'I...'
The giant—now just a skeleton of one—slowly toppled downward. Its ribcage was utterly shattered, unable to even hold the body's shape together. The upper half collapsed first, leaving the lower half standing tall for a moment before it followed suit. This was the end of Alzahar, the lich who had once devoured the nutrients of the Withered Land and boasted absolute might.
"...dying."
A lich was a being close to immortality. As long as its phylactery remained intact, it could revive endlessly, biding its time for a comeback. But Yoahim, apostle of Kallagon, had continuously infused the phylactery with death energy. And with a final strike that burned his own life force, he'd wounded not just the lich's body, but the phylactery itself.
As a result, Alzahar's phylactery had taken irreparable damage. Its life force was draining away by the second.
We won...
Yoahim felt a dizzying wave hit him, his head ringing like a bell. He'd pushed his life force to the brink to unleash blood magic. His hands and feet were ice-cold, his face pale as death. In game terms, he was running on fumes—barely any HP left. One light tap from anyone, and he might just drop dead.
Blood magic... it's seriously powerful.
The might of the blood magic that had awakened in his moment of crisis was terrifying. He could see why black mages fell so easily into its allure. And why the wicked ones went mad hunting for sacrifices.
They use their own blood for this every time? Are they insane?
He had no idea exactly how it worked, but this battle felt like it'd shaved years off his life in chunks. He'd burned through a ton of blood, so it made sense—but he didn't want to feel this sensation every time.
Still, he had no intention of grabbing sacrifices like those evil black mages. There had to be a way to cut down on the blood consumption. Once we're back, I need to learn proper blood magic from Jeron, Yoahim thought.
Level Up! 5 stat points remaining for allocation!
His level had risen even though Alzahar's breath hadn't fully stopped. But the lich's death was set in stone, irreversible. The fact that it still clung to unlife was only because it had transcended death as a lich, its phylactery holding off the end—for now. Though that wouldn't last long, with the shattered phylactery leaking life force by the moment.
But that wasn't what mattered right now.
Wait... is this for real?
What mattered was the level up. And even more, that it wasn't just one level—but a whopping thirty at once.
I landed the killing blow, sure, but 30 levels? Really?
Alzahar had been level 171. Yoahim was at 78. Killing an enemy 93 levels higher was bound to skyrocket his EXP. But he hadn't done it alone; everyone had pitched in, so the EXP should split by contribution.
His role hadn't been small, and he'd delivered the final blow—so a huge chunk made sense. Still... thirty levels? Wasn't that overkill?
First things first, dump these stats...
Either way, the levels were real. Yoahim spread the 150 new points evenly across Strength, Vitality, and Intellect. As his Vitality rose, his life force seemed to recover a bit—moving felt easier now.
You overcame the brink of death. Death Energy +10.
What's this now?
He knew why his Death Energy stat had gone up. The Death Sword he'd stolen from the Death Knight—its special effect had triggered. It'd jumped by 10 at once, but he couldn't feel much difference.
Yoahim tilted his head, checking his body. Nothing seemed changed. 10 points wasn't a huge number, so maybe no real impact—or maybe the stat was useless anyway.
Still, some nagging unease made him click his tongue.
"Apostle Yoahim..."
Alzahar, upper and lower halves separated but still alive, clacked his jaw painfully to speak.
"Truly, one blessed by the gods."
"Damn right. I'm Kallagon's apostle."
Heh heh heh... Alzahar's bones rattled with a chilling laugh. Everyone knew he hadn't died yet, but no one stepped up for the kill shot. They were all exhausted, and more importantly, there was no quick way to finish him off right now.
Not even Yoahim's power as Kallagon's apostle could grant instant true death. He'd only shattered the phylactery by stacking death energy over time. No point pushing further—just let the bastard fade out slowly.
"I may fall like this, but my master will not."
"No, who's your master? If you're gonna spill, spit it out straight."
