Igaris ordered Dred, Alpha, and the other Elite Knight to follow him, while instructing the rest to engage the surrounding skeletal knights near the Twelve Guardian Knights.
His goal was clear: to distract the warrior-level enemies and take down the twelve Elite Guardian Knights one by one, exploiting their vulnerabilities.
Soon, the sixty or so undead of Igaris's Acquisition Army moved into action, clashing with the enemy forces.
Meanwhile, Igaris and the three elites targeted three of the Guardian Knights who still stood motionless, chanting in their strange, guttural language.
Igaris slashed forward with his blade, assisted by Alpha, who swiftly disarmed their target, making it a lot easier for him.
At the same time, Dred and the unnamed Elite Knight attacked another Guardian with synchronized strikes.
As the Guardians collapsed onto the rocky surface, broken and defeated, Igaris quickly stepped forward and used Acquisition on them one after another.
In the process, one of the Guardians bit into his right leg, nearly gouging out flesh and bone with its sharp jagged teeth.
The pain was sharp, but it lasted only a moment.
Thanks to Undead Recovery, the wound sealed itself rapidly, knitting flesh and bone like time reversing itself.
Igaris clenched his jaw, grateful, no deeply grateful for the first ability he had acquired upon diving into this world.
Without it, he might have been crippled once again, or worse.
Now, with three more Elite Rank Undead Knights under his command, his army had become even more formidable.
They stood tall and imposing, their armor clinking softly in the still air, but even so, they lowered their heads before Igaris in submission despite being stronger than him.
But he had no time to celebrate.
Because with the Sacrificial Ritual broken, the remaining nine Guardians turned their gleaming red, hollow eyes toward Igaris.
It was now 5 Elites against 9.
The odds were stacked against him. But if he used Acquisition efficiently paired with clever strategy, he might be able to turn the tide, one by one, until they joined his side.
However, just then, a chill crawled down his spine.
A sensation, deeper than instinct, gripped his soul like cold iron.
This danger... it wasn't coming from the nine Guardians.
It was something else.
His gaze shifted to a side of the Ritual Site by instinct.
There, emerging through the flickering shadows, was a figure clad in a dark cloak and obsidian armor. A white, polished skull gleamed where its helm should have been.
At first glance, it resembled another undead Knight, another hollow puppet from the ruins.
In its bony grip, it held a long sword which dripped with fresh blood.
Drop by drop, crimson liquid fell onto the stone paved floor. It wasn't rust, nor illusion.
Someone or something had just died at its hand.
Before Igaris could blink, a flash of black streaked across his vision.
It was heading straight for him.
In the next instant, the world seemed to tilt.
No... the world hadn't tilted.
His upper body had been severed clean from the waist.
The scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. No matter how strong his will, how tempered his resolve was everything shattered in that moment.
His eyes fell on his own waist, still standing before him. Blood sprayed upward like a grotesque fountain, painting the cracked stones beneath him.
Not a sharp pain, but a deep, crawling agony.
It felt as if thousands of ants were gnawing on his exposed flesh, burrowing into the torn sinews of his severed body.
And worst of all, he couldn't move.
He could only scream.
"Was this the end? What about my promise? My vengeance?"
In the very next second, his upper and lower halves pulsed—drawn to each other like magnetic poles snapping into place.
With a sickening, wet squelch, flesh stitched together, veins entwined like vines, and bones fused with eerie precision. Cell by cell. Nerve by nerve. As though time itself reversed for his body alone.
Even the Undead Commander, emotionless as it seemed, paused. A faint glint of intrigue flickered behind those hollow red sockets, its bony face tilting ever so slightly.
Dred, Alpha, and the four newly Acquired Elites stepped forward, their frames wide and weapons raised, forming a protective shield around Igaris.
But Igaris knew the odds were grim.
The remaining nine Guardians moved as one, their synchronized charge rumbling like a death march. Their red eyes gleamed. Their swords sang through the air with lethal purpose.
Steel met steel. Bone struck bone. A vicious orchestra of violence erupted as each warrior engaged in their own deadly confrontation.
Igaris, still breathless, staggered to his feet. His hand gripped his blade.
A crushing force slammed into his side before he could react. His ribs cracked audibly like brittle sticks, his body catapulted backward—straight into the ritual formation.
He crashed onto the cold, rune-carved platform, beside the mutilated beast carcasses offered to the altar. His hand sprawled over the matted fur of a long-dead creature as he gasped for breath.
His eyes flickered open, vision hazy.
His body was already healing.
But it didn't ease the pain.
If anything, it made it worse.
With every torn cell that reknit itself, with every bone that fused anew, the agony returned—intense, searing, relentless. It felt as though his insides were being rewired with molten threads.
Yet he clenched his teeth and endured.
Because now, more than ever...
He couldn't afford to die.