Chapter 410: Rhask Onboard A very tall man, easily eight feet in height, walked slowly down a dimly lit corridor. His pace was unhurried, almost deliberate, each step echoing faintly against the metallic floor. Despite his massive frame, there was a strange grace to the way he moved, as though the air itself made way for him. His skin gleamed like polished obsidian, interrupted by faint silvery-gray lines that pulsed faintly, as if something alive flowed beneath. Long purple hair cascaded down his back in lazy waves, the ends brushing against the back of his waistcoat. His eyes, a deep viridian green, carried an eerie glow, the kind of light found only in gravefire, calm yet unnerving. He was dressed in fitted dark attire: a black short-sleeved shirt that stretched against the muscle-packed form of his torso, sleek trousers tucked neatly into heavy boots, and a coat draped over his shoulders like a king’s mantle. From his forehead curved a pair of long, jet-black horns, smooth and sharp enough to catch the faintest gleam of light. Behind him floated the body of a young man, or what was left of one. The figure’s dark skin was mottled with pale, almost white streaks spreading unevenly across it, like ash overtaking coal. “Who would’ve thought…” Lamair’s voice broke the silence, deep and measured. “You’d awaken puppeteering — and such a potent strain, too.” There was no one else visible in the corridor, but a voice soon answered, faint yet steady. “Does that mean… I’ll wake again, my king?” Lamair turned slightly, his glowing eyes shifting toward his left, where the faint silhouette of a young man hovered like a ghost, half-there, half-not. “I never said you wouldn’t, Rhask,” Lamair replied calmly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But how many times must I remind you? It’s master.” Rhask’s spectral form wavered, the outline of his face flickering in the dim light. “I… don’t understand. What’s happening to me?” “You’re evolving,” Lamair said simply, his tone soft yet commanding. “You were a ghoul, still are, but what’s taking shape now is something beyond that. Something… connected.” “Connected?” Rhask echoed, uncertainty lacing his voice. His gaze drifted toward his lifeless body trailing behind Lamair. “Yes.” Lamair’s smile deepened faintly, a mixture of curiosity and pride crossing his features. “The essence I feel from you… It resonates with my own. Like another half of me trying to wake.” “You don’t need to. Not yet,” Lamair said as they reached a vast chamber, the air thick with necrotic energy. “Once I complete the Necrotis Ritual, we’ll see what you’ve truly become.” “…Alright,” Rhask murmured, his voice softer now. There was a trace of fear in it, but also trust. Lamair stopped before a massive sigil inscribed into the floor, its runes glowing in shades of deep violet and ghostly green. He glanced at Rhask, his expression unreadable. “Rest, my creation,” Lamair said quietly. “Your next awakening will redefine what death means.” Lamair stepped into the chamber, and the air seemed to change immediately, heavy, charged, alive with something that breathed between life and death. The room was enormous, its ceiling lost in darkness, supported by pillars shaped like skeletal hands reaching upward. The walls shimmered faintly with runic inscriptions, pulsating in rhythm with his heartbeat, or perhaps with the heart of something older that lingered here. He exhaled softly, his breath forming a faint mist that coiled away like smoke. “Still asleep, are you?” he murmured to the room itself, as though it were listening. With a simple wave of his hand, the floor before him began to rearrange. Black marble tiles shifted and sank, revealing a vast circular sigil beneath, intricate and ancient. It was engraved in multiple layers, each rune etched with microscopic precision, glowing faintly in hues of green, violet, and silver. At its center was an empty pedestal made of obsidian bone, shaped like a pair of cupped hands. The floating body of Rhask drifted forward, guided by Lamair’s will, and slowly descended onto the pedestal. The runes immediately flared brighter in response, veins of necrotic light crawling through the carvings like rivers of fire beneath glass. Lamair knelt, resting his palm against one of the concentric circles. The ground reacted, tendrils of mist rose from the runes, wrapping around his arm, tasting him, recognizing him. His eyes flickered with deeper light as he began to chant. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵~𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖~𝙣𝙚𝙩 “E’rakthos… mor’thel… ivran ka’Sariel…” The ancient language of the dead tongue rolled from his lips, each syllable vibrating through the air like thunder swallowed by silence. The chamber responded in kind, faint whispers began to rise from every direction, voices overlapping in forgotten dialects, forming a low, haunting chorus. He reached into his coat and drew out a crystal vial, inside it swirled a thick black liquid that shimmered like melted obsidian. With delicate care, he poured a single drop onto Rhask’s chest. The instant it touched, the glow of the sigil intensified, and the air trembled with pressure. A black wind rushed through the room, extinguishing the dim blue lights that floated above the pillars. The only illumination now came from the ritual circle, its pulsating light painting Lamair’s face in alternating shades of violet and green. He began to draw symbols into the air with his fingers, trails of necrotic energy following his movements. Each symbol hovered for a moment, then sank into the body before him. As the process continued, Rhask’s body twitched faintly, a muscle here, a hand there. The whitened parts of his skin began to pulse faintly with color again, but the color wasn’t flesh; it was something more ethereal, like a shifting mist of life and death woven together. Lamair’s deep voice continued, unwavering: “By my will and through the pact of the Nether Seal… by the marrow of the forgotten and the blood of the undying… I command the boundary to open.” The floor shook. Cracks of light spidered across the runes, revealing glimpses of shadowed figures crawling within the cracks, remnants of souls bound to the ritual. Lamair’s eyes burned bright as twin green suns. “Rise, Rhask of the Hollow Veins. Become that which bridges the gap between the living and the lost.” The body convulsed violently. A guttural sound escaped its throat, half scream, half roar, as a ghostly flame erupted from its chest. The light painted Lamair in holy contrast, the necromancer illuminated by his own forbidden brilliance. He didn’t flinch. He watched. Studied. Admired. And as the ritual reached its peak, the glowing runes expanded outward like a blooming flower, and the voices of the dead rose to a fevered crescendo. Lamair’s lips curled into a calm, satisfied smile. “It begins…” he whispered. Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation! Creation is hard, cheer me up! Like it ? Add to library！ Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.