"My master is the great foe of Raello, the slayer of light, the usurper of darkness. Even the incarnations of divinity cannot withstand his power. You will kneel to endless shadow in the end. Hear me, apostle—my master's name is..."
"Name?"
The best way to piss someone off? Cut off mid-sentence. Second best—
"Hey! Hey! What's the name? Speak up."
No answer. Like he'd planned to infuriate them, Alzahar clamped his jaw shut and bowed his head.
Irritated, Yoahim strode toward him—but no reaction. Was he pulling a right to silence? If so, he shouldn't have started talking.
Yoahim peered at the lich's face, then gasped and jumped back.
"He's dead."
Alzahar had only lingered this long thanks to a brief deferral of death from that fatal blow.
"We—won!"
Aljes thrust his right fist skyward, bellowing. Billad roared in response, and soon the underground plaza echoed with raucous cheers.
Gellios snickered at the sight, while Tilia smirked.
"A grueling battle indeed. But we prevailed thanks to all of you."
Haellagos, who'd taken the worst wounds, cracked a smile. In his demon form, it wasn't exactly pretty.
"Are you alright?"
Gellios dismounted his phantom steed and approached. Haellagos nodded.
"Fine. Rest back home, and I'll recover soon enough."
"Don't push yourself too hard."
"I won't. Plenty left to do. Who's commanding the surface now?"
"Jeron."
Jeron wasn't Haellagos's direct adjutant, but as commander of the Jenahe Magic Corps, he had authority to lead in emergencies. Bille, Aljes's deputy, along with Yoahim's subordinates Leon and Sasha, were assisting him.
"The underground seemed dire, so I left the battlefield without orders. Punish me for my presumption."
Gellios bowed—or rather, dipped his waistless form slightly, headless as he was. Haellagos hummed thoughtfully.
His adjutants' role was to hold the surface army and buy time for Haellagos and Yoahim. But they'd abandoned post to protect their lord. Even with Jeron, Bille, Leon, and Sasha holding things together, it could've collapsed the chain of command into disaster.
"I'm not raising puppets who can't move without orders."
But Haellagos had no intention of punishing them. It wasn't just "ends justify the means."
"You are my limbs, but also steadfast comrades walking my path. Your decisions had solid reasoning—and they proved right. How could I punish you for that?"
A commander's key virtue was judgment. They had to think and act independently in any situation. The adjutants' actions were grounded in sound reason. No punishment.
"Looks like the surface undead are all down."
Haellagos nodded at Tilia's words. With Alzahar dead, his minions crumbled too.
Gazing at the hole in the ceiling, Haellagos said, "Time to head back. The war's over, but no time for rest. We'll rebuild the war-torn lands and handle postwar affairs."
He turned to his adjutants. "This victory is precious, but our fight doesn't end here. Melos, bordering the Withered Land, views us warily—we must prepare for them."
Yoahim nodded quietly. Lilith had warned him Melos was stirring. Now unified, the Withered Land would irk Melos greatly. Haellagos, focused on civil war till now, would soon eye Melos's territory. The peninsula was bordered by sea on three sides, making Melos the sole gateway to the continent.
The adjutants nodded gravely. They knew the world wasn't kind to the Withered Land. They had to stay sharp and support Haellagos.
"...But we can celebrate for a day."
Haellagos softened, smiling. "Let's hold a festival back home. For the apostle who brought us victory."
All eyes turned to Yoahim. They nodded or grinned as if it was only natural—even Tilia, who'd disliked him from the start, was smiling now.
Surviving the brutal fight together had forged camaraderie and brotherhood.
Yoahim realized he'd truly been accepted into this group. For the first time since getting trapped in the game, finding where he belonged felt profoundly moving.
So he nodded back with a smile. Yeah. Let's go home. Hold that victory feast. Chug booze, stuff our faces, celebrate.
As he turned toward Haellagos with that thought—
Something squirmed in the corner of his vision. Small, quick movement. White bones shifting. He whipped his head back, but—
Crunch!
"Haellagos!"
Before anyone could react, magic pierced Haellagos's heart mercilessly.