Here I stood amidst the grandeur of one of the most powerful nations, as one of the most powerful magi, yet I felt the weight of my own inadequacy. An Archmagus, an advisor to Sultan Jahan and commander of an army, yet reduced to a desperate plea for assistance against a relentless foe. The roaches, as we contemptuously called them, were elusive necromancers whose leaders danced through the shadows, avoiding our every attempt to capture them.

  A dozen hives lay in ruins at our hands, but the puppeteers behind the curtain remained untouched, mocking our efforts. Frustration clawed at me, and I knew I needed reinforcements. With a swift motion, I summoned the communication orb, a mystical device connecting me to the two most influential figures in Sardonia.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure, my friend?" Z'albor's voice, laden with centuries of wisdom, resonated through the orb.

  "I hesitate to burden you, but I need your help," I admitted.

  "Why the hesitation? Asking for assistance doesn't diminish your stature. I granted you the title of Archmagus because I saw potential in your abilities. However, you lack the centuries of experience I possess," Z'albor reassured.

  "I understand, but I know your responsibilities are vast," I replied.

  "Responsibilities? My duties are largely delegated. I oversee Janissaries, guide enchanters in financing our military and sustaining our society. The Carrion Empress and her followers are my constant concern. Assisting you in times of need is part of my duty," he explained, his words a soothing balm to my troubled mind.

  Z'albor, draped in robes of ornate umber, woven from threads of Zeval—a fabric both stronger than steel and as light as a breeze. The shadows played upon his face, casting an air of mystery that harmonized with his well-groomed beard framing his regal countenance. Tied in a tight ponytail, his dark hair added to the overall splendor. A golden cobra scepter gleamed in his grasp, and an array of enchanted rings and amulets adorned his fingers and neck.

  "You could have given me a hint of your arrival, Archmagus," he remarked.

  Z'albor chuckled, the sound carrying the weight of centuries. "I assumed you'd be accustomed to my abrupt entrances."

  "How could I? You possess the unique ability to traverse wherever you please at any time," I replied.

  "You ought to explore more, Nazir. This planet's Essence users are but a flicker in the vast cosmic tapestry. Ilthynia boasts ten individuals stronger than me, Gormadan houses formidable shamans, and the psions in Adden are nothing short of impressive. The galaxy teems with tremendous powers." Z'albor paced about, his robes blending with the sandstone architecture that surrounded us. "I am but a sizable fish in a cosmic pond. Now, tell me, what do you require assistance with?"

  "I need help devising a plan to thwart the cult's attempts to resurrect Necros or summon his spirit." I sighed deeply, unable to hide my frustration. "Every lead we follow turns to dust. The nests we find are abandoned, the culprits slipping away unnoticed. The Janissaries detect no magic, and the inquisitors find no traps. The Church is growing impatient, placing blame on us. I fear our truce is held only by the common goal of stopping the necromancers and our alliance with Lord Alterran."

  "Nazir, your wisdom and intelligence are commendable, but you are still youthful, lacking the depth that centuries of life experience bring. The conflicts among men have been repeated over the past three centuries. They engage in senseless battles, turning it into a relentless game of cat and mouse. The inevitability of war among them is a bitter truth. Jahan's family was slaughtered due to baseless beliefs, leading him to retaliate as Sultan by severing trade, prohibiting Christian symbols, and threatening death to those practicing the faith. It's a tragic irony—they worship the same God, yet kill one another over interpretations and pride. Matters concerning the Church hold no interest for me; I leave that to the Sultan. However, we shall halt the Necros cult. Do you possess any belongings of the necromancers, anything at all?"

  "No, as I mentioned, we..." Suddenly, a realization hit me, recalling the obelisk Elleshar had discovered weeks ago. "Wait a moment. There was something left behind—an obelisk saturated with Dark Essence, powerfully enchanted, conveying a message. It was too massive for us to transport, which means it should still be there."

  "Lead me to it."

