Chapter 210: ov12
Khajiit 1
"All the preparations are in order, Master Khajiit," the voice came from a man clad in a hooded black robe tied at the waist with a long brown ribbon. A staff, crooked in appearance, was held in his hand — the object bleeding off waves of miasma and corruption, hinting at itsdark use.
On his neck was a golden chain that dangled a single miniature skull of an unknown creature, an indication of rank within the exalted Order of Zurrenorn. There were faint glows within the empty sockets of the skull, visible to those who paid close attention to the item.
The dark robed man spoke while in a slight bow, displaying the appropriate deference to the recipient of his words.
There was no response for a long while, the only noises resounding being the visceral sounds of the corpse whose bowels were being removed while its severed limbs were merged with that of monsters with stitch and potion.
An experimental attempt at undead mutation.
"I see," Khajiit finally acknowledged — albeit only verbally — his blood stained hands losing no motion as they continued their work on the experiment. "What of the fleeing villagers and hordes, have they arrived within the town's walls?"
"Ye…yes, Master Khajiit." There was a bit of hesitance from the disciple, "But one of our hordes has not made it back."
The apostle's movements paused, a tilted bottle of a blue-hued substance in his right hand. His weathered features — a clear sign of miasma poisoning, as the disproportion between age and appearance was vast — took on a displeased expression as he turned toward his subordinate.
"Explain." Khajiit demanded, his gruff voice bouncing off the under cave dug in the underbelly of Claysheal's communal cemetery.
Five years he had been planning this whole affair, sacrificing time, money and resources. He had seen that every step of the process was executed perfectly, or at least with as little fluctuations as possible…all in an effort to at least have some level of clairvoyance to events that might arise.
A missing horde, while not a major threat to the Death Spiral ritual, was something that shouldn't have been possible…and brought upon unsavoury contemplations.
The disciple continued his inclined state as he delivered the unpleasant news.
"O…one of the hordes sent nor…north hadn't re..returned. Although all of the survivors from the villages they'd des…destroyed had chosen to come to Claysheal for refuge."
"Am I supposed to be pleased at the existence of a few hundred sacrifices?" Khajiit asked with the colour of irritation on his tone. He could already feel the miasmic mana in his core getting agitated and accelerating his rot and degradation.
This was one of the few downsides of using negative energy as a being of flesh and mortality. Emotions made the volatile energy eat at a person's vitality faster, and keeping the balance between arcanic mana and negative energy required some level of conscious thought.
It was worse in Khajiit, of course, given that he was a previous user of light magic — an art that was a hard counter to the dark arts he was now practicing.
The disciple trembled, affected by the sheer intent the senior necromancer was giving off. Catching this, Khajiit reigned in his emotions — not out of sympathy but the futility of the act — and wiped his hands.
This unexpectancy had taken his motivation to attempt the creation of an Abominable before the ritual began.
"Begone," he turned to grab on to his own staff. "Inform the others to commence with the plan. I don't want any other interruptions."
The disciple bowed even further, "By your leave, Master Khajiit."
After that, the junior necromancer scurried out of his sight. Khajiit clicked his tongue in irritation before turning back to his unfinished creation, channeling negative energy to the base of his staff and weaving a necromantic spell.
"Rise from this state of death and be granted life once more, O Servant…[Create Undead 4th]!"
A myriad of spell circles appeared at the call of the dark arts, and began to bleed purple energy — a sign of concentrated dead miasma — into the incomplete amalgamation of both monster and human parts.
The creature twitched for a bit before it began to thrash as mediocre mana channels were etched…engraved into its body and filled with negative energy. Khajiit looked at the whole process with a scowl, unimpressed by the result. Rather than a unique undead, he had gotten a regular zombie-type, one that didn't have the decency to retain parts of its original mana channels.
"A waste of a 4th-tier spell." He murmured, reaching for the dark orb on his surgical table to transfer the connection he'd gained from this creation. TheDeath Orb obliged his request, adding the undead to the thousands that existed within its hive.
It irked him that even after this much studying and practice, he was still limited to the creation of basic undead — albeit he was also capable of creatingElder Lich types and enhanced undead, but that was nothing to flaunt about within his circle.
The other apostles boasted a lot of potential in the ways of necromancy. Sure, Khajiit had an unmatched understanding of ritualistic magic, but that meant nothing when the art was so obscure and unexplored. Zurrenorn, for all its many advantages, didn't pursue necromantic arts that didn't grant direct strength.
Even the Death Spiral ritual was an unpopular practice due to its many flaws and risks, with only their glorious leader and the unnamed inventor of the ritual being the sole individuals who had successfully performed it.
