The System screen pulsed in the darkness, casting fractured blue light across the walls. It flickered once—like a heartbeat.
Leon stared at the new prompt, jaw tight.
[Summoning First Undead… Please Stand By.]
The air shifted.
He exhaled slowly, chest tightening as the warmth drained from the room.
Then the temperature dropped.
Hard.
The candle on his desk guttered violently, then extinguished with a soft pop. Shadows expanded outward, thickening around the edges of the room, swallowing corners that had once seemed harmless.
A strange pressure pressed against his sternum.
Like something inside him was being pulled forward—dragged toward the center of the room.
He staggered back a step, catching himself.
Then the floor changed.
Lines of deep blue carved themselves across the cracked wooden boards—etching in silence, forming a glowing circle beneath his feet. They curved and curled, moving like liquid ink, expanding outward with slow, deliberate precision.
The summoning circle came alive.
It didn't blaze. It pulsed—like breath held underwater.
Black mist leaked from beneath the boards. It rose in tendrils, coiling around his boots, curling up his legs. They didn't burn, didn't sting—but they watched. Like smoke with eyes.
Leon's arms prickled with gooseflesh.
This wasn't standard necromancy.
This was something else.
The Shape in the Mist
The mist thickened.
Then—movement.
Something stirred inside the summoning circle.
A figure slowly formed at its center, dragged from the void. It didn't appear so much as it emerged—as if the shadows themselves sculpted it into existence.
Leon tensed, feet planting apart.
He was ready for the worst. Every textbook painted the same picture: necromantic summons were ugly, decayed, mindless. Limbs bent wrong. Flesh sloughing off the bone. Shambling. Groaning.
But what stepped out of the mist was not that.
A hunched silhouette, draped in tattered robes, rose with eerie grace. Its limbs unfolded slowly, deliberately. Cloak frayed and stained. Thin arms dangled at its sides, bony fingers twitching slightly.
Then he saw the eyes.
Not blank. Not vacant.
But glowing.
Two pinpoints of ethereal blue light stared out from beneath the hood, sharp as blades in the dark.
The undead straightened, only slightly—but enough to feel human. Almost.
Arcane markings crawled across the backs of its hands, pulsing softly. Its skin was stretched thin, darkened, leathery—but not rotten. Every inch of it carried purpose.
Magic shimmered faintly around its body, like heat waves on cold stone.
Leon's pulse quickened.
This wasn't a corpse.
This was something aware.
System Feedback
A chime echoed inside his mind.
[Zombie Mage Summoned – Rank F][Summon Status – View Details]
The screen expanded with cold precision:
Name: [Unnamed Zombie Mage]Class: Undead SpellcasterRank: F
Skills:• Mana Bolt (Weak) – Fires a projectile of condensed magical energy• Dark Sense – Detects nearby mana sources
Growth Status: Evolvable
Leon stared at the screen, absorbing every line.
This wasn't a summon. It was a unit.
Not a groaning puppet—an asset with class stats, scalable growth, and autonomous abilities.
His zombie… could think.
Fight.
Adapt.
He stepped forward, eyes fixed on the figure still standing within the circle.
Its gaze hadn't left him.
The eyes weren't hostile. They weren't friendly either.
They were waiting.
The First Command
Leon hesitated. Was it truly intelligent? Or simply better programmed than the usual dead?
He cleared his throat.
"...Can you understand me?"
The figure tilted its head. The motion was fluid. Curious.
Then, it answered.
"Orders…?"
The voice was coarse. A blend of breath and grit. Not entirely dead. Not entirely alive.
Leon's chest pulled tight.
It had spoken. Not groaned. Not moaned.
It had asked for direction.
This thing was listening.
Not out of instinct.
Out of will.
His breath caught, then escaped in a trembling exhale.
He had expected a failure.
Instead, he'd summoned a soldier.
Testing the Power
Leon scanned the room, adrenaline crawling beneath his skin. He spotted a stack of half-rotted crates in the corner—leftover storage from the previous tenant.
That would do.
He turned to the undead.
"Target those crates," he said, his voice firmer now. "Use Mana Bolt."
The figure didn't move at first.
Then—its fingers rose.
Slow. Precise.
A low hum filled the room as the arcane symbols along its skin lit up.
The mist stirred.
Energy gathered at its palm, blue light curling inward, focusing into a single glowing sphere.
Then—
It fired.
A sharp whistle split the silence as a bolt of blue energy shot through the air. It struck the crate dead-center.
CRACK.
Wood exploded into splinters. Dust filled the room. A chunk of the top crate sagged inward, a smoking hole drilled clean through its heart.
Leon stared, wide-eyed.
That hadn't just worked.
That had hit like a real spell.
Not a sluggish lurch. Not a delayed swing. It had executed the command instantly—faster than he could blink.
He turned back to the summon.
It stood motionless once more, the light fading from its hands.
The blue glow in its eyes never dimmed.
It waited.
Leon's lips parted.
This… This was something else.
This was control.
Real-time combat control.
And if that was a basic skill—
Then what came next?
The First Spark of Fire
His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
The laughter from the Awakening Hall.
The pity in Damian's voice.
The recruiter's cruel smirk.
The moment they'd all turned away.
None of it mattered anymore.
Leon's eyes locked onto the flickering blue glow of the System.
It wasn't a curse.It was a beginning.
He clenched his fist, breath steady now.
He could grow this.
Shape it.
Command it.
The world had thrown him away.
But now?
Now he had something the world didn't understand.
And what they didn't understand—they couldn't stop