I Am Alzahar!
"Do you think your resistance, no matter how fierce, can alter the fated outcome? I will not fall! I will not yield!"
Alzahar swung his scythe with even greater ferocity, pressing Haellagos relentlessly. Though outnumbered, the power bolstered by Kakarli's holy relic was far from negligible.
"Kuh!"
Haellagos blocked Alzahar's assault with the spear-axe gripped in both hands. He retreated a step, firing off black magic, or thrust the elongated spear at any openings. But every attack was repelled. The scythe traced long arcs, denying any strikes that flew toward its master, while the boiling miasma intercepted and scattered the black magic in midair.
In contrast, Haellagos's wounds were steadily accumulating. No matter that he was a great demon—no one could ignore the level gap.
Alzahar advanced, and Haellagos fell back; Alzahar attacked, and Haellagos defended. The balance of power was plain for all to see.
This won't do.
Yoahim, clinging to Alzahar's shoulder and sucking mana dry like a leech, shook his head to himself.
Drain is undeniably powerful. It weakens the enemy while strengthening you. What technique could be more cheat-like? But that's only against opponents of similar skill. Against a freak like this, drain alone won't bring him down.
This bastard has too much mana. No matter how much I suck, there's no end in sight...
Alzahar wasn't just anyone—he was a lich, a master of necromancy. His mana reserves were overflowing, and Yoahim's absorption capacity had limits. The body was a vessel for mana; too much pouring in would inevitably overflow.
Yoahim's body wasn't built to handle Alzahar's mana. The excess was burdening his flesh instead. The blood streaming from his nose, leaking from his gums, and his bloodshot eyes were proof.
If he could keep draining until Alzahar was an empty shell, he'd push through the strain. But a lich's mana was like an endless sea.
I've absorbed a ton already, and there's still so much left.
The amount he'd taken so far could fuel a barrage of high-tier spells that guzzled mana by the chunk. If that much was gone and Alzahar still had reserves, it was time for a new approach.
What can I do? Jump down and fight alongside Haellagos? Or hurl some spells from here?
Haellagos's injuries were piling up. Even a great demon couldn't hold out forever. If he fell, no one here could stop Alzahar—not even if all the adjutants gathered.
I have to do something.
Yoahim steeled his resolve. Sword aura or spells—nothing he threw from outside would land meaningfully. Alzahar's skeletal frame was steel-hard, shielded by miasma. For Yoahim's level, external damage was a stretch.
Then hit him from the inside.
Crustaceans evolved hard exoskeletons to protect soft innards. The tougher the shell, the softer the core. Alzahar should be the same. Sure, he was a lich, not a crab, but his sturdy bones guarded his soul just the same.
So strike from within.
Absorb the mana with drain, then reverse-flow it back.
One hand drains mana. The other pumps it right back into Alzahar. To outsiders, it'd look insane—why return what you stole? But what Yoahim reinjected wasn't pure mana from Alzahar.
It was mana infused with the power of death.
Kakarli was the god of death, and Yoahim his apostle. He'd granted eternal death to Hallidery, who had forged an imperfect phylactery, precisely because he was Kakarli's apostle.
Infuse the mana with death's power and send it back. Even Alzahar can't shrug off a direct soul strike from death itself.
A poisoner doesn't die from their own venom due to immunity—they prepare countermeasures. Likewise, Alzahar resisted total death because his phylactery separated body and soul.
But separation was physical, not absolute. The soul was detached, not excised. Invisible bonds still linked flesh and spirit.
And if death's power flowed through those bonds? It could strike the soul directly.
"Gaaargh!"
Mid-clash with Haellagos, Alzahar screamed and twisted. The sudden agony threw off his stance, and Haellagos counterattacked instantly. His hellfire spear-axe gouged a nick into the lich's iron bones.
A small wound, but encouraging. Once cracked, it would shatter more easily next time.
"You filthy maggot!"
Alzahar knew the source: Apostle Yoahim. He'd ignored the pest, figuring he'd just drain some mana. Now death's aura tormented him.
It's working!
Yoahim lacked the power to remotely destroy the phylactery yet. But he could harass relentlessly.
Grinning at Alzahar's writhing, Yoahim spat blood from his mouth. Direct soul strikes from death's power must hurt like hell—probably like countless needles piercing the heart.
Keep tormenting him so Haellagos can finish the job.
With Yoahim's interference, Haellagos's hits landed more often. The spear-axe battered, shattered, and sliced bone mercilessly. Shards flew, pattering to the floor.
We can win this.
His body burned like a furnace from the raging mana torrent inside. But Yoahim twisted his pain into a victorious smile.
We can win like this. Just push a little harder.
The tide was turning optimistic. Alzahar had dominated moments ago; now odds were nearly even. Yoahim's gambit was paying off.
Over time, death's power would erode Alzahar, restricting movement, exposing gaps—inviting death's embrace.
Death's force literally dragged him into the abyss.
A bit more, just a bit more—even if my body feels ready to burst...
Yoahim endured the tearing agony, cycling mana faster, fiercer. Death's power assaulted the phylactery relentlessly.
Alzahar staggered; Haellagos's eyes flashed as he swung with full might. The spear-axe tore the robe, poised to pulverize the sternum.
"You brainless fool! Do you not know who I am? Look upon me properly! I am the watcher of death, ringer of funeral bells! Hear my name clearly! I am Al—zah—ar!"
Rumble!
His roar thundered like lightning; his wrath struck like a bolt. Light flashed blindingly, then darkness swallowed all.
No one grasped what happened—only that immense mana rampaged like a beast, crumbling everything to dust.
The lich's fury swept all away. The floor collapsed lower; a massive hole gaped in the ceiling, sunlight pouring in.
But Raello's grace couldn't touch Alzahar—its source was Kakarli's relic.
"...Ah."
Yoahim hit the cold floor, seeing nothing. Eyes open, only pitch black. Blinded by the flash? Or buried in debris? He couldn't tell.
Couldn't even twitch a finger to rise—probably the latter.
Coughing, he retched hot liquid. Blood...
Clotted gore sprayed out—his insides wrecked. In the dark, the vividly red blood gleamed.
His head spun wildly. Dizzy like a fever, thoughts scattered. Limbs chilled, heart blazed.
Hot enough to incinerate his flesh? Like a final flare before death?
Yoahim stared blankly at the stain, lost in nonsense.
It's flickering...
Brain fogged? The still bloodstain danced like flame. Blurry vision? He rubbed his eyes— it rippled worse.
Impossible. Blood moving? Like fire?
Mesmerized by the absurdity, he watched.
Blood... and flame...
Something tugged at memory's edge—what he'd forgotten, what he must recall, what he must do. So close, yet slipping away.
What had he overlooked?
Child.
The visitation was sudden, subtle—no shock. Yoahim had sensed it coming.
Is that your offering?
The god of death appeared as silhouette only. Lacking power? Or forbidden to gaze directly? Unclear.
But grow strong, prove worthy, and the god would reveal his true form to his apostle.
For that, Yoahim must power up. Awaken. Realize.
What?
Blood Magic.
Magic wielded with blood over mana. In death's clutches, enlightenment struck: its essence, origins, foundation.
Yes.
Pattering drops hit the floor, igniting into flame. It banished darkness, overwhelming all with fierce heat.
Overwhelming firepower no mere mana could match.
But I still have more to offer.
Yoahim rose with the blaze—flames burning flames, fiercer in karmic pyre.
Blood magic was devotion to the god of death. His blood was sacrifice, but not the end.
From blood to blood, death to death.
The true offering lingered there.