The necromancer reached into his robes and pulled out a pendant, a memory…and the reason he wouldn't falter in his pursuit for potential. When he opened the item, a painted portrait of a woman who looked like she was in her early thirties showed.
For the first time, Khajiit's features turned gentle, softer. He ran his pale, emaciated finger over the small portrait before closing it, "We are about to cross a major milestone, Mama. And after this, I will be able to dedicate every moment of my time in the pursuit of creating a resurrection spell that will breathe life into you once more."
Unlike previous attempters who tried to recreate the success of the glorious leader without precautions, the necromancer had tweaked the ritual and tested its viability beforehand. Of course, this tweaking process also limited the prescribed potential of the ritual. Rather than a powerful undead like their leader had become, Khajiit would only be achieving Lich-hood, the initial stages of it.
But that didn't matter.
He would still be stronger than his current self, and the limitations of flesh and mortality would no longer have claim on him.
His thoughts went back to the lost horde…
A few months back there had been sightings of a silver scale dragon edging the borders of Tob. Of course, given that many recalled the dragon's scales were silver, Khajiit knew the true identity of the dragon to be the Platinum Dragon Lord. He'd never once met a Dragon Lord, but even their powerful leader warned them against antagonising them…especially the one rumoured as the descendant of the Dragon Emperor.
After all, tales of the dragon who purged the Silent City with its breath attack weren't uncommon within the developed cities.
The necromancer had went dormant following those sightings, unwanting to suffer the wrath of the Platinum Dragon. Now he was starting to wonder if the scaled menace had returned…
He returned the pendant into his robes.
…then again, if it was the dragon lord, it would have long scorched Claysheal and all the hordes. No, this was most probably just an unfortunate circumstance that ended in the death of the disciple responsible for directing the undead.
Still, it was a discomforting circumstance.
"No, I've come this far, I shan't let fears take me at such an important moment." He encouraged himself, turning back with a staff and orb in hand, "The time for my ascension has come, and I shall seize it with all due promptness."
The necromancer began to move, his gait like a glide on the ground. Flickering lights illumined his bald head as he moved, a smile of sadistic origin slicing his face as he began to hear the guttural growls of his undead minions and the screams of the people.
With a nudge of his mana, he connected himself to the Death Orb's hive. He sent an order to the undead hordes…commanding them to bring death and misery to the poignant spawns of the Conclave.
It was time for the commencement of the ritual…and reap the souls of the sacrifices.
Finn Thaener 2
Sometimes Finn wondered if thaumaturgy would have been a better path to study…
Sounds of hooves on ground resounded through the uncared path of soil and rocks…gravel. The ground was unwetted like that of the village of Carne, suggesting that the shower that drizzled there wasn't an encompassing thing.
Yet down south was a cluster of dark clouds that were slowly encroaching north, carried by a cooler gust that would have been an unpleasant thing had they not been grim in mood.
The air current brushed upon the unseen barrier woven within his uniform, presenting no hindrance to the vision of the halfbreed and his steed of white and black.
The mystic resistance of rushing air wasn't exclusive to them. No, it was shared by all of the legionnaires whose steeds' hooves sounded with his. They were synced in their motions, but the Lieutenant was head of the platoon, rushing towards a destination that never seemed to draw closer.
"That bloody map was a fuckin' deception." He cussed unheard, words swallowed by the rushing wind. Finn had thought the trudge from Carne to the town was meant to be an hour at best, maybe with an additional half if they got sidetracked.
But no, the fuckin' slog was three hours long on reinforced steeds — prime-bred stallions geared with enough artefacts to blind a dragon — and the hordes of undead sieging their destined town numbered within tens of thousands.
Looking to the side, he saw herds of grazing wildlife peering at them as they passed, while the simple creatures took in their last meal before the fall of evening.
Finn whipped at his reins, and the men mimicked his actions as the mounts went full gallop.
Vast fields of long grass and occasional trees stretched for miles in the golden shimmer of dusk. They were losing daylight, but the scent of rot and decay was ever-increasing…intensifying with each step and distance closed.
With one hand on his reins, the lieutenant gestured with his free hand in a motion so familiar to the sorcerers under his lead.
"Brutus, portal us uphill!"
His voice sounded with a command usually absent in his tone… Such was his mood.
The spatial mage flew past him, his magus robes, a mimicry of the legionnaire's common uniform, fluttering violently as they brushed against the heavy gust. Brutus's form was a swirling motion in the air as a flight spell unhinged the laws of reality upon his person.
Reaching ten seconds away from the platoon, yet his form was still visible to the trained eyes of Finn, the spatial mage reached upon his well of mana beforederanging it into something that could facilitate the demands of spatial manipulation.
