She gasped, her vision momentarily swimming as the world around her seemed to sharpen. Her muscles no longer felt heavy, her exhaustion melting away as strength flooded her limbs. She could feel it, an aura wrapping around her like a protective shroud. It was cold yet invigorating, like standing in the eye of a storm. She didn’t need to question it; she knew it was him.

The aura was dark, pulsing with a sickly green light that spread across the battlefield like a living shadow. It carried a presence that was both suffocating and empowering, like standing before an ancient god. It bolstered her in ways she couldn’t explain—her reflexes felt sharper, her bow lighter, her aim steadier. Even her fear seemed dulled, replaced by a strange, almost alien calm.

Her mind raced as she realized what was happening. “It’s him,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This… this is coming from him.”

The aura wasn’t just power—it was dominance, a force that bent the world around it to his will. The abomination writhed in sync with the pulsating light, as if it were an extension of him. The ground itself seemed to bow beneath the weight of his presence.

For a moment, Eliza felt invincible. Her senses were heightened, her fear forgotten. She drew an arrow, her hands no longer trembling, and felt a confidence she hadn’t known before. But as the aura coursed through her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just power—it was him, his rage, his vengeance, his unyielding will.

And it terrified her.

“The difference between a necromancer and a lich,” he began, his glowing eyes fixed on the terrified Master Urg, “is as vast as the difference between a king and a god.”

His aura flared, warping the air around him. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the battlefield, twisting and writhing as if alive. The abomination he had summoned roared, its horrifying form acting as the punctuation to his statement.

“A necromancer is a manipulator,” Tenebrae continued, his tone cold and unyielding. “They gather the dead, force them to march, and call themselves powerful because they can move corpses like puppets on strings.” He took a step forward, and the ground beneath his feet cracked, the sheer weight of his presence pressing down on the earth.

“But a lich…” He paused, letting the silence hang heavy, his aura growing darker, more oppressive. “A lich commands death itself. A necromancer bends the knee to power, hoping to cheat death, but a lich bends death to its will. We are not mere kings ruling over corpses—we are gods who create life, even if that life is twisted and broken.”

The abomination swelled as if responding to his words, its grotesque form consuming the last of the cultists with terrifying efficiency. Limbs, torsos, and faces writhed in its flesh, their screams fading into the void as the creature fed on their bodies and souls alike.

Tenebrae’s gaze locked onto Urg, his green eyes glowing brighter, more menacing. “You sought to imitate us, to tread the path toward divinity. But you are nothing more than a child playing in the shadow of gods.”

“And like a child, you will be corrected for your ignorance and arrogance.”

When the dust settled and the first rays of daylight broke through the tattered sky, the remaining survivors could only whisper prayers of gratitude. Their village was a graveyard, their losses immeasurable, but they were alive—a fragile hope amidst the carnage. However, the ones who had saved them, the armored knight and the archer, were gone. They had not waited for thanks or rewards. Long before dawn, they had vanished, retreating to a kingdom where the sun never rose—a land forever shrouded in twilight.

Back in the Kingdom of Goodnight, the remnants of Tenebrae’s power from the summoned corpse monster were sparse. The creature’s insatiable hunger had devoured much of the magic it consumed, leaving little for Tenebrae to reclaim. What he could salvage, he channeled carefully, his skeletal hand glowing faintly as he directed the energy into repairing sections of the castle.

The stone walls groaned and shifted, slowly piecing themselves back together. Around Eliza’s chambers, the decay receded, the jagged cracks in the stone smoothing over until the space felt less like a ruin and more like a sanctuary. The library, too, received attention, its ancient shelves restored to their former grandeur. The repairs were slow and methodical, a patchwork of effort meant to make their home livable once more. But it was far from enough—the castle still bore the scars of centuries of neglect.

Eliza slept deeply, her body and mind worn down by the horrors she had endured. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, and she barely stirred, even when the Undine child nestled beside her whimpered in her sleep. The child had lost everything—her mother, her home, her world—and now clung to Eliza as her only anchor.

Zanac, ever loyal, had retrieved the Undine woman’s body from the battlefield. He now carried it with solemn reverence, his tin frame creaking as he brought the corpse into Tenebrae’s study. The dim light of the Forever Moon cast eerie shadows across the room as Zanac carefully laid the body on a stone table.

“My Prince,” Zanac said, his voice trembling with an uncharacteristic hesitation, “will you create an Undine undead? She was a mother, and her child…” He trailed off, his glowing eyes glancing toward the direction of Eliza’s chambers.

Tenebrae stood silent for a long moment, his glowing green eyes fixed on the lifeless body before him. His clawed hand flexed absently at his side, the bone creaking faintly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and laced with an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “No,” he said, the single word heavy with decision. “But I am possibly… about to make a grave mistake.”

Zanac tilted his head, his mechanical joints clicking softly as he watched his master. “My Prince?”

Tenebrae stepped forward, his skeletal hand hovering over the Undine’s forehead. His glowing eyes flickered as he hesitated, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him. “Untrue Resurrection,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Dark green light dripped from his clawed fingertips, pooling like liquid fire before sinking into the Undine’s forehead. The magic coursed through her body, tendrils of energy weaving through her veins and filling her lifeless form. For several long seconds, nothing happened. The room was deathly silent, save for the faint hum of magic dissipating into the air.

Then, her eyes snapped open, glowing with a brilliant green light that filled the study with an ethereal radiance. The glow pulsed, vibrant and alive, as if the very essence of her being had been reignited. Her chest rose with a sudden, sharp gasp, and the light from her eyes dimmed slightly as they refocused, her gaze darting around the room in confusion.

Tenebrae stepped back, his hand falling to his side as he observed his work. His expression was unreadable, his green eyes flickering faintly as he watched the Undine stir. “It is done,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that spoke of the risks he had just taken.

The Undine woman sat up slowly, her movements hesitant as if testing her own body. Her shimmering blue scales caught the moonlight, sparkling faintly despite the dirt and blood that marred her form. She blinked, her gaze settling on Tenebrae. “What… where am I?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You are in the Kingdom of Goodnight,” Tenebrae replied, his tone even. “You were dead. Now you are not.”

The woman’s hand flew to her chest, her fingers trembling as they pressed against her skin. Her breath hitched, and tears welled in her eyes. “My daughter,” she choked out. “Where is my daughter?”

“She is safe,” Tenebrae assured her, his voice softer now. “She is with the woman who brought her here. Rest for now.”