The War Room, Necrovia
Later that night, beneath the marble-bone throne room of Necrovia's castle, the Lich King summoned Herc to the war room. The chamber pulsed with necrotic power. Its walls were lined with divination lenses etched into skulls and soulglass. A ghostly projection of the cursed realm hovered above the blackstone table like a visible heartbeat.
Here, the Lich King ruled not just with iron—but with foresight.
Herc entered soundlessly. Despite his towering, armored frame, he moved like a shadow cast by will alone. He knelt before his sovereign, moonlight filtering through boneglass and casting fractured light across his scorched plate.
"If you're ready," the Lich King murmured, "I have another request of you, Herc."
"I am always ready, my liege."
The Lich King's eye sockets flared cold blue. "A disturbance along the southern border. Twenty paladins. One radiates at sixth-tier—likely a Champion of Avalon. The others are no mere squires."
Herc tilted his head, as if weighing the death he was to deliver. "Shall I destroy them?"
"I want them broken," the King said. "Crushed in spirit, not just flesh. Let their hymns fall to silence."
He paused.
"Take Dresora. She resists holy fire better than you. If the Champion bears divine light, I won't risk losing my greatest hammer to those zealots."
A silence passed—one of absolute understanding.
Herc bowed. "As you command."
The Southern Border, Necrovia
From a jagged cliff of blackened stone, Herc and Dresora gazed down at the resting paladin force.
Around them stretched Necrovia's wastelands—twisted plains of fossilized trees and winds whispering the names of the long-dead.
Dresora stood like a revenant, silver mask polished, cloak flickering with necrotic flame. Her warhost of banshees and wights waited silently behind her.
"Are your troops ready?" Herc asked.
"We died ready, sir," she replied.
"Then let us begin."
He descended from the heavens like a falling star, his onyx armor inscribed with runes of undeath. With a crash like a thunderclap, he landed amid the paladins.
They barely had time to draw a breath before the slaughter began.
The sixth-tier Champion, Sir Valien, charged forward astride a divine steed—hooves sparking with consecrated fire, mane ablaze with celestial flame. His voice roared hymns that scorched shadows from the stone.
"Today you shall face divine judgment, abomination!"
His greatsword, wreathed in radiant fire, cleaved the air.
Herc met him in silence.
Their blades collided in a flash of annihilation—black mana against golden flame. A crater bloomed beneath them, disintegrating trees and glassing soil. Each strike cracked the air, sundering the earth and sending arcs of raw force into the heavens.
Herc's blade hissed against Valien's holy sword. The paladin's chants scorched Herc's armor, but the Death Knight fought on—without breath, without pain, without mercy.
Paladins surged to flank Herc, blades gleaming with divine inscriptions. But their formation never closed.
A scream tore through the air—a banshee's cry, high and shattering. Dresora descended with her wraithknights, her banshees swirling like a storm.
Where Herc moved like a juggernaut, Dresora flowed like a curse.
A paladin met her head-on, swinging a blessed glaive of holy flame. She caught the blow bare-handed. Her fingers blackened—but she didn't flinch.
Her void-black eyes locked on his soul.
"Your light is thin," she whispered—and exhaled.
A scream of despair burst from her throat. The man's aura shattered, and he fell, eyes wide, leaking ash.
Another stabbed her with a hallowed silver spear. The blade pierced true—then she vanished into smoke and bone.
She reformed behind him.
Her grave-shroud cloak flicked forward, wrapping around his face. He thrashed—then fell still, his soul dragged screaming into her lantern.
Dresora's banshees circled the battlefield, their wails peeling away sanctified protections. Glyphs flickered and died. Wards failed.
A paladin captain cast a sanctuary, radiant gold shielding the survivors. It repelled curses. For a moment, it held.
Dresora approached the edge, hands folded as if in prayer. "You think a god's favor will keep you safe?"
She raised her arms.
Her banshees wept in unison.
A harmony of rage and sorrow rippled out. The sanctuary trembled—then shattered.
Grief hit the paladins like a tidal wave. Every buried regret, every unhealed wound, rose to the surface and broke them.
Some sobbed. Others screamed. Few still stood.
Dresora moved among them like a dirge. Silent. Unstoppable.
Herc's duel still raged.
Sir Valien, growing desperate, called down sanctified wrath. A pillar of light scorched Herc's chest plate and cracked his gauntlet. For the first time in centuries—Herc felt pain. Thinking quickly, he put his sword in between him and the scorching light. It bought him the moment he needed to out some distance between them. Herc looked at his sword frowning at his now broken tip he then assessed his arm that was struck by the attack checking mobility. He then spoke up his loud voice booming over the battlefield.
"You've caused me pain mortal be joyous for achieving something that is surely the best thing you've accomplished in this life. But take head you will die today within this hour."
Then he pressed forward. They exchanged blows until fatigue began to set on the holy knight. Herc sensing his opponent's growing tires pushed harder. His swings became heavier, his shoulder bashes becoming more fearsome until eventually the mortal slipped up. He saw sir Valiens arm raised too high for an attack, a small mistake but a mistake in a battle is life and death no matter how small. He parried Valien's blade and drove his own through the paladin's chest. The divine steed screamed as its master was lifted into the air, armor shattering in a cascade of gold.
The radiant blade fell from his grip.
When the battle ended, nineteen paladins lay dead.
Only one fled and only because they let him. Death never needs a messenger but sometimes a warning is needed.
Return to Necrovia
The obsidian gates groaned open. Herc emerged from the mist, scorched and silent.
Steam rose from deep burns along his ribs. Holy light had cracked him. Smoke clung to him like a cloak. But he walked.
Dragging behind him was the High Crusader's sword—once radiant with celestial light, now flickering dimly, as if confused.
The Lich King stood atop his throne dais, Kyris at his side. The soul flames in his sockets flared.
"You encountered a sixth-tier, just as we expected?" he said.
"Aye," Herc replied. "And I turned him into a crater."
He released the sword. It screeched across obsidian.
Even now, divine glyphs shimmered along the blade.
The Lich King descended slowly. His staff tapped like a tomb's heartbeat.
He extended a skeletal hand over the weapon. It resisted—like oil against water.
"Divine essence clings to it," he said. "Forged in Avalon's sanctum, no doubt."
He raised his staff.
Black sigils spiraled forth—pulsing, malevolent. They coiled around the blade. The light hissed, curling like burning paper.
The sword groaned—then screamed. Not with sound, but soul.
The last cry of a bound spirit echoed through the chamber—and fell silent.
The blade blackened. Its crossguard twisted into bone. Warmth fled.
A weapon of utter ruin remained.
The Lich King lifted it and turned to Herc. "Take it. A blade that once called to the Heavens now bows to you."
Herc took it. It hummed in his hand—like the aftershock of a prayer turned curse.
"I'll name it Mercy's End," he said.
Kyris nodded. "A fine name for such a heretical thing."
The Lich King returned to his throne.
"Let Avalon know what became of their champion," he said. "Even their relics serve me in the end."
Herc bowed. The cursed blade hung across his back like a wound turned trophy.
He did not breathe. He did not bleed.
But the ache of holy fire lingered in his bones.
He would wear that pain like a crown.