Ile Mortis held the blackened shard in his skeletal grasp, its sickly green glow casting eerie shadows upon the stone chamber. The silence that followed his theft of the artifact was deafening. The whispers had ceased, the torches burned in unnatural stillness, and the air hung heavy with anticipation. He could feel the weight of the relic, not in mass, but in presence. It pulsed with something alive, something that recognized him, that judged him.

  A test, indeed.

  He had passed. But at what cost?

  The ground beneath him trembled. Dust and small pebbles rained from the high ceiling as the tomb itself seemed to awaken from its slumber. A deep, guttural groan echoed through the walls. Ile had felt such disturbances before—wards unraveling, barriers collapsing, something long contained finally set free.

  The sarcophagus before him shook violently. The skeletal figure within, once unmoving, now twitched, its bony fingers tightening around empty air where the shard had once rested. A sharp crack split through the chamber as its jaw unhinged, an unearthly moan rising from its empty throat.

  "You… have… stolen…"

  The voice did not echo, nor did it truly sound. It was felt, reverberating within Ile’s hollow chest, rattling his ancient bones.

  "I have claimed what was left to rot," Ile answered, his grip firm on the shard. "You were sealed away, buried in fear. Power wasted is power undeserved."

  A deep chuckle. Bitter. Cold.

  "Then take it. Take it, and know suffering. Know hunger. Know the price of what you wield."

  The figure lurched upright with unnatural speed, dust and fragments of ancient cloth scattering into the air. Its eye sockets flared with the same green light that pulsed within the shard. The torches flickered wildly, casting writhing shadows along the chamber walls. The very air grew thick with the weight of undeath, of something ancient and vengeful.

  Ile stepped back, his cursed blade pulsing with recognition, its own dark hunger stirring in response. He did not fear this entity, nor did he intend to retreat. He had come seeking strength, and strength he would take.

  "Your hunger means nothing to me," Ile declared, his voice cutting through the growing chaos. "I am already dead. I have been for centuries. Whatever curse you think to bestow upon me—"

  The skeletal figure lunged, its speed defying its decayed state. A clawed hand shot toward Ile’s ribcage, seeking to rip out something that no longer existed. But the Mad King was faster. He twisted, sidestepping the attack, his own blade flashing in a downward arc. The cursed sword met bone, slicing through with ease, severing an arm at the elbow.

  A shriek filled the chamber, the very stones trembling with its force. The severed limb twitched on the ground, fingers still clawing at the air. But the undead creature did not falter. It pressed forward, lunging once more, heedless of its missing limb. Its hunger, its rage, was unrelenting.

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  Ile grinned.

  "Good," he mused. "A fight, then."

  He did not wait for the next strike. He moved first, his blade a streak of crimson-black against the sickly glow of the tomb. The creature met his attack with its remaining arm, bony fingers closing around the cursed steel. The moment they made contact, a sickening hiss filled the air. Smoke curled from the wound, the cursed magic of the blade searing through the undead flesh.

  Still, it did not stop.

  Its other hand shot forward, grasping at Ile’s skull, fingers wrapping around the exposed bone. The green light in its eyes flared, and for a brief moment, Ile saw—

  —Endless battle. Kingdoms fallen. Betrayal and blood. A soul, torn apart and reforged in agony—

  He staggered. A feeling unfamiliar to him. Disorientation. His grip on the sword loosened.

  The creature took its chance.

  It wrenched the shard from his grasp, its stolen power returning to its original owner. The chamber erupted in an explosion of green fire, the force sending Ile skidding backward. Dust and debris filled the air, the torches flickering violently. The figure stood tall upon the dais, its form shifting, growing. The fragments of its decayed flesh mended, its bones strengthening. Armor, blackened with age and battle, materialized upon its frame. A crown, cracked and rusted, settled atop its skull.

  A king.

  A forgotten monarch, reborn in death.

  Ile steadied himself, watching as his opponent examined its restored form. There was no gratitude in its gaze. Only hunger. Only the desire for more.

  The cursed blade at his side pulsed again, its own voice silent but understood. It wanted this fight. It wanted the feast that would come with victory.

  Ile chuckled.

  "You should have stayed dead."

  The undead king snarled, brandishing a spectral weapon of its own—a massive greatsword, its edge wreathed in the same green fire that burned in its eyes.

  "So should you."

  The tomb trembled as the two clashed, steel meeting steel, death against death. Ile moved with the experience of centuries, his strikes precise, his footwork flawless. But his opponent was no less skilled. Every attack was met, every feint countered. This was not a mindless corpse. This was a warrior who had once ruled, who had conquered, who had been powerful enough to be sealed away in fear.

  But Ile Mortis was not merely a warrior. He was the Mad King. He had ruled through terror, through cunning, through strength. And he would not be bested by a relic of the past.

  He let the cursed blade guide him, its will merging with his own. He abandoned defense, giving in to the relentless offense that the sword demanded. His attacks became wilder, more unpredictable. The undead king faltered, its measured strikes failing to anticipate the chaotic movements of its opponent.

  A mistake.

  Ile seized the opening. He ducked low, driving his sword upward. The cursed steel plunged through the king’s ribs, piercing where a heart had once beaten. The green fire in its eyes flickered. The spectral greatsword wavered.

  Ile twisted the blade.

  A final, shuddering gasp escaped the undead king as the green flames consuming its form guttered and died. Its body crumbled, armor turning to dust, bones collapsing into a heap. The shard, now darkened and lifeless, clattered to the stone floor.

  Silence returned.

  Ile stood over the remains, breathing despite the lack of need. He reached down, picking up the shard once more. It was still powerful, though diminished. And now, it was his.

  He sheathed his blade, stepping over the remains of the forgotten king. He had taken what he came for. The test had been passed. The tomb had given up its secret.

  Now, it was time to see what this power could truly do.

  With a final glance at the shattered remains of his foe, Ile Mortis turned and walked into the darkness, the shard pulsing faintly in his grasp.

  The price of power had been paid.

  And he had no regrets.