few days ago. While I’d personally prefer if he was a little bit older before he joined, there’s been some unfortunate developments with Storm… and now we fear that war’ll break out once more. We’re not in a state to fight, and unless we can take out one of the Wither Lords, it’s a high risk of us being… completely wiped out.” 

Kaleb walks closer to the two. “Do you think your army, as it stands, is capable of defeating a Wither Lord?”

Necron shakes his head. “At the moment, no. Us four, back when we were in The Factory together, were trained to be the perfect team. Strong enough to fight alone, unstoppable when together. Each one of our weaknesses were covered by someone else’s. Maxor was able to help Goldor when it came to long-ranged enemies, since he has the most accuracy out of all four of us. Goldor’s strength in close quarters helped Storm, since his fighting style favored areas of effect and not one-on-one combat. And Storm’s sweeping firepower helped me, who tended to hold back their strikes in favor of endurance. And due to my endurance in combat, in turn helped me against Maxor, who tended to get exhausted quicker.”

“But you’ve mentioned that Maxor gets tired quickly, correct?” Kaleb responds. “Since you’re not part of the team, there’s a potential weakness that could be exploited.

“A fact which he already knows about, Kaleb. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s made some sort of fancy new device that increases his overall power output ten-fold, or some exoskeleton that he could wear to nullify that weakness. If he comes to the battlefield, and I’m not there… there’s no telling what might happen. A Wither Lord coming to the field is a worst-case scenario, and the orders are to retreat by any means necessary. And if Storm himself had made a visit…” 

Sarah slaps Necron on the back. “Oh, don’t be such a pessimist, you! If you’re the one who’s training ‘em personally, and if Ichor’s picked up any similar traits to ‘ya, then you’ll be fine! When you spoke about ‘im to Kaleb and I, we both knew that he’d be something special. Trust him, and trust yourself. You’re all doing wonderfully, and I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

“It’s about time we depart, now. Remember, Necron. No matter how bad the situation seems, there will always be a way to move forward. Every fight is winnable, even when all hope seems lost. So, chin up, shoulders back, and stand tall. Because the only time you lose…

“Is when you give up. Thank you, Kaleb. Sarah. When we meet again, it’ll be after the war is won. That I will promise.”

Sarah nods. “Now, it’s about time you wake up!”

Necron awoke to a cold sensation on his face. Bringing his hand to his cheek, he feels a liquid. “Tears?” He murmurs. Getting up, he turns to the picture frame lying face-down on the nightstand next to him. The world felt… lighter. Like some of his worries that were weighing him down were let go. 

He takes a look at the framed picture of him and Sarah and Kaleb, his mentors and guardians, the ones to help rebuild his humanity, and the ones to give him a second shot at ending this war. Their sacrifice meant too much to Necron, and it felt so wrong that he failed them the first time.

But, it’s just as Kaleb always said. Every fight is winnable. And this time around, he’ll make sure that the war is won for those in the Catacombs. So the surface can be rebuilt, and so that they wouldn’t have to live in these old tombs anymore. 

Necron thinks of his memories with his adoptive parents. They took him in and taught him what it was like to be a human once more, despite the Wither Lord far outnumbering them in years.

He hoped that he’d done the same job for Ichor. 

He heads into the bathroom attached to his room and takes off his shirt, revealing a large lightning-bolt shaped scar in the center of his chest. The scar tissue was black, and flecks of blue light shone through it. With a shaky hand, he lightly brushes the scar tissue, only for the movement to send pain running through his nerves.

Necron’s knees buckled as he bit back a shout, the Wither Lord wincing and trying to compose himself. His fingers gripped the bathroom counter with such force that small cracks made themselves visible.

“A Giga Lightning straight to the chest… even after who knows how many years, it still hasn’t healed.” Necron muses. The amount of damage it had done to both the Factory and to Necron himself, it took miracles from gods to let him see another day, though Necron felt that he hadn’t deserved it.

The weak spot was Necron’s worst secret. He couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even Ichor. Had it not been for this weak point, he’d have won the war a long time ago. And he couldn’t bear to deal with his failure any longer.

“One more chance. We all have one more chance.” Necron’s hand hovers over the scar. “I was the one who secured it. And I’ll be the one to use it. I promise you, Ichor, I’ll make sure you won’t have to deal with your father’s failures any longer.”

In the meeting room of the Council, with only five of its nine members present on the podiums, stood an old wizened figure in the center. 

Necron looked at their chosen envoy, Biblio, his gaze calculating and sharp as he made note of every potential flaw that he brought to their mission. 

“Biblio, since you will be heading diplomacy with the Crimson Isles, it is my responsibility to make sure that you are well-equipped to deal with it.” Begins Councilwoman Seraphine. “Because of how dangerous the surface is, I’m sure you’re well aware of how much of a responsibility our troops are handling to escort a civilian through hostile territory.”

Biblio nods. “And I cannot thank them enough.” Necron’s eyes narrowed. His posture was slightly slipping, from upright to slightly hunched.

“Biblio, you are around seventy years old, if I’m not mistaken. How sure are you that you won’t be too much of a liability for our army? I don’t doubt your intellect and your skills at diplomacy, but in the event of a sudden attack, it’ll be difficult for you to retreat.”

Biblio smiles. “Oh, don’t be such a worrywart, Necron. Consider it an old man’s advice to you, son. Nothing’ll happen to harm me on the way to the Isles. That much I will guarantee.”

Necron sighs, trying to give a response, but he stops. He remembered Biblio’s role in the army as a strategist, and his intuition from years of bookkeeping was sharper than his born from experience. “Fine. I’ll trust you on this. Dismissed.”

Biblio bows and leaves the meeting room, as Councilwoman Seraphine sighs. “I feel like Dante’s now been dethroned for the title of largest headaches I’d ever had to deal with. To finalize things… who will be accompanying Biblio to the Crimson Isles?”

Necron hums. “Biblio, Maddox, Aatrox… then Ichor and… Andrew.”

“Andrew?”

Necron nods. “He’s one of Ichor’s batchmates. Probably the second-best amongst all of them, just behind Ichor. However, since he and Ichor have some animosity brewing between them…”

Seraphine sighs. “I believe that the animosity won’t matter too much. Andrew, from what I’ve been told from Barry, is a similarly serious student like Ichor. I doubt that it’ll affect the overall results too much, but…”

Necron shakes his head. “I believe it’s too much risk. I’ll leave the fifth spot blank, so that in case we need a fifth member, we can decide before entering the mainland.”

“Very well, then. Dismissed.”

It had been a week after everyone from the Academy joined the army, and Necron stood on the stage, watching all of the troops. There were black boxes stacked high behind him, each one with a name printed in silver script.

He called every student up one by one and handed them the box, ordering them to open it after everyone got theirs. 

“And lastly, our highest-performing soldier, Ichor D. Roche.” Ichor’s box was ever so slightly larger than everyone’s, and Necron smiled, because he knew what the contents were inside.

As a commander, he trusted him to do well in battle. And as a father, he was nothing but proud of his performance. When Ichor stood on the stage, Necron handed him the box.

“Every fight is winnable, Ichor. I just hope that this will help you win the last one.”

When Ichor stood back in line, Necron ordered everyone to open their boxes. Within twenty of them, Ichor’s included, was a suit of dark gray armor, with an empty groove in the center of the chestplate. Gray lines ran down every set of armor, like empty tubes waiting for energy to rush through them.

“For those of you with the special set of armor… that is called Wither Armor. It is one of the strongest armor sets known to man, and I am the only one capable of creating the necessary components to forge it. Due to your exceptional performance, you have been selected for our mission tomorrow. You’ll be getting briefed in the morning, and Barry will enchant all of your armor sets before you step out. Once you all reach the surface, the Catacombs will be shut, and there will be no way to come back inside until the mission is completed. Good luck.”

Everyone nods and salutes. Necron smiles, salutes back, and leaves the stage. He only hoped that they’d come back.

It was the day of the expedition, and Ichor was anything but calm. His nerves were sparking like a tesla coil, and the Wither Armor atop him was heavy. 

When he reached the Entrance, the other 19 members stood in line, as Barry looked over each of their armor sets. A box full of bottles of a greenish-blue liquid floated around him as Barry took a deep breath.

Ichor was about to stand in line, but Barry stopped him. “Wait.”

Barry chanted in a strange language as runes began to dance around his hands. He clapped them together as a bright purple energy pulsed around his hands. He touched one student’s armor and chanted a set of incantations, as the armor’s gray started to shine a slight purple hue.

The saturation and intensity grew until it suddenly vanished. Barry did the same with every other member, enchanting each of their armor sets as the feeling of mana in the air thickened. Ichor’s fingers twitched, a small bit of lightning sparking around the aforementioned appendages.

When it was Ichor’s turn for his armor to get enchanted, Barry summoned a table behind him. When he touched Ichor’s armor, the armor itself warped and twisted, being removed from Ichor’s body.

All of the armor’s pieces were placed atop the table, and Barry began to increase his fervent chanting. The armor began to glow and buzz as it shone and glistened with power. 

Ichor’s mana was begging to be let out, wanting to react with the high concentration of mana in the air, but Ichor had to keep it sealed for the time being. When Barry finished enchanting and reforging his armor, he placed it back onto Ichor.

Ichor let his mana loose, letting it flow through the plates. It responded perfectly, like it was a second skin. It felt lighter from its bulkier form, and everything fit much nicer, bringing exponentially higher degrees of comfort to Ichor.

“Enchanted as a special request from Necron, it is. Self-regenerative capacity, it has. Infused with Wither Essence, it is also.”

Ichor smiles. “Thank you, Barry. I’ll make sure that this armor will last. And me with it.”

Barry dismissed them all and told them to continue further upwards. Ichor did as he was told, reaching a grand staircase in a room that Ichor had never seen before.

Maddox, Aatrox, and a third figure stood at the foot of the stairs, and Ichor’s eyes widened as he recognized the third figure. “Biblio, you’re our envoy?”

Biblio nods. Maddox clears his throat. “All of you are present now, correct? If so, I shall begin briefing you about today’s mission. The expedition to reach the Crimson Isles is not going to be easy. Our goal is to escort Biblio, our chosen envoy, to the mainland Crimson Isles. I trust you all know the general pathway to the Crimson Isles, correct? Andrew, explain it to us.”

Andrew nods. “We first cross the Graveyard, to the Spider’s Den, then from there we reach the Crimson Isles.”

Maddox nods. “Correct. We have formally asked Queen Nyx to re-open the launch pad for us, but the journey won’t be easy. All twenty of you are here because you’ve shown potential. So, don’t disappoint us.” Maddox reaches behind him and pulls out a black curved blade with a golden edge. It was short, about two-thirds of the length of a standard broadsword, but its girth more than made up for it.

Aatrox summons a steel battle-axe adorned with gemstones, its ends sharp enough to cleave stone in half. “ATTENTION!” He shouts, causing everyone to stand in order.

Aatrox lets out a hum and motions to the stairs. Everyone begins, going up and up and up until they reach the very top, where a single pitch-black door lies. 

Maddox pulls out a black key from his pocket, and he taps it against the void. The key vanishes, and the door crumbles into dust. Everyone begins to step outside, one-by-one, and when Ichor stepped out,

he hadn’t expected to see a red sky.

Chapter Text

“The mana that flows through us Withers is different from what flows through you. It’s officially called Fel Magic, but I choose to call it by Dark Magic. When the concentration of Dark Magic is high in the air, one of the telltale signs…”

“Is that the sky is red.” Mutters Ichor to himself out loud. The world was coated in a red tint, and the grass underneath them was a deep crimson. 

According to the map and Ichor’s memory, the only entrance to the Catacombs is within the Graveyard. They all came out of a small cavern at the very back of it, having passed through old crypts marred with the scent of decay.

Three of their soldiers had vomited while on the way up to the surface gates, a testament to how clean everyone had tried to maintain those old tombs.

When the last one of their army came up, the doors to the Catacombs barred shut, the pitch-black doors reforming from the dust. Maddox cleared his throat and looked at all twenty of us.

“Welcome to the Surface, soldiers. Remember: our mission is to escort Biblio to the Crimson Isles by any means necessary. However…”

Maddox turned to his side, peering through the dense rows of dead trees, pointing to a small spire in the distance. “That spire over there is the Spider’s Den. Normally, we’d use a launch pad to get us across, but ever since the first war, we’d had to tear ‘em all down. Thankfully, Queen Nyx has provided us with directions to-”

A sudden earthquake ripples through the land. The ground trembled underneath them, and it was enough to cause Ichor and the rest of their soldiers to draw their blades.

