Chapter 1: The White Flight
The world swam into focus around Leornars, a dizzying swirl of grey and pain. His head throbbed, each beat a dull, relentless drum against his skull, a grim reminder of… something he couldn't quite grasp. A persistent haze clung to his memory, but the overriding sensation was one of urgent, desperate departure. He blinked, the soft fabric of Stacian's cloak brushing against his cheek, then the quiet rise and fall of her chest as he realized his head had been resting on her lap. She was fast asleep, utterly peaceful. A fleeting flicker of something akin to relief, or perhaps just a momentary calm, passed through him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the familiar surge of irritation and the gnawing sensation of time slipping away.
He pushed himself up, a grunt escaping his lips. "I don't know what's going on and I don't want to know," he muttered, his voice raspy. "But we need to hurry. We're still in the damned kingdom of Durmount." The very name tasted like ash. Every shadowed alley, every crumbling stone of this place seemed to hum with an insidious energy he desperately wanted to leave behind. "We need to be in Lurtra by three days' trip. It'll be difficult, but we'll try." A scoff, sharp and dismissive, punctuated his words.
With a thought, a ripple disturbed the air beside him, and Bellian materialized from the shadows. The loyal knight, gauntlets and armor dark as midnight, stood silently awaiting orders. "Carry her," Leornars commanded, his voice firm. Bellian moved with surprising gentleness for such a formidable construct, carefully lifting the sleeping Stacian onto his back.
Hours stretched into an eternity. The road was little more than a forgotten dirt path, winding through barren, desolate hills that offered no cover and little hope. The sun, a relentless, judgmental eye in the pale sky, beat down on them. Each step was a forced effort, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on dry earth and the faint, mournful rustle of withered weeds. Leornars felt the familiar churn of impatience in his gut. They were making pitiful progress.
He spat, the dry earth absorbing the small protest. "This will get us nowhere," he rasped, the words leaving his lips like shards of ice. His gaze, usually sharp and discerning, swept across the desolate landscape, searching for… something. Then he saw it. A dark speck against the distant cliffs, too large to be a common bird of prey, too powerful for anything else. A wyvern. Not just any wyvern, but a wild one, judging by its territorial circling. A cold, calculating gleam entered Leornars's eyes. Speed was paramount, and a wyvern, if he could just… acquire it, would grant them that.
"Uh huh!" A small, almost predatory smile touched his lips.
He cast a glance back at Stacian, who was now fully awake, a flicker of concern in her gentle eyes. "Stay here with Bellian," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. Bellian, silent and stoic as ever, positioned himself protectively in front of her. Leornars didn't wait for a response. He rushed towards the distant cliff, the small knife clutched in his hand feeling both insignificant and vital.
Ahead, a shadowy form materialized – another of his skeletal knights, summoned with a flicker of his thought. The knight moved with surprising agility, reaching the sheer face of the cliff. Leornars didn't hesitate. With a grunt, the knight's gauntleted hand clamped around his waist, then, with controlled force, threw him higher up the treacherous rock face. He scrabbled for purchase, fingers clawing at the rough stone, the gritty sensation of loose rock beneath his nails. He pulled himself up, muscles screaming, his lungs burning with each desperate breath.
He risked a glance down. The world below had shrunk, becoming a dizzying expanse of jagged rocks and distant scrubland. "Over two hundred feet up, huh," he murmured, the words lost to the wind. A morbid chuckle escaped him. Just another Tuesday in a world determined to kill him.
He finally reached the cave mouth, collapsing momentarily, gasping. A deafening, piercing shriek tore through the air, shaking the very stones around him. The wyvern! Its massive head, scales like ancient leather, lunged from the darkness, eyes burning with primeval rage. Leornars reacted purely on instinct. He plunged the knife into the soft underside of its neck, feeling the sickening resistance of flesh, the hot gush of blood. The wyvern roared again, a sound of agony and fury, its thrashing sending them both tumbling, a chaotic blur of wings and limbs, over the edge of the cliff.
Mid-fall, a desperate, chilling energy surged through Leornars's arm. "Touch of Decay!" he snarled, his voice a raw whisper against the wind. His fingers, still locked onto the wyvern's thick neck, began to glow with a faint, sickly green light. He felt the life draining from the beast, its powerful muscles seizing, its scales crumbling to dust beneath his touch. The wyvern's shriek became a gurgle, its massive wings stiffening, then dissolving into a fine powder. It was dying even before it hit the ground, its powerful form reduced to a fragile husk. But before it could completely disintegrate, Leornars performed another, more complex act.
With a surge of dark mana, he awakened it. Not as a living creature, but as a servant of death. The wyvern's form, decaying just moments before, solidified, its eyes now glowing with an eerie, phosphorescent light. Its wings, once tattered, became taut and leathery once more, only now they bore the subtle shimmer of shadow. Instead of a desperate plunge, they soared. The sudden lift, the rush of air against his face, was exhilarating.
He landed with a soft thud, the reanimated wyvern obediently settling beneath him. His body screamed in protest. Every muscle ached, his lungs burned, and the adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a profound exhaustion. He sank to the ground, head in hands, gulping down air as if it were his last.
"That was just genuine luck," he rasped, the words tasting like dust. He stared at his trembling hands. "One misstep, one hesitation, and I would have been a stain on those rocks. In a cursed world like this, you can't rely on luck. Ever."
He looked up, and his gaze met Stacian's. She and Bellian were approaching, her expression a mix of relief and worry. "You're awake," he stated, though it was more of a question. She simply nodded, her eyes soft, dark pools of quiet understanding. He knew. He could feel the residual weakness emanating from her. She must have spent her mana trying to heal me, then passed out herself. He clenched his jaw. Another debt he preferred not to owe.
"Climb on," he ordered, gesturing to the newly acquired undead wyvern. "We need to get the hell out of Durmount." Bellian, ever the silent guardian, shimmered and sank into the shadows, joining the other nameless knight. With a powerful beat of its new, ghostly wings, the wyvern lifted off, carrying Leornars and Stacian towards the setting sun, leaving the hated kingdom of Durmount behind them.
Meanwhile, back in Durmount, a new magic circle hummed to life within the cold grandeur of the royal palace. The entire Durmount royal family was present, their faces etched with a mix of anticipation and avarice. The circle rotated slowly, its intricate runes glowing brighter and brighter with a blinding white light. Then, with a sudden flash that momentarily engulfed the room, several people materialized within its confines.
"Where are we?" a bewildered voice asked, confusion thick in the air.
The royal family exchanged smug, knowing smirks.
There were nine people summoned in total: five teenage boys and four teenage girls, all looking disoriented and out of place. One of them, a girl with bright, inquisitive eyes, tentatively touched the glowing circle, then looked directly at the regal figure of Princess Sal Rose.
"What's your name?" Princess Sal Rose inquired, her voice smooth as silk.
"My name? I'm Sahara, Sahara Kurnov," the girl replied, her voice still laced with lingering confusion. The newly summoned, the 'Chosen,' were then swiftly ushered away to be assessed.
High above the land, cutting through the crisp air, the undead wyvern flew. "At this speed, we should be in Lurtra by tomorrow afternoon," Stacian said, her voice a calm murmur against the wind. She sat by the wyvern's neck, guiding it, while Leornars reclined casually on its broad back.
"Hmmmm… that's not bad, actually," he mused, opening his worn leather bag. "My food supplies are even almost empty by now." Inside, several chunks of dried meat and a few wizened vegetables rattled together. He began to organize them, a habit of efficiency.
"I should start by accessing the useful skills I possess," he said, more to himself than to Stacian. "There's the Touch of Decay… then Bubble. Sounds boring, I'll try it out later. There's Heartless… we saw how that is. It's capable of enhancing my speed and strength by roughly four times. I normally run up to thirty-eight kilometers per hour, so multiplied by four, I'm at a staggering one hundred and fifty-four… hmm. My job class is Necromancer, Summoner, Mage, and Spellbound. Not too shabby." He finished, a confident smirk playing on his lips.
"Yes, not shabby at all," Stacian added, a hint of amusement in her tone.
"You're supposed to steer this dead wyvern, not praise me, but you are right," he retorted, though he didn't try to hide his satisfaction. They flew on, a silent sentinel passing over endless trees. Then, from below, a scream.
Leornars glanced down. A number of men surrounded a carriage, their crude weapons glinting in the afternoon light. Guards fought some of them, a chaotic melee unfolding beneath the canopy.
"Interesting," Leornars said coldly. He unsummoned the wyvern, its form dissolving back into the shadow from which it came. Both he and Stacian descended silently, landing amidst the chaos of the battle.
"Huh? Where'd they come from?" one bandit stammered, startled by their sudden appearance.
Leornars's gaze swept over the guards. They all had pointed ears. He remembered Shuelt, another victim of Durmount's machinations. "Elves, huh." His eyes narrowed, a cold fury bubbling beneath his composed exterior. "Stacian, if you've got any mana left, heal any wounded guards. Leave these pigs to me." His voice was devoid of emotion, a chilling command.
She nodded, already moving towards the injured, her presence a soft, healing aura. Leornars walked calmly towards the carriage, then, with an easy leap, jumped onto its roof, settling into a dominant, almost regal pose.
"Don't get cocky, brat!" a burly bandit shouted, brandishing his axe. A guard, still standing bravely at the carriage door, watched Leornars with a mixture of confusion and awe.
Leornars let out a slow, white plume of steam from his mouth, a visible manifestation of his power. "Awaken," he said coldly, confidently, his voice echoing with an unnatural resonance. The entire area was engulfed in a swirling black fog, thick and oppressive. One hundred undead knights rose from the earth, cladded in ancient, dark armor, their empty eye sockets glowing with malevolent intent.
"Kill them all," he added, his voice colder than ice.
Bellian, alongside the newly summoned skeletal knights, moved with ruthless efficiency. The massacre was swift and brutal. The seven bewildered guards watched in horror as blood splattered, limbs flew, and the bandits were systematically, mercilessly cut down.
After the fight, Leornars descended from the carriage, walking among the freshly fallen corpses. "Awaken from the dead and serve me," he intoned, his voice resonating with dark power.
The corpses began to twitch, then contort. Bone shifted, torn flesh reformed, and they rose, now clad in their own black armors, their eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the wyvern. He smirked. Stacian, having healed the injured guards, returned to his side, her expression unreadable.
"Let's go," Leornars said, preparing to summon the wyvern once more. The remaining guards, still reeling from the horrific display, stared at him, their faces pale with shock.
Just then, the carriage door opened. A blonde elf girl, exquisitely dressed, emerged. "No, Lady Telian, you are not supposed to come out!" one of the guards exclaimed, rushing forward.
"It's alright," she said calmly, her voice melodious. "I needed to express my gratitude to our saviors."
Leornars turned to her, his thoughts already calculating. I guess they attacked so to capture her, rob what they needed, and sell her off.
"If it's a close place you are heading to, you may ride with me in the carriage," she offered, her gaze direct.
Leornars looked from the wyvern, which would be unsummoned anyway, to the horse-drawn carriage. "Pa–" he started to refuse, but then he saw Stacian looking at the elf girl with an almost childlike interest, a rare expression on her usually stoic face.
"Fine," he said, a bored resignation in his tone. He returned the spectral wyvern to his shadow. The guards stared at him, whispering amongst themselves, a single, unspoken question echoing between them:
What monster is he?