Under the thick veil of darkness, Thoren marched onward, his skeletons shuffling beside him as the gloom closed around them, vast, oppressive, and hungry, as though it possessed a will of its own.
The darkness here was unlike that of the surface.
It was not merely the absence of light but a living gloom, cold and suffocating, creeping across the skin like countless unseen fingers.
It clung to flesh and bone alike, worming its way beneath armor and cloth, settling into the marrow.
It seeped into the mind, smothering reason and whispering doubts that were not one's own.
Thoughts slowed, instincts dulled, and even the strongest will felt as though it were being gently, patiently eroded.
In this place, light felt like a forgotten lie, a myth spoken of in distant memories.
The world seemed reduced to a single, endless void, intent on devouring all that dared to exist within it.
For miles, nothing met Thoren's eyes but blackness without depth or end.
There were no landmarks, no stars, no sky, only the sensation of moving forward through an abyss that offered neither resistance nor welcome.
Somewhere in the distance, faint growls echoed.
They were low and patient, resonating through the darkness as if the Abyss itself were breathing, waiting for something to stumble into its maw.
After walking for over a mile, Thoren's steps slowed, but they did not stop.
His posture remained steady, his expression unchanged, even as the oppressive gloom pressed ever closer.
Suddenly, from the darkness, a shadow swept through the tight formation of skeletons around him, a dagger glimmering with malevolent intent.
The movement was swift and precise, slipping between the undead as though they were nothing more than smoke.
The figure was clad in a black robe, a hood drawn low over his face.
In a flash, he had already closed the distance, arriving within a couple of feet of Thoren without a sound.
Beneath the hood, a young man regarded Thoren with cold disdain, his gaze sharp and merciless, as though the necromancer before him were already dead.
[Night Whisper Kill]
He had used this skill to slaughter many people far stronger than Thoren, and he did not believe he would fail this time.
His confidence was absolute, forged from countless silent assassinations and clean kills.
Necromancers might be powerful, but against him, an assassin, they were nothing special. So he believed.
Suddenly, just before he could deliver the killing strike, an illusory floating lantern appeared before him.
The moment the Illusory Floating Lantern manifested, his heart trembled violently. His breath hitched, and his vision blurred as he fell into a brief daze.
That single moment cost him everything.
"Impossible!"
His heartbeat skipped, a jarring pause that sent a surge of cold panic through his chest.
Cold dread clawed up his spine as his senses dulled, his instincts screaming a warning that came far too late.
Then pain exploded through his back.
"Ahhhh!"
Behind him, Ace Number One plunged its broadsword deep into his body, the tip of the blade bursting out through his chest in a spray of blood.
His breath left him in a wet, broken gasp as steel tore through flesh and bone.
Nevile stared down in disbelief, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the blood-slicked tip of the sword protruding from his chest.
His mind rejected the sight even as his strength drained away.
This was wrong.
It could not end like this. His lips parted to curse, to deny reality itself, but only a guttural, choking sound escaped his throat.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
As a Level 10 Assassin, Nevile had never imagined dying such a miserable death.
Worse, dying at the hands of a skeleton.
[Experience Gained +250]
[Summoned Entities: Experience Gained +125]
[Copper +300]
Meanwhile, a few meters away from Thoren, a group cloaked in black and hidden beneath deep hoods watched their comrade fall, killed by an undead servant.
A flicker of surprise crossed their concealed faces, quickly smothered by forced composure. Nevile never failed. He could not have failed.
This had to be a chance.
A fluke.
"Failed," Norman murmured, though the word tasted bitter and wrong on his tongue.
His jaw tightened as he forced himself to remain calm.
Norman was also a Level 10 Assassin, only slightly stronger than Nevile.
Nevile had never failed before; every target had died without ever realizing what had happened.
And yet, now…
"Captain, what should we do?" a female voice whispered from beside him.
"We take him down," Norman said, recovering from his shock.
Around him stood hunters and assassins, the weakest among them a Level 8 awakener. They were veterans, hardened by countless battles and hunts.
"Remember," he added coldly, "don't kill him. We need him alive… but you can make him beg for death."
