The frigid mist crept across my skin like fingers made of ice, seeping not just into my flesh but into my soul. A hollow chill took root in my chest, a suffocating sense of futility that wrapped itself around my lungs. It was as if the air itself whispered, "You've already lost."

  The Necromancer advanced slowly toward us. Wherever his feet touched, life withered—grass shriveled into ash, bark blackened and cracked, and trees groaned as their leaves fell dead to the ground. The soil beneath him turned dry and gray, stripped of all warmth. Decay clung to him like a cloak, trailing behind him, devouring everything in its path.

  And with every step… the dead rose.

  Skeletal wolves clawed their way out of the earth, snapping roots, and displacing stone. Dirt fell from their bones like sand through an hourglass. Their eyes burned with hollow green fire, their jaws fixed in eternal snarls. Dozens of them. Maybe more. They moved like broken puppets—twitching, crawling, hungry.

  The ground itself groaned beneath the weight of their arrival, as though the forest was mourning the very life being ripped from it.

  The necromancer lifted his hand and pulled back the hood that cloaked his face.

  He wasn’t a man.

  What stood before us was something caught in between—trapped between life and rot. Patches of flesh clung desperately to his bones, stretched taut like old parchment. His lips had receded, his mouth more bone than flesh, and his sunken eyes glowed with a sickly, unnatural green. He was fueled by something ancient, other than simple necromancy.

  And then he spoke.

  "Enlighten me, Curtis," he rasped, his voice like rust grinding on iron. "Is this young man... your son?"

  Curtis didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, his gaze locked on mine—unblinking, unreadable. But when he spoke, his voice was cold, razor-sharp.

  "Don't touch him," Curtis said. "If anyone's going to kill him... It's going to be me."

  The Necromancer let out a sinister laugh.

  "Oh, I don't want to kill him," he said, eyes flicking toward me with twisted hunger. "Quite the opposite. His life force... It's massive, untamed. It could sustain me for decades before his body finally breaks—and when it does, he'll make a perfect puppet."

  He gestured to Harold, the undead standing in front of them. "That little snack you gave me," he sneered, "is already running dry. I require an exchange. You know that. It was part of our deal."

  Curtis turned on the Necromancer, fury erupting from him like a storm. "I said he's off limits! Back. Off."

  But the necromancer didn't back away. Instead, a foul wind coiled around him—unnatural, choking the air with rot and cold. With a flick of his skeletal fingers, the wind obeyed. Derrick's body jerked upward, lifted like a marionette by invisible strings, hovering helplessly toward the source of the corruption.

  The necromancer's eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

  "Well, what do we have here?" he said, tilting his head. "A diluted spark of the Demon Wolf's essence... fascinating. Weak, but useful."

  I snapped. With a roar, I surged forward, claws outstretched, heart pounding—but before I could reach him, something slammed into me with the force of a boulder. I stumbled back and froze.

  It was Harold.

  His eyes were vacant, glowing a sickly green, his expression devoid of life. He stood there, blocking my path like a guardian of the damned.

  I couldn't move.

  "Harold..." I whispered.

  He growled low, bones shifting beneath rotting flesh. Fur burst from his arms and back as his form twisted again, reshaping into the monstrous undead wolf.

  Behind him, Derrick drifted closer to the necromancer's outstretched hand. I clenched my fists, trembling. Then, Curtis's voice cut through the rising panic like a blade.

  "What are you hesitating for?" he growled. "Set your feelings aside and strike him! That thing is not Harold anymore!"

  And I knew he was right. But my heart didn't care.

  I stood frozen in place, paralyzed by grief and memory, as Derrick's body hovered through the air. He crumpled to his knees before the necromancer, unconscious, unaware of the doom looming over him.

  The necromancer smiled.

  "This creature," he said, placing a hand over Derrick's head like a master over his prize, "will be my snack for the night. And since you refused to provide me with a more... substantial offering, I consider our little agreement officially dissolved."

  Splintered bones speared up beneath Curtis’s boots, coiling into a macabre lattice of fangs and rib arcs. The cage slammed shut almost instantly—-and Curtis’s eyes flared wide, first with raw panic, then with grim resolve. He hurled his shoulders against the ossuary bars, muscle, and magic sparking in tandem, a feral snarl tearing from his throat. Splinters raked his arms, blood blooming crimson against the bone, yet he kept pushing, teeth bared in outright defiance of the tomb that dared claim him.

  "No!" Curtis roared, slamming against the bars. "You bastard!"

