Death Healer

Wrapped in a cloak that shielded her from the biting cold, Lily trudged through the mountains. Her breaths emerged as puffs of mist that danced away into the frosty air, and her feet sunk into the knee–deep snow with every step she took. She was alone, save for the vast expanse of white that stretched endlessly before her. The snow–covered path beneath her was barely visible, a thin line wavering uncertainly through the winter landscape.

She had witnessed snowfall at the monastery, where it lay soft and pristine on the stone courtyards. But here, it was different—it was wild and untamed, a smothering, suffocating blanket. The quiet was profound, broken only by the crunch of her boots and the distant calls of birds that dared to brave the chill.

Lily's cloak, a new addition to her attire, was a dark spot against the endless white – a shadow moving with purpose. The fabric, heavy and warm, was gathered close around her, holding back the cold that sought to seep into her bones. Her hood was pulled forward to ward off the wind that whispered secrets she couldn't quite understand.

As she walked, she occasionally reached inside her cloak to touch the map that lay hidden there—a map that was her lifeline in this desolate place. The enchantments woven into the parchment made it an interactive guide. Without it, she would be adrift in a sea of white, each step leading her deeper into uncertainty.

At one point, she paused to study the map, her fingers tracing the path that snaked through the Necromonarchy territory—a land she was treading upon now. It had been half an hour since she crossed the unseen border, marked only by the change in the wind and the subtle shift in the lay of the land.

The Necromonarchy—a name that conjured images of dark towers and shadowed halls, and a people ruled by the enigmatic and the arcane. Her tutors had filled her head with its history and politics, the power plays, and the wars that raged like the storms that raged around her now. It was a dangerous place where the living consorted with the dead.

She looked back toward the Papal State on the distant horizon. Her hesitation, unlike this snow, had melted. She was free—she was finally free.

Lily's journey was now meant to reach deep into whatever power had tainted her soul and eradicate it. Every step took her further from the life she had known; every breath was a reminder of the resolve that had hardened within her. The lessons she had learned, the skills she had honed—all would be tested in the time to come.

She wrapped the cloak tighter around herself, her gaze fixed on the horizon for a moment longer before she turned and looked ahead at the treacherous mountains of the Necromonarchy.

Maybe I’ll meet a [Necromancer] around here, she wondered, patting the backpack on her back. She could have placed all her things inside the ring, but her father had cautioned her against it. Looks were important. A young girl trekking through the mountains with no backpack was extremely suspicious. Especially if she really encountered a [Necromancer].

…

Three Years Prior

In the cloistered silence of the monastery's library sat a younger Lily, her legs swinging slightly, not quite reaching the floor from the oversized chair meant for the giant [Monks]. The air was thick with the musky scent of old parchment and beeswax. Brother Hadrian stood before her, his shadow sprawled across the stone floor and cast by the flickering candles that were dotted around the room.

"At the heart of the Necromonarchy lies a force of will that bends the very essence of death to its command," Brother Hadrian began, his voice a solemn echo in the vast chamber. "These are the [Necromancers], and among them, there exists an elite class that commands power beyond the ordinary, known as the Black Hand."

Lily, with eyes that held an ocean of curiosity, leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the illustrations that adorned the pages before her. The images depicted figures shrouded in dark cloaks, their faces, and necks marked with a sigil as black as night—a stark and ominous contrast to their pale skin.

Brother Hadrian continued, "The Black Hand are not mere wielders of the necromantic arts; they are the embodiment of the Necromonarchy's might… and they’re absolutely ruthless. Each of these [Necromancers] is an army unto themselves, always striving to expand their Mana reserves to unfathomable depths and to sustain the legions of the Undead that swell under their command."

Brother Hadrian's words painted vivid pictures in her head, and she felt a shiver dance down her spine. The idea that one could marshal the dead into a battalion was both terrifying and fascinating.

"These sorcerers do not merely summon the dead," Brother Hadrian pressed on, his hand tracing the black hand tattoo in the illustration. "They resurrect fallen foes, turning the tide of battle with each life they reclaim from the clutches of death. It is their inexorable Mana regeneration that fuels this relentless tide – an almost endless energy that breathes false life into hollow shells."

The [Librarian] had expressed his disgust with such a practice more than once, calling it unholy. Considering how extremely fond of Alchemy and hating the Gods Hadrian was, she wondered why he was so hellbent on hating [Necromancers]. If anything, she would have considered it a possible path for herself even if she wasn’t interested in hand–to–hand combat… which she very much was.

"And what of the Black Hand?" she inquired.

Brother Hadrian met her gaze, his eyes reflecting his respect for her inquisitive nature. "The Black Hand are the pinnacle of the Necromonarchy's hierarchy. Each member bears the mark upon their visage, a declaration of their fealty to the dark arts they practice—the hand of the God of Death. It is said that their touch can wilt the living and that their command over death is absolute—they’re the only ones capable of commanding the strongest, elite troops that have inhabited the Necromonarchy for centuries."