With that, they vanished from their position, melting into the darkness as though they had never been there.
Thoren remained where he was, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Ever since he had left the town, he had noticed the figures following his trail.
They believed themselves careful, their stealth movements feeding their arrogance.
Unfortunately for them, that confidence was misplaced.
Against his second talent [Soul Lantern of the Eternal Crypt] nothing could be hidden.
In his eyes, their souls shone brightly, blazing like beacons in the dark.
He watched calmly as seven awakeners closed in on him from all sides.
Their movement skills were exquisite, allowing them to bypass the Level 8 skeletons serving as his outer shield with ease.
Swift. Precise.
The first to reach him was a young man with a thick scar running beneath his hood. Without hesitation, he activated his skill.
'Venom-Tipped Strike.'
His spear shot forward, swift and silent, blending seamlessly with the darkness as it lunged toward Thoren's heart.
Bang!
A skeleton abruptly appeared in front of Thoren, bracing itself behind a heavy shield.
"Huh!"
The spear struck and met a shield that should not have existed.
The impact numbed the attacker's arms, sending a violent shock through his body. He staggered backward, breath hitching as confusion flooded his face.
'Where did that come from?'
Before he could recover from the aftershock, Ace Number Two emerged behind him, swinging its daggers in a ruthless arc.
"Ahhh! Ahh!"
Left defenseless, the man was sliced apart, his miserable screams fading into the darkness as his body collapsed.
Thoren did not spare him a glance. His eyes had already locked onto his next target.
Before the next assassin could react, two Level 7 Cave Bear skeletons materialized before him, their massive frames blotting out what little space he had to retreat.
'How could this be?'
That was his final thought before claws and bone tore him apart.
Thoren stood calmly amid the carnage, the same faint smirk etched onto his face.
They had thought themselves hunters.
They were wrong.
The moment they dared to follow him beyond the town gate, they had become prey.
They believed he commanded only a handful of skeletons but now…
He would show them why he was different from every other necromancer ever known.
"Ahhh! Ahhh!"
A female voice echoed through the eerily quiet night as she struggled desperately to escape the skeletons closing in around her.
She ran.
Her breathing fractured into sobs as skeletal hands scraped and grasped, relentless and unyielding. Skills failed.
Escape routes vanished. Even the darkness itself seemed to conspire against her.
Suddenly, her scream cut off.
Her frantic struggle ceased as her body collapsed to the ground, a long spear driven clean through her throat.
Fear seized Norman as he watched his subordinates fall one after another.
His confidence rotted in his gut.
He shuddered, his body drenched in cold perspiration.
The battle had barely begun, yet almost all of his men were dead. The few who remained struggled desperately just to stay alive.
His hands trembled despite his iron will. This was not a fight.
It was a slaughter.
Previously, he had thought the Federation Police were weak.
Now, he understood just how wrong he had been.
A necromancer…?
No.
Thoren was a monster wearing human skin.
The realization hollowed him out.
Still, when he remembered his hidden ace, a fragile semblance of confidence crept back onto his face.
In the distance, an archer stood tall, pulling his bowstring back to its absolute limit as he held his breath.
'Rapid Twin Shot.'
He activated the skill, releasing two deadly arrows in rapid succession.
Each arrow blended seamlessly with the darkness, slicing through the air with lethal intent. In the blink of an eye, they were already upon Thoren.
Bang! Bang!
The Warden skeleton stepped forward, raising its shield.
It trembled and stumbled backward, its soul fire flickering violently, yet it endured the strike.
"Blocked!" The archer's breath caught painfully in his throat.
'He knew.'
He had concealed himself perfectly for that killing shot, and yet it had been anticipated.
Before he could recover from his shock, a presence rose behind him.
Cold. Silent.
The skeleton activated its trait.
[Night Whisper Kill]
"Ah!"
The archer whimpered as warm, metallic liquid flooded his mouth. Steel kissed flesh, and his strength vanished instantly.
The bow slipped from his fingers as his gaze fell upon the skeleton emerging from the shadows before him.
As he recognized the weapon in its grasp, understanding dawned with horrifying clarity.
He had been killed by one of their own.