Ichor had taken the blade he’d used to duel with Necron with him to the battlefield, and it stuck out amongst the rest. It hummed with power as the blue highlights began to glow as Ichor poured a bit of mana into his sword, a bit of lightning crackling around its edge. 

Maddox turned around to see a humanoid figure begin to approach them. It was dressed in a set of tattered red robes that dragged along the soil. It wielded a large teal scythe as light blue orbs swirled around it.

Its face was grotesque, with two small red bead-like orbs for eyes, and a row of sharp teeth across its face. Its skin was a sickly green color, and two horns emerged from its sides.

“Everyone stand back!” Shouts Maddox. “This is a Revenant Horror! It’s strong, possibly a Tier 3-”

“Incorrect.” A low, gravelly voice echoes from the figure. Maddox’s eyes widened as he heard the beast speak. “You… call me… the Revenant Horror… but my real… title… is The Gravekeeper.” 

The Gravekeeper raises up his scythe as zombies begin to erupt out of the ground. “Storm… had… told me… of you all. That one day… a group of adventurers will surface from the Catacombs. For fifteen long years, I watched… and waited. And now that you’re all here…” He points his scythe at Maddox and Aatrox. “I shall-” A bullet shoots through The Gravekeeper’s throat, its tip igniting and blowing up the beast’s head in an explosion.

Its headless form stood upright, swaying from side to side. A squelching sound is heard as the beast’s head begins to reconstitute itself, bones and flesh regenerating and layering atop one another. When its head fully reconstituted, it turned around to see where it came from.

And that’s when Aatrox took the opportunity to strike. His axe glowed a bright red as he slammed it through the sides of The Gravekeeper. A gunshot was heard, and another explosive bullet slammed through two of the zombies it had summoned.

Everyone got into action and began to fight off the horde, each member wielding their blades with fervor and force. “DESTROY THEIR HEARTS! CAN’T REGENERATE AFTER!” Shouts Aatrox.

Everyone roars out a battle cry, their blades cleaving through flesh and bone with ease. An armada of zombies began to erupt out of the floor and charge towards them. Mana surged through Ichor’s veins, pouring into his blade’s edge as Ichor slashed through a horde of ten zombies at once. Each one’s hearts were split in two, which was enough to turn all of the reanimated corpses back into dust.

The Gravekeeper snarls as it turns towards Ichor, moving away from its battle with Aatrox. It rushes towards him as its scythe glows with a bright teal color. It readies a strike, though Ichor dashes backwards to dodge it. He uses a nearby zombie as a footstool, throwing it into a tree, to launch himself forwards. The edge of Ichor’s blade sparks with lightning, and Ichor doesn’t falter in his attack, piercing through the robes and plate armor underneath to allow access to the beast’s internals.

He didn’t know what possessed him to do so, but Ichor let out a maniacal laugh as he uses his sword as a conductor, pouring as much mana as possible into The Gravekeeper in the form of electricity. It rushes and burns and surges through it as the lightning arcs between its tissues and rends the matter apart, making a million tiny cuts in a second. Ichor rips his sword out of The Gravekeeper’s chest as the corpse falls back onto the floor, blood melting out of its armor as its skeleton turned to dust.

Ichor held a tight grip on his blade’s handle as he let the mana rush through him. His mana was begging to be let loose, and Ichor obliged its request just this once, letting it flow through him alongside the blood through his veins. He turned to the hordes of zombies, his pupils glinting and buzzing with lightning.

Each zombie stopped in its tracks, only for a brief second, but it was enough for Ichor to get started. Ichor immediately dashed forward and cleaved through a solid thirty of them with a spinning slash at once. He didn’t make damage to their hearts, which allowed the other soldiers to use the opportunity he provided to take the final kill.

When the horde was cleared out, Ichor stood with the other soldiers as Maddox and Aatrox lined up everyone. Ichor let his mana die down for a brief second, though it was enough to cause him to fall to a knee from exhaustion. 

“I’d never felt anything like this before…” Mutters Ichor as Maddox checked on him.

“You’re fine. This was a common thing amongst our mages on the surface near the end of the war. Mana becomes more active when there’s more of it in the air, apparently.” Maddox explains as he helps Ichor get back on his two feet, though he was swaying as his mind was going back to normal.

“Who shot those bullets?” Asks Ichor. “We should probably go find them so that in case they end up being hostile, we don’t end up with-” A gunshot is heard through the air as a bullet hole forms on the ground right in front of Ichor. A piece of paper with a hole blew through its corner lied within the crater, and Ichor picks it up.

“Look a little more forward… it says.” Ichor does what the note says, looking forward and past Aatrox, and his eyes widen. In the distance lies a humanoid figure standing atop a tree, rifle in hand, looking right at Ichor. They smile and leap off of the tree, rolling across the ground and walking closer.

When they get closer, Ichor can make out their details easier. They were a woman, with a face mask placed firmly across her nose and mouth. 

Her hair was short, stopping right below her ears, its ends dyed crimson. Her outfit comprised of a black fabric top with a similarly-colored leather jacket atop it, an iron shoulderplate on her right shoulder, alongside a pair of black jeans that clung to her form with every step. Her black combat boots made no noise when she walked closer to them, and Ichor’s breath stops in his throat. She was tall, slightly taller than him, and Ichor could see the fabric of her top cling to her muscles. 

She stops six feet away from Ichor and pulls her mask down. “So, you’re all part of the Catacombs, correct?” She begins. 

Ichor tries to speak. “U-Uh… uh… um…” His words were not working, thanks to the sheer amount of nervousness that lied through him. Biblio, thankfully, comes to his rescue.

“Oh, that we are. Say, you wouldn’t happen to be allied with the Crimson Isles, would you?” Biblio points to the pin on her jacket, which Ichor entirely missed. It was a beige pin shaped like a dragon’s skull. The mysterious woman shakes her head and laughs. 

“The name’s Lilith. You’ll do well to remember it.” She pulls her mask back on. “And to answer your question… yeah, you could say that I’m allied. I’m currently staying in that ruined castle on the southwest of the island,” She gestures vaguely to her left. “About a kilometer or so away from here, but it’s all open, so I wouldn’t really recommend trying to cross it yourself without camouflage.” Explains Lilith. 

“I see, I see. Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Lilith! If you’re willing to assist us, do you know of a way to get us to the Crimson Isles?” Greets Biblio, shaking Lilith’s hand.

Lilith nods. “There’s one way still in function. There’s a portal I got set up over there, courtesy of the Academy. I’ll help you get over there, since there’s a fun little pathway that’s mostly covered by dense forest, so most of their surface and some of their airborne patrols can’t see us.” She turns to the stone wall that lied beside them, and immediately got to work scaling it. When she was at the top of it, she turned back to everyone.

Ichor leaps up and clears the almost three meter height of the wall with ease, landing in a crouch next to Lilith. She jumps off of the wall and lands onto the grass. “Tell you what, why don’t I make this a bit easier for you all? Everyone on the other side of this wall, stand six feet back!” She summons a pistol and points it at the wall, the tip of it shining with a bright orange glint. She looks at Ichor. “You should probably jump off now, since I’m about to blow this section of the wall up.” Ichor does not hesitate for even a second longer, leaping off of the wall right as Lilith fired the bullet.

The explosive shot tore the entire section of wall clean off, turning what used to be a bastion of defense into a pile of rubble. When the smoke cleared, a two-meter long gap lay within the stretch of wall, enough for everyone to pass through with ease. Lilith led everyone out one at a time, starting with Maddox, Aatrox, and Biblio. Everyone stood around within the dense forest that lay outside, yet Maddox winced at the sight of the forest.

“This has all seen better days… not an inch of land left that isn’t marred by the Dark Magic in the air.”

Lilith says nothing in response, only leading them forwards through the thick foliage. When they reach the edge of the forest, Ichor finally musters his courage to speak up. “S-So, h-how long have you been a-allied w-with the Crimson Isles?” The stuttering was uncanny for the normally calm and quiet Ichor, which caused snickers to elicit themselves from the group. A glare from Maddox silences them.

Lilith hums. “Since I was… 4, I believe.” She looks up at the red sky. “I was taken in by the Isles when the war concluded… so for… around fifteen to sixteen years now.”

Ichor nods. “It’s the same with me, except I was… barely 1, I believe.” He and Lilith go a little faster, moving a bit ahead of the group. “Apologies for being n-nervous, by the way…”

Lilith shakes her head. “No need to apologize.” She stops in her tracks and turns to the rest of the army, letting them all catch up. Ichor does a headcount, spotting no one missing.

Lilith clears her throat. “Alright! We’re almost at the edge of the forest. There’ll be about 30 meters of open land we need to clear before reaching the castle. Thankfully, some pieces of rubble are large enough to break line of sight, but they’re only able to hide one of us at a time.” She explains.

Maddox nods, analyzing the situation. “Ichor, you go first. Biblio, you go next. Third’ll be Aatrox, then I’ll call everyone one by one.”

Lilith smiles. “Alright, Ichor, here’s how you’re gonna do this.” She leads Ichor to the very edge of the forest, everyone else following. She points at the mountaintop, where a fortress lies. An ominous blue telescope looks at the open field, spanning left and right. A blue spotlight scans over the open field. “That up there’s a death machine. If you move within its line of sight… Ichor, blink for me once, will you? As fast as you can.” Ichor blinks as fast as he can, and Lilith nods. “The second you closed your eyes, a bullet would have blown your head clean off your neck. It’s also trained to detect whether you’re part of the Wither Lord’s army or human. Thankfully…” She points at the blue light. “When it’s at the farthest end of the island, you have three minutes to make it across to that pillar over there. That, and it stops around 4 meters away from the forest’s edge. So we’re safe at the moment.”

“Why the pillar?”

“Pillar not only provides a hiding spot, it also marks the farthest the spotlight can travel. As long as you stay two meters behind it at all times, you’re safe.”

She looks at the spotlight. “Alright. Follow me, you lot. Everyone stay put.” When the spotlight reaches the farthest end of its range, that’s when she moves. She darts over to the pillar in the blink of an eye, turning back to Ichor and the rest of the soldiers.

Ichor lets mana rush through his body as lightning sparks around his feet. He bolts across the field and stops right in front of Lilith, though the sudden change in momentum causes him to fall forwards, landing directly atop of her.

Ichor blushes, feeling her body heat wash over him. He pulls back quickly, and immediately turns away. Aatrox and Biblio made it across with no hassle, and next came the troops.

With each one following Lilith’s advice to the letter, every single one was accounted for once more, including Maddox who was the last one to join them.

“After this, we’re basically home safe. Just remember, two meters away.” Everyone moves away from the pillar and begins to follow Lilith, who walks along the road with such confidence and certainty, that even Ichor was starting to feel like it was safe.

They climb up a steep hill, moving between piles of rubble, until they reach a large ruined fortress. Its white walls were coated in moss and vines, and most of its details were eroded. The passage of time was not kind to it, that Ichor knew.

When they reached the entrance, a low growl was heard. A huge gray wolf, around three-fourths of the size of Lilith leapt down from the highest point of the castle and landed in front of the group without issue. Its blue eyes were as vibrant as Ichor’s, and its gaze was intimidating enough to paralyze everyone in their army, save for Lilith and Aatrox. It had a scar similar to a lightning bolt moving across their right eye.

“That’s a… Tier 4 Sven Packmaster!” Shouts Maddox. “Everyone stay calm!”

Lilith just walks up to the wolf. Its ears twitched as it just looked at the woman, her red eyes meeting the wolf’s blue ones. “They’re with me. Safe.” She responds.

The wolf turns to everyone and stops when its gaze lands on Ichor. Ichor holds out a hand, to which the Packmaster moves closer. It rubs its fur across Ichor’s palm, and he starts to laugh as the wolf’s tail begins to wag.

“Oh, hello there!” Responds Ichor in a sing-song voice. The giant wolf circles around him for a bit longer before returning to Lilith, who gracefully rubs the top of its head.

“As Maddox said, this is a Sven Packmaster, who I’ve named, well, Sven. She’s a beauty, that’s for sure. I’ve more or less trained her to guard this castle, so we’re now in a relatively safe area. I’ll lead whoever is ready for the expedition with me to the portal room tomorrow morning.” Everyone nods.

When night fell on the overworld, the red sky that greeted them vanished, replaced with the usual deep blue tones of midnight. Ichor gazes into the infinite cosmos above, him tucked in a sleeping bag with all of his squad members surrounding him. With sleep eluding him at this time of night, he gets up out of his sleeping compartment and silently walks past everyone, making sure not to wake them. 

“So long as you’re within these walls, you’ll be safe. I fixed up the place here and there also, so there shouldn’t be any risk of debris or rubble crumbling down, don’t worry.” Rang Lilith’s words in his head. Ichor chose to heed her warning. “Where can I find an open area within these walls?” He mutters.

He tries to move as silently as possible, but by virtue of him having slept in his armor, it was near-impossible to muffle the sounds of the metal, so he just gave up and walked normally. A sharp contrast to her steps, but Ichor hadn’t even seen her since they all chose to sleep under the stars that night.

Ichor stops when he sees the grand set of stairs leading up to the main building of the castle. He walks up them, and finds himself in a grand dining hall. A large hole lied in the floor, though scaffolding and bricks managed to repair most of it to allow for safe passage. A golden throne, half of its backboard destroyed, lies at the far end of the room, and Ichor wonders if that’s where the king was seated.

He went back down the stairs and turned right, finding a hallway to an open courtyard. A sign post was planted on the wall, saying ‘It’s safe to be out here. Just don’t go around the castle from here. - Lilith’. Ichor took trust in her words once more and stepped outside. A cold wind blew from all directions as he finds himself near the edge of the island.

The area being open enough was perfect for his purposes. He summoned his blade and let mana dance around him. His eyes glowed a sharp blue as lightning sparked around him. He let out a few practice strikes, letting his mana loose in the form of light trailing his blade. Wildly slashing forwards and around him, imagining that he was in the midst of battling one of Storm’s undead armies, he leapt up high into the air and held his blade up to the sky, its edge seemingly splitting the moon. He swung downwards as a blue crescent slash forms in the air, lightning sparking out of its ends. Ichor gracefully lands on his feet as he exhales.

Clapping was heard, which caused Ichor’s eyes to widen and to dart around to see the source of the noise. Leaning on one of the walls was Lilith, her face mask off, with a smirk on her face. “Impressive stuff, Ichor.” She responds, causing Ichor to blush.

“I-oh, Lilith! I-I hadn’t seen you there, uh… fuck, uh… what brings you here at this time of night?” The clearly off-guard Ichor stuttered out, causing a smile to form on Lilith’s face.

“I could ask you the same thing, you know. It’s not every day I get visitors here, no less visitors up at this time of night choosing to practice their skills.”

Ichor lets out a laugh, nodding at her words. “Sleep eluded me tonight. Figured I’d keep at least some of my skills sharp to pass the time.”

Lilith smiles. “Keeping my skills sharp is just about the only entertainment I get in this place…” She walks closer towards Ichor. “I’ve spoke with Maddox for a bit. Told me that you’re one of the best when it comes to combat. So congratulations, you’ve managed to pique my curiosity.”

Ichor blushes as he turns away. “A-Ah, so you did? Well, I, uh… I’m h-honored that you think so. W-What would you like to know about me?”

Lilith hums. “Not much, really. There’s only a very small thing I’d like to know…” She steps closer and closer towards Ichor.

“Which i-” Before Ichor could finish his sentence, Lilith was right behind him, holding the barrel of a gun to the back of his head.

“I know what Storm’s magic feels like. You can feel it in the air, in the soil, and from the undead. Why is yours so eerily similar to it?” She presses the barrel on his skull further, waiting for Ichor’s response. A look of suspicion and a piercing glare shoots through Ichor, causing the man to let out a shaky breath.

“T-This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this question. But… I’ve learned how to harness magic from my father, Necron.” The name caused Lilith’s eyes to widen. 

“Elaborate.” She reduces the amount of force pressing onto Ichor’s skull, just keeping the barrel hovering atop his head. “I’d known that Necron was allied with The Catacombs, but to have a son? Is it by blood?”

“No, not by blood, but because I’ve grown up around him… my mana’s emulated that of a Wither’s. My biological parents also passed on a special trait to me. I have an increased affinity for absorbing Mana from external attacks.”

“And I have an increased affinity to sense Mana in the air. I’ve also been adopted by a so-called Hero of the War… much like you.” She puts the gun down. “I’m sorry for suddenly holding you at gunpoint, Ichor.”

Ichor shakes his head. “It’s… a bit scary, but I… felt that I was safe.” He turns around to face Lilith. “Quite a coincidence how similar we are, huh?”

She nods with a laugh, though her eyes quickly widen, as if she had an excellent idea flash through her head. “Give me a second…” She pivots on her feet and darts inside the castle. After about three minutes, she returns to the outer courtyard holding a bundled-up blanket. She unfurls it and places it down on the ground, before quickly sitting down so the wind doesn’t carry it into The Void. She turns to face Ichor. “So, are you gonna sit down, or…” She trails off.

Ichor does not waste a beat, taking off his boots before sitting down on the fabric to ensure it doesn’t get dirty from any mud that might’ve accumulated onto it. The two of them gaze into the night sky surrounding them. “Much more comfortable than sitting on the ground here, no?” She remarks, turning to him.

Ichor nods. “Quite comfortable, indeed.”

She smiles. “It’s a ritual of mine, you know. Whenever I can’t sleep at night, I go to a quiet place and look at the sky. Thinking about… anything, really. Sometimes Sven joins me, but tonight I’ve asked her to patrol. You don’t have a moment of safety up here on the surface.”

After a few seconds of silence, Ichor hesitantly responds. “I-Is it any better on the Crimson Isles?”

She lets out a burst of raucous laughter, loud enough that Ichor feared she’d wake up the soldiers. “Any better on the Crimson Isles, oh…” She rubs her eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh that loud…” She said in-between fits of laughter. “Well, to answer your question, it depends on where. The Crimson Isles is… quite big, but there are safe zones. I’m not going to say much since we’re heading there tomorrow morning anyways.”

Ichor nods, satisfied with her answer. The two continue to stare off into space. It was nice,  not being alone.

Chapter Text

The morning came to a sudden start, with a violent shaking of the ground underneath their very feet. Everyone started to clamor and look around, trying to see what could have caused this. Ichor was in the fray, his blade out and buzzing with mana. Lilith was atop one of the walls, her rifle held in hand.

She leaps down from the wall right as a lance of lightning blows a hole through its surface, right where Lilith was standing. “We have a problem!” She shouts. “Everyone, follow me! Leave nothing behind!”

Everyone does as she says, packing their respective items as fast as they possibly could. Ichor was no exception, sheathing his blade and taking whatever he could with him. Lilith guided them up the grand staircase into the throne room. “Wait, Lilith, why-” She leaps up and slams heel-first into the scaffolding, shattering it and causing her to fall through. When she lands, Ichor could hear a splash. “Everyone, jump down! There’s water at the bottom, you’ll be safe!”

Everyone is hesitant, but when Storm fires another lance of lightning, this one blowing up the king’s throne, no one hesitated, leaping through one after the other as fast as they could possibly go. Aatrox carried Biblio like a backpack as he leapt down, and after Ichor, Maddox went down last.

A red portal sparks and buzzes at the far end of the hallway, directly across from where the water they landed in was. Ichor got out of the water and ran towards the portal, Maddox having already cleared the distance. An explosion rippled through the ground, halting Ichor in his tracks, and a black tentacle shoots through the ceiling. It cuts through the wall like paper, and Ichor turns back, finding himself face-to-face with Storm himself.

Ichor had never seen the Wither King before. But the sight of Storm, his appearance and his mere presence… would give him nightmares forevermore. If Ichor had to describe it, it’d be… inhuman. One head stares face-to-face with Ichor, a black crown with sparking cyan gems adorning it. Its other two heads move along its shoulders, the black, jawless skulls making up its shoulder pads. One of them was hardened and scarred, while the other one was new and fresh. Two cyan horns extend upwards from Storm’s forehead, akin to two lightning bolts.

Its entire body, was coated in armor similar to the Wither Armor that Ichor had on, save for the fact that cyan lightning decals were painted along each plate, all extending from a central lightning-bolt shaped gem in the center of his chestplate. Five tendrils extended from its back, its edges sharp and pulsing with lightning. Each one was pointed at Ichor, and Ichor knew that if he’d decided to use any of those tendrils, he’d have died in an instant. Kingly robes extended down from its belt, draping over the floor.

“Oh?” Mutters Storm. “I hadn’t expected to see a portal here… No matter.”

Ichor continues moving, adrenaline surging through his system as every instinct in his body screamed at him to run to the portal as fast as possible. Right as Storm charges up a ball of lightning, Ichor dives through the portal, ending up on the other side. Ichor stands across from Biblio, only to feel the onslaught of mana right behind him. He unsheaths his blade and turns, seeing that orb of lightning rush towards him, pulsing and crackling with mana.

Death lied beyond it, and Ichor knew that if he hadn’t even attempted to stop it, the entire army would die right here and right now. Using the flat edge of his blade, Ichor tries his best to hold back its rampage.

Lightning sparks and crackles around the two of them as Ichor grunts in pain, using as much of his own mana as he possibly could to amplify his power, letting it rush around him. The amount of force it was carrying was enough to push Ichor backwards, his boots scraping along the stone. But Ichor, with a mighty shout and a last-ditch effort, exhausting 95% of the Mana he had within him, bats it back through the portal.

Storm’s eyes widen as he sees his own attack fly out of the portal, aimed directly for his center head. Cursing, he tilts his head to the left, only for the fireball to slam onto through his left shoulder, engulfing it in a large explosion, knocking him back a considerable distance with the added consequence of destroying the portal.

When the explosion subsides, Storm reaches to the left side of his head. “Solomon?” He breathes out, desperate. He bats at air, trying to see if there’s any trace left of it. There is none.

Storm slams the floor in anger with his remaining arm as he sends mana through the damaged region. It begins to regenerate and heal as his arm reconstitutes itself, like a lizard regrowing its tail. Storm’s expression twisted and shifted into that of fury, and the skies outside darkened in response.

“You… I’ll remember you…” Ichor’s face flashes through Storm’s mind. He didn’t know why, but it elicited thoughts of Necron. “And if I ever see you… I’ll be sure to make your life a living hell.”

Spots form in Ichor’s vision as his eyes begin to blur. He falls to one knee as he drives his blade into the ground. “Storm…” He turns to the army while his mana slowly regenerates. “That was Storm.”

Maddox’s eyes widen as he glances at his surroundings. “This is the Stronghold!” He shouts. “If this is the entrance…” He looks out to the Hub Island. Maddox’s breath catches in his throat.

In the distance lies the mainland, only with a new attachment to its northeastern edge. The Spider’s Den was attached to the island, jagged spikes akin to mountains acting as a barrier, separating the two.

“What… the hell…” He breathes out. He turns to everyone, who all quickly clamor to see what is going on. Immediately, gasps and exclamations emerge from the crowd of soldiers.

Ichor gets to his feet, him swaying from side to side. Lilith immediately rushed towards him, helping him stand. “Thanks.” He says under his breath, quiet enough that only she could hear. “I was standing face-to-face… with Storm…” His pupils began to shrink as the adrenaline was slowly subsiding. Her eyes widen to an almost impossible degree. “Storm?! Are you kidding me?” She shouts.

Ichor nods. “I got lucky. Storm didn’t view me as a threat… so he just started to charge up an attack, buying me time to escape. Had he just let one loose, or used one of his tentacles… I doubt that we’d be here. Is Sven ok?”

Lilith nods. “Sven evacuated far before any of you did, making a beeline to the portal before I could even assess the situation. She’s alright.”

Ichor exhales. “Good to hear. We should probably go.”

Lilith nods. “Do you still need help standing?”

Ichor shakes his head. “I think I can now.” When Lilith lets him go, Ichor stumbles, but he keeps himself upright. “Barely.” He mutters. 

Lilith sighs. “Alright, come on.” She helps Ichor anyways by picking him up and holding him in a bridal carry. Despite the armor’s weight, she was capable of easily holding the troop. Ichor couldn’t explain what the sudden warmth that was found on his face, nor the knowing expression on Biblio’s face. 

“O-On second t-thought…” Ichor stutters out. “I think I’d be b-better off walking.”

Lilith shakes her head. “I saw your condition, Ichor. I’m no stranger to exertion, and I know for a fact that you’re gonna be wiped out for the next… half an hour, at least.”

“Surely I’m heavy, t-though… and the armor isn’t doing me any favors…”

Lilith sighs. “Is this really the time to worry about your wei-”

“Lilith? Is that you?” A feminine voice calls, cutting her thoughts off entirely. Lilith turns to the direction of the voice, and her face immediately turns red. Standing at the Stronghold’s exit, which led to the rest of the Crimson Isles, was a woman. She walked closer towards them, each step from her boots briefly igniting the ground underneath her before quickly fading.

Her hair was a blazing red marred with specks of gray. Two curved horns, glowing a bright orange, extended out of the sides of her head, curling around her ears. Amber eyes holding flames within them gazed at the army. She held a large two-handed golden axe, and her other hand lied limply next to her. Her expression bore one of experience, as a large scar ran across her face, directly under her eyes.

Maddox, Aatrox, and Biblio’s eyes all collectively widen as she got close enough to the army. Lilith was surprised enough that she’d nearly dropped Ichor.

“Elle!” They all shout in unison. Elle smiles and plunges her axe down in the ground, causing tremors to shake the ground underneath them. She moves in to hug Maddox and Aatrox. “It’s been too long since I last saw you both! This old lady here’s been wondering what you’ve been up to…” Maddox laughs. 

“Old? You don’t look a day over 50!” He responds, and Elle lets out a hearty laugh in response, playfully thumping Maddox’s chest.

“Oh, but I am! Oh, forgive my manners…” She turns to the rest of the army, grabbing her axe’s handle and slinging the blade over her shoulders. “I’m Elle. They used to call me Elle of the Nether during the ‘ol war, but for now, call me Elle. I’m the commander-in-chief of the Crimson Isles’ army, and I’m here to escort you lot to Queen Nyx’s palace.” 

She turns to Lilith, ready to say something, only for her words to die in her throat as she glances at her and Ichor’s current predicament. Her expression changes into a teasing smirk as her axe catches fire, igniting into flames. Lilith dropped Ichor right then and there, causing the soldier to yelp and shout in pain as his back hit the stronghold floor.

“So, Lilith, who was that you were carrying?” Elle teases, and Lilith turns away. 

“M-Mother, please, now is not the time…” 

“Oh, come on! It’s been five months since I’ve seen my daughter! I deserve this, alright?!” She ruffles Lilith’s hair and pulls her into a hug. Elle kisses her cheek and laughs as Lilith tries to pull away, though she, of course, didn’t budge. “I’ve missed you, though. Really. But…” She lets Lilith go and turns to Ichor, who still lay flat on the ground. “You should probably help him first before you brief me on what’s going on.”

Lilith nods and helps Ichor back up, pulling him into a second bridal carry much to Ichor’s elation (though he would never admit or express that at this moment in time), as she leads everyone forward through the Stronghold.

“So, Maddox, mind filling me in on what’s going on? Aside from your summons by Queen Nyx, of course.” 

Maddox nods, walking side-by-side with Elle. “The Spider’s Den has, somehow, been fused with the mainland’s Graveyard.”

Elle sighs. “Like dealing with a shortage of Sulphur wasn’t enough… our hands are full with fending off Kuudra, so having some developments on the mainland… urgh. Still, it’s real alarming that Storm’s making moves again. I doubt that we’re dealing with anything like last time… and at our age, I’m not sure if we’ll be able to stop it.” She lets out a laugh. “Thankfully, the stubborn bastard has no ability to learn from his mistakes.” Elle stops and turns to the rest of the army. “You lot didn’t actually see him, correct?”

“I was standing face-to-face with him.” Said Ichor from his position in Lilith’s arms, and Elle whirled around to face him. Her eyes were wide and pulsing with shock. 

“And you lived?!”

Ichor nods. “I… nearly didn’t. Had to parry one of his attacks… came through the portal. Heard a scream before the portal got destroyed.”

Elle shakes her head and lets out an exhale. “Saved us all, I’ll tell you that much. We ain’t in a spot to deal with Storm at the moment… maybe not even a Wither Lord.” She turns to Maddox. “The situation of the Crimson Isles is… not the best, I’ll tell you that much. The concentration of Dark Magic in the air is directly proportional to the amount of Sulphur required to keep our population from mutating. You and Aatrox’re safe, since you’ve been out of the Isles long enough that your bodies have adapted. But for those who’ve been here for over fifty years now…” They reach the edge of the stronghold and step out into the main Crimson Isles. 

The sky is a deep crimson, even darker than that of the mainland. “Because the concentration of Dark Magic is so high… the Piglins, those who’ve made up the Barbarian Factor back in the day, are quickly metamorphosizing into beast-like creatures called Hoglins. It’s reversible if you provide them Sulphur, but it’s… only temporary. And the Taika, what the Mage Faction are… their minds can’t handle the strain of Dark Magic in the air.”

“Mana-induced psychosis.” Finishes Lilith, to which Elle nods. 

“Correct. The only way we were able to stop them is by giving them Sulphur, but their bodies are developing a resistance to it quickly. Intravenous administration of Sulphur was lethal before the war, but that’s the only way to stop cases of mana-induced psychosis in 20% of the cases.” She leads them down a beaten path to a stone gateway, mycelium spreading out from underneath it only to quickly be turned to the netherrack that made up the rest of the wastes. “Doesn’t help that Kuudra likes to attack once per week at this point. We might have to put ‘em down for good this time.” Elle continues.

“What do you mean by ‘put down’?” Asks Ichor.

“Kuudra doesn’t have loyalties. All it cares about is Sulphur. You pit Kuudra against a toddler or against Storm himself, he’ll fight with as much force as possible if it meant he’d get another crate full of it. We’ve kept him as our guard dog for the past fifty years, believe it or not. That’s also why we chose to close off the island. Because Kuudra’d wreak havoc on anyone that tried to enter the mainland through conventional methods.” Elle swings the heavy wooden doors, leading to a large pathway, giant mushrooms growing on either side. She continues to lead them through, stating “Don’t eat any of the mushrooms.”

They continue down the pathway in a few seconds of silence.

“So… why does Kuudra need all that Sulphur?” Asks Andrew.

“Sulphur’s used to maintain stability in organisms native to the Crimson Isles. Dark Magic is, as you know, capable of mutating living organisms. It happened with Jythar, it’s happening with Storm. Sulphur stops the mutations from occurring, though it’s only a temporary solution.” Elle continues to explain, the whole army getting bored of her explanations, save for Ichor of course.

Once they reach a stone walkway, Ichor can spot two figures in the distance. Both were dressed in flowing gold and white robes, their purple skin marred with spots of yellow powder. Their eyes were wild and bloodshot, and shivers wracked their forms.

They passed by the army, and Ichor heard whispers of “Sulphur…” under their breath. Elle pulled out a small communication device and tapped out a message on it.

“Those are some warning signs before mana-induced psychosis takes place. I’ve asked people to keep an eye on them so that we can detain them if needs be.”

“Detain?” Asks one of the soldiers.

Elle nods. “Once they cross the line, there’s no going back for them. We have to detain them in specialized holding cells or use lethal force as soon as possible. It’s… not the best for our population, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Is there a way for it to be reduced? Like, maybe it’s a rehabilitation issue!” Suggests another soldier.

Elle shakes her head. “No chance. Low Sulphur’s what caused them to turn psycho, so I ain’t sure why we’d cut off their supply if it means they’re remaining sane.”

“What about withdrawals?” Asks Ichor.

Elle shakes her head. “Sulphur’s not something that gives pleasure. For centuries, we’ve been applying Sulphur, and no one’s actively been seeking out more of it. And every sample of Sulphur we’ve tested has no strain of anything extra. It’s purely to maintain sanity and health… and nothing else.”

Another figure in white and gold robes approaches them. He looked… normal. “Oh, Elle! Welcome back. I’m guessing these are the guests from The Catacombs?”

Elle nods. “I hope you’ll give them all a warm welcome in Scarleton. They need rest and food. Where are you off to?”

“Oh, I’ve actually been asked to find you all! Queen Nyx has asked for a favor, so she’s urging you all to get to Scarleton as possible.”

Elle turns to the group. “Alright, everyone, let’s move! We’ve spent enough time. No more questions.”

Storm stumbles through the entrance of the fortress, coughing and wheezing as he locks eyes with Goldor. Goldor notices the two heads, and his eyes widen. But before he could say anything, Storm begins to roar.

“WHO IS HE?! WHO IS THAT BLACK-HAIRED SOLDIER OF THE CATACOMBS?! HE DID THIS TO ME, WITH MY OWN ATTACK, NO LESS!”rm shouts.

“But Your Majesty, I-”

“CALL MAXOR, RIGHT NOW!"

Goldor nods and immediately rushes to follow through on Storm’s orders, and in only a few minutes, Maxor was up at the surface. Both of the Wither Lords were plated in armor similar to Storm’s, the only difference being Goldor’s neat golden trims and Maxor’s purple splashes of paint similar to explosions, and both Wither Lords were also clad in their true forms, the three heads on Goldor and Maxor both looking at the asymmetry of Storm’s.

“I WANT 500 TROOPS! NOTHING LESS! AND TELL THEM ALL,” Storm grabs Goldor and pulls him closer, the Wither Lord shivering in fear at Storm’s furious expression. “If I hear so much as a peep from any of you about my heads, I will personally rip all three of yours off. Black hair, blue eyes, glasses. Any soldier from the Catacombs with these characteristics… bring them to me. Do you understand?”

Goldor nods. “Y-Yes, sir. I’ll make sure it happens.”

Storm throws Goldor aside and faces Maxor. “I want you to go with those troops to the Crimson Isles. Find a way for you to do so, I don’t care how. And Maxor, if you see that soldier… don’t kill them. That’s my job.”

“Yeah, yeah, black hair, blue eyes, glasses.” Maxor waves off. “I’ll be sure to keep ‘em alive for you, though definitely not with all their limbs intact.” He smirks. “Though if he’s capable of blowing one of your heads clean off… it’ll be difficult to hold back.”

“Dismissed.” Storm waves them both off as he returns to his throne. Sitting down on it, he scowls as fire pulses through his veins, blood boiling as he feels the lack of second head on his shoulder.

Necron stands in the Entrance with a wooden sword as five of the soldiers who’d stayed back run towards him. After the earthquake that ripped through the Catacombs this morning, once everything was settled, Necron had a gut feeling that something was deeply wrong.

To keep his mind sharp, he decided to do some training and drills guised in the form of an exercise for the soldiers. While Necron hadn’t felt the need to train to improve, he wanted some extra security and some extra activity.

The five soldiers all thrust out their own wooden blades in sync, each one converging onto him coming from every direction. On the second dimension, that was. Necron used that to their advantage, jumping over their strike and slamming one of them in the face with his boot, knocking them back far.

He leaps out of range of the four remaining soldiers and grips his blade with fervor. He rushes towards them, only for a searing pain to burn out of his scar. Necron grit his teeth through the pain, and with no other option, he stopped the exercise.

Four hours later, in Necron’s home, he looks at himself in the mirror as the scar glints and buzzes. The blue light underneath black scar tissue has spread, and Necron knew he’d have to do something about it.

“It’s gotten worse…” Mutters Necron to himself. “Are you sure you should have spent all that energy on making those Wither Armor? Twenty sets…”

With a sigh, Necron grabs a small dagger he placed next to the sink. He cuts the tip of his ring finger and dabs droplets of blood on the center of the scar as pain shoots through his every nerve when the liquid hits the tissue.

It felt like every single cell in his body was being hit with a Giga Lightning as his blood boiled underneath. He falls to his knees as the dagger clatters onto the floor next to him.

Necron doesn’t give up, and with a shaky hand, he lunges to the dagger, grabbing it so tight that Necron feared it’d break. He sits up against the wall as another wave of pain bursts through his body, unlike anything he’d seen before.

The tip of Necron’s dagger hovers over his chest as he begins to speak. He chants an incantation in an unknown language as the skin under his eyes begins to turn red. Scales form themselves along his shoulders as the sclera in his eyes turns black.

The pain grows numb as Necron continues to chant, and he drives the dagger into his chest. The dagger glows a bright red as mana swirls under his veins, and the scar tissue slowly warps and shifts along his body.

Now, it was concentrated into a singular spot 1along his chest, the dagger marking the center of it. Necron plunges the dagger out of it as the skin quickly stitches back together. 

“Better now… I hope.” It was a temporary solution, but it was enough to keep it contained. Storm’s Giga Lightning, the one which he took to the chest decades ago, now imbued with a curse that reacted with Mana… that Necron made.

And now that things were speeding up, it was only a matter of time before it grew worse and worse, and Necron wasn’t a fan of sacrificing a small amount of his maximum capacity for Mana each time.

Necron could only laugh. “Sorry, Ichor… your dad’s a failure, ain’t he?”

Chapter Text

Ichor stands on his own two feet again after having been carried all the way to Scarleton’s main house of operations, now no longer lacking the strength to stand.

An attendant, dressed in dark purple and gold robes, looks at the mass of the army and sighs.

“I was expecting that only five of you would be present…” He says to them. “Our meeting room does not have that much space for everyone… please, decide 5 amongst yourselves.” The attendant retreats back up the stairs.

Maddox clears his throat. “Me, Aatrox, Biblio, of course. Who all are remaining?”

Lilith raises her hand. “I’ll be sitting in the meeting.”

Maddox nods. “One more, then… Andr-”

Biblio cuts in. “Ichor, why don’t you go with ‘em?”

Maddox looks at Biblio in shock, but Biblio just responds with a smirk. Aatrox nods, and Maddox sighs.

“Very well. Lilith, Ichor, the two of you, accompany me. Andrew, you’re in charge until we’re back.”

Andrew nods with a salute, though Ichor could feel a pointed glare coming at him from Andrew. He paid no mind to him as four figures descended down the stairs.

First came the attendant, then two burly figures dressed in the same robes. Both wielded a long staff and their eyes glared at every single member of the army at once. Lastly, came a woman, clad in a deep royal purple gown, glitter dotting its ends like stars. A golden crown lies firmly on her head, adorned with magenta gems, and she wields a purple and gold staff.

She stopped on the stairs as she took a look at the army, then looked at Elle. “Elle… why are there twenty-three unfamiliar individuals in the building?”

Elle clears her throat and bows. “Good afternoon to you too, Queen Nyx. These are the forces from the Catacombs’ army.”

Maddox nods and bows. “I apologize for the inconvenience. We had truly meant to only bring five of us onto the island, but an emergency situation had to cause all of us to evacuate here for the time being.”

Queen Nyx sighs. “Very well, then. Maddox, you and four others follow me. The rest of you, please stay up here or walk around Scarleton. Reconvene to here in an hour.”

Maddox turns to the chosen individuals. Ichor, Aatrox, Biblio, and Lilith were all now descending down a staircase, the two guards standing behind them at all times. They reach a meeting hall, with a circular wooden table. Everyone takes their seats, Ichor next to Lilith. The two guards stand at the door, keeping a watchful eye on the staircase.

“So, the reason why I have called you all here… it’s difficult of me to say this, as it harms my pride as a faction leader, but…” Queen Nyx takes a deep breath. “Chief Scorn and I have discussed, and we’d come to a decision. In fact…”

Heavy footsteps thunder through the region, as a tall, burly figure enters the meeting room. His face was that of a pig’s, with two tusks protruding from its face underneath its snout. A gold crown adorned with rubies lies atop his head, and he wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up enough to show scarred musculature. 

“Apologies for being late.” His voice was gruff and hoarse, a deep rumbling echoing from his throat. “Easy to get lost in the Mystic Marsh for us Piglins. Nyx, they the ones from The Catacombs?”

Queen Nyx nods. “Greetings, Chief Scorn. Your tardiness is forgiven. And, on the topic… I was just about to tell them what we’d come to an agreement on.”

Chief Scorn nods and lets out a sigh. “It’s… not an easy thing for us to say to y’all, but…” Both him and Queen Nyx bow. “Please, let us stay with you in The Catacombs!” They say at the same time.

Maddox’s eyes widen. “Wh-What?”

Queen Nyx raises her head and nods. “The concentration of Dark Magic in the air is so unfathomably high, that even if we suddenly had ten times the amount of Sulphur, we wouldn’t be able to handle it. Lilith ran some tests for us during her stay on the Hub Island, and the concentrations in the air there are… about the same as the Crimson Isles before the war. If… if we could move there…”

Biblio nods. “I mean, I don’t see why not. We got plenty of space, and I don’t see anyone complaining about having more hands on deck.”

Ichor raises his hand. “T-There’s one small problem with that, though… there’s no way for us to get back home at the moment. B-Because… uh… Storm destroyed the portal.”

Chief Scorn turns to Ichor. “Lad, did you say Storm? As in, the Wither King, correct? Our mortal enemy? The one who we ended our century-old conflict over?”

Ichor nods. “T-That one. He launched an attack through the portal, though I was able to parry it right back to him, but… it landed on the other side somewhere, which ended up severing the connection.”

Queen Nyx sighs. “Very well, then. We already have enough samples from Lilith, so… at around 3 days from now, we’ll have a new portal for you ready.”

Ichor nods. “Thank you, Queen Nyx. Chief Scorn. Your help is much appreciated.”

Chief Scorn nods. “No problem, lad. In the meantime, I’ll start rounding up us Piglins, and Queen Nyx’ll do the same here. Shame that we’d have to evacuate, but… we’ll all come back another day. After the war’s over.”

Queen Nyx nods. “After the war is over, indeed. And, one more thing…” She turns to Maddox. “Maddox and Aatrox. The two of you… on behalf of everyone at Scarleton,” she bows. “we all apologize for casting you aside and banishing you to the mainland. By the power vested in me, as Queen Nyx of Scarleton, Leader of the Mage Faction, I hereby declare your bans annulled.”

Maddox and Aatrox both stand up and bow. “It is our honor, Queen Nyx.” Says Maddox. Aatrox nods.

Necron wields a wooden sword as he gazes at his next challenger. On the Entrance, Necron chose to do one-on-one training today. He’d decided to take things easy on himself for the next few days. It didn’t help that his scar periodically burned under his armor. When Necron saw his next challenger, his eyes narrowed.

He had a muscular figure, standing at around 6’ 5”. His navy blue hair looked out of place in a sea full of blacks and browns, but it was enough for Necron’s curiosity to be piqued. His weapon of choice was a set of brass knuckles, though they were strapped to his belt. Instead, he held a wooden sword similar to Necron’s.

“You. Your name?” Necron points his blade at the challenger.

“My name is Dante, Commander Necron.”

Necron’s eyes narrow. “Dante? The name rings a bell…”

Dante laughs. “I assure you, I am not him.” Necron’s eyes flash a bright orange for a second as he gazes into Dante’s eyes. After sensing no trace of his magic, Necron nods.

“Very well, then. You are aware of the rules of this exercise, correct?”

Dante nods. “A five minute duel. Winner is decided by whoever lands on the floor or steps out of range.” 

Necron nods. “Correct. Shall we begin?” 

Dante nods. The two of them take their places at opposite ends of a large, five-meter radius circle drawn in chalk on the floor. Both of them getting in a fighting stance, one of the older soldiers, his armor decorated with a small badge, counts them down. Once three seconds had passed, the two leapt into action.

Dante rushed forward and thrust his sword towards Necron, the former Wither Lord blocking the clearly telegraphed attack with ease. His eyes darted around Dante’s figure, and the subtle movements of his muscles betrayed his sight. A smirk grew on Necron’s face as Dante drew his blade back and took two steps back, choosing not to counterattack.

Necron dashes towards Dante and swings his blade directly at Dante’s neck. Had they not been using wooden swords, Dante’s head would have been ripped from his spine. Dante grabs the blade with two fingers, stopping it dead in its tracks, causing Necron’s eyes to widen. Necron committed, pushing past Dante’s strength to slam the sword’s edge into his knuckles. 

Dante yelps and pulls his hand back, though in a mere instant, Dante tossed his sword to his other hand, caught it, and swung it to the side of Necron’s head.

Necron dodges the initial swing, taking a step back to ensure it didn’t hit. “Impressive work, Dante.” Necron dodges another attack from Dante, then a follow up, before blocking a three-hit thrust combo with his blade. “I’ll admit, you’ve almost caught me off-guard.”

Dante nods. “I appreciate the compliment, Commander Necron!” He readjusts his stance and immediately readies another combo, though when Necron moved to block his initial strike, a vertical swing downwards, his knees buckled at the sheer amount of force Dante used.

Cracks grew along Necron’s blade, and Necron’s instincts kicked in. His sclera went black as he retaliated, parrying the strike and then hurling Dante outside of the arena with a single punch to the chest. Not only did Dante get struck out of the arena, he’d fell back far enough to land on his back.

A fist-shaped dent lies on his chestplate, and Dante groans in pain. Necron runs to help him up, though Dante lets out a laugh, his voice hoarse. “Urgh… no wonder you’re the strongest soldier…”

“I profusely apologize, Dante. It was not my intention to use that much force. Are you ok? Not injured, I hope?”

Dante nods. “I’m fine, but, whew. I’ll need to sit out of training for today.”

Necron nods, letting Dante sit on a small bench in the corner of the room, though after a few short minutes, Necron decides that today, he was tired.

He sat down next to Dante. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m new. Maddox took my entrance test a few months ago, but because of some family troubles, I joined late.”

Necron nods. “You’re keeping up quite well. Some of the soldiers have been talking about your performance against me.”

Dante smiles. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

Necron looks at Dante once more, giving him a once-over. “I think you’d get along with my son.”

“You have a son?”

“About two years younger than you. His name’s Ichor, though… he was sent on an expedition to the surface.”

Dante’s eyes widened. “And you just… let it happen?”

Necron nods. “I didn’t want to, but… I have a gut feeling about it. That if I’d kept him here, we would have lost this war. That, and…” Necron looks on at the remaining soldiers training. “While I don’t think Ichor is aware… there’s a lot of things that the others say. About me. About him. That he’s just gone this far because of my influence. That it’s unfair for him to do well.” Necron shakes his head. “But I know him.”

“I wonder how he’s adapting to the surface…” Muses Dante.

Necron nods. “I’ll see you around, Dante. I think Ichor’d like to meet you. I hope you two can get along.”

Storm’s eyes narrow at the progress in Maxor’s workshop. “Maxor… I’d asked you to-”

Maxor sighs. “Yeah, yeah, the assembly lines. Honestly, I just got distracted here and there. but I’ve been making progress, I swear!”

Storm tilts his head at the mounds of scrap metal that lied piled up. Conveyor belts were all ground to a halt, there was no hissing of steam nor overhead lights from the Workshop’s power plant.

“And where is this… progress?” Storm was growing irritated. 

Maxor stomped his foot on the floor like a petulant child and scowls. “IF YOU’D GIVE ME A SECOND, I’D SHOW YOU!” He shouts, hair flaring outwards like an explosion.

“Is that any way to talk to your-” Storm begins, but is cut off by Maxor holding up a crystal.

“This is a hyper-intelligent chip I’ve made from the ground up. I’ve fed it instructions to defend the tower and to recognize who you. me, Goldor, and the army, are. It can pilot machines and even make new ones, though that feature’s still in the testing phase.” Maxor motions to the pile of scrap.

Storm sighs. “You’re really testing my patience, aren’t you?”

Maxor growls. “What do you want me to do?!”

“Cancel your current projects, or keep them on ice for the timebeing. Find a way to get our forces to the Crimson Isles by tonight.”

“Oh, that’s already done.”

Storm tilts his head at Maxor. “What?”

Maxor points to the suit of armor suspended on the ceiling, pressing a button on his gloves. Almost instantly, the suit vanishes, as an exoskeleton forms across Maxor’s body. The young Wither Lord is then lifted up as the suit of armor grows around him, until he’s towering over Storm.

Standing at 12 feet tall, a black and purple suit of armor, fashioned like a knight’s, was wrapped around Storm. Two transparent crystal orbs lied embedded within his shoulder plates, and holes lied on his fingertips.

Maxor places a hand on one of the orbs as it begins to fill up with a purple and black gas. He then points one of his fingers down at the floor. A burst of light shoots out, and there lies a wither skeleton, its eyes wild and bones pulsing with purple energy within its cracks.

Storm only looks at it, but it was enough for the skeleton to turn to dust. “Interesting… so you can store enemies in that?” 

Maxor nods. “And, it can store five thousand soldiers! What more would you need? I’d just need a bit of your magic…” 

Storm hums. “Pah, I’ll bite.” He places a hand onto the orb and lets mana swirl through it. He tries summoning a creature, only to watch his mana form blue and black smoke, sparks dancing around it. “That should be a thousand of them.” Storm ups the ante by forcing more magic to flow through the orb. “Some more…”

Maxor grunts as he feels the mana flow through it, as a small hologram pops up. He yanks the orb away from Storm’s hand. “ALRIGHT, THAT’S ENOUGH!” He shouts. “You placed it to full capacity in three seconds! Any more and we’d have a problem!”

Storm shakes his head. “You said to add some magic, so I did. That wasn’t even three percent, if I’m being honest.”

Maxor scoffs. “Three percent?!” A hologram pops up above his eye as a circle superimposes atop Maxor’s pupil. His eyes widen as he sees the result. “Dang… you ain’t lying. Fuckin’ hell, dude, it felt like you were giving me thirty!”

Storm smiles. “You forget who I am sometimes, don’t you, Maxor? I want you on the Crimson Isles in two days’ time. No more delays, now. I trust you can handle it.”

Maxor nods. “I’ll do my best. And now that I have this much mana with me… I’ll throw the whole island straight into the void!”

“NO!” Storm shouts. “Destroy everything… except Jythar’s skeleton. The amount of magic I can extract from it… I already have the other one at the Spider’s Den. Some strains of magic are still left there which are yet to be absorbed, but once that’s done… even without a third head, I’d still be as strong as I was yesterday. Once I find a fitting candidate…”

Maxor laughs. “You know, if you want to make things real fun, why don’t you kill that guy you hate and then use him for your third head?”

Storm turns to Maxor as his eyes flare with lightning, the Wither King ready to subject his own engineer to a world of pain, but he stops as his mind mulls over the idea. “Not a bad idea… You’ve impressed me, Maxor. Fine, I’ll play along with your idea. He’s weak enough to run from me anyways… you can take care of the rest. I’ll join the fight if you aren’t back within ten hours of you departing.”

Maxor nods. “It’ll be over in one.”

Chapter Text

Around four hours had passed since meeting with Queen Nyx, and Maddox had everyone assemble in the town square. Lilith was also there, despite not officially being part of the Catacombs’ army, but Ichor couldn’t really care less.

“Alright… there’s a few things we absolutely need to do since we have a lot of time to kill. We reconvene in  Lilith, Ichor, Andrew, you three go to the Academy and get our transport issue sorted.”

Ichor’s face stays neutral, though internally, he screamed. His luck had turned for the worst, it seemed, since he’d have to deal with Andrew for a few hours. Well, I can’t deny that the man is still pretty damn competent, but still…

As Maxor begins spouting off the names, those groups begin convening in small circles. He spots Lilith, and begins to approach her, only for Andrew to beat him to the punch. The two were standing at the edge of a railway, overlooking a pathway to a grand building, and Ichor couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“So, Lilith, was it? The name is Andrew. Pleased to meet such a fine lady like you.” He begins, his voice marked with a pompous inflection and a smug grin on his face.

“You’re Andrew, right? Maddox told me a bit about you. Pleased to meet you too.” She responds, turning her gaze over to him. 

“What is there to do on this island, anyways? I’m sure Scarleton is a lovely place to stay, but I do find myself a bit… disappointed.”

“There’s a lot of places here in Scarleton, if you know where to look. Dragontail’s mostly destroyed now, so there’s a lot more Barbarians puttin’ their businesses over here…”

“You must show me sometime then. Maybe after we’re done?”

Lilith hums. “Sure. Got nothing better to do anyways. I do gotta drop by my place, though…”

Ichor clears his throat, making his presence known to both Lilith and Andrew. Andrew had a sour expression on his face when Lilith’s gaze was moved away from him, and Ichor let out a silent shout of victory in his head. “I talked with Maddox, and they told us to go talk to the Dean, but… I have no idea where the Academy building even is. Is it that one over there?” He points to the large cathedral-like building over the railing, and Lilith nods.

“Yeah. There’s a set of stairs over that way,” She points behind Ichor to a set of stairs. “Use those to get down. The guards at the front’ll let you in, just say that you’re from The Catacombs.

Ichor nods. “Alright, thanks.” Ichor sways from side to side, then leaps up into the air, slowly hovering down onto the railing.

“Wait, what are you-” Lilith’s voice gets cut off as a thunderclap is heard from Ichor, the man having rocketed off of the railing and landing swiftly at the main entrance with a burst of magic.

Ichor stepped inside the Academy, and the doors shut behind him. 

“So, anyways…” Continues Andrew, and Lilith nods.

“Yeah, so if you want some recommendations, a few spots that are good are…”

Stupid, stupid Ichor. You shouldn’t be feeling jealous or envious about this, since you’ve only known her for about thirty hours. You’ve barely spoken with her, and yet here you are, acting like a jealous boyfriend despite the fact that you don’t even know if she’s single. 

But the lingering question is, why in the everloving fuck did you do that in the first place?! Did you want to look cool in front of her? What was your thought process, Ichor?! You’re acting very unlike yourself, you know! And not to mention your current state!

Your legs are shaking, and your vision’s already growing hazy. You’re barely holding on after having somehow parried Storm’s attack, aren’t you? Another sixty minutes of rest would’ve bought you the strength to make a leap over here, sure, but no! You just had to throw a tantrum over it and waste your already overloaded mana supply because you’re just an envious prick!

Guards and students look at him, and Ichor shakily places a hand to his face. It’s a bit cold, but he’s dealt with worse before. He just hoped he didn’t have any diseases from that level of exposure to Dark Magic…

I mean, it made sense that Lilith would get along with Andrew. Andrew’s more or less the same as him in terms of strength, but Ichor’s legacy had granted him many advantages, and he’d still lost in that damn practical! His pride wouldn’t take it laying down, even though it was his fault in the first place that he’d lost. Fighting a battle with a wooden sword against a steel one, how stupid can you be, Ichor? Now you have to deal with the fact that Andrew always has a leg up over you, and that your record is marred by this result, and-

He lets some of his mana flow through him, feeling it burn red-hot under his veins. It felt like flames were surging along under his skin, and it would’ve caused him to scream in pain, had it been any less overbearing. But thanks to how excruciatingly awful it felt, he couldn’t even voice a cry for help. His legs gave out, and he collapsed right at the foot of a person. “Are you alright?” He asks, his voice concerned.

Ichor shakily tries to get up, using as much of his energy as he possibly could. “‘m… fine… I… from the Cataco-” Ichor begins to cough violently as the pain surges through him further. “Catacombs…” His mana begs to be let out, the storm of emotions from seeing Lilith and Andrew together… honestly, I doubt I’d have felt this way had it been literally anyone else. But because it just had to be Andrew, that prick…

“My word… hold on, I’ll get you to the doctor’s office.” The man picks him up and rushes over to the infirmary, kicking the door open and immediately placing him on any empty cot.

“DOCTOR! WE HAVE AN AWAKENING!” Shouts the man.

A man in a white coat rushes from behind a curtain and glances at Ichor. He turns to the other man and nods. Immediately rushing to the cabinet behind him, he pulls out some complex machinery that seemed like it hadn’t been in use for years. Probably something related to the Awakening thing that the Dean talked about. Actually, hold on, wait…

“Wait, what the FUCK is an awakening?!” Shouts Ichor, the surging of mana within him dimming considerably, only for it to come back with a vengeance. Ichor growls as he grips a metal handlebar on the side of the cot, though it bends under his grip, before completely snapping in two.

“G-Get… the Dean… of the Academy…” Huffs out Ichor.

The man who carried him over here looks at him. “I am The Dean. Save your strength, it’s a highly painful process. First one in fifteen years…”

“First one in WHAT?!” Shouts Ichor, though a burst of pain stopped him from commenting on it further. The doctor, after finally wiping all the dust off the equipment, begins to strap it to Ichor as a graph begins to draw on the screen of the device, akin to an exponential one.

“It’s triggered through a very specific set of circumstances. We can’t induce it because of the sheer amount of Dark Magic we’d need to somehow acquire and use without the person dying… it’d take something insane, like a direct attack from the Wither King.”

“A-About…” Ichor grunts. “A-About that…”

The Dean and the doctor both pause. “Call Elle.” The doctor says. The Dean nods and immediately rushes out of the room.

Pain continues to buffer through Ichor in waves as the doctor continues to monitor his vitals. “Heart rate… 160… blood pressure…” He mutters.

“Elle’s not able to come right now. She’s preoccupied with-” The Dean says as he walks back in.

The minute the Dean walked in, Ichor’s vision went white, as a shockwave of mana burst through the room, flickering the lights and knocking both The Dean and the doctor back from the sheer amount of pressure that emanated from Ichor at that second. When Ichor came to his senses, regaining his vision, he hadn’t seen the world in such vibrant shades before. Mana buzzed and crackled under his fingers, and the pain was slowly replaced with the feeling of power.

He could feel every bit of mana around him, each wave in the air begging for him to take hold of it and to use it for his uses. If he focused, he could see the channels within The Dean and the doctor, though they were hazy and marred with interference.

A mirror was pointed at him, courtesy of the doctor, and Ichor saw… that his eyes were different. What used to just be a plain blue now contained the wealth of the sky, an azure sky no longer marred by Fel, and Ichor let out an exhale of a breath he didn’t know he kept in. When he took his glasses off, he still couldn’t help but be disappointed at the sudden blurriness of what was in front of him. He put them back on and was met with the concerned faces of The Dean and the doctor.

“So… I have a few questions.” Begins Ichor. “Firstly, what the hell is an awakening, and why did I suddenly get it?! What are the parameters specifically?!” He shouts. “Another thing, why is it painful?!”

The doctor takes a deep breath, though the Dean cuts him off. “An Awakening is… a permanent and exponential increase in your ability to use magic. It can manifest in hundreds of different ways, but… the circumstances are incredibly specific. The only common factor between them is that, one, you come into contact with Dark Magic… and the second is a sudden surge of… emotion. It can be anything, not necessarily combat-focused.”

Oh my fucking god.

“Y-You’re joking, right? Emotion? Me feeling a bit too hard about something caused my Mana to awaken? I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or…” Ichor mutters, a blush of pure mortification emerging to his face. I am the most recent person to awaken their Mana, and it was triggered by jealousy?! If fate is playing a cruel trick on me, I’d like it to stop now!

“Well, it can depend on how those emotions were brought out. It could be fear, desperation, adrenaline, heartbreak… there was one study of one of our late members who awakened during intercou-”

“Alright, alright, I get it!” Ichor yelps out, far faster than intended. The Dean had a knowing look on his face, but chose not to pry further. 

“Elle is our only Awakened mage left alive at the moment, so she should be able to tell you how to handle your mana.” The Dean’s expression darkens. “And, do not, under any circumstances, unleash your mana. Your muscle memory might have you use a certain output, but your limits and values are all highly scrambled now. If I was awakened, the same spell that could barely pelt through a sheet of metal could obliterate it whole. Unless you’re face-to-face against a Wither Lord, or even the Wither King himself, never let your mana go beyond your base outputs until you’ve spoken with Elle.”

“Where can I find Elle?” Asks Ichor. 

“If you want her address… talk to Lilith.” The Dean replies. “Black hair, red eyes, human, just like you.”

“Couldn’t miss her even if I tried.” Mutters Ichor. “I’ll let her know, then. Did you inform anyone from the army?”

“Do you want us to?”

Ichor nods. “Tell Maddox, Aatrox, and our envoy, Biblio. Don’t tell anyone else, just those three. Oh, and… is there a way we can get a new portal back to the Hub Island?”

The Dean blinks. “There’s one already, no?”

Ichor shook his head. “It got destroyed when we came here thanks to… uh… well… The Wither King.”

He sighs. “I’ll let them know. For now… you’re dismissed.”

He’d been looking for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, all across Scarleton, and he couldn’t find a single trace of Lilith or Andrew. He’d wanted to use his mana to get around faster, but The Dean’s words rang through his head like a mantra. So he pressed on, trying to see where they are. Some of his batchmates saw him and waved, though Ichor had no time to wave back.

He looked down at the floor for only a second, but it was enough to suddenly crash into someone. When he came to, he was atop someone dressed in an all-black ensemble, and piercing red eyes, and… “Oh, Ichor!” Lilith responds.

"Lilith!” He says back, pulling himself away from her. Maybe fate was kinder, for the one person who he needed to find crashed into him, and Ichor couldn’t help but smile. 

“Oh, there you are, Ichor!” Hearing Andrew’s voice was enough to disregard any comment he might have made about fate being kind, and it took Ichor everything in his power to not let anger surge through him. 

Ichor takes a deep breath and looks straight at Lilith, causing her eyes to widen. “What happened to your eyes?” She asks, leaning in closer. No matter how much his body wanted to, Ichor couldn’t blush, all of his focus being kept on keeping his emotions and his mana under control, lest something unfortunate happens.

“I need to find Elle. Can you take me to her house?”

“My house?” She asks. “I mean, sure, but… why all of a sudden?”

Ichor glances at Andrew, then back to Lilith. “I’ll explain a little later. For now, I need her help with something. It’s really important.”

Lilith nods as she gets up off of the pavement. Wiping her pants clean of dust, Ichor doing the same with his own armor, she takes a quick breath and turns to a back street. “I know a shortcut. Both of you, follow me.”

In five minutes, the trio moving through back street after narrow alleyway, they reach a large stone and brick cabin near the edge of Scarleton, similar to the same materials of the rest of the city. Lilith pushed the door open and led the two inside. “Stay in the living room, I’ll go check if she’s home.” She instructs, and the two nod.

Ichor sits down on an ornate couch, and Andrew sits across from him. A coffee table separates the two, and Ichor just closes his eyes, focusing on anything but the presence of his ‘rival’ in the home of his… acquaintance, he’ll say. Because despite the moments they shared gazing into the stars, ignoring being held at gunpoint, of course, Ichor didn’t think Lilith had considered him as a friend at the moment. Ichor averts his gaze from Amdrew, choosing to look down at the coffee table or to his sides and the walls of Lilith’s abode instead of anything in Andrew’s direction.

Lilith’s house was nothing short of a… display. Ichor wouldn’t call it a display of opulence, but the furniture that hang around them was befitting of a royal palace. The couch that Ichor sat on was crafted for comfort, and the cushions that lied atop it seemed like it was made out of a material that Ichor had only read about, like cotton, or feathers. 

The Catacombs’ abundance of stone had made wood a rare commodity, and the environment only allowed for one type to grow well within Floor 4, that being oak, yet the coffee table in front of him was made of a darker color that he could recognize from his books, spruce wood, that is. 

There was a large, floor-to-ceiling window to his left. and Ichor didn’t see anything of note beside it, due to it being a view of The Void and nothing else. Some particles of stone had lied suspended within its emptiness, though Ichor just presumed that they were from the Spider’s Den having been moved.

He’d looked behind him to see picture frames lining the walls, mostly of Elle and Lilith, though some had Elle with The Dean, and there was one photo that had Elle, Maddox, Aatrox… every member of The Council, alongside a few faces Ichor couldn’t recognize. They all seemed much younger, and were all standing in front of a not-destroyed Hub Village, much like how the seventh floor of The Catacombs was structured. He wondered if Elle and his father got along.

“Now, Ichor, I’m sure you’re just dying to know how my date with Lilith went, right?” Begins Andrew in his usual smug tone, despite the fact that no one ever fucking asked him, yet Ichor shook his head.

“No, not really, actually.” Ichor says. “However, what I am more worried about,” He looks directly at Andrew in a glare. “Is this.” He places a finger directly underneath his eye to point emphasis to it.

Andrew scoffs. “Nice fancy new contacts you got there. Though I’m wondering why you don’t take off your glasses.” He looks away at Ichor, humming to himself for a second. “Still, I hadn’t expected the Hero’s Son to go to such lengths just to get inside his crush’s place. And really, isn’t that just pathetic?”

“These aren’t contacts, Andrew.” Ichor grumbles out, trying his best to ignore Andrew’s words. “And no, I don’t have a crush on her, and also, I need her help.”

“Oh my, getting defensive? Well, Ichor, I hope it’ll please you to know that my date with her went spectacularly. In that hour you were gone, we went to get a bite to eat at a local cafe, and then we did some shopping, I’d even gotten her a bracelet with-”

As Andrew was going on and on about his outing with Lilith, Ichor just closed his eyes and began to think about anything else, like his awakening. Yet, the leash on his emotions was pulled as taut as Ichor could let it, and it was only a matter of time before it snapped.

“Just… stop it, Andrew. I’m not in the mood of hearing about this." Ichor huffs out.

Andrew laughs haughtily. “Struck a nerve, have we? Oh, but it makes sense that it’d be easy for me to get into her good graces. After all, she’d even carried you all the way over here, and then dropped you after a single moment of talking to me. That'd wound my pride more than anything.”

There was one thing that Ichor hated about Andrew. Andrew was shockingly good at getting under Ichor’s skin. And no matter how much Ichor tried to ignore it, even after countless complaints from Biblio, he still found a way to let Andrew to live rent-free inside his head, like a squatter who wouldn’t leave. “Enough.” He grumbles.

Andrew was right, though. Lilith had carried him all the way to Scarleton, and he hadn’t even granted her a thank you ever since they’d had time. Well, granted, he’d spent like... 20 minutes doing their job and getting an Awakening, whatever that even was, in the process, but he couldn’t help but shake the guilt that came with it. Tomorrow, he’ll properly thank her, if they have the time, that is.

“You’re just so jealous right now, aren’t you? God, I can’t wait to tell the others about this. You know, they're all just dying to see you fall at some point. But this, the Hero’s son, no less, acting like this all because of a girl… what would they think once this gets back to the Catacombs? Hey, what do you think they’d say about Nec-”

The leash snapped. 

“YOU KEEP MY FATHER’S NAME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH, ANDREW!” A shockwave of mana burst from Ichor as he stood up, one spurred on by so much fury, that mere sparks of lightning had gone and obliterated some of Lilith’s furniture. Half of the couch Ichor had sat on was turned to dust, and cracks on the wall had spouted from it. 

The glass atop the picture frames that hung on the wall behind Ichor had shattered, glass shards raining down and sliding off of Ichor’s back, not to even mention the damage done to the window, the floor, and the coffee table. Lilith came out of one of the rooms, stopped when she saw the damage, and looked at the offenders.

She wasted no time, immediately summoning one of her pistols, an uncounted fury in her eyes, only for Elle to barge through the front door and shout “ENOUGH!” loud enough to cause every member inside the ruined living room’s legs to tremble from the volume.

“Lilith, drop your weapon and leave before you end up putting a bullet through his head. Andrew, was it? You also. Leave.” She barks out, Andrew immediately leaping to his feet and moving towards the door, not before grumbling “Nice scene you’ve created, Ichor. Hope this doesn’t backfire on you…” In a sing-song voice right against his ear, which Lilith, nor Elle, could hear. “Oh, and whatever lie you’ve somehow swept her up in, I won’t stand for it. We duel tonight, when the moon is highest in the sky.” With that, Andrew exits the house.

Lilith tries to sputter out a protest. “B-but, Mother, the house-”

Elle holds up a palm. “It’s fine, Lilith. This is all nothing that can’t be repaired.” She looks over Ichor’s shoulder to the couch. “Well, uh… most of it. But, regardless of the condition of the home,” She glares at Ichor. “which we will be talking about,” She turns back to Lilith. “I can sense traces of an Awakened. And you should... probably know what their mana is like, since you’ve been living with one for about eighteen years now.”

Ichor turns to Elle. “You’re an Awakened Mage?”

Elle nods, turning to Ichor. “First of its kind since the war, actually. Awakened mine against Goldor himself!” She boasts. “And from any residual traces of Mana… I can sense that you are one also.” She glances at Lilith. “Now, stay in your room for the timebeing. No ifs, ands, or buts, young lady, you’ve done a lot more damage to this place with your machines. Check the soot mark in the kitchen that still hasn’t come off if you want a reminder.” 

She tries to refute, but her words die in her throat. With a sigh, she nods, moving back around a corner to disappear into her room, not before shutting the door with a slam.

Now that the two had some privacy, Elle looks at Ichor. “While I understand that Awakening causes your mana to go haywire and you end up outputting a lot more… you really didn’t have to take it out on the furniture.” She says with a chuckle. The mortification that Ichor had felt was enough to cause the young soldier to blush violently, him apologizing with a bow.

"I'm really sorry, Elle! If there's anything I can do to make up for it-" Elle holds up her palm to stop him from devolving into apologies.

"No need for now, Ichor. I'll come back to it after you got your Mana under control." She holds her palm down and “Enough of that, though.” Elle continues, her face hardening. “The fact that you were able to awaken means that you’ve come in contact with an abnormally high amount of Dark Magic… which spells bad news for us. Storm had wiped out most of our forces in the first war, and now that he might be starting an attack… we’d be fighting an uphill battle, severely disadvantaged, and…” Elle sighs. “To be frank, there’s a low chance we’ll win. Half of our forces are unable to handle the concentrations of Dark Magic, and a few of them resign each week due to the sheer despair that hangs over all of them.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

Elle shakes her head. “At the moment, no. Once we get your way back sorted, then we’ll figure things out from there. For now, though, treat your Awakening as a good thing, because, well…” She glares at Ichor. “If you could destroy half of my living room, imagine what could you do when you go all-out.” Ichor’s mortification could only increase from there, though Elle turns to the window. Ichor follows her gaze and sees those stones, only that…

“Oh, those stones seem bigger.” Ichor muses.

Elle has a ghastly expression on her face as she looks at those stones, her eyes wide and laden with fear. “There was no island in this direction, it was purely empty void.” She mutters. With a click of her tongue, she rushes over to Lilith’s room.

“LILITH!” She shouts. “GET YOUR ASS OUTSIDE AND GO ALERT EVERYONE! WE HAVE A PROBLEM! S+ CLASS EMERGENCY!"

Ichor’s eyes widen as he looks closer at the stones. They got closer and closer, and Ichor could slowly make out more details. A purple light shines off of those stones, and a beam of magic bursts out of the largest one, aimed directly at Ichor. In an instant, the beam was centimeters away from his chest.

Ichor couldn’t do anything as it made contact, catching him in a violent explosion.

Chapter Text

“Ugh, I can’t believe that, of all people, Elle decides to side with him? Last I checked, he was the one to destroy half of the living room…” Andrew grumbles to himself as he scours the streets of Scarleton.

His hand is planted firmly on his hip, where a small dagger lies sheathed. “I swear, when I get my hands on him…” Andrew’s golden eyes glinted with anger. Thinking of Ichor had always made him get so irrationally furious. Being second place in combat, second place in magic, second place in the Academy… 

He’d spotted Maddox rounding the corner, the Slayer sporting a large grin across his face as he set his eye on Andrew. “Ah, Andrew!” He says, getting closer to the soldier. A small smile crawls onto Andrew’s face as Maddox runs a hand through his golden locks, ruffling them.

“How’re things with the assignment goin’?” Maddox says with a smirk on his face. 

“You really didn’t need to pair me with Ichor, Maddox.” Andrew sighs.

“Well, if not you, who else? No one else is able to match up to him, and-” Andrew holds up a palm and shakes his head.

“It’s not about skill level, it’s that I had a perfect opportunity to talk to Lilith! At least five hours, alone with her?!” Andrew sucks in a tirade of curses, not wanting to let his anger loose on one of the few authority figures who were on his side. “It’s no matter. We still talked for about an hour, and it was delightful. There’s this one cafe, perfect for dates… between you and me, I think I have a real good shot.”

Maddox hums. “I’ll keep that in mind next time we have an assignment.”

Andrew nods. “And, Ichor’s ended up taking his envy out on her home, anyways, so I’d be surprised if she even wants to speak to him afterwards.” 

Maddox raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

Andrew shrugs. “I don’t know! She’d invited me back home since she needed to pick up a few things, but then came Ichor who’d slammed into her like a brute and lied about something. I don’t even know where he got contacts from, but his eyes were so different! Anyways, then when we were inside, he’d started to hurl insults when Lilith retreated into her room to pick up a few things, then when I fought back, he’d got mad and blew up the living room!” He ends his rant. “Then, Elle suddenly came in, told me to leave, and then I don’t know what happened after that!”

Maddox sighs. “That… really is some concerning behavior from Ichor. I’ll have a talk with him after this.”

Andrew shakes his head. “No need. I’ll deal with it myself first, and then if he doesn’t listen, then I’ll let you know.”

“You have my support. Still, I’ll spread this amongst the rest of the Council and whoever else needs to be updated, because this is a concerning report.” Maddox shakes his head. “Has this been going on for a while?”

Andrew nods. “After the practical exam where I’d finally bested him, he’d come into the locker room and tried to kill me! He’d broken one of the clocks, but I’d said nothing because I knew it’d look bad on Necron… then he acted all innocent by cozying up to the faculty…”

Maddox shakes his head. “I can’t believe it, but… I can believe it. Maybe his strength’s given him an ego. I’ll have a talk with him after you sort things out, because this isn’t ok by any means. Thank you, Andrew.”

Andrew’s lips curl up into a smirk for a fraction of a second before bleeding into a smile. “It’s no problem, Maddox. Now, I’m going to retreat back to the inn where we’re posted. If you want, feel free to talk to more of the-”

An earthquake rumbles through the area, cutting Andrew off. He’d felt a surge of mana, and he instinctively turned in the direction of Elle’s house. Maddox grumbles. “Andrew, go back to the inn and alert your classmates-”

Andrew shakes his head. “That was in the direction of Lilith’s home. Both her and Elle are present there, no? I want to make sure they’re safe.” A golden glow emerges within his legs. “I’ll be back shortly.” With that, he’d burst through the alleys at a fast pace, running past building after building, stopping as he’d reached the far edges of Scarleton.

He recognizes the house, and stops when he sees it. Purple flames dance atop the rubble that it was reduced to. Dark Magic hung in the air, and Andrew’s breath caught in his throat when two large hands gripped onto the side of the island.

A being with three heads pops out from underneath, and with a sudden heat filling the air, a suit of armor so tall and so massive leaps up high into the sky, the ends of its boots propelling the being upwards. When it landed, a large boom burst through the region, creating a shockwave so strong, it knocked Andrew back into a building, and parts of the house into the Void.

A head of black hair hung off of the edge of the island, pulling itself back up. Andrew recognized it to be Lilith, though his body was unable to move, stuck in place from the sheer fear that radiated out of the suit of armor. He’d decided to ignore Lilith, choosing to make a tactical retreat back to Scarleton.

With a flash of gold, he’d used a teleport spell to make it back to the center of Scarleton, one of the only three times he could use it for the day.

Lilith hung onto the edge of the island, a single rock keeping her from falling into oblivion. With a burst of strength, she’d leapt up and landed on the edge of the island, dashing forwards to ensure that another shockwave wouldn’t leave her careening off into the edge into the endless void. Andrew, that dickhead, left her for dead, even though he’d made eye contact with her.

“Ah… now this is more like it.” 

Lilith turns to the voice, and she stops in place. Three heads turned, all faced away from her, though what set her off was the hair on them. All dyed a deep purple and were protruding outwards, like an explosion, which was strangely familiar to her, yet she couldn’t remember why. But what was most damning of all was the sheer amount of Mana that pulsed out of him, particularly that of a Wither.

Ichor’s mana signature had gone quiet since that explosion. So the only conclusion would be that she was standing right behind one. And judging by the color scheme and tales of them from Elle, she could only make one conclusion. “Maxor…” She mouths, making sure no sound came out of her mouth.

The wither turns around and spots Lilith, his central head gaining a smirk. “Well, hello there, little lady. Say, this ‘ol coot here’s a bit lost. You mind showing me the way to… what was it called again… the Crimson Isles?”

“U-Uh… the C-Crimson Isles, you say? I-I haven’t the faintest clue what you mean…”

Maxor laughs. “You’re a funny one. I’m just messing with ‘ya, I know where exactly I am. Sorry about the mess…” The arms on Maxor’s suit of armor begin to shift as the hands turn into cannons. “Because it’s about to get a whole lot worse.” Maxor’s smirk shifted to a manic grin as he leapt up, turned to Scarleton, and shot out two beams of purple light. The orbs on Maxor’s shoulder pads began to dim in intensity as the mana within them drained. When they were gone, Maxor turned to her. 

“See ‘ya!” Jets on his back plates activated, flinging the Wither Lord directly into Scarleton. 

The rubble begins to move as Elle climbs out of it, hacking and coughing violently. Her voice is hoarse as she calls out for Lilith. “LILITH!” She shouts. Lilith turns towards her and immediately rushes towards her. One of her legs are trapped underneath a pillar of stone, and she lacked a second one entirely, the stump coating the gray stone that made up the base of the house with a crimson hue. Wounds coated her arms, bruises and bleeding cuts coloring the normally pale skin.

Lilith lifts the stone pillar off of her, giving Elle enough leg room to crawl out from underneath. She drops the beam down and carries Elle, pulling her away from the house as blood spills all over her clothing. She sets Elle down onto the floor as she grunts in pain. Elle opens her eyes as her sclera turns black, right as a burst of mana rushes through the region.

The blood on Lilith’s clothing was extracted and placed back into Elle, causing her cuts to heal themselves closed, leaving pale scars, and a new leg regrew out of the stump in seconds, the only difference between it and the rest of her body being from the circular scar that lied where the stump previously ended, and the noticeable lack of scars on the new appendage. A crimson fabric, adorned with flames, flows from underneath her as it coats every bit of her body, fusing and melting together like plates of armor. When the transformation was done, Elle stood up and summoned her axe. A spear of flames burned outwards from her hands, condensing and gaining shape within her palms, before materializing into her signature Axe of the Nether. 

“You felt it too, didn’t you? Maxor.” Lilith asks, turning over to Scarleton, where a plume of smoke erupted from it. Elle doesn’t say anything, only nodding. She holds her axe in her other palm as she summons a dark orb, teal in color. An Ender Pearl, a highly rare commodity due to the infrequency of endermen spawning anywhere within the region.

“Get Ichor out of the rubble, then come to Scarleton. I’ll try to clear out as many forces as possible.” With that, she tossed the pearl into the fray, vanishing after two seconds of silence. 

When Elle landed into the fray of Scarleton, she’d immediately went into action by swinging her axe around in a 360-degree motion, using the axe’s weight to add a ton of centrifugal force, carving through a horde of skeletons and zombies.

She’d raised her axe high in the air and slammed it down as hard as she could onto the ground, sending cracks along Scarleton’s pavement flooring as pillars of lava shoot out from underneath, melting through a line of enemies. The lava and tiles returned to normal after Elle removed her axe from the floor, turning around to be met with one Wither Lord’s fist crashing into her.

Maxor punched Elle as hard as he could, knocking her through one of the many homes that made up Scarleton’s town square. She landed on her feet and leapt up high, high enough to leap over the house’s thirty-meter height entirely. She lifts her axe high in the air as her eyes begin to glow a bright orange. Her sclera turns black once more as the axe begins to pulse with mana.

She brings the blade down onto Maxor, the Wither Lord blocking it with a purple hexagonal forcefield, small dots of air lying through each corner of the hexagon. Elle didn’t pull back, choosing to apply more and more power as she felt her mana burn through her veins like lava, an eruption of anger flowing through her. The forcefield began to crack under her strength, like glass, and Maxor could only laugh.

“So, you’re still alive and kicking, huh? Thought Goldor’d put you in an early grave, Elle of The Nether!”

Elle growls as she uses more force, more cracks emerging from her axe. “Oh, I’m still alive, alright. And I’m taking you down.” With a shout, the axe smashes through the forcefield, and Elle lands atop Maxor’s armor’s chestplate.

A Wither Skull from one of Maxor’s side heads slams into her chest with an explosion, the force knocking her back a considerable distance. She flips through the air and lands on her feet, plunging her axe into the ground as she does so, creating more pillars of lava to hopefully try melting through Maxor’s armor.

Maxor walks through the lava without an issue, the superheated fluid immediately vanishing the second it makes contact with the armor’s plating. The purple lights on it began to glow brighter, and Maxor began to laugh.

“Surprised your petty little streams of lava did nothing, right? Well, that can be credited to the ‘ol Omni-Fuel Engine! Capable of converting every type of fuel into energy for this suit of armor, y’see, making it perfect for the job.” He explains as he continues to walk through the streams of lava.

Elle clicks her tongue as the streams subside, an expression of anger on her face. “Right now, you must be thinking that I’m able to nullify most of your attacks, right? Well, since I’m such a fair and just combatant, I’ll tell you where it’s located. One strike on the back, directly at the middle, will cause it to destabilize and shut down!”

Elle’s eyes narrowed. “Bit of a bold move to tell me a surefire way to make sure my attacks work.”

Maxor smirks. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll have you in the ground before you even have a chance to land a single strike on me.” Maxor’s arms turn into cannons as he points the barrels at Elle.

TNT shoots out of them en masse, spraying out of their barrels, the blocks of dynamite glowing a bright red before erupting into a fiery explosion. One is flung directly at Elle, which she bats away with her axe and throws it into a nearby building. Maxor smiles as he flies up high into the air and shoots out Wither Skulls en masse, each one landing with a violent boom as the ground shakes beneath her.

Elle desummons her axe and claps her palms together, right as a circle of flames dances around her feet. When a Wither Skull got close, Elle smirks as the flames begin to coat her, until she was obscured by an orb of fire.

The Wither Skulls all melted the second they made contact with the fire, completely disabling Maxor’s most reliable tools. The Wither Lord scowls as the flames begin to part, revealing an unharmed Elle of The Nether. Her horns begin to glow brightly as the flames begin to reshape themselves, and in only a second, her axe was back in her hand, and her flames created wings, which she then used along with a high jump to reach Maxor in the sky.

She flew past another barrage of skulls at incomparable velocities, circling around to Maxor’s back. Her axe began to thrum with energy as Elle’s eyes changed color from orange to red, black sclera now adorned with cracks out of the iris. The sheer look of hatred that emerged out of her was enough to cause Maxor to stop in his tracks, which was enough for Elle to carve a line straight through Maxor’s back, flames dancing out of the blade’s edge.

Maxor screams in agony as the flames sear through his back as blood streams from the cut. The crimson seeps out of the wound, and Maxor makes a theatric show of screaming and crying, only to stop as the armor seals itself back, absorbing the flames.

Elle’s eyes widen as Maxor smirks. “But you said that’s where the engine was!” She says with a scowl.

He nods and begins to laugh. “I lied.” He whirls around and slams Elle back down onto the pavement, at speeds so fast that it created a six-meter deep crater.

Despite the fall, Elle was still standing, though with broken bones in many places. With a grunt, she used her mana to heal herself, feeling the bones slowly grow back together, putting herself in fighting form once more. So long as Maxor hadn’t gone for the head, she could fight, no matter how long it’d last for.

She snarls as she gets back up, her body now healed and back to fighting form. Maxor landed at the edge of the crater, and he begins to laugh.

“Such tenacity, and such fury! You’re much stronger than I expected! No wonder Goldor considers you a worthy opponent.” He begins.

Elle nods. “Had I not needed to defend an army, I’d have beat him into the floor on that day. But right now, I’ll settle for you.” She spits the last word out with more vitriol than Storm ever could have towards Ichor, and Maxor’s eyes narrow as holograms begin to pop up, displaying her vitals and the mana concentration in the air in an unknown language to anyone, except Maxor, that is.

“Bold words for someone who’s already used up a seventh of their Mana supply. You hadn’t even landed a proper scratch on me! My forces are already ravaging through the rest of the city, so it’ll only be a matter of time before they come back to get you. So, do me a favor, and stay still for a bit…” Maxor’s eyes begin to burn as TNT floats around the suit of armor. “Because I’ll be making sure your grave’ll be sixty meters deep!”

Lilith turned to the pile of rubble and began to dig through it, trying to see any trace of Ichor. Nothing at all. “Shit…” 

She continued to dig through the stone, dust getting onto her clothes, but she didn’t care. She continued to look through, until her hand touched something cold. She looked at what she touched, and her eyes widened as she’d found a hand. 

A severed one. 

She’d continued to scour through the region, and stopped when she threw a particularly heavy piece of stone into the void, revealing what lied underneath.

What she saw was enough to send a pit into her stomach. There lied Ichor, missing a hand, most likely that severed one she’d found earlier, and his armor was lined with cracks and marred with damage. She’d be surprised if anyone could pick Ichor up without the armor turning into dust with how fucked it was. 

A hole lied directly through the center of his chest, and his glasses, somehow, still lied intact despite everything. She placed two fingers onto his neck, still hoping, despite everything, that he’d be alive. The ice-cold skin that she’d felt did nothing to ease her worries, and they only got worse as she felt no pulse. 

It made sense considering that whatever attack hit him decided to erase his heart from existence, yet she was still in shock from finding him in this state. She fell to her knees and nearly began to sob, though another earthquake pulled her thoughts out of grief. Right. Maxor’s on the island. She slapped herself hard on the cheek, the stinging pain keeping her alert. I’m sorry, Ichor. I’ll make sure your death is the only one I have to mourn.

She got up, turned to Scarleton and ran, summoning her rifle in her hand. As she went through the backstreets, she loaded up her gun with mana, and her left hand flew to her belt. Two machines popped out of it and flew beside her, trying to hover slightly above her shoulders at all times, as green orbs of light begin to swell at its tips.

When she’d reached the town square, Lilith wastes no time, aiming the barrel of her rifle at the Wither Lord’s heads and firing three shots in rapid succession. The devices on her sides began to click and whir as two green beams of light burst out of them for two seconds, every attack of hers bouncing off of a purple forcefield Maxor had constructed at the last second.

Elle turns to Lilith. “LILITH! RUN! HE’S NOT SOMEONE YOU CAN FACE!”

Maxor laughs. “So this was the brat you were protecting back then? I must say, she’s grown into quite the lady… Too bad I won’t be-” Lilith cuts off his monologue by closing the distance between her and Maxor and driving a throwing knife into a corner of the hexagonal pattern that made up the forcefield, phasing through it and landing directly into Maxor’s neck.

Lilith smirks. “You lot really need to stop the whole monologuing thing. Makes it too easy to catch you off-guard.”