Within Faraun’s mind, doubt slithered like a serpent coiling tight around

  his thoughts. This warrior—whoever he was—should have been dead by now.

  Faraun’s magic was precise, refined, honed through years of study and mastery

  over the necromantic arts. Each spell had been aimed with meticulous intent,

  yet every attack had been evaded, each deathblow narrowly avoided as if fate

  itself conspired against him.

  His shield shuddered under the relentless assault of the warrior’s spear. It

  was a crude weapon compared to Faraun’s repertoire of spells, yet somehow, it

  had begun to wear him down. Each impact sent fractures rippling through the

  sickly green barrier that surrounded him, thinning its integrity with every

  successive strike. The spear itself was mundane, yet it was wielded with such

  raw determination that it had become a force of disruption, a hammer battering

  against the walls of his supremacy.

  Another crack lanced through the dome, spreading like a spiderweb of

  weakness. Faraun exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching in irritation. He had

  assumed this fight would be over swiftly. A handful of spells, a decisive blow,

  and he would remain untouchable—his creations finishing the work while he

  remained an untouchable specter orchestrating the battlefield. Instead, this

  man had forced him into something resembling effort.

  Unacceptable.

  The necromancer’s eyes flared with new resolve. If the warrior could not be

  struck down by simple means, then Faraun would abandon subtlety. It was time to

  call upon something greater, something more absolute. The Necromancers Last

  Resort as many called it. The edges of his lips curled, but this was no longer

  a smirk—it was a baring of teeth, an animal’s snarl.

  He extended his hand outward, palm upturned, fingers stretching as he

  reached deep into the wellspring of his magic. A hush fell upon the

  battlefield, a momentary stillness that defied the chaos raging around him. The

  very air recoiled, the presence of something profane pressing into reality like

  a hand forcing its way through silk.

  “Enough of this.”

  The words were not shouted, nor whispered—they were simply spoken, but with

  such weight that they seemed to reverberate within the bones of all who heard

  them.

  A sigil of dark origin ignited beneath Faraun’s feet, an ancient rune

  pulsing with putrid light. The ground trembled as if the earth itself was

  repulsed by what he was about to do. The necromancer’s breathing slowed,

  controlled, deliberate. He had been saving this power, not out of reluctance,

  but out of the certainty that he would not need it. Now, he accepted the truth.

  If these creatures would not kneel, then they would bear witness to his

  ascension.

  The sickly green light surrounding him twisted, coalescing into something

  more corporeal, tendrils of necrotic energy burrowing into his own flesh. He

  welcomed it.

  His body convulsed as the spell took hold. The change was not gradual—it was

  violent, merciless. His skin blackened and cracked as the energies of death

  surged through him, reducing flesh to something tougher, more unyielding. His

  veins, once conduits for mortal blood, filled with a thick ichor that pulsed

  with corrupted vitality.

  The transformation was not gradual. It was a violent upheaval of flesh,

  spirit, and necrotic power. Faraun’s body convulsed as the ritual took hold,

  his veins pulsing with raw energy, his very essence tearing away from

  mortality. The lines of his once-pristine elven form warped as something far

  greater—and far more monstrous—forced its way into being.

  A piercing wail escaped his lips, though it was not entirely his own. It was

  the cry of countless souls woven into the dark magic, their suffering fueling

  the grotesque rebirth. His flesh turned semi-translucent, ectoplasmic tendrils

  lashing out as his bones cracked and realigned. The elegant limbs of an arcane

  elf contorted into something wholly inhuman. His fingers elongated into jagged

  talons, his left arm swelling grotesquely as the bones shattered and reformed

  into a massive, scythe-like claw, its edges gleaming with a sickly, spectral

  light.

  His face distorted, his once-handsome elven features stretching into

  something alien and predatory. His eyes—once sharp and cold—became luminous

  orbs of pale green fire, burning with unnatural intelligence. A pair of curved

  horns, black as night and etched with glowing runes, erupted from his skull,

  arcing backward like the crown of a fiend.

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  From his back, a ghostly aura pulsed, the air around him thick with decay

  and malevolence. The ground blackened beneath him, the very earth recoiling

  from his presence. The desecration was no longer just an effect of his

  spellcasting—it emanated from him now, a constant, corrupting force.

  He was no longer a mere elf. He was something far more.

  Jack gritted his teeth as he drove his spear against the necrotic barrier

  once more. The impact sent another cascade of green sparks flying as the

  translucent dome flickered, its surface rippling under the force of his

  relentless assault. It was weakening. He could feel it. Each strike sent a

  jarring tremor up his arms, but he ignored the pain. He had no time for pain.