As he spoke, the room seemed to grow colder, the candles' flames flickering as if scared by his words.

Brother Hadrian closed the tome with a gentle thud, signaling the end of that day's history lesson. "Remember, Lily, knowledge is the light that dispels the shadows of ignorance. In understanding the Necromonarchy and the Black Hand, you will arm yourself against the cruelty they wield."

…

As Lily made her way down the snowy path, an unsettling vibration began to emanate from the ground beneath her feet. It was subtle at first, like the distant rumble of an approaching storm, but it grew steadily and insistently until the very earth seemed to pulse with anticipation. She paused, her breath hanging in the cold air, and scanned the surroundings in trepidation.

The quiet of the mountain pass was suddenly shattered by the shuffling and scraping of numerous feet – a sound that grew to a cacophony as dozens of Undead emerged from the snowy mist. They encircled her, a motley congregation of what had once been flesh and blood. Their hollow gazes were fixed on her, yet they were held back by an unseen command.

With a practiced calm, Lily steeled herself, ready to activate [Wraithform]. She could vanish from their midst in an instant, but something held her in place. These creatures of death moved with purpose, guided by a will other than their own. They were not mindless; they were marshaled.

The Undead parted like the Red Sea and, through their ranks, strode a figure cloaked in the darkest of hues. His presence commanded the space, a stark contrast to the pale, lifeless throng he navigated. His eyes locked onto Lily's. She couldn't help but notice the black mark that sprawled across his skin—a sigil of power and fear that she recognized all too well. The Black Hand.

"Are you a [Spy] of the Papal State?" His voice was a velvet baritone, smooth yet edged with authority. "They've grown desperate as of late, even employing children in their schemes."

Lily met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a quiet defiance. "I’m Liliana," she offered simply, her voice a steady note amidst the sea of whispers from the Undead. Then, she raised a hand and summoned Death Magic.

“Alright,” the man seemed easily convinced, and, with a gesture, he dismissed the Undead to the peripheries of their meeting, though they remained an ever–present shadow in Lily's peripheral vision. “I was about to make a camp anyway. My name is Manul.”

Manul, as he introduced himself, regarded her for a long moment. His smile was a curious twist of lips, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

From the Black Hand, Lily swallowed. Even though the man did not seem interested in killing her on the spot, he was one of the most dangerous individuals in the entire Necromonarchy.

Manul's smile broadened, transforming into one of recognition, perhaps even respect. "You may camp with me tonight if you want," he declared, a note of finality in his voice that brooked no argument. “I’ve been walking through these mountains for one too many days.”

Lily's relief was a silent exhale into the frigid air. The offer of respite was unexpected yet welcome. She would rest among the ranks of the dead this night, under the watchful gaze of the Black Hand. It was a precarious sanctuary but a sanctuary nonetheless. At the very least, she didn’t have to worry about a pack of wolves making a move on her.

So, she followed the man deeper into a bigger horde of Undead.

…

Manul’s campfire crackled, a small but stubborn burst of life against the encroaching cold. The [Necromancer] sat across from Lily, his hands extended toward the flames as if in prayer. His stew pot simmered, sending a curling wisp of steam into the freezing air.

“You don’t seem to mind the chill,” Manul observed, his eyes briefly meeting Lily’s before returning to the contemplative dance of the flames.

Lily, wrapped in her cloak, watched the snowflakes flirt with the fire’s edges, melting before they could smother its light. “I have a skill that helps,” she replied, her breath a cloud of vapor. The ring on her hand caught the firelight, winking like a star against the night’s darkness. She noticed Manul’s glance lingering on it; a silent acknowledgment of her fortune—or perhaps the fortune of her lineage.

He must have put most of his Attributes into Mana–related Attributes.

Another thing that interested her was the size of the Undead force. She had been counting, at least roughly. The mists hid the bulk of the resurrected fighters, which mostly included zombies and a few skeletal warriors.

“Lucky kids who live in the mountains and get nice skills against the cold,” Manul muttered almost to himself, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

There was a lull, a silence filled only by the comforting sounds of the wilderness and the crackling symphony of the fire. Manul broke it as he ladled some stew into two bowls, steam rising like spirits released into the cold.

“Where are you headed, Liliana?” he asked, the use of her full name feeling like a strange weight on her, each syllable a measure of distance.

“To awaken a class inside a Dungeon,” she revealed, accepting the bowl he offered. The warmth from the ceramic seeped into her chilled fingers, a small but poignant comfort.

Manul’s eyes flashed with something akin to respect. “That’s quite the endeavor for someone so young,” he said. “A running Dungeon or an abandoned one?”

“Abandoned,” Lily replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

He nodded, seemingly impressed. “It takes a bold heart to venture there, lucky or not.” Again, his gaze darted to the ring on her finger, a glint of recognition in his eyes.