  In a matter of moments, we reached the collapsed obelisk, hastened by the swift travel of magi. It lay buried beneath the sand, a fortress against looters, fortified further by recent sandstorms. Without Z'albor, navigating through the obstructed terrain would have been a challenge. He moved effortlessly, the ground bending to his unspoken will. I trailed closely, acknowledging my unfamiliarity with the area, having only seen it once under the shroud of darkness. However, we soon uncovered the obelisk.

  "You were right, Nazir. Its malevolent energy resonates strongly, even from a distance. Observe the markings along the edges. It's a ritual monument, designed to amplify Negative Essence and channel external sources."

  I illuminated the obelisk with a light spell, confirming his observation. It was an oversight on my part, easily missed in the dark. The convenience of seeing in the dark was lost on me.

  "This type of monument is likely present in all their hideouts. I've used similar structures to ascend to a corpselord centuries ago and have continued with rituals of this nature. Although not precisely like these; the sacrifices required are substantial..."

  Z'albor's tale was no secret among those in positions of power. Once a Sardonian military officer, he found himself stranded in the merciless desert after a sandstorm separated him from his men. The unfortunate few who clung to life with him either succumbed to starvation or met gruesome ends. Fate, however, had other plans for Z'albor. In a twist of fortune, he stumbled upon a creature in a cave—a being he adamantly claimed to be a Deva. This mysterious entity took a liking to him and bestowed upon him mastery over Essence. In the years that followed, Z'albor ascended to the rank of archmagus and served as a court magus, much like myself.

  However, even the formidable powers bestowed upon Z'albor couldn't shield Sardoniel from the looming threat of the Carrion Empress. It was in the face of this peril that his tale took a darker turn. The desperate times called for desperate measures, and his friend, Archmagus Kazeem, urged Z'albor to use him as a sacrifice for the good of their people. Z'albor hesitantly accepted the harrowing ritual that turned him into a corpselord. The aftermath left him morphed into a frightening manifestation of himself, a menacing figure of decomposed flesh barely attached to his bones, blanketed in a shroud of Negative Essence. The very power that had roots in rituals akin to the one we were unraveling—a dark resonance with the past that cast shadows upon our present quest. Needless to say, Kazeem was no more. Not even his soul could be called.

  Z'albor exuded confidence, as he prepared a ritual that would illustrate the limitations of relying solely on internal power. His practiced hands applied clay to the obelisk's surface, the material yielding beneath the touch of his golden cobra scepter. Glyphs emerged, etched with a precision born of centuries of arcane mastery. The incantation he chanted resonated in the air, a haunting melody that seemed to echo through the Essence of the obelisk. The clay responded, a radiant blue light emanating from the carved symbols.

  In awe, I couldn't help but question the intricacies of this enchanting process. Z'albor, still absorbed in his work, spared a moment to enlighten me.

  "I employed ritual clay on the obelisk," he elucidated, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom. "This substance acts as a conduit, absorbing Essence with unparalleled efficiency. As it soaked in the lingering Negative Essence, I inscribed binding glyphs, forging a mystical link between myself and the unseen casters. The Truelight spell, when invoked, revealed their concealed positions and intentions, igniting the clay in a brilliant blue glow. Now, with these insights, we can traverse the aether and confront them, one by one."

  His certainty in our forthcoming success was palpable, and I couldn't help but voice my observation. "You exude confidence in our ability to face these necromancers head-on," I remarked.

  "After six centuries contending with the Carrion Empress, my mastery over essence has reached unparalleled heights," Z'albor declared. "While Necros himself may wield formidable power, his disciples pale in comparison. Nevertheless, I always ensure additional assistance, just as a precaution."

  "Your choice of mercenaries is rather unconventional," I noted.

  "Indeed. I enlist those whose allegiance is to coin, not life. They comprehend that slaying me yields no wealth, for the enchanted gear would spark disputes or necessitate sharing. Instead, they opt for the gems I provide—enough to secure a life of opulence. Let us summon these hired hands then," he concluded, his tone unwavering and purposeful.

