The crypt whispered to him.
Its walls were carved from obsidian stone, black and veined with veins of sickly green aether. Murals etched into the rock showed forgotten tales—armies of the dead, kings with hollow eyes, a skeletal god atop a throne of flame. It was no coincidence he had awoken here. This place was a tomb, yes—but also a cradle.
A cradle for something ancient. Something like him.
Xerces wandered through its depths with silent steps, the echo of his bony heels tapping against the stone. Each room hummed with latent energy, arcane runes long dormant flaring to life in his presence. His fingers brushed the edge of a sarcophagus sealed with golden chains and iron spikes. Inside lay not a corpse, but power waiting to be claimed.
[Necromancer's Memory Unlocked: Minor Soulforge Ritual learned]
You may now bind fallen bones and corpses into skeletal thralls. Max capacity: 3.
Soul Core: 12% Stability. Phylactery: Missing. Magic Output: Severely Limited.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
Xerces raised a hand, and green fire licked his fingers. "All empires begin with ash," he murmured to himself.
In a deeper chamber, he found them.
Three skeletons. Ancient, slumped over rusted blades, cobwebs veiling their cracked armor. Forgotten sentries perhaps, long dead. Xerces knelt and began the ritual.
The air turned thick, the runes on the floor igniting in a spiral of emerald light. He spoke the words he should not have known, but somehow did. The language of death was written into his soul.
Bones cracked and twisted.
One skeleton rose, dragging a sword that crumbled into dust. Another's jaw clicked open, releasing a soundless scream. The third's ribcage reassembled, pulsing with that same eerie light.
They stood before him, their eyes empty—until his gaze touched theirs. Then, flame kindled in their sockets, mirroring his own.
[Thralls bound: 3/3]
Xerces smiled, or rather, he felt the smile behind his teethless grin. He spoke again, testing his voice, the air trembling with his will.
"Come. We build."
He emerged from the crypt with his new vassals in tow, the sky above him a swirling vortex of stars and smoke. A dying sun hung low on the horizon, tinging the land in bronze and blood.
He saw it now—not just a wasteland, but a canvas.
Every monster in this world—every bandit, every tyrant, every predator that fed on the weak—was a piece of fuel for his fire. He would bind them, crush them, or raise them to serve.
Why simply survive in this savage world when he could reign?
Why hide from monsters when he could become their king?
A thousand species warred in Elydria, from the nightmare wyverns of the Crimson Expanse to the hive-minded Wretches beneath the Hollow Earth. Each species fought for dominion, for survival, for supremacy. But none united them.
None had the vision.
Xerces would.
He would build a kingdom of the dead and the damned, not of weakness, but of order—a place where the monsters bowed not to fear, but to power. Where chaos was mastered, and the strong bent the world to their will.
And at the heart of it, a dark throne carved from bone and obsidian.
His throne.
But he would need strength. Knowledge. Souls.
He turned toward the valley beyond, where a small human settlement lay, smoke rising from crude chimneys. His eyes narrowed. Something monstrous had already attacked it—the smell of blood, the still-burning barns. But that meant there were corpses.
And corpses meant soldiers.
He looked to his three skeletal thralls.
"Let's begin."