Callum moved cautiously through the eerie forest, every creaking branch and shifting shadow setting his nerves on edge. The air was colder here, thicker—like the arena itself had been drained of life. Ahead, Vilak stood utterly still, his hunched frame silhouetted by the twisted trees. Then, with a soft grunt, he planted his staff into the dirt, the black gemstone at its top beginning to glow faintly—deep crimson pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
He whispered, low and rasping, "Rise… and protect your master."
The ground answered.
All around him, soil cracked and bulged. Then, with sickening ease, skeletal hands burst free—four sets, clawing their way upward. Ribcages followed, skulls gleaming under the faint light as they dragged themselves fully from the earth.
Each one was distinct.
The first wore a battered suit of heavy armor, shield raised and mace clenched in its bony grip.
The second had lighter, flexible gear—chainmail and a longsword, moving with practiced fluidity.
The third, dressed in worn leathers, notched an arrow to a longbow.
And the fourth wore tattered robes, its skeletal hand gripping a staff that still radiated leftover traces of mana.
The four undead warriors moved wordlessly into formation, surrounding Vilak in a tight square. Their hollow sockets locked onto Callum.
"There it is! The Necromancer's necromancy!" Quincy cried from above, her voice echoing through the arena. "Look at those skeletons—creepy, armored, and very ready to fight!"
The crowd responded with a mix of awe and discomfort. Some leaned forward, fascinated. Others recoiled slightly, uneased by just how quickly the undead had appeared—fully armed, fully equipped, and utterly obedient.
In the fighters' waiting room, Xain leaned closer to the window, brow furrowed. "Did they just… pop out of nowhere? Or were they buried under the ground?"
Calvinel scratched the back of his head. "I mean, necromancy's not really my thing. I just know it involves raising the dead, so... yeah. Not much help here."
He gave an apologetic shrug.
*Could be either,* came Ercale's voice in Xain's head, the Demon Lord speaking with quiet certainty. *But it's likely the first. Necromancers don't always need bodies to raise—they can conjure the form of the undead directly with enough power. That's what he's doing.*
And just like that, Ercale fell silent again.
Back in the arena, Callum had made it through the worst of the gnarled woods and into clearer ground, only to stop dead at the sight of the skeletons. Now that he was closer, the threat they posed was far more real.
"Oh come on," he muttered, eyes flicking between their weapons. "This feels unfair."
He drew his shortsword with one hand, his pistol with the other, already regretting signing up for the tournament.
Vilak tilted his head lazily, raising his staff to point.
"Attack."
The skeletons all moved as one.
Callum raised his shortsword just in time, steel shrieking against steel as the skeleton swordsman's blade met his in a harsh, grinding clash. The strike wasn't especially powerful—more precise than forceful—and he was able to shove the undead warrior back with a grunt. But before he could capitalize, a sharp whizz tore past his ear—an arrow, loosed from the skeletal archer hidden between the trees. He barely ducked in time, eyes widening.
"That one's gotta go first," he muttered, raising his pistol and firing—
Clang!
The armored knight skeleton lurched in front of the shot, its heavy shield catching the bullet with a dull thud. Callum groaned.
"Oh, come on—"
A sudden flash of orange stole his attention—he barely dove behind a nearby tree as a firebolt hissed through the air, launched from the skeletal mage. The fire struck the dead trunk, erupting into flame immediately and forcing him to scramble away with a sharp yelp.
In one of the VIP stands, Prince Mark leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "They move with coordination. This isn't just mindless control."
Zara's brow furrowed. "Then necromancy is more dangerous than I ever imagined."
In another VIP stand, Tianteng allowed a quiet chuckle to slip through her smirk. "He's holding back. He doesn't want too many eyes on him just yet."
The Emperor of Aeruna said nothing. His gaze never left Vilak.
Another VIP stand—
"Impressive," Samwell remarked, watching intently. "This is my first time seeing necromancy in person. I've only read about it till now."
Matthew looked over, faintly surprised. "Really? I assumed you'd seen it before."
Back in the arena, Callum was under siege. He blocked a furious flurry of jabs and slashes from the swordsman, ducked back behind a half-charred tree as another arrow zipped by, and squeezed off a few desperate shots from his pistol—only to find the knight skeleton blocking most of them with its shield. When the mage skeleton fired another bolt of fire, Callum swung his sword to catch it on the flat—but the heat burned through the metal and he dropped it with a shout.
"Goddess, this is so unfair!" he barked, now forced into a sprint.
The skeletons gave chase like silent hunters, weapons gleaming, relentless.
"I'm… I'm really sorry you got matched against me," Vilak called after him, voice genuinely apologetic as he hugged his staff with both hands and stayed perfectly still.
"The Necromancer is in total control!" Quincy called from above, voice brimming with theatrical flair. "Callum Duncan hasn't even gotten close! Is he going to find a way out of this—or is this the end?"
Callum dove behind a thicket, squeezing off his last few rounds—until, with an audible crack, the archer skeleton fired again. By sheer luck or calculation, the arrow hit its mark—striking Callum's pistol and knocking it clean out of his grasp.
"Oh come on!" he yelled, now weaponless and running blind through the forest.
And then he hit it—a wall of twisted trees, roots and branches coiled like fingers to block his path. A dead end.
He turned, breathing hard, as the skeletons surrounded him, raising their weapons for the finishing blow.
Callum winced.
"…Ugh. I really didn't want to do this," he muttered, fingers trembling at his collar. "But I'm not going out like this."
And to the confusion of the crowd—and the utter surprise of every spectator—Callum began stripping off his armor. Piece by piece, he shed his gear, dropping it to the ground with dull clatters.
Then he began to shift.