  Z'albor effortlessly summoned the mercenaries through his communication orb, conducting brief and decisive conversations. His inquiries were straight to the point—"Are you interested in another job?" and sometimes followed by "Do you know someone who might be?" Within minutes, they were ready, and with a flicker of Essence, he teleported them to our location. In an instant, half a dozen individuals joined our company.

  Among them stood a shirtless Drokkar, his muscles chiseled to perfection, distinguished even among his robust kin by the crimson runes etched on his green skin—an unmistakable Blood Saint. An Ozen woman armed with a Korakanite gun that discharged crackling electrical bolts, exuding an air of calculated prowess. A cloaked Bontu, its form suggesting a trickster or illusionist, ready to weave deception into the very fabric of our adversaries' perception. A robed Albeani man, seated atop a massive metal automaton, hinted at his role as a sorcerer of considerable power. A rare Narvoli woman, resembling elves but with a profound affinity for positive Essence, her frail physique belying her expertise as a skilled healer and caster. Lastly, a bald, clean-shaven human in a short-sleeved robe, his slim-muscled frame suggesting a disciplined monk of Chawan, a disciple of the Oheriens. Though the countenances of this eclectic group ranged from indifferent to menacing, each bore items attuned to Essence, meticulously chosen by Z'albor for their combat proficiency.

  "Oh, greetings, Teemo. It's high time we enjoy some leisure together, not just during missions with our esteemed friend here," the Bontu playfully remarked to the Albeani. "How have the weasels been treating you?"

  "Delightfully. It's quite fascinating how they remain invisible until the critical moment. Then, pop goes the weasel, and anyone nearby is showered in guts and brains! I've even caught a few in my mouth. Ah, delightful memories."

  "You know what they say, it's what's on the inside that counts," the Bontu quipped, a mischievous grin adorning their face.

  "Okay, that's enough," the Narvoli interjected. "What's our assignment this time?"

  "When do I get paid?" inquired the stout dwarf woman.

  "You get paid after the mission. Z'albor will compensate you as long as you survive, so no worries. He just waits as a form of insurance, and you don't get paid extra if we die, so it's best to work as a team to ensure all of our survival. Especially if you expect to get hired in the future," explained the bald man.

  "Anyway, the mission this time is simple but crucial. I hired you all to ensure there will be no survivors. I know Forax over there will really appreciate that," the large drokkar smiled. "We're up against a band of necromancers. I don't know how many, but there are at least eight who pose a minimum archmagus threat. However, none of them are together. They likely have several undead thralls, low-grade necromancers, and some fanatics skilled in combat. Any questions?" the Archmagus asked.

  "Sounds straightforward," the ozen woman said, and everyone else nodded.

  "Lead the way, boss," the Narvoli woman added.

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  "Ready, Nazir? I recommend preparing your defensive barriers or other spells in advance. We may be thrown into the fire immediately," Z'albor advised.

  I began chanting, weaving spells to cloak myself in a thick outer layer of Essence, creating illusions, and blending my clothes and flesh with the environment.

  "The devil awaits."

  "What the hell?" echoed an unfamiliar voice. The surroundings shifted abruptly. No chants, no spell preparations, not even the striking of his scepter against the ground. Yet, here we were, encircling a lone necromancer. Fortunately, he seemed as startled as we were, and within seconds, his body was cold and lifeless. The element of surprise can incapacitate even the most adept sorcerer.

  Cracks snaked through the ancient sandstone walls, offering glimpse to the crawlers that lie within the shadows. The faint skittering of centipedes crawling about bought an uncomfortable shiver to my spine, creating an unsettling symphony. The air was thick with the stench of decaying flesh, turning my stomach in the most unpleasant way. It was suffocating, clinging to the walls like a tangible presence, oppressing my senses.

  "Start clearing the place," Z'albor commanded. "I will initiate a ritual to shut down traveling magic and communication of any sort. I've already conjured a large barrier around here to close off any physical escape routes."