Brutus's arms gestured in the air in a hypnotic manner, the motion a trace of a spellwork circle as shown by the blue glow of spell casting.
"[Triple Boosted — Extended Magic: Swirling Rift]!" The mage intoned in a show of his exemplary spellcraft.
The shift in space could almost be felt as the portal spell connected two points in reality while temporarily ignoring the concept of distance.
A rotating void manifested in space, its abyssal depths almost an imitation of [Gate]'s horrid darkness. A large spell circle formed behind the emerging 5th-tier spell as a hint of the woven spell's full manifestation.
Thrice boosted and given extended duration in the space of existence, the spatial mage under the Basilisk Platoon was someone who could breach past what his current tier allowed. His potential was obvious to all.
Brutus wasted no time in flying into the swirling portal, and Finn was just seconds behind him…not as eager.
Times like this served as a reminder as to why the halfbreed shunned the path of thaumaturgy.
Well, that and the unreal studying and meditation required. Sure, the way casters weaved mana and moulded it into something that was fundamentally deranged from the flow of realism before proceeding to force it upon existence was always an entrancing splendour to witness.
But the work, time, and money required to get there wasn't worth it. Finn wasn't a genius; hell, he wasn't even above average, intellectually speaking, of course. He had a high wind affinity, high enough to become an elementalist. Unfortunately, he hadn't the patience for it, nor the pool.
The lieutenant plunged into the teleportation spell, his body whirling with the twist.
The effects of woven spells upon the body were always an odd thing to experience, an oddness that only truly faded with constancy and resistance.
There was a moment's delay before he came out the other side. A few steps forward — just enough to not hinder those who'd come after him — the lieutenant pulled at his horse's reins and peered at the scenery below him as his lips pursed and his brows morphed into a crease.
Beneath the hill's top, just a few miles away, was a large town shielded by walls of wood and stone. There was no finesse to the walls' design, and they had a deceptive view that almost made them seem feeble.
Yet they were anything but…at least for walls made by farmers and paupers.
Fire blazed on roofs of straw in a scatter, and screams and shouts from common people were heard…carried by the wind. It was obvious that there was already a battle raging within… A clash of survival and evil.
Finn jumped off his horse in a manner familiar and moved closer on legs to get a better view.
The radiance of dusk was nowhere to be seen, swallowed by the horizon's maw and replaced by the dark clouds that loomed above, flashing lightning and roaring thunder in intervals that were too frequent for comfort.
The stench of rot was pungent here…and the prickling discomfort of negative energy needled at the skin. In between the flashes of lightning, Finn could see the silhouettes of monstrous abominations the size of two-story buildings whose forms rammed against the town's walls with reckless abandon, bones peeling off the giants with each movement.
"Necroswarm Giants," the lieutenant said, tone as warm as a winter's night. His eyes darted in a scan, keeping watch of the countless undead creatures that were scattered around the town waiting for an opening.
The things wailed and clawed, moving unsteadily amidst the plains of the town's exterior.
The rest of the men came through, unmounting their horses and joining him in watch…his gauging of the enemy.
"There's a lot of them." A halfbreed arcaner with hair the colour of red said, his eyes giving off a white glint that suggested the use of[Duskwatch], or maybe it was [Dark Vision]? It was hard to tell with mages and their many variations of spells that served a single function.
Still, Finn hummed in agreement. The observed results mimicked his own, after all.
But that was the problem here, "They're too scattered. We can't go through all of them without massive casualties on the villagers despite these undead being low-tier in nature."
Zombies, skeletons, necroswarm giants, and even skeletal dragons shadowed the skies in loom. There were thousands upon thousands of these abominable creatures, and yet any one of the legionnaires would see no difficulty in their demise... That was if they weren't so scattered and sandwiched with the people the platoon was tasked with protecting.
The mages would be restricted in their spell use. Eliminating any fire-based spells in fear of collateral and shock-based spells, two categories that were effective against undead creatures.
Norbert spoke next, "Killing them one at a time would see us tired before even half of them are gone, not to mention we have no idea what exactly is going on in the town." The man paused as if giving them a moment to digest his words before continuing, "If the necroswarm giants were truly serious about destroying the walls, they could have done so already. No, they are being directed to create openings, ones that can be supervised and controlled by the cultists."
He pointed at the gate sites where skeletal dragons stood sentinel. Finn's gaze lingered a tad longer on the cheap imitations… Aesthetics, unfortunately, didn't add to overall strength.
Spell resistance meant nothing when there were countless other weaknesses that could be abused and exploited.
