Necromancer's Evolutionary Traits Chapter 46 Novels & Stories

Liora had returned, watching my flank, her guilt bleeding into every strike. We cut through them. Until the center opened. And then I saw him. Aedric’s corpse still lay where I had left it days ago, pierced through the heart. But he stood now, behind it, reborn or reassembled, eyes hollow and wrong. Necromancy. Old. Forbidden. He smiled, lips cracked with dried blood. “You missed,” he said. I should have known death wouldn't be enough. He raised his hand, and the corpses of our fallen rose with him.

It had no face. And yet— It looked at her. Cassian whispered, “Okay. I’m officially out of jokes.” Malachai’s voice broke on the word. “A Firstborn.” Ronan’s grip tightened on his sword. “I thought they were myths.” “They were,” Malachai whispered. “Until now.” Magnus spread his arms. “Not myths. Foundations.” The crystalline figure took a step forward, ice groaning beneath its weight. With each movement, the shattered revenants disintegrated into dust—as if wiped clean by its presence.

He chose a necromancer over his family. This selfish and deranged man wanted to take my powers for himself. I was already afraid but some thing terrified me more. This necromancer had black magic to bring back dead people, she was definitely going to kill me. I was in fact l was already a dead person. Dead man's blood was already coursing through my blood.

He knew I was not the Lumira whose medical records he had studied. "Dark magic is not native to this body," he said, placing his cards on the table with deliberate precision. Not playing cards. Research notes, thin and precise, covered in diagrams I couldn't read from this distance. "Necromancy at your level requires a soul that has already crossed the threshold. A soul that has died and returned, carrying the imprint of the grave. The original Lumira never died — not truly. She was murdered. There is a difference." He looked at me, and for the first time, his clinical mask cracked. Not with emotion — with hunger. The hunger of a scholar who had found the anomaly he had been searching for.

His face was a mask of horror as he realized the Necromancer had taken control of his body. The Necromancer edged himself forward in his chair. He stretched his thick arms out over the table, fleshy palms facing down, and began to chant softly. In response to his spell, the black surface of the table began to change, becoming opaque. Hundreds of tiny white ovals began to appear, seemingly floating within the dark depths of the table. As the Necromancer continued his summoning, the shapes grew brighter and clearer, until they became recognizable as pairs of eyes, imprisoned within the magical table.

The grave hadn’t only held Reive under the ground but also diminished his magic powers and didn’t allow him to restore them. Still, the necromancer had tried. All these years. Every time he noticed some warm-blooded creature run across his field, he fell upon it through the ground with the ghostly cords of the Dark, sucking out its life and magic in their entirety. They were usually foxes, moles or hares. Sometimes, when a human being came into sight, the necromancer tried to kill him, too. But the last time this had happened was so long ago that Reive didn’t even remember whether he’d managed to do it. Mages usually resisted, and only complete non-mages were helpless against Reive.