  "It would be faster to split up, plus I hate battling alongside Teemo and his golems," the monk suggested.

  "I'm with Teemo. We have so much fun together," chimed the Bontu.

  "You guys go where you will. The main threat has been eliminated, so I shall start proceeding to clear the rest of the undead," I declared.

  "I'll go with you," said the bald man. "We need to clear out seven more places like this. It would be best to save your chi. Z'albor could clear this whole place by himself. It's not like someone could hit him with a lucky bullet to the head; he's a corpselord, so wounds normally fatal to us won't harm him much. He hired us specifically so he could use his chi to close the escapes and ensure the mission is complete. Save your chi, ensure the job gets done."

  His logic held merit. "Very well. What do they call you?" I asked.

  "Call me what you will; formalities hold no importance. What matters is how we fight so we can synergize appropriately. You shouldn't worry about catching me in collateral damage because I'll mostly be attacking from a distance. If you can't handle close combat, I can handle them before they get to you."

  "I am not trained in martial prowess, but lesser and mid-grade undead, along with anything in that power range, should not be a real threat unless I am swarmed. Even up close, my magic should be able to subdue them before they can cause sufficient damage to my barrier."

  "I'll handle any yin spirit of the upper realm that comes too close. Do you have knowledge of any techniques that can enhance my combat or chi affinity?"

  "I can enhance your strength, speed, endurance—practically any low or mid-grade positive spell that can augment your capabilities. I'm what you call a yang mage, though I specialize in the offensive," I said.

  "Good. Only use support techniques on me if the situation seems dire, so you can save your chi. If you absolutely need to regenerate chi or life force, I can provide medicinal elixirs and pills. They're crafted with rare herbs and infused with my chi, so I expect full compensation to replace them should it come to that, whether it's from you or Z'albor."

  "I will do so if I need it. I, too, carry my own elixirs. As you likely already know, Sardonian magi rarely come unprepared, and it's even rarer for an archmagus to be understocked in supplies. Now, let's proceed."

  The monk nodded, his movements smooth and relaxed yet cautious and deliberate. The rest of this hideout wasn't difficult to clear. Most of the remaining creatures were dispatched with a simple incantation or the martial artist's precise fists and essence bolts. The next three were repeated more or less the same way, though the last target managed to put up a fight.

  "Something is wrong," Z'albor said, a furrow forming on his brow. The others are on the move, but they cannot suspect anything. I cut off any form of communication, and no one could escape."

  "If they have an artifact strong enough, they could override your ritual," I reasoned.

  "Impossible. I hold the power of a powerful deva, I am the Supreme Corpselord, I used exotic ritual ingredients, and I possess my own legendary artifacts. It would already be unreasonable for them to override my spells. On top of that, they had no reason to expect me or anyone, and thus would not use artifacts to try to bypass my ritual."

  "Unless they did have a reason," the monk interjected.

  "Explain," Z'albor responded.

  "Think about it. They may have had another attack planned. They were losing a lot of undead from recent attacks by the Sardonians and the Church, were they not? Do they not need bodies to replace those that were lost? Peasants for low-grade yin spirits and powerful warriors for mid-grade and higher? There's a chance they had a large attack planned and are still completely unaware of our actions, though that's low. What is more likely is…"

  "Someone planned a coordinated attack with one of the necromancers we killed, and the lack of communication is causing suspicion," I reasoned.

  "For heaven's sake, that's just our luck," Z'albor complained. "How would you guys like to get a raise?"

  "I just want to kill," the blood saint shrugged.

  "You can shut up. The rest of us would love a raise," the narvoli said.

  "There are four left and eight of us. I can handle one on my own, but I need you to handle the other three. Each team will need an essence user to prevent the necromancers from teleporting. Don't worry about preventing their communication orbs; splitting the efforts might prevent you from keeping them from escaping. Teemo, Ragdaz, and Nora will be teleported to one, Oreal and Master Hong will handle another, and Nazir and Forax will go to the remaining one. I will pay you double for surviving, triple for eliminating the target, and escaping alive."

