Chapter 152 Lich (6)

Words : 1706 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

I exhaled slowly, staring at the figure standing before me. The Lich was a patchwork of contrast, a creature both majestic and grotesque. Its scarlet Blood Wyvern skeleton shimmered faintly in the light of the lab's mana orbs, the pure white skull almost glowing in eerie juxtaposition. Nestled within its chest, the Basilisk Heart pulsed like a living thing, its green-black hue swirling in perpetual motion, a storm trapped within flesh. It was an unsettling masterpiece. Finally, I handed it the Evernight Staff, carefully placing the ancient artifact in its bony grip. The Lich grasped the staff with an almost reverent precision. The limiter I had received—an ancient-grade artifact itself—shimmered faintly as it attached to the Lich's core. The oppressive pressure of its eight-star potential lessened, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My shoulders eased. The Lich now stood before me, tamed—or at least controlled enough for me to wield its power without obliterating myself in the process. Then it moved. Not an aimless twitch or a mechanical adjustment, but a deliberate, conscious motion. Its lower jaw dropped slightly, the faint click of bone echoing in the quiet lab. "Are you my creator?" it asked, its voice rasping, not with malice, but with a weight that seemed to pierce the room. I froze. My breath hitched. "W-What?" Gravemore nearly stumbled into the table, his hand clutching its edge. His usually measured voice was uncharacteristically sharp, almost panicked. "Arthur… do you understand what you've done? That's not just a Lich." "What do you mean?" I asked, the words leaving me like a gasp. "You…" he hesitated, swallowing visibly, "You've created an Ancient Undead." The term hit me like a hammer. Ancient Undead. The crown jewel of necromancy. They weren't just powerful. They weren't just tools. They were alive—or as alive as anything conjured by the art of death could be. Sentient, autonomous, intelligent. Servants with real souls, not bound by mere programming or artificial constructs. They were the unattainable pinnacle, spoken of in reverent whispers and dismissed as myths by most necromancers. "That's not possible," I said, my voice trembling. "It shouldn't be possible." "It shouldn't," Gravemore agreed, his wide eyes fixed on the Lich. "No one has done this. Not without a Gift for dark mana. But this—this is real." seaʀᴄh thё Novelƒire(.)ne*t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. My mind reeled. A thousand theories collided in my brain, none of them making sense. "How… how did this happen?" Gravemore shook his head slowly. "I don't know. The soul… it's not just mana threads. It's transformed. You haven't just created a vessel, Arthur. That thing has identity. A will." 'Arthur,' Luna's voice echoed in my mind, unusually subdued. 'It's the Basilisk's soul. Or at least, it started as that. But… something changed. It's beyond even my understanding. I didn't see this coming.' I blinked, trying to process her words. The Basilisk's soul? Transformed? My brain was starting to feel like a broken mana circuit, sparking with too many inputs and no clear direction. The Lich tilted its head, observing me with empty sockets that somehow felt piercing. "You are quite young," it said, its tone heavy with something like amusement. "And weak. I, too, am weak." Its words snapped me back into focus. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand straighter. "I… I am your creator," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "What is your name?" "I have none," it replied, the statement as blunt as a hammer. "You will give it to me." Names had power. That was the first lesson I'd ever learned in necromancy. To name something was to define it, to claim it. I stared at the Lich, its towering frame both awe-inspiring and unnerving. This was no ordinary creation. It was something far greater, something I still didn't fully understand. "Erebus," I said finally. The name slipped out almost instinctively, a name from myths long buried in ancient texts. Erebus—the primordial darkness that existed before creation itself. It felt fitting. The Lich straightened slightly, as though accepting the name as part of its identity. "Erebus," it repeated, the rasp of its voice sending a shiver down my spine. "I am Erebus." Gravemore exhaled audibly, breaking the tension. "You've done it, Arthur," he said, his tone still tinged with disbelief. "You've created something… unprecedented." I glanced at him, my mind still struggling to catch up. "I didn't mean to create an Ancient Undead." He gave me a wry smile, the edges of his lips twitching with nervous energy. "And yet, here it stands." Erebus lowered its head slightly, a gesture that could have been respect—or something else entirely. "You have given me form, purpose, and name. I will serve you, Creator. But I will also grow. As you grow." I stared at it, my heart pounding. This was more than I had bargained for. Far more. "Show me what you can do