  The necromancer turned his back on Curtis and knelt before Derrick. One skeletal finger extended, glowing faintly with green necrotic energy.

  "No—don't!" I yelled, but it was too late.

  Desmond pressed the finger to Derrick's forehead. A hiss filled the air like boiling flesh, and a glowing sigil seared itself into Derrick's skin. The lines twisted and pulsed before vanishing beneath the surface.

  In its place, a wound appeared—dark, unnatural, already beginning to spread across Derrick's body like poison. The same mark that is slowly eating Alexi away.

  "You broke our pact, Curtis," the necromancer said. "You promised me power. Life. Obedience. And instead... You gave me scraps. A walking corpse and sentimentality wrapped in fur."

  As he spoke, a sickly green mist began to rise from Derrick’s body. Slow, swirling tendrils of life essence pulled from his chest like breath stolen from his being. Desmond lifted his hand, fingers twitching, guiding the mist toward himself, savoring every drop like a predator enjoying the moment before the kill.

  "So now, I return you to your rightful place—behind bars. Caged. Powerless. Surrounded by the dead you failed to protect."

  The skeletal wolves tightened their circle around his prison, bone claws scraping against the earth as their hollow eyes glared at us. The bone cage around Curtis groaned, its jagged edges rising higher, sharper, growing in size with every second that passed.

  Inside, Curtis fought like a caged beast.

  He threw himself at the bars, his claws slashing, splintering through the brittle bone—only for it to knit itself back together as if mocking his strength.

  Again.

  And again.

  But the cage refused to break.

  Curtis's voice cracked, raw with fury and desperation.

  "You've already taken everything from me! My name, my family, and my soul! Don't you dare take my son too!"

  He gripped the bars, trembling with rage.

  "Do you hear me, Desmond!?" Curtis roared, his voice splitting the silence like thunder. "Don't lay a finger on him! I swear to every god still gasping for breath—I will rip every bone left in your rotting body if you try to take him away from me!"

  Desmond merely turned his head, unfazed, amused by the outburst.

  "I didn't take you for the sentimental type, Curtis," he said. "You know... for a time, I almost respected you. The way you commanded the remaining werewolves to storm the Ossuary? That ruthless efficiency, the way you sowed fear into their hearts—that was power. That was a leader forged on the blade's edge. Cold. Calculated."

  He raised his hand.

  Without another word, the green glow intensified. Harold's reanimated corpse convulsed violently as the last remnants of stolen life were ripped from it. The bones collapsed into a brittle heap, then disintegrated into dust.

  "That will do," Desmond whispered. Then, slowly, he turned to me and smiled.

  "My name is Desmond De'Amano," he said. "And you... You must be Curtis's boy. The resemblance it's unmistakable."

  He stepped closer, his presence a creeping shadow that threatened to drown the air itself.

  "I must say, I'm impressed. The life force radiating from you—it makes me drool." He licked his cracked lips. "There's power in you. Enough to keep me sustained for decades. I cannot let you run away, I hope you understand."

  He raised a hand again—not to strike, not to kill—but to offer.

  "So I'll ask nicely," Desmond said, almost mockingly polite. "Become my source. Willingly. And I'll let your dear daddy go. Are you willing to make a deal with me?"

  He glanced back at the bone cage tightening around Curtis.

  "A small price to pay... for mercy."

  Suddenly, a whisper cut through the noise, barely audible.

  "Move..."

  In an instant, the sky cracked open.

  A storm of elemental arrows rained down from the shadows—streaks of fire ignited the skeletal wolves in bursts of violent flame, while shards of ice crashed into others, freezing them mid-lunge. Bones shattered under the sudden assault, the tide of the undead broken in a blink.

  Mel dropped from above, landing in front of me. Her cloak billowed behind her as she slid to a halt, eyes fixed on mine with unwavering focus. Without a word, she took a healing potion from her belt and placed it in my hand.

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  "You'll need this," she said. "Heal Vantos. We're going to need him if you want to kill that monster. And I'm sorry about your friend, he doesn't deserve to die like that."

  "He's not dead yet. I need a distraction to reach Vantos. Let's hope the Grandmaster finds his way here soon. This guy is more powerful than anything I have encountered in Adams."

  Mel didn't wait for a signal. She reached behind her head, her fingers slipping into the air—like drawing from a space only she could see—and pulled an arrow crackling with raw, elemental energy. Lightning danced along its shaft, humming with violent promise.

  She knocked it to her bow and narrowed her eyes at Desmond, who now watched her with thinly veiled intrigue.