  "More kaboomsies! Wonderful!" Teemo exclaimed.

  "Fair enough," said Oreal, the Narvoli. Hong popped some pills in his mouth and offered some to Oreal.

  "If I will be holding back his teleporting abilities with my Essence, I believe it to be wise if I could bring along the Sultan," I stated.

  "If we go back, you should bring additional reinforcements, so Forax can go with Master Hong and Oreal." Once more, we were teleported to a new environment, though this time, Z'albor and I were in the palace. I assumed the others had been sent out.

  "I will take my leave immediately but will leave a one-way portal for you to take. It will stay open for about 15 minutes, and you will not be able to return through it," Z'albor explained.

  "Sultan, the Archmagus has found the whereabouts of the necromancer leaders, or at least eight of them. They are making advances at this moment, so we must make haste," I explained.

  "Go find Lurantis, Ousmane, and Tavien while I retrieve my weapons," Jahan said.

  We swiftly responded to his command and dispersed through the palace's corridors. Lurantis, a towering drokkar Janissary with a build that embodied the strength of a sandstorm, was stationed in the armory, muscles rippling beneath her ornate armor. Ousmane, the healer and spiritual guide of our group, was often found in the small sanctuary adjacent to the palace grounds. Tavien, the skilled Llevian archer from a desert tribe, frequented the training area where his arrows could pierce through illusions as effortlessly as through flesh.

  Once gathered, we stood before the pulsating portal, weapons gleaming in anticipation.

  We emerged into a tense scene, weapons drawn and senses heightened. The hall was a ghoulish display, teeming with sentries in the form of animated corpses and Wights. The repulsive scent of their rot, mingling with the metallic tinge of blood, held a formidable presence in the air.

  "Oh boy," Tavien muttered, deft fingers nocking an arrow onto his recurve bow.

  "Allahu akbar," Jahan calmly declared, his eyes focused on a Wight as he prepared to release an arrow with godly precision. The veil thickened with an impending clash as our small but formidable group faced the encroaching horde.

  The Shamblers lumbered toward us, their decaying limbs dragging heavily. The Wights followed with supernatural agility, moving with unsettling speed, scampering up the walls as they closed in on us. A wall of flames erupted fiercely, my conjuration engulfing most of the corpses. Tavien, an artist with his bow, wove his Essence into arrows that found their mark with deadly precision, ensuring none could sneak past.

  Pivoting swiftly, I faced the remaining threats, trusting Tavien to guard my flank. The encroaching horde demanded my full attention as we found ourselves encircled by at least two dozen Shamblers and six Wights.

  Lurantis, a formidable shield-bearer with an imposing stature, positioned herself as a protective barrier between us and the undead. Jahan, a master archer, sent arrows flying with persistent accuracy, each finding its mark between the lifeless eyes of the approaching corpses.

  Sensing that low-level magic would suffice for this initial onslaught, I unleashed bolts of Essence. Ousmane contributed by summoning beams of positive energy. The combined efforts of our small group swiftly dispatched our adversaries. Yet, before we pressed forward, I enacted a strategic move, one that would hinder the necromancers' escape unless they vastly surpassed me in power. Temporarily, I severed the Essence connection in a half-mile radius.

  Essence, the lifeblood flowing through all living things, ceased to respond within my defined range. While a complete cut-off would result in an anti-life field, ensuring certain death even for me, my spell merely prevented Essence from being manipulated by man or beast. It was a calculated risk that left even me temporarily without control over my Essence.

  Not even with my relics. The corpses will not be dispelled, but neither will the enchantments of our weapons. I had to depend on the prowess of the warriors, but I had no doubt they were more capable than the undead or even demons in here.

  "Are you sure this will be wise, Nazir?" Ousmane's voice carried a note of concern.

  "No, but I cannot risk them escaping yet again. This ends today, even if I have to sacrifice myself to ensure our victory," I replied with a determination that resonated in the dimly lit hall.

  "It will not come to that," Sultan Jahan Jihan assured with stubborn confidence. "I want you to stay in the back while we handle the infidels."

  Lurantis, the towering Janissary, extended a handgun toward me. "Here, take this for the time being." We pressed forward, navigating through the winding corridors, our weapons dispatching dozens of Shamblers, Wights, and Ghouls along the way.

  "Where are all the necromancers?" Ousmane inquired, his eyes scanning the eerie surroundings.

  "They sense they can't use their magic here, so they won't be out in the open. Some might hide, relying on their creatures to eliminate intruders before being found, while others attempt an escape," Tavien explained, his expertise evident.

  "Why don't we hunt down the runners before they escape?" Lurantis suggested.

  "Because we aren't sure of the escape routes, the number of necromancers, or the myriad of other variables. Some might escape; it'll be difficult, if not impossible, to catch them all. But they don't know the size of the antimagic field. Necromancers aren't known for their physical prowess. Those attempting to flee on their own won't get far and may succumb to the dangers outside. Those with undead companions will be easier to track, and other adventurers or warriors might be drawn to them, attacking on sight," Tavien reasoned, his logic sound. As much as I desired to apprehend them all, our focus had to be on locating the Dread Necromancer nested within.

  "We can split into groups of two, with one having Nazir," Ousmane reasoned.

  "It would be less than optimal, considering Ousmane is also not at his best without his own control over Essence. I did not encounter anything in the other nests that could not be handled if we split up, but…"

  "We will not split up," Jahan demanded. "One wrong move against a jinn, and it could be the end of us. We have only been here a few short minutes, the infidels are still here. Let's continue to search for them, and I promise you, we will find them. Praise Allah."

  Almost on cue, a stumbling noise reached our ears. It could have been another Shambler, but we ran as fast as possible to confirm. Two dark-robed figures, one of short stature, were attempting to make a hasty retreat. Both the Sultan and Tavien nocked an arrow and released almost immediately, Tavien's finding its mark in the back of the taller one, and Jahan's piercing the left calf of the other. The latter yelped in agony, and we closed the distance with a quick jog.

  "Search the area for stragglers. More could have been here and left them behind when the fall happened. I will interrogate this woman," Jahan said. The captured woman was young, perhaps no older than 20, with pale skin and golden hair.

  "I thought you said no splitting up?" Lurantis reasoned.

  "Do as I say and not as I do. I will be fine, go! They'll get away."

  "Follow me," Tavien said. "I see tracks of several others. Half a dozen at least." The rest of us followed Tavien to search for the other necromancers attempting an escape. Despite my limited contribution to this pursuit, I was relieved. The Sultan's interrogations were not something I could stomach. He did whatever it took to extract the information required to save his people. Some labeled him as cruel, but he argued that if anyone died because he lacked the resolve to extract information from a murderer, then the lives of those innocent people were in his hands.

  We tracked them with haste, cutting down any undead that dared to cross our path. However, the longer they delayed us, the farther the necromancers managed to escape. Weariness began to weigh on me, a sign that they, too, must be feeling the strain. The warriors would catch them, that much was certain, though I questioned if I could witness their capture. My pace slowed gradually, panting all the while as sweat soaked my robes.

  "Are you well?" Ousmane asked.

  "Keep… going. Do not… slow down."

  "I will stay with you," Lurantis stated.

  "No! Go!" I shouted, motioning my hand to shoo them away. I watched as they continued running, their figures diminishing with every passing second. I rested my hands on my knees and took deep breaths.

  "Allah, I need to get more fit." Controlling my breathing was proving much more problematic than it seemed. Fortunately, there should be no trouble since everything in our path had been massacred by the others. Still, standing alone here seemed unwise. Stragglers always found a way past defenses, and I had no barriers to prevent my insides from being torn apart. My best bet was to go back and find Jahan. If he had finished his interrogation, he would be following our tracks. Oh, how I hoped he was done with his interrogation.