Purgatory was never silent.
Even when I stood at its center alone, when the tombs were still and the spirits hadn't yet stirred, there was always a hum—low, patient, like the breath of something vast and buried waiting to wake.
That hum was louder now.
Sharper.
And it was coming from the edge of the realm, far beyond the ruined coliseum where Ashbourne liked to train, past the frost-choked catacombs Lilith would eventually claim, and deeper still—into a stretch of scorched, untouched soil I had never dared to cross.
Until now.
I stepped onto the blackened plain and felt my mana twitch. The closer I drew to the center of the disturbance, the thicker the air became—like walking through syrup threaded with static.
Then I saw it.
A vault.
Not built, not summoned, but grown—a curved black structure partially buried in the earth, pulsing with a dull red glow that throbbed like a heartbeat. It radiated heat, but not fire. Not life.
Something deeper.
Hot like fury.
It hadn't been there before.
The closer I moved, the more distorted the space around it became. Sound dulled. Light bent. The temperature rose, but only to me. The spirits around it kept their distance.
Even Ashbourne stood back.
He had materialized beside me without a sound, the sigil on my hand glowing faintly—one-third still faded, locked in place by the same force that now vibrated beneath our feet.
"You feel it too," I murmured.
Ashbourne didn't nod.
But I felt his agreement echo across our tether.
Ashbourne:He stirs.
"Lucifer."
Ashbourne:His seal resists even Purgatory's will. He was forged in war, bound in wrath. We will need strength… and control.
I stared at the vault a long moment.
Then, without warning, the earth beneath it cracked—a single red vein of energy splitting outward, snaking toward me before halting a foot from my boot.
Not an attack.
A message.
Not yet.
Later, back in the central chamber of Purgatory, I summoned the first of my free undead.
Not Ashbourne. Not Lilith.
One of the many nameless spirits drifting within the ring's bound depths—remnants of warriors lost in the Surge, echoes of forgotten soldiers who had never earned proper graves.
He rose from the ground slowly. A thin, malformed figure in rusted plate. Cracked skull. Weak mana flow.
Pathetic by most standards.
But necessary.
I needed to test something.
Ashbourne stood nearby, watching, silent.
I raised my hand and focused, pushing a portion of my will into the undead's form. It jerked, unstable.
Then I stepped back.
And let Ashbourne do the rest.
He didn't move.
He simply lifted one gauntleted hand—and the summon shifted.
Its armor twisted. Bones snapped, reformed, extended. Rust burned away into shadow-forged plate. Its mana flux stabilized, then grew—surging as Ashbourne's sigil branded it like a captain would a soldier.
The change took less than ten seconds.
When it finished, the creature dropped to one knee before Ashbourne, no longer faceless.
Now it bore a name.
Gravewalker.
My breath caught.
It wasn't just stronger.
It was Ashbourne's now.
I looked at the sigil on my hand—still split in thirds. Only Ashbourne's segment was missing.
So this is how it worked.
I summoned them.
He commanded them.
Together… we built an army.
And yet—
That power wasn't without danger.
Because even now, I felt the Gravewalker's thoughts. Dim, like static on a radio—but present.
It was learning.
I left Purgatory shortly after, waking up gasping in my bed.
And Caelum was sitting in the chair across from me like he'd been there the whole time.
"You let it begin," he said.
"Lucifer?"
"No," he said quietly. "The hierarchy."
I sat up, blinking against the sweat on my skin.
"The subordinates are tied to Ashbourne now. Not just by power, but by loyalty. That means if Ashbourne ever wavers—"
"—I lose control."
Caelum nodded. "You're building a kingdom, Elijah. And kingdoms don't stay still."
He stood, coat whispering behind him, and moved toward the door. But before he left, he paused.
"I once had a summon like yours. Not a Triad. But powerful. I gave him too much freedom, too quickly. He found others. He started asking questions. When I hesitated to answer…"
"You had to destroy him."
"No," Caelum said, voice distant. "I tried. He destroyed me."
He opened the door.
"Be careful, Scion of Bone. Your army might not always march to your drum."
Then he was gone.
That night, I summoned the Gravewalker again.
It arrived quickly, obedient, the dark plate of Ashbourne's design still etched with flickering necrotic runes.
It waited.
So did I.
Then I asked, cautiously:
"Do you… remember before?"
It hesitated.
Then nodded.
Just once.
"You're not just growing stronger," I said. "You're becoming something else."
I wasn't sure who I was speaking to anymore.
But I knew someone was listening.
Two days passed without incident.
Then the report came through the backchannels.
"Two necromancer summons had gone rogue in Bulgaria."
One attacked a C-rank guild.
The other had… evolved.
Without permission.
Not naturally. Not through growth.
But through contact with a deep source.
The report was scrubbed before it reached the general public, but Caelum sent me an unfiltered version.
One phrase was highlighted in red.
"Identical sigil patterns matching the Scion's undead. Rogue evolution suspected."
A note followed:
"They are learning from each other. Independently."
I sat back in my chair, blood cold.
Ashbourne appeared beside me, summoned by instinct. His scythe was sheathed, but his posture was tense.
Ashbourne:One of mine has grown too strong. You must judge him… or replace me.
I stared at him.
"You're serious."
Ashbourne:Power without purpose becomes tyranny. You are the bridge. But we are not immune to corruption.
"And what if I can't stop him?"
Ashbourne didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The silence said enough.
Later that night, I felt the pull again.
But it wasn't Purgatory.
It was… lower.
Like slipping between pages of a forbidden book.
My ring grew ice-cold, and I was dragged down into the Deep Crypt.
The space was the same—bones, black stone, doors.
But this time, one door was open.
And from inside, I heard whispering.
Not words.
Names.
My name.
Ashbourne's.
Lilith's.
Lucifer's.
Then a fourth name I didn't recognize.
Tenebran.
A shadow passed just behind the door—tall, armored, but warped. Like a reflection drawn in ash.
I stepped closer, against every instinct I had.
Then I saw the sigil on its hand.
Identical to mine.
But the shape… was inverted.
Just like Maledictus.
And in that moment, I knew:
There were other Scions before me.
Not all of them stayed loyal.