Erebus," I said. __________________________________________________________________________________ Rachel paced the Ophelia dorm lounge like a restless animal, her footsteps soft against the polished floor but betraying her inner turmoil. She wasn't just nervous. Nervous was too polite a word. She was bordering on frantic, her hands wringing together in a way that would have made her younger self cringe with embarrassment. Arthur had been out of contact since Friday. The entirety of the weekend had passed, and not a single word from him. Nothing. Radio silence. And that silence was driving her mad. "Would you sit down?" Cecilia finally snapped, her tone carrying the precise level of irritation that came from someone who was equally worried but far too proud to admit it. Rachel shot her a glare but obeyed, plopping down on the couch opposite her. "How can you be so calm about this?" she retorted. "He could be hurt. Or worse." Cecilia, lounging with the practiced ease of someone who considered elegance second nature, gave a dismissive wave. "Arthur? Hurt? Please. That idiot is like a cockroach. He's not going anywhere." Seraphina, who sat at the far end of the room, her posture as straight as a blade, finally spoke, her tone clipped but edged with something that sounded almost like concern. "Cecilia is correct. Arthur is resilient. However..." She paused, her gaze flickering to Rachel. "It is unusual for him to not check in." Rachel leaned forward, her fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table. "Exactly! That's what I'm saying! What if he overdid it? You know how he is." Cecilia sighed dramatically, her crimson eyes rolling. "Oh, please. If he overdid it, it's because he's a reckless idiot, not because he's incapable. And if he's injured, he'll just bounce back. He always does." "Cecilia, if you're not worried, then why are you here?" Rachel shot back, her temper fraying at the edges. Cecilia's lips twitched into a smirk, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Because, dear Rachel, I find your little panic attack entertaining." Rachel opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, the door to the lounge creaked open. All three heads turned in unison, the tension in the room coiling tight like a spring. Arthur stepped inside, looking utterly exhausted but very much alive. His jacket hung loose over his frame, and there was a faint smear of something dark on his cheek. His hair was a mess, and his usually sharp eyes were lined with fatigue. "Arthur!" Rachel bolted to her feet, relief flooding her voice. Cecilia stood as well, though with considerably more restraint, while Seraphina simply rose, her expression unreadable. "You look like you've been through a war," Cecilia commented dryly, though there was a faint softness in her tone that betrayed her relief. Arthur chuckled weakly, running a hand through his hair. "I feel like it too." Rachel crossed the room in a heartbeat, stopping just short of grabbing him by the shoulders. "Are you okay? What happened? Did it work?" Arthur raised a hand, a gesture of placation. "I'm fine. Really. And yes, it worked." There was a collective exhale of relief, though it manifested differently in each of them. Rachel's shoulders sagged, Cecilia leaned back slightly, and Seraphina's posture relaxed just a fraction. "Then show us," Rachel said, her voice firm but laced with curiosity. "Show us the Lich." Arthur shook his head immediately. "Nope." "What do you mean, 'nope'?" Cecilia demanded, crossing her arms. "I mean I'm not showing it to you. Not yet." Arthur smiled faintly, though there was a glint of mischief in his tired eyes. "You'll see it when the time comes." Rachel frowned. "When the time comes? What does that mean?" "It means I'll show it to you when I use it against Lucifer in the tournament," Arthur said simply. "Until then, you'll have to wait. Consider it something to look forward to." Cecilia huffed, clearly unimpressed. "You're such a tease." Arthur's smile widened just a bit. "Maybe." Seraphina, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "As long as you're unharmed, that is enough for now." Arthur nodded, his expression softening. "I promise, I'm okay. Just… really tired." "Then go rest," Rachel said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You look like you're about to collapse." Arthur didn't protest. Instead, he gave them a small, grateful smile before heading toward the dormitory halls. As he disappeared down the corridor, the three girls exchanged glances. "Well," Cecilia said, breaking the silence, "he's as infuriating as ever." Rachel smirked faintly. "But he's okay." Seraphina said nothing, her gaze lingering on the door Arthur had walked through. Finally, she turned and left the lounge, her footsteps quiet but deliberate. Cecilia stretched, her smirk returning. "This tournament's going to be something, isn't it?" Rachel nodded, her heart finally settling back to a steady rhythm. "Yeah," she said quietly. "It really is."

Chapter 152 Lich (6)

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