  Mel didn't flinch.

  "I'll create the distraction you need. Let's find out if this bastard can bleed."

  Desmond smirked. "My night keeps getting better and better—a human girl with enough life force to manipulate dimensional space. That's an intriguing ability and a dangerous one as well."

  He took a slow, hungry breath, like tasting her power in the air.

  "I can only imagine how your life force would feel coursing through me. Just thinking about it excites me."

  His name echoed in my mind, pulling at memories buried beneath adrenaline and chaos.

  Desmond...

  I'd heard it before—at Annie's house, in a quiet moment with Vantos. A warning, disguised as a story. If memory served me right, Desmond wasn't just some dark legend crawling out of the past.

  He was Vantos' apprentice, Annie's father.

  That changed everything.

  If anyone could unravel Desmond's power—understand what he'd become—it was Vantos. And with the Grandmaster missing, maybe gone for good... he was all we had left.

  I looked down at the healing potion in my hand. I have to get to him. No matter what it takes. I stepped forward, planting myself between Desmond and Mel, raising my voice.

  "It's me, the one you're after, right? Then stop wasting time. Forget about the rest—come after me!"

  Desmond tilted his head, expression curling into something between amusement and contempt.

  "Such recklessness," he said with a cold laugh. "Your kind is so predictable. The werewolf condition: impulsive, emotional, tragically bound to the illusion of loyalty."

  He stepped forward, his eyes glowing brighter.

  "You think of yourself as noble—but all I see is a rabid animal. Logic lost to instinct. Rage chained to flesh. It's why your kind makes the perfect corpses. Even in death, you can't let go of the anger fueling your barbaric instincts."

  Desmond dropped a handful of black shards at his feet, their jagged forms clinking against the dirt like cursed glass. The ground trembled.

  From the earth, more skeletal werewolves erupted—snarling, twitching, bones snapping into place as they rose. They surrounded us, forming a living barrier of death and decay, their hollow eyes fixed on us, their jaws creaking open in anticipation.

  Desmond spread his arms, basking in their presence.

  "My soldiers don't serve me," he said, "they cling to me. Your kind begs for purpose... even beyond the grave."

  And then—Curtis's voice tore through the moment, hoarse but burning with urgency.

  "Destroy his wand!"

  Desmond paused.

  "That's the source of his control!" Curtis shouted, eyes wild. "The wolves, the dead—everything! Without it, he's nothing but a rotting fraud!"

  Desmond's expression cracked—fury consuming his face like fire on dry kindling. The smile was gone. What remained was pure, seething hatred.

  "I have grown tired of your voice, Curtis!"

  With a sweeping motion of his hand, the ground responded.

  The bone cage trembled and then sank violently, dragging Curtis down with it. The jagged bars twisted and closed in around him, burying him deeper until only his face remained—his eyes glaring defiantly from beneath the surface, his mouth silenced.

  Desmond stepped closer, raising the wand slightly, its skulls humming with green light.

  "I'll let you watch," he hissed. "You'll witness as I turn your son into my source. And once I own his soul, I'll feed on the girl next."

  He turned his glowing eyes on me, the hunger in them no longer veiled.

  "Unless... you're ready to surrender now?"

  "Hey, jackass!" Mel shouted, her voice cutting through the tension like lightning. "Feed on this!"

  Mel released the arrow.

  It struck with explosive force, lightning cracking through the mist. The blast ignited a chain reaction. Branches splintered and rained from above, fires sparked around Desmond's position, and the skeletal wolves scattered, momentarily blinded and disoriented.

  By the time Desmond processed the chaos, I was already there, just one step from Vantos.

  I dropped to my knees, lifting his bloodied head into my hands and uncorking the vial. I poured the potion carefully past his lips. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then—his body jerked.

  Vantos's eyes shot open, glowing faintly from the effects of the potion. He took in a ragged breath and focused on me. A tired, pained smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

  "Thank you... Young master," he whispered. "For a moment there, I thought I wasn't going to make it out of this one."

  "We've got a bigger problem," I said, glancing back toward Desmond. The necromancer still stood tall amidst the smoke, one hand over Derrick, draining him slowly. "He's feeding off Derrick—and he's got my father buried alive. I need your help to stop him."

  Vantos grimaced, trying to sit up, pain etched deep in his face.

  "Well... I'm glad your daddy got a taste of his own damn medicine," he said, wincing. "He dropped me with a sucker punch. Didn't even see it coming. One second I was casting—next thing I knew, I was kissing dirt. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

  "To be fair… he had the chance to finish me off. But he didn’t. Not sure if that was guilt, mercy… or something else."

  His gaze drifted past me and froze.

  His eyes widened. The color drained from his face.

  "Desmond…?"

  Vantos slowly pushed himself to his feet, staring across the battlefield. "This… this can’t be."

  He took a shaky step forward, like seeing a ghost.

  "He died. He died in my hands. I—I went to his funeral. I buried him. There’s no way he could’ve survived that night."

  Suddenly, a dense, rotting mist erupted from beneath Desmond's feet, crawling outward like a living shadow. It spread fast, silently inching its way towards Mel.

  Mel instinctively took a step back, already drawing another arrow from her Endless Quiver. But this one was... different. The moment it touched her fingers, a soft white glow radiated from the shaft. It pulsed gently in her grip—soothing, calm, unlike the raw aggression of her usual shots.

  The light reflected in her eyes, distracting her.

  "Mel!" I shouted.

  She didn't respond.

  Beneath her feet, the mist had begun to coil, swirling like a vortex, leeching the life from her with each breath. Her skin paled, and her stance faltered. Her knees buckled.

  "It's a shame," Desmond murmured, watching her strength fade away. "That I must resort to such wasteful tactics just to manage my meals. But... sometimes, waste is necessary."

  Mel collapsed to one knee, the bright arrow flickering dimly in her trembling hand as the mist began to wrap around her like a serpent.

  "Have you identified the catalyst for his power?" Vantos asked.

  "The wand," I said. "Curtis said it anchors his control over the undead."

  "Then it has to be destroyed," Vantos growled. "It's the only way to leave him vulnerable."

  He reached into his robes and pulled a deep blue Ethran crystal. Without hesitation, he slammed it into the ground. Light pulsed from it as he traced a sigil mid-air. The crystal flared, consumed by the spell.

  "Lutia, your master is in need."

  A shimmer tore through the air, and a glowing portal blossomed open in front of us. From its light stepped a familiar form—elegant and dangerous. Lutia, one of Vantos's familiar.

  She dipped her head slightly. "You call, Master?"

  "I need your help," Vantos said. "Create a portal. Transport the Demon Wolf buried on the ground to this location."

  Lutia tilted her head, her glowing eyes narrowing slightly.

  "You understand that to complete this task... I must come into direct contact with him. The skeletal puppets will impede my approach."

  Vantos turned to me, eyes serious despite the pain still etched across his face.

  "This is where you come in, young master," he said. "We need to hit Desmond—hard—if we want to free your father from that bone prison. Lutia will retrieve Mel first, then she'll go after Curtis. Let's just hope your old man still has enough fight left in him to help."

  Without hesitation, I surged forward.

  Claws extended, I tore into the skeletal wolves, scattering bone and dust with every strike. They came at me in waves—clacking jaws and brittle limbs—but I didn't stop. For every one I cut down, two more seemed to rise from the cursed soil.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Lutia phase through the mist. She reached Mel just as the dark energy finished coiling around her legs. Lutia grabbed her by the arm, light flaring from her touch, and the two vanished in a blink—reappearing beside Vantos in a burst of dark energy. Mel collapsed into his arms, breathing weakly but alive.

  In front of me, a black mist rose from the necromancer like smoke from a cursed pyre. Desmond pulled up his hood, hiding his face once again. The sigils on the edge of the seams of his robe began to crackle with energy, irradiating an unnatural mist.

  "You leave me no choice," Desmond said. "From this point on, words are meaningless. I will break you. I’ll watch you kneel before me—not with honor, but in agony. And as you fall, I’ll drain every last drop of your life force... until there’s nothing left to give."

  From beneath his robes, he drew a large black crystal pulsing with unnatural energy. He tossed it to the ground. The moment it touched the soil, the earth convulsed. Bones rattled beneath the surface.

  "Emerge... Dorian Reinhart," Desmond said. "Your master demands it!"

  The black crystal shattered.

  A shockwave of dark energy burst outward, forcing the air to be still. The ground split wide open, and from its depths, something monstrous began to rise—slowly, as if the earth itself resisted releasing what had been buried within.

  First came the claws—long, jagged, and soaked in dried, ancient blood. Then came the fur—thick, matted, and torn with battle scars. Every inch of its body told the story of violence and torment. As the creature rose further, glowing marks spread across its corpse—a twisted, corrupt echo of a Demon Wolf.

  Then... the eyes opened.