Lily’s mind raced as she sipped the stew, its heat spreading through her. She realized then, with a start, that Manul had read between the lines of their conversation. He knew she was more than a wandering child on the cusp of an awakening. The [Necromancer] was astute, yet he probed no further, respecting the boundary of her privacy with an ease that belied his ominous aura.

As long as he knows I’ve got Death Magic on me, he doesn’t care. That’s… different from what I’m used to.

She had been taut as a bowstring since she met him, her instincts honed by years under the Church’s shadowy tutelage screaming caution and paranoia. But here, surrounded by the dead who answered to Manul’s whim, what threat could she possibly pose? The realization uncoiled something within her—a tension she hadn’t noticed until it began to ebb.

The [Necromancer] passed her another steaming bowl, and as she took it, her thoughts shifted. Years of strategy and survival had twisted her perspective; they made her see adversaries where there might be none. As she tasted the stew, its warming flavor revitalized her. It awakened her to the need to be less paranoid when it wasn’t needed. Even Hadrian’s training, for all it had done her good, had included paranoia–building strategy lessons that she’d need to push in the back of her head from time to time.

Yet, even as she acknowledged this need for change, she understood that Manul could never be a confidant. His power and his allegiance to the Necromonarchy made him an enemy of her father’s.

“You’re marching with quite the force,” she said after a moment, gesturing to the legion of the Undead standing sentinel in the snow.

Manul followed her gaze, pride evident in the set of his shoulders. “The mountains are treacherous. One can never be too cautious or too prepared.”

Lily’s eyes returned to the ring, its luster now a beacon of her father’s love. She had been given much, armed with artifacts of old and the blessings of her lineage. But in the end, it was her choices, her steps upon these ancient paths, that would carve her destiny.

She looked up at Manul, her eyes clear and resolute as she pressed. “What brings a [Necromancer] of your stature to these parts?” she inquired, the question hanging in the air like the final note of a requiem.

Manul's gaze lingered on the horizon, his profile etched against the firelight, a silhouette of contemplation against the encroaching night.

For a long moment, he was silent, perhaps choosing not to entertain the girl, but then, the night started to wrap around them like a shroud. Maybe pushed over the edge by the cover of the dark, the man displayed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he turned to her, the stew forgotten, and the conversation turning to darker paths.

…

“I’m about to start raiding the countryside,” Manul revealed, the firelight flickering across the black hand tattoo sprawling on his left cheek. “They might even know I am coming, yes, but what can they truly do?”

Lily, who had been fighting the cold and her nerves all evening, found herself grappling with a new, icy fear that gripped her from within. Her fingers tightened around the bowl she was holding, and the stew that had been warm and comforting now felt like ash in her mouth.

“They’re all too busy with their petty assassination attempts in their Citadel,” he continued, a smirk playing on his lips as if he relished in the thought. “The high–level fighters? They’re all at the front. So, it falls upon me to seed Death Energy in the ground with their weak kins’ blood. Then, once Death is spread long and wide, even weakened, it would be a bloodbath for anyone to try and assault our weaker position once we’ve won against the Church.”

Lily’s eyes darkened, her thoughts racing. The idea of thousands of innocent lives snuffed out, families torn apart, and homes razed to the ground for a tactical advantage was monstrous. The Necromonarchy’s desire to obliterate civilians to forestall future conflicts with other preying nations was… disgusting.

Manul leaned back, the shadows bending around him and enhancing his ghastly aura. “Once we win the war, we'll raise a new army from the corpses,” he said with a chilling calmness. “Whoever dares to strike us in our moment of triumph will face the wrath of the Undead anew. That’s why I’m being sent to seed the ground with Death Energy. We all know someone will make their move as soon as this conflict is over. And I can see them coveting the pastures, farms, and the resources of the Papal State. But what if they only find Undead hordes as far as the eye can see? Would they feel as comfortable invading our newly annexed territory? I don’t think so.”

Lily’s hands trembled, hidden within her cloak. Her mind screamed that this was wrong, that allowing Manul to leave this place would condemn thousands to die under his merciless hand. In the pit of her stomach, a cold fury began to brew – a storm that sought to sweep away the darkness with its righteous anger.

He must have two hundred levels on me, she thought. Even worse, I don’t even have a class yet…

She watched Manul, his gaze distant, lost in the thoughts of slaughter and desecration.

“You see, Liliana,” he said, turning his eyes back to her. “It’s a simple calculus. The living take up space, resources... and they’re potential rebels. But the dead? The dead are faithful servants.”

Lily’s hand trembled but not with fear, but rather with the weight of the decision she was about to make. The words of Brother Hadrian echoed in her mind, “knowledge is the light that dispels the shadows of ignorance.” But it was not just knowledge that would dispel the darkness tonight; it was action.

I’m going to kill you, [Necromancer].