"Escape points under the town's control are heavily guarded and monitored. The town most likely placed more men in those places, thinking that the undead consider them easy marks..."
Blocking exit points and creating new openings? Finn clutched his hand as it all started to make sense.
"They're trying to overrun the town with the lesser undead."
Norbert nodded, "I'm unsure of the methods of these cultists. But this looks like a deliberate approach to regulate death frequency…it's as if they don't want mass death."
"So what, they are sadists?"
"Not quite— well, probably, but that's not the point. What I'm trying to say is that there's reason behind this deliberation—"
The spatial mage interrupted Norbert, voice slightly edged with alarm, "There's a build-up of death miasma inside the town and it's being slowly siphoned off by…something."
Everyone turned to Brutus, whose eyes burned with the glow of[Mana Sight]. There was a beat before everyone's eyes widened in realisation…
"It's a ritual!"
Finn was quick to come up with an approach, "We will divide into two units, 20 men will handle the undead outside the walls— once the item used to control them is secured they'll try to gather and act as common undead tend to." He pointed to the locations he wanted the men, "The remaining 60 will be teleported inside the town. We will prioritise forming secure sites where the people can gather and eliminate the main threat behind this debacle, lest their corruptive presence become more potent."
He stood straighter and let the mana in his veins and channel course freely. His aura, like a greenish hue, touched upon the ambience and gave a sense of physicality to his intent. The horses, ever so sensitive to abnormal fluctuations, neighed and ran into the mountain trees, taking his display as a signal to leave.
On his left hip, his hand coiled around the grip of Widow, unsheathing it with a flourish. The rapier wept as it scraped against the air, its numerous enchantments warping the space around it, before coming to a halt at a point towards the town.
The legionnaires readied themselves, unevenly divided into two units.
"Let's make quick work of this, men, and leave none of the dark spawns moving." Once more, Finn turned to the spatial mage, "Brutus, teleport us above the town in a scatter."
The sorcerer needed no further prompting, as his hands were already in motion, and his mana was creating spatial fissures under the guidance of his conjured spell circles.
"[Widen Magic: Void Gates]!" the spatial mage invoked in a voice laced with mana.
Six portals bloomed into existence in front of the formed groups, and their exit points appeared hundreds of meters above the town. A glance to the side, and Finn found Brutus's face twisted into an expression of deep focus. It was a taxing thing, this spell.
…or maybe the caster was using it incorrectly.
Either way, the lieutenant wasted no time in diving into the portal near him, with eight other legionnaires — those assigned under his unit — following after him.
Unlike [Swirling Rift] , there was barely any delays in between teleportations, the portal spitting them out the other side immediately after their dive. Gravity reclaimed them and pulled them down in an acceleration, but they were uncaring…not considerate of its promised harm, not at this height at least.
…and especially not with their adept proficiency with aerial combat.
A frown took Finn's face as he looked below, the site an overview.
Norbert's assessment of the crisis within the town proved accurate, then again the man was rarely wrong in his observations. Undead creatures — zombies, skeletons and the occasional ghoul — ran rampant, causing death and destruction at every turn and corner.
It was only the united defense of the men and what looked like the town's guards that denied them complete devastation.
But the men were untrained and undisciplined, and thus saw slaughter… Their numbers being dwindled by the thirst-like savagery of the undead's desire to see all that was living dead.
The lieutenant gave a gesture of command amidst the free fall…
"Create a safe zone and employ the help of the town's men to gather as many of the common folk as possible!" he shouted, his words given delivery by the violent wind of the down pull.
The legionnaires blurred into fades of their former selves, hastening to fulfil their orders.
Finn, now alone, turned to the rushing ground and clad his muscles with his wind-oriented prana, the touch of which extended the sharpness of his three senses with the exclusion of sight and taste. He focused most of the wind energy beneath the base of his right foot in preparation of Gust Haze, a wind variant of Leap — an aerial manoeuvring skill drilled into all legionnaires who favoured sword and spear.
Illumined by the crackling lightning, the lieutenant saw a draconic silhouette of bone and rot coming his way, with its maw opened and roaring something abnormal. The undead creature's glowing orbs were locked on him as its wings flapped with rippling violence…showing its atrocious inability to execute stealth.
Then again, his platoon weren't really exceptional in it thus criticism should be left to the wise.
Finding firmness where it shouldn't be, the halfbreed faded with the mimicry of a gust, avoiding the unholy creature's biting attack and appearing just a few feet above its head, sword in hand…
For all the undead's numerous disadvantages, the most detrimental of them all was their lack of survival instincts, or just their inability to experience deeper emotions, be their negative or positive. This was to say, lieutenant Thaener had let loose his full intent for undead destruction. This was to the point where those directly below felt the manifestation of his intent in the form of semi-terror.
…Widow screeched with the materialisation of a whirlwind clothing its blade, thousands of compressed wind sickle slicing up the air as his hand extended into its impending slash.
"Grind 'em to dust, 『 Gale Fury 』!"
The mana-forged rapier became a siphon as it took a quarter of the lieutenant's reserves upon the invocation of its most lethal and widespread ability. It extended and widened, becoming thrice its range as Finn slashed towards the skeletal dragon, the twisting force of the attack dismantling the structure of the unholy abomination and reducing it to severed bones and fading miasma.
Rather than the thousands of bones falling to the ground, they were stuck in a violent swirl on his rapier. But a flick of his wrist saw the remains flying further outside the vicinity of the town.
As his display hadn't gone unnoticed, there was silence below, a silence that continued until Finn came to a graceful land and turned to the townsmen and guards with an easy smile.
"I am First Lieutenant Finn Thaener of Elgroth's Legionnaire, and the current leader of the Basilisk Platoon." He pronounced, bringing Widow to its sheath, "And we were sent here to ensure the safety of the Conclave."
A man whose hair was approaching the colour of gray stepped forward, his framed scarred by combat and discipline — though he lacked the aura of strength. He had what Finn would call an excellent patch the upper part of his lips, and a well maintained, if badly forged, sword in his left hand.
The man's gait, despite the obvious fatigue and injuries, was a brim of confidence, an indication to his authority among those gathered.
Still, Finn saw beyond that projected facade and saw the wariness within the man's eyes…
"I'm Pluton Ainzach, captain of Claysheal's Townsguard. And we welcome your aid with open arms."
The edges of the lieutenant's lips quirked further, "Well spoke, good man."
Death Spiral.
It's a death ritual meant to turn a mortal into an undead through the sacrifice of more than ten thousand people.
The ritual has three stages:
-Sacrifice.
A slaughter must ensue, caused by undead creatures in order to invoke and intensify the essence of death miasma. There is a high chance that those killed will immediately awaken as undead creatures—usually, they would just be zombies.
-Harvest.
The collection of the death miasma and souls produced by the slaughter via cursed items called Death Orbs. The souls of the dead will be suspended, unable to pass beyond the veil of limbo due to the chants—ritual—of the cultists.
-Assimilation.
After enough souls and miasma have been collected, the central figure would then begin to forcefully incorporate them into his body and core, undergoing the undead transformation. This part has a high chance of failure, be it because the person performing it was just too weak to handle the strain—this will result in a negative explosion—or that the ritual was just not stable enough.
Requirements:
Undead Template: One needs to have an undead template of the creature they wish to become after the ritual is completed.
Phylactery: A container in which the person needs to keep their consciousness before the completion of the ritual. This container is usually the Death Orb. After the transformation is complete, the person's consciousness will forcefully take possession of the undead creature.
Miasma Excess: To ensure little resistance to possession, the undead will manifest with little to no negative energy. After possession, a huge excess of miasma needs to be injected into the undead body to prevent erasure.
The Saint: Starting from the top, I added conditions to necromancy mastery in the form of being a pseudo Dr. Frankenstein. Why did I do this? Because higher necromancy shouldn't just be about casting. This will probably see depth when we explore the undead organisations. But I'm not a party pooper so I will leave Summon Undead the way it is — meaning entirely reliant on casting.
So why is Khajiit so damn old despite his age?
Well, Khajiit used to be a light magic practitioner, a true believer of the Six Gods (canon). But when he found out that light would not revive his mother he turned to dark magic (necromancy). Naturally, this magics don't mix, so his new specialty is decaying him faster due to remnants of light magic within his core.
I identified the dragon who was flying around months before the MC's transfer, I'm sure I don't have to explain why he was snooping around.
Now to the second half.
Yes, there are specialities to mages and the kinds of mana they're use to invoke spells of their specialisations are commonly different. Brutus uses spatial mana to cast spatial spells, but he can also use arcane mana but it wouldn't be as proficient. Most of the spells he used are completely under the purview of his specialisation. Not all the spatial spells will be teleportation variants.
I'm not going to give substantial focus on spell resistances. The thing is, you can resist some spells and you can't resist some, there's no tier limit to it. In some cases people can use spells in a way you can't resist them. I'm saying this because of the skeletal dragons.
Now to prana. It will be what most warrior types cultivate. I chose it because it sounds cool as hell. Still, all these sub categories might be functionally different but they are all derived from mana.
Anyway, comment and provide feedback. And guys, this is unreliable narration, some POV will say incorrect shit.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone