Chapter 157 (Part II): The Purification of Shadows
The Revenant's Return
The black mist coalesced into a towering figure, its form draped in a cloak darker than midnight. The necromancer's presence radiated a suffocating aura—a stench of decayed souls and stolen life force that clawed at the senses. Even the air seemed to curdle around him.
Bennett's breath hitched. Him. The same shadow that had slithered through the palace corridors weeks ago, the one he'd nearly paid with his life to repel. The necromancer's gloves, black as void, curled mockingly, as if taunting the memory of their last encounter.
"So," the figure rasped, his voice a chorus of whispers, "the vermin who dared stab me in the dark now cowers in daylight."
Around the square, murmurs erupted. Mages aligned with Crown Prince Alaric's faction recoiled, their faces pale. The necromancer's power was undeniable—a grotesque masterpiece of death magic, its potency betraying countless atrocities.
This isn't mere necromancy, Bennett realized, his throat tightening. This is sacrilege. A perversion of life itself.
The Temple's Judgment
The two Elders drifted forward, their serenity unshaken. As the necromancer summoned twin orbs of black flame—crackling with arcs of dark lightning and echoing with tormented screams—the Elders began their liturgy:
"The Divine spoke: 'He who believes shall bathe in light. He who forsakes Me shall drown in wrath. Darkness may linger, but should it dare eclipse the radiance of Creation, it shall be purged.'"
Their voices harmonized, resonating with a power that silenced even the wind. Alaric snarled, veins bulging at his temples. "Enough of their theatrics! Kill them!"
But the necromancer hesitated. The Elders' unflinching calm gnawed at his arrogance. "Come then, holy men!" he jeered, flames swelling. "Let your 'god' spare you from what I've wrought!"
The Elders said nothing. Instead, they retreated in unison, their robes billowing like sails. From within their sleeves, they withdrew two jagged fragments of metal—ancient, pitted, yet thrumming with latent power.
Mirror of the Divine
As the shards merged, a hollow click reverberated through the square. The fragments fused into a circular mirror, its surface rippling like liquid silver. Gasps erupted as its glow intensified—not blinding, but piercing, as though illuminating the very marrow of one's sins.
"The Xandrian Mirror…" Bennett whispered, dread coiling in his gut.
Legends flooded his mind:
The mirror forged from a god's armor, its waters a fusion of solar fury and lunar mercy.
A relic said to dissolve falsehoods, leaving only the unvarnished truth of the soul.
The necromancer's flames sputtered. The mirror's light enveloped him, stripping away illusions. His cloak dissolved, revealing a writhing mass of shadows beneath—a tapestry of stolen lives, each thread a scream frozen in time.
"Behold!" one Elder intoned. "The rot festering in your midst!"
Alaric's allies recoiled. Mages once loyal to the crown now stared at their prince with dawning horror. He consorted with a soul-eater. A defiler.
Fractured Loyalties
Count Raymond, standing rigid behind Alaric, felt the ground shift. The prince's gamble had backfired spectacularly. The mirror's revelation wasn't just damning the necromancer—it was unraveling Alaric's authority.
"Your Grace," Raymond murmured, urgency sharpening his tone, "order a retreat. Now."
But Alaric's pride blazed hotter. "Destroy that mirror! All of you—attack!"
Not a soul moved.
The necromancer writhed, his form disintegrating under the mirror's relentless gaze. "Lies!" he shrieked, shadows lashing like wounded serpents. "Your light is a joke! A child's fable to—"
The Elders raised the mirror higher. Its glow flared, and the necromancer's protests dissolved into ash. His cloak collapsed, empty, as the last wisp of darkness dissipated.
Silence engulfed the square.
The Prince's Downfall
Chen's laughter rang out, crystalline and cold. "Oh, Brother. Did you truly think a pawn of decay could outmaneuver the Divine?"
Alaric's face twisted. Around him, his forces fractured—nobles edging away, mages muttering oaths to the Temple. Even his own shadow seemed to recoil.
Bennett watched, numb. The mirror's light had exposed more than the necromancer. It had laid bare the rot in Alaric's ambition—and the Temple's terrifying reach.
As the Elders levitated the mirror toward the palace, Chen turned to Bennett, his smile razor-thin. "And now, my friend, you see why faith is the sharpest blade. It carves not flesh… but conviction."
Chapter 158: The Oath's Edge
The Veil Torn
The necromancer's aura had thickened into a shroud of palpable malice—a grotesque testament to lives devoured. Even the air hissed where his shadows writhed, as though the world itself recoiled from his corruption.
This is no mere practitioner of the dark arts, Bennett thought, his pulse quickening. This is a soul-eater. A blight upon creation.
The Xandrian Mirror's light had stripped the necromancer bare. Beneath his tattered cloak, the stolen souls wailed in silent torment, their essence woven into the very fabric of his power. Gasps of revulsion rippled through the square.
"A lich!" someone roared.
The word ignited fury. Mages from Alaric's own ranks—men and women who had dined at his tables, sworn oaths to his cause—now stepped forward, faces hardened. Their hands crackled with spells, not for the crown prince, but against him.
Alaric's face purpled. "Traitors! Traitors!" he spat, spittle flying. "After all I've given you—"
A portly fire mage sneered. "You gave us gold, Your Grace. But gold cannot cleanse the stench of this." He gestured at the necromancer, his voice trembling with disgust.
The Unbreakable Vow
Archmage Raphael, his beard quivering with indignation, strode into the chaos. "By the S-Class Edict of the Magus Guild," he boomed, "all sworn mages are bound to purge the defilers of life. This oath supersedes all allegiances—even to kings!"
As one, the defecting mages chanted the edict's grim penalty: "Those who forsake this duty shall be stripped of their rank, branded apostates, and hunted for one hundred and nine days by the Enforcer Corps."
Alaric swayed in his saddle. The Enforcers. Even the crown's armies dared not cross those fanatics. His mind raced—how had Chen known? How had anyone kept this blade poised at his throat?
From the battlements, Chen's laughter drifted down, sharp as broken glass. "Oh, brother! Did you truly think loyalty could outweigh survival?" A gust of wind magic carried his mocking sigh. "Mages value their craft above breath itself. To lose it… well. Death is kinder."
The words struck like a physical blow. Alaric doubled over, crimson spattering his reins. His guards lunged to steady him, but he shoved them away, teeth bared in a feral snarl.
Chen's Gambit
High above, Chen adjusted his velvet cuffs, the picture of scholarly calm. Only Bennett noticed the tremor in his hands—the adrenaline of a gambler who'd wagered a kingdom on a single card.
"You see, Bennett," he murmured, "the deadliest traps are those we choose to walk into." His gaze flicked to the two Temple Elders below, now retreating with their mirror. "A relic, a staged 'revelation,' and a roomful of mages bound by invisible chains… Quite elegant, no?"
Bennett's throat tightened. "And if the necromancer hadn't appeared? If your brother had kept him hidden?"
Chen's smile turned brittle. "Then I'd have lost. But Alaric needed terror to mask his weakness. Predictable." He sighed, suddenly weary. "Now, alas, I must dirty my hands. Guild oaths care not for royal blood."
With a flick of his wrist, Chen levitated toward the fray, azure robes billowing. The defecting mages parted—some in respect, others in wary distaste.
The necromancer hissed, shadows coiling like serpents. "You think numbers frighten me, princeling? I've feasted on armies!"
Chen unsheathed a wand carved from dragonbone. "Ah, but have you ever dined on light?"
The Calculus of Power
What followed was less a battle than an execution.
Eight mages—fire, ice, earth—hammered the lich's defenses. Chen wove through their assaults, precise as a surgeon, his spells severing the necromancer's tethers to the stolen souls. With each severed thread, the monster weakened, his stolen power bleeding into the mirror's hungry glow.
Bennett watched, numb. This isn't justice. It's theater. Every spell, every cry of "For the Guild!" felt rehearsed. Even the necromancer's roars seemed staged—a villain playing his part before an inevitable fall.
As the final binding circle snapped shut, Chen drove his wand through the lich's chest. The creature dissolved, not in flame, but in a sigh—a thousand liberated whispers fading on the wind.
The square erupted in cheers. Alaric's standard-bearers dropped their flags and fled.
The Price of Shadows
Afterward, Chen found Bennett staring at the scorched earth where the lich had stood. "Regrets?" the prince asked, wiping soot from his cheeks.
"You used him," Bennett said flatly. "The necromancer. You knew he'd be here. Let him slaughter those villagers last month to bait this trap."
Chen's mask slipped—just for a heartbeat. "Sacrifices must—"
"Don't." Bennett turned, eyes blazing. "You're no better than your brother. Just… cleaner."
He strode away, leaving Chen amidst the ashes. Somewhere, the Xandrian Mirror hummed, its light now tainted with secrets no scripture could cleanse.