  The battle raged behind him. He could hear the guttural moans of the Charnel

  Colossus, the crackle of magic Lyla’s spells tore into its rotting mass, the

  snarling fury of the wolves as they weaved through the battlefield. Cael fought

  as well, his poisoned dagger carving pieces away from the abomination’s

  shifting form. But none of that mattered if he didn’t bring down this barrier

  and put an end to the elf.

  Jack let out a slow breath. He had no more time to waste. The sensation

  burned deep within his chest, the fire in his blood that he’d long since come

  to recognize. The rage that wasn’t just his own. He reached for it. Let it take

  hold.

  His muscles tightened. His pulse thundered in his ears. The world around him

  sharpened, every detail cutting into his senses with unbearable clarity.

  Soulrage coursed through him like a living thing, feeding strength into his

  limbs, turning pain into fuel, exhaustion into fire.

  With a roar, he struck again. This time, the spear did not simply glance

  off—the necrotic barrier bent under the force of the blow, cracks of sickly

  green light splintering outward. Another strike. More fractures. It was going

  to break. One more. Just one more—

  Then the air turned to ice.

  The necromancer’s laughter slithered through the space between them, quiet

  at first, then building, growing, until it was a chorus of voices, each one

  layered atop the next in a twisted harmony of the dead.

  Jack froze. He had felt many things in battle—fear, rage, determination. But

  this was different. The air itself recoiled as a force older than words

  unfurled around him.

  The first change was the light. The barrier, once flickering and unstable,

  suddenly pulsed, not with weakness, but with power. Green light surged outward,

  not breaking, but consuming, seeping into the elf’s flesh like ink bleeding

  into water. His frame trembled, his features twisting—not with pain, but with

  something else. Ecstasy.

  Bones snapped. Flesh swelled. His robes shredded, and something new

  emerged—a towering horror of ectoplasmic mass and curling horns, its shape both

  solid and spectral, shifting between worlds with every breath. One arm remained

  vaguely humanoid, but the other had become something else entirely—a

  scythe-like claw, massive and wickedly curved, pulsing with malevolent energy.

  Jack barely had time to react before the thing that had once been an elf

  turned glowing, spectral eyes upon him.

  With a single thought, Faraun lifted from the ground, his form hovering with

  unnatural grace. The air trembled as the radius of his aura expanded, the

  battlefield darkening as though the stars themselves recoiled from his

  presence. His new form was vast, towering over his former self, standing at

  least ten feet tall, his great claw flexing with terrible purpose. The limb was

  a weapon in itself, its structure reinforced by necrotic energy, made to tear

  through armor and bone alike.

  The warrior—his opponent—staggered back, his spear still gripped tightly in

  his hands. His breath was steady, but there was no mistaking the shift in his

  stance. This was not the enemy he had been fighting mere moments ago.

  Faraun spoke and his voice was low and gravelly.

  “You persist. Admirable, but futile.”

  With a flick of his clawed hand, he called forth dark magics. The air

  shimmered with malevolent energy as a wave of corruptive force spread outward.

  The bodies that had been hacked off the Colossus and strewn across the

  battlefield trembled, animated by his will. Some burst into motion, skeletal

  fingers twitching as they clawed toward the living. Others withered instantly,

  their essence absorbed into his being, strengthening the dark might that now

  fueled him.

  Then, without warning, he struck.

  A blur of motion—unnatural, impossible. One moment, he was hovering above

  the ground, his presence an immovable dread. The next, he had vanished,

  reappearing in a flicker of sickly green light, directly in front of the

  warrior.

  The great claw came down in a sweeping arc, aimed to cleave the warrior in

  two. The ground itself shuddered beneath the sheer force of the strike. The

  warrior barely managed to twist away, rolling to the side as the claw carved

  into the dirt, leaving a deep, smoking trench where he had stood moments

  before.

  But the transformed necromancer did not relent. His newfound abilities carried

  him forward once more, a flicker of necrotic light marking his path. He

  appeared behind the warrior in an instant, his second claw lashing out. This

  time, the strike landed, catching the warrior’s side and sending him skidding

  across the battlefield. The impact was punishing, even though his enemy had

  twisted at the last moment to make it a glancing blow.

  Still, he did not fall.

  The former elf regarded him for a long moment. Even now, this warrior stood,

  spear gripped tightly, determination burning in his eyes. Foolish. Admirable.

  “Let us see how long that fire lasts,” he murmured, raising his claw once

  more.