Chapter 2: The Necromancer
1055 Words
Bloodstone. Corpse. Sorcerer.
Those words alone were enough for Klos to grasp his situation.
He was facing a creature spoken of only in bardic tales—
a necromancer.
Judging the voice’s direction and the faint light seeping through the cracks in the stone wall, Klos quickly hid behind a large block of rock.
A heavy rumble followed.
Boom… boom…
The thick stone door creaked open. The necromancer inhaled deeply, his eyes closing as though savoring a fine fragrance.
“Ah… the scent in this chamber never changes.
The stench of decay—always so… intoxicating.”
But a heartbeat later, his tone sharpened.
“Where’s the corpse?! Where did it go!?”
Panic edged his voice. To him, Klos’s body was clearly a rare and precious specimen.
Hiding behind the rock, Klos held his breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He had never faced a sorcerer before.
Still, he trusted his own skill. In the entire military academy, fewer than ten people could defeat him in a fair fight.
But this was no drill. This was no training exercise.
Here, one mistake meant death.
The memory of the assassin’s blade flashed through his mind—the speed, the precision—and a cold breath escaped his lips.
Yet the memory didn’t paralyze him. Instead, it brought clarity.
Perhaps it was the human instinct to survive.
Or perhaps it was his own unyielding will to live.
Years of training had honed his discipline. His thoughts snapped into formation.
Aside from the necromancer, there was another man—Watson—guarding the cellar entrance.
The necromancer hadn’t yet noticed him, while Klos already knew his general position by sound alone.
They are two. I am one.
They are exposed. I am hidden.
The only chance to change the odds—strike first. Strike to kill.
He made his choice.
Klos picked up a skull from the ground and hurled it into the far corner.
Clack!
The skull shattered against the stone wall.
As the sound echoed, Klos sprang from hiding.
The necromancer turned instinctively—and froze.
The torch slipped from his grasp, flames flaring as it hit the ground.
His eyes bulged wide, and his gaunt, deathly pale face contorted in horror.
“Impossible! Absolutely impossible!
The Silver-Eyed Klos… resurrected himself!?”
But Klos didn’t hesitate.
At that instant, his mind sharpened to a killer’s precision.
He saw it—the necromancer’s weakest point: the throat.
He lunged forward, his right hand slicing through the air like a blade toward the target.
The impact startled him. The sensation wasn’t that of flesh—
it was like cutting into hardened leather.
The necromancer staggered back, clutching his throat with his left hand while flinging a handful of dark green powder with his right.
Klos’s vision blurred instantly.
The world dimmed before his eyes.
But he didn’t retreat. He couldn’t.
Retreat meant death.
Using his spatial memory, he drove two quick punches toward the necromancer’s position. Both connected—but again, that same hard, unnatural resistance met his fists.
He leapt back, widening the gap. Information was survival—without understanding the enemy, he couldn’t win.
But time was running out.
His vision was fading fast.
“You truly startled me, Silver-Eyed Klos,”
the necromancer’s voice echoed coldly through the chamber.
“But you have no chance.
My bone-hardened skin is beyond your reach.
And you’re already poisoned.”
“I’d love to know how you resurrected yourself…
but unfortunately, you’ve angered me.
I’ll kill you myself.”
The chill in that voice ran down Klos’s spine.
Once again, the shadow of death loomed over him.
Is this the end?
He couldn’t break through the necromancer’s hardened skin with bare hands. The poison’s effects grew worse—his sight fading, dizziness setting in. He couldn’t even track his enemy anymore.
Is there truly no way out?
Stay calm... stay calm...
Maybe… escape is still possible…
He shut his eyes, amplifying his other senses.
And then—he saw it.
A faint orb of dark violet light shimmered before him, wreathed in mist like smoke.
Confusion clouded his mind, but the danger left no time for thought.
A sorcerer meant magic—and magic meant mana.
And if he truly possessed the Old God’s blood, then he could sense mana.
The answer hit him at once.
That violet sphere—was mana itself.
As he realized this, a ravenous hunger surged from within, overwhelming him.
His right arm twitched violently, and then—his entire body lunged forward uncontrollably.
His arm plunged straight into the glowing sphere.
The necromancer’s scream tore through the chamber.
“Aaahhh—! M-monster…!”
Klos’s eyes snapped open. His vision had returned—
and his hand was buried deep in the necromancer’s abdomen.
He had killed him.
With his bare hands.
Shocked, Klos looked down. His right arm was wrapped in countless strands of crimson thread. He tried to pull free—but his arm felt fused to the necromancer’s body.
Then realization dawned.
He was devouring the necromancer’s mana.
He closed his eyes again.
The dark violet energy pulsed through the blood-red threads and flowed into him.
Moments later, it was over. The necromancer’s body went limp.
The threads vanished. His arm returned to normal.
And the terrible hunger within him faded to nothing.
Klos withdrew his arm and pushed the corpse aside with cold precision—
his movements calm, practiced, almost inhuman.
Then—he saw a figure at the doorway.
A towering man, nearly two meters tall, built like an ape.
He wore only a tattered linen pair of trousers, iron chains wrapped around his ankles. The dim light hid his face.
Klos guessed instantly.
Watson.
The name the necromancer had spoken.
Killing him was Klos’s immediate instinct.
Not because he feared exposure.
Not because he cared about the necromancer’s death.
But because no one—no one—could be allowed to know the secret of his blood.
Watson had seen.
And that meant Watson had to die.
Yet in truth, Klos’s decision was reckless—unlike his usual caution.
He didn’t understand his own power yet, nor the strength of his enemy.
Something deep within him was changing, and he didn’t even realize it.
As he tensed to strike, Watson let out a thunderous roar—
- Writer
