Manon's emergence sent a cold ripple of dread coursing through the group. Heavy and suffocating, a weight fell over them, as if the air had turned to lead. Not a single breath, movement, or emotion could be sensed from the figure before them—only an uncanny void, hinting at powers far beyond their comprehension.
He wasn't just strong but ancient, alien, and inscrutable. The sheer emptiness radiating from him was more terrifying than any outburst of rage. Against a being who exuded the unnatural calm of the grave—a stillness that could quell even the dead—the party instinctively braced themselves.
Every nerve screamed danger.
Understanding the delicate balance of the moment, Eris stepped forward cautiously, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. Her voice trembled, but she kept her tone respectful and transparent.
"Oh, ancient one," she began, bowing slightly. "My name is Eris Umbrelune. I am a necromancer who communes with the spirits of the dead."
Manon's head turned slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of his regal form. His eyes—if they were eyes—gleamed with faint curiosity.
"Ancient one? Necromancer?" he repeated, each word pronounced with unfamiliarity, as if tasting a language half-remembered. "What... is that?" He tilted his head in quiet confusion.
The flow of time had long since passed him by. Names, titles, and magic had shifted, evolved, and faded while he remained locked in slumber.
All he remembered was silence—then sudden intrusion. One moment, peace. Next, strangers invaded the sacred tomb of his lord.
Eris swallowed hard and took another hesitant step forward, her body visibly trembling under Manon's gaze.
"Ancient one," she said again, her voice softer now, almost pleading, "believe me when I say—we did not wake you. We are not your enemies. We are but travellers, drawn here by the whispers of the departed. We meant no harm."
She slowly raised her hands to prove her words, and a gentle glow of white mana began to pulse from her palms. The temperature dropped as the air shimmered. From the veil between worlds, faded spirits began to coalesce—hazy silhouettes of the forgotten dead, called forth by Eris's will.
They circled the necromancer, whispering truths beyond the veil of mortality. Manon's gaze sharpened, and a flicker of recognition stirred in his ancient features for the first time.
"Ah…" he murmured. "So you are... a Death Witch."
"Death Witch… Yes, I could be called that."
"I see… And you were called upon because of the loosening of the seal. The souls of my lord's subjects… They've been restless."
Slowly, the pieces were unravelling in Manon's mind. The seal that had been firm for thousands of years weakened, and the ancient dynasty was slowly aroused from its slumber. It was only a matter of time before the Emperor awakens now, and when that happens… Follow current novels on novelFɪre.net
"Ah… I thought we would be dining in Shangri-La when we opened our eyes. It seems like something has gone wrong with the final plan."
"Girl!" Manon pointed his golden spear at Eris, his atmosphere less vengeful but fierce. "How long has it been since the fall of our empire? The Sekhmet Empire!"
Eris was at a loss for words. She looked around at her entourage, and they were likewise baffled. Simply put… none of them had ever heard of the Sekhmet Empire. The Hyades Republic was formed after the Great Demon War and was the only major civilisation in living memory.
Of course, there were plenty of fiefdoms, chiefdoms, and minor Kingdoms during the Age of the Dragons, but none had grown to the scale of an Empire. Furthermore, the Eternal Storm had been ongoing since the dawn of humanity, long before the Dragons ruled the planet. It was shocking, but this Empire… pre-dates the Dragons.
"We are not sure," Fenric was the one who stepped forward with an answer. "But if we were to guess… over a hundred thousand years have passed."
"... One year has twelve moon cycles."
"Goodness! So we've been sleeping for over a million moon cycles?!"
Manon's eyes widened, a rare flicker of horror breaking through his otherwise stoic expression. The truth hit him like a thunderclap—shocking, unwelcome, and profoundly disorienting. Once a titan among nations, the Sekhmet Empire ruled the endless deserts and held sway over a tenth of the world's land.
They had stood unchallenged in an era of bloodshed and conquest, their banners casting long shadows across the world. And yet… nothing.
Not a name etched in stone.
Not a legend passed down through the ages.
They hadn't just fallen—they had been erased, consumed by the ever-turning wheel of time—no memory, no legacy, not even a whisper in the annals of history. The cruel passage of time had devoured all he had ever known.
"How very… unsettling."
Manon clicked his tongue, a sharp, impatient sound that echoed faintly in the still air. His gaze drifted to Fenric, scrutinising the monk's body with growing intrigue. Intricate runes—ancient yet unfamiliar, pulsing with a magic foreign to Manon's era- were etched across the man's arms and torso.
The designs, woven with care and power, spoke of a lineage and discipline he did not recognise, and that alone stirred a flicker of curiosity in the ancient warrior known as the Sky Spear. As the realisation settled in—that countless centuries had truly passed since the fall of his dynasty—Manon exhaled, long and slow, his breath laced with bitter indignation.
"How very… unsettling."
Manon repeated himself and lowered his spