The Throne Hall
The doors opened with a groan as the massive hall doors swing outwards inviting him in.
The throne hall of Necrovia was vast and silent. The walls were forged from enchanted obsidian stone. Braziers of blue flame floated midair, casting no warmth. Above, the ceiling stretched into a dark mist where souls cried out. Some for help other in Despair Morte had grown accustomed to them along time ago.
Upon the jagged obsidian throne of supposedly long-dead god sat the Lich King.
Clad in ancient Battlemage armor. A thick enchanted dark blue robe with dark metal pauldrons. All veined with glowing runes, he watched without speaking. His crown today shaped from obsidian and soulshards shifted faintly, as if alive. His gaze, cold fire behind a skeletal mask, narrowed as Morte approached.
Dresora stood at his right, her lantern orbiting like a chained moon. Herc stood left, unmoving, Mercy's End embedded in the black marble before him.
Morte stopped ten paces from the throne and bowed. Precise. Measured. Like he had been taught many times by Kyris.
"I am ready, Father."
The Lich King rose.
"This is not a test of loyalty," he said. "Nor of control. Those you have already proven."
His voice echoed throughout the chamber.
"This is a measure of sovereignty. Of power."
He lifted one hand.
From the floor rose a knight a towering figure clad in blackened plate, its eyes burning with cold violet fire. Warded sigils flared along its armor. Sixth-tier, at least.
"It's been implanted with a memory of a warrior from ages long ago do not hold back," the Lich King said. "Bound to strike without mercy. Victory is not required. Survival is."
That last line etched itself into Morte's bones.
The knight stepped forward.
Its iron boots crushed bone dust into the floor. Morte could feel the spells woven into it entropy dampeners, anti-teleport fields, blood-forged runes. The air bent around its blade like heat.
Null shifted beside him, rippling with anticipation.
Morte didn't wait.
Victory is not required. Survival is.
The words echoed in Morte's mind even as the Death Knight stepped forward, its iron-shod boots crushing bone dust into the obsidian floor.
This was no mere construct. This was a warrior from kingdoms of the past a sixth-tier monster that once cleaved through holy legions in the Twilight Siege. He could feel the enchantments laced into its very soul: wards, anti-teleportation fields. Its blade alone radiated suppressive magic, like a constant roar in his senses.
Null shifted beside him, rippling with anticipation.
Morte didn't wait.
He opened with entropy sigils, layered with kinetic disruption. A black lance of compressed ruin magic exploded forward.
The Death Knight raised its shield an ancient slab covered in glowing runes and the spell splashed harmlessly against its warded surface. The stone beneath the knight hissed and cracked, but it remained unmoved.
Then it charged.
Its speed shattered Morte's expectations. He barely blinked before the knight was on him.
CLANG!
Null intercepted, forming a barrier too slow. The sword smashed through the construct's midsection, sending shards of its form spraying like shrapnel. Null crashed into a pillar, reforming in frantic flickers.
Morte reinforced himself with mana. He felt it enrich his body felt his bones grow denser and his muscle come alive tingling with power. His mind processed faster while his eyes could see more clearly. All within a second and in a blink he launched himelf forward lacing his hands with necrotic flames. As he was moving towards the death knight he could see the mana where he stepped turn against him.
"A trap field," he muttered. "He's seeding the arena with them."
The knight turned. No words. Just a soul-deep hunger to destroy him.
Morte's hands spun faster than thought necrotic scatterburst, followed by a mana flare to blind.
The scatterburst hit its mark the knight's shield arm flinched. The flare detonated in its face.
Morte lunged forward, commanding Null to flank.
Together, they struck Null's body forming twin scythes, while Morte wove a devastating mana unweaving glyph behind the knight's back.
But the knight didn't need eyes.
It spun, its armor guided by echo-sight a sixth-tier trick that tracked life force rather than vision. Null's blades were blocked. Morte's glyph was countered with a ward detonation, blowing both of them back.
He slammed into the wall, bones rattling. His ears rang. Blood dripped from his nose.
He stood.
"I see as expected of a warrior of the past."
This knight had lived through wars. It had fought kings. It wasn't just strength. It was will. Undead will—but honed sharper than most humans.
Null limped forward, its form unstable, flickering, twitching.
Morte gritted his teeth.
"I know," he whispered to it. "We're not done."
This time he didn't attack directly. He rose, floating upward, spinning slowly in the air. His fingers moved in subtle, sacred geometries. He began the process of weaving spells if one was gifted with the sight as Morte was it was beautiful. The mana began to move towards him and circle around him like a parent's arms wrapped around a child but always in motion.
Thirteen rings of black and violet light formed around him, each rotating in opposing directions. He layered five different forces of magic. Necromancy, force, shadow, entropy, and gravity. All within the few seconds since he had floated up.