  Sickly green light poured from them—soulless, venomous, and brimming with rage. Not the rage of a living being... but the rage of something torn from death, enslaved by force. It let out a thunderous roar that shook the forest and echoed through bone and marrow. A sound full of fury, pain... and loss.

  And then it stood in front of Desmond, like a guardian protecting its master. The name dropped into my mind like a stone falling into a still lake:

  Dorian Reinhart.

  My pulse froze.

  Another Reinhart.

  Twisted. Violated. Risen from the grave like a weapon—and now standing, unmoving, under Desmond's control.

  The moment the undead Demon Wolf stepped forward, the air around me turned suffocating. Its presence was overwhelming—its body radiated raw, uncontrollable dark energy that pulsed in violent waves. I could feel it deep in my bones. A corrupt echo of something once noble... now desecrated.

  My stomach twisted. I froze, locked in place by the presence of a powerful undead Demon Wolf standing across from us. Then, a voice broke the silence surrounding me.

  "We have to sever the connection Desmond has with your servant," Curtis said, now standing at my side—his eyes locked on the monstrosity with a look I hadn't seen before. Not anger. Not pride. But sorrow. "It's the only way to prevent him from raising more corpses."

  One by one, Vantos, Lutia, and Mel stepped in beside us. There were no words—just a silent, mutual understanding. This was no longer just a battle.

  It was personal.

  "I hate fighting," Lutia said, transforming into her natural form, a void lynx.

  Vantos cast a sidelong glance at Curtis, his tone dry as ever despite the chaos around them.

  "So... is daddy the enemy of my enemy, or just another headache I have to tolerate today?" he said, gesturing vaguely. "Because, frankly, I don't have the life force—or the patience—to fight two enemies at once."

  He looked down at himself and sighed dramatically.

  "And just look at my robe. Burned. Torn. Bloodstained. Do you have any idea how expensive enchanted silk is?"

  Curtis turned toward him, then extended his hand.

  "I tried to avoid this confrontation by forcing my hand," he said. "Please accept my apologies. Hurting you was never my intent."

  Vantos hesitated, then grasped his hand firmly.

  "Apology accepted," he said with a smirk. "But next time you try to sucker-punch me, I'll let Morgoth feast on you."

  Curtis gave a brief smile. "Deal."

  At that moment, I felt it.

  A dark energy surge flooded the undead Demon Wolf—twisting, strengthening, and awakening it further. The corruption pulsed through its massive frame, causing its glowing marks to flare violently. It threw its head back and unleashed a feral howl that shook the air around us.

  Then it moved.

  Fast.

  "Here he comes!" I shouted.

  But by the time the words left my mouth, the monstrosity was already behind Mel.

  "Mel—watch out!"

  The creature's massive claws slashed through the air, aimed to cleave her in half—but Lutia appeared in a flicker of light, grabbing Mel and teleporting her out of the strike's path at the last possible second.

  The claws missed by inches, carving deep into the earth.

  Dorian let out another bone-rattling howl—one of fury denied—then turned, eyes blazing green, and charged again.

  This time, his target was Vantos.

  And there was no hesitation in his stride.

  "Step aside, little man," Curtis said, stepping between Vantos and the charging beast. "This monstrosity is mine to deal with. He's my brother, after all."

  He cast a glance over his shoulder, directly at me.

  "Son, it’s up to you and your friends now. This necromancer siphons life force through the sigil carved into his forehead. Break it, and your servant might still be saved."

  His voice grew colder, edged with anger and sorrow.

  "As for Desmond… do what you must. He’s already taken most of my pack." A pause. "I trust you’ll deliver the final blow."

  Then Curtis turned back.

  The undead Demon Wolf came to a halt at the sight of Curtis. It stood before him—massive, scarred, radiating waves of corrupted power. A once-proud warrior reduced to a puppet of death. But Curtis didn’t flinch; he stepped forward.

  "Brother…" he said, "it hurts. To see you like this. To see your body twisted—used—by a coward too weak to earn his own strength."

  At his words, the markings along Dorian’s rotting flesh flickered—faint, unsteady. Like an ember struggling to ignite. Something inside him... responded.

  Curtis’s own Demon Wolf sigils flared to life, casting streaks of white-hot light across his arms and chest. Each word, each memory stoked the fire building inside him. No more cold reserve. No more walls.

  Just raw, unfiltered resolve.

  "I won’t let him puppeteer your soul any longer," Curtis growled, his voice rising with power. "Even if it kills me!"

  He took one final step forward—then lunged toward the monster that had once been his brother.