The battlefield fell into a stunned, horrified silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the living and the faint, unsettling whisper of my newly risen shadows. Three spectral puppets, perfect silhouettes of the casters they once were, stood at my command. Their violet eyes, burning with cold, unholy light, fixed on the last remnants of Derek's team.
The four remaining brawlers, who had been the muscle and terror of Derek's group, were now nothing more than frightened animals in a cage. They slipped and slid on the treacherous ice Masha had laid, their courage shattered by the sight of their dead friends rising as my slaves.
"It's not over," I said, my voice cutting through the air like a shard of glass. "Finish them."
My team, fueled by a righteous fury for their fallen comrades, needed no further encouragement. The fight that followed was not a battle; it was an execution. Masha extended her hands, and the ice field churned, sending jagged spikes erupting at the brawlers' feet, hobbling them and throwing them off balance. Erica, her mana slowly regenerating, launched precise, stinging firebolts that were less about damage and more about distraction, forcing them to flinch at the exact wrong moments.
Jin, his wounds partially mended by Rina's tireless work, was a blur of vengeance. He moved with a cold, deadly grace, his sword finding the gaps in their clumsy defenses. He didn't fight with the wild abandon of before; each strike was a carefully placed punctuation mark at the end of a life.
But the true horror for them were my puppets. The three shadows surged forward, a wave of silent, inexorable death. The brawlers screamed as they were swarmed, their crude maces and axes passing harmlessly through the puppets' intangible forms. A brawler would swing at a shadow, only for it to dissolve and reform behind him. They were fighting ghosts, and they were losing badly.
One by one, they fell. The last one, his eyes wide with madness, dropped his weapon and tried to surrender, begging for a mercy that no longer existed in this clearing. Jin's blade silenced him permanently.
As the final brawler collapsed, I felt the familiar pull of their life essence, their mana, waiting to be claimed. I instinctively reached out with my power, intending to bolster my ranks, to raise these four brutes as my new frontline. But as I tried to pull their spirits into my grasp, I hit a wall. It was a hard, unyielding limit within my own power, a ceiling I hadn't known was there. I could feel the four fresh corpses, ripe for animation, but my connection would not form.
I looked at my current summons. The first shadow I had raised—the echo of the Toximancy user—and the three I had just created. Four puppets. Plus the one goblin I had kept animated from our first fight, a lingering, mindless sentinel. Five. The limit was five. For now, at least. My power, as immense as it felt, was not infinite. It had rules. It had constraints. A valuable, sobering lesson. I released my hold on the goblin puppet, letting it dissolve into dust, its purpose served.
Across the clearing, only one enemy remained. Derek. He was still locked in a desperate struggle, his crimson-wreathed greatsword clashing against the immovable object of Eric's shield and the unstoppable force of Talia's rapier. He was a cornered beast, fighting with the last of his ferocious strength.
"Eric. Talia," I called out, my voice calm. "Fall back."
They disengaged instantly, leaving Derek panting in the center of the blood-soaked ground, surrounded by the bodies of his entire team. He stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and disbelief.
I began to walk toward him, my four shadow puppets falling into formation around me like a royal guard. The shadow of the Graviton user floated to my left, the Phantasmist to my right. The Wardcrafter and the Toximancer flanked me from behind. We moved as one, a procession of death approaching its final subject.
"You see, Derek," I began, my voice conversational, as if we were discussing a failed class project. "Your philosophy was flawed from the very beginning. 'Survival of the fittest,' you said. But you weren't seeking fitness. You were just a bully with a powerful new toy."
"Shut up!" he roared, raising his greatsword. "I'll kill you myself!"
He charged. I didn't even flinch.
"Edgar," I said without turning. "Talk to me."
"His stamina is critical!" Edgar's voice was clear and sharp from behind me. "The artifact on his sword is burning through his life force! His swings are powerful, but his footwork is getting sloppy! He's favoring his right side!"
As Derek's massive blade came whistling down, I took a simple step to my left. The sword slammed into the earth where I had been standing, carving a deep furrow in the dirt. I didn't even need to block.
"You gathered nine people, Derek," I continued, circling him as he struggled to pull his heavy sword from the ground. "You told them you were strong, that you would lead them to victory. But you didn't lead them. You spent them. You threw their lives away for a moment of dominance."
He finally wrenched his sword free and swung again, a wild, horizontal arc. This time, I didn't move. The shadow of the Wardcraft user glided in front of me, raising a spectral barrier. Derek's blade crashed against it with a dull thud, the impact doing nothing.
"You thought killing made you stronger," I said, my voice laced with pity. "And it does. But you never stopped to think about what kind of strength you were building. You were just a butcher. I, on the other hand... I am a creator."
Enraged, he abandoned me and charged at my puppets, swinging his sword like a madman. "I'll smash your little toys!"
The puppets were faster. They scattered, their forms flickering and dissolving as his blade passed through them. It was like trying to fight smoke.
"Every person you killed," I went on, my voice a relentless scalpel, "every soul you snuffed out, you were just gathering resources for me. You were my loyal subordinate, Derek, and you didn't even know it. You assembled a team with perfect synergy for killing, and in doing so, you handed me the most versatile undead army I could have ever wished for. So, from the bottom of my heart... thank you for the gift."
That was the final blow. Not a sword, but a word. His mind, already frayed, snapped. With a roar that was pure, mindless rage, he poured every last drop of his remaining strength into his artifact. The crimson aura around him exploded, and he launched himself at me, his greatsword a blur of killing intent, ignoring all else. It was his final, all-or-nothing attack.
And I was ready for it.
"Now," I whispered.
My puppets, who had been scattered, converged in a single, coordinated strike. It was the symphony of ruin he had once conducted, now turned against him.
The shadow of the Graviton user gestured, and the ground around Derek's feet became as heavy as lead, his desperate charge slowing to a crawl.
The shadow of the Phantasmist waved its hands, and a dozen illusory copies of me appeared, surrounding Derek, each one mirroring my cold, calm expression.
The shadow of the Wardcraft user raised a barrier not in front of me, but behind Derek, a shimmering wall that cut off any possibility of retreat.
And finally, the shadow of the Toximancy user seeped a cloud of its phantom poison into the small, contained area, a debilitating mist that sapped the last of his strength.
Derek stumbled to a halt, trapped, disoriented, poisoned, and utterly alone. He swung wildly at the illusions, his movements sluggish, his roars turning into panicked, choked coughs.
I walked through the phantom images of myself until I stood directly in front of him. I didn't even need a weapon. I simply balled my hand into a fist, channeling the raw mana I had absorbed from his fallen men. My fist glowed with a faint, dark energy.
He looked at me, his eyes finally showing the one thing I hadn't seen yet. Fear. True, absolute fear.
I drove my fist into his stomach. The blow was not meant to kill, but to break. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained whoosh. The crimson aura of his artifact sputtered and died. The greatsword, his symbol of power, slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground.
Derek, the great and terrible leader, collapsed to his knees, defeated, humiliated, and gasping for breath at my feet. He was surrounded by the ghosts of the men who had died for him, their silent, violet eyes his only audience. My team watched from a distance, their faces a mixture of awe, relief, and a new, profound fear of the power I now wielded.