I chose to stay in the village longer than I had initially intended. There was something about this world—something subtle, hidden beneath the routines of its people. Days faded into weeks as I observed their lives from the shadows. They were quiet folk, humble in their habits. Carpenters worked with wood, farmers tended the soil, and everyone seemed content in their repetition. It should have been unremarkable… but it wasn't.
The farmers especially caught my attention. Despite working under the relentless sun, they didn't sweat. Their movements were precise, rhythmic, and strangely efficient. They acknowledged the heat, yes, but their bodies didn't seem burdened by it. It was unnatural, yet controlled—almost as if they had conditioned themselves to resist it.
As time passed, the villagers began to see me differently. The fear that once lingered in their eyes began to fade. They no longer ran, no longer stared in silence. But they weren't exactly friendly either. They kept their distance, watched from corners, whispered when I passed. I could feel it in their posture: wariness, not hatred. After all, in their eyes, I was still something… other.
Eventually, I asked them. I wanted to know how they could work so efficiently—how they resisted the natural strain of their labor. The answer I received stirred something ancient within me, something I hadn't felt since I first set foot in this realm.
They called it cultivation.
Through specific techniques—breathing, meditation, posture—they nurtured their life force. They could strengthen their bodies, extend their lives, sharpen their minds. It was a system. Structured. Ranked. With levels and stages and thresholds to cross.
I didn't care for the structure. Levels were meaningless to me. But the concept itself… that was fascinating.
The village elder explained that every citizen was given a level five breathing technique at birth. According to their standards, it was the lowest tier. Yet even that small gift had altered their biology, made them more than ordinary. Perhaps I had found a nation that truly valued its people. A rare thing in any world.
A few more weeks passed, and during that time, I began to notice something—or rather, someone. The child I had first encountered, the one who had given me a flower, remained in my periphery. There was something different about him. His presence resonated with the world around him in a way others did not. His connection to the energy of this place felt… natural.
So I taught him a spell.
Just a small one—a harmless flicker of dark magic. To their standards, it would be labeled "forbidden," perhaps even evil. But to me, it was no more dangerous than a candle's flame. It resembled a firework, and it only consumed a single second of life energy to cast. Given the breathing technique he practiced daily, I was confident he could handle it.
He was ecstatic. His eyes lit up, and before I could speak further, he embraced me. It caught me off guard. Even as a lich, I found myself raising a hand and gently patting the boy's head. The gesture was unplanned… instinctive.
In return, he shared something with me. Behind the lake, he said, there were strange plants—rare flowers used in cultivation alchemy. His voice trembled with excitement as he described them, his hands motioning wildly.
Naturally, I went to investigate.
The moment I stepped beyond the lake, I felt it. The air there pulsed with concentrated energy. The flowers he spoke of were real—vibrant, alive, and teeming with something more than just vitality. It was as if they had been designed not to sustain life… but to advance it.
I remained there for two weeks, studying the herbs. Each petal, each root carried properties I had never catalogued before. They interacted with the spirit, not the flesh. And they responded to intention. It was a rare kind of alchemy—one based not on elements, but will.
For the first time in a long while, I felt wonder.
Then I felt something else.
A ripple. A crack in the calm.Death.
It wasn't distant. It was sharp, immediate—rising from the village like smoke. My senses locked onto it, and I knew. Something was wrong.
I launched into the air, my flight spell tearing the silence as I raced back. The trees below became a blur, and as the village came into view, so did the aura. It was thick, suffocating. Familiar.
I descended into the village square.
Bodies.
Familiar faces lay motionless on the ground—twisted, still, eyes wide open in confusion or fear. People I had watched, studied, ignored. I felt no sorrow. No grief. Only recognition. Death had come.
Then I saw him.
The boy.
His small body rested in the dirt, limp and broken. He had not run. He had not hidden. He had simply… died.
I floated down slowly. My movements were calm, almost mechanical. I knelt beside him, reached out, and closed his eyes.
How pitiful.
But now… now you've given me a reason.
Without thought, without restraint, my aura surged. It exploded outward, flooding the entire village with raw death energy. The very air bent under its weight. And then it took form—a skull, massive and screaming, rising high above the rooftops.
"These mortals… they are the suffering of the innocent," I whispered, though it echoed like thunder. "Those who took their lives… and their children's… will pay."
My eyes glowed—wild, unrestrained.
For the first time in centuries,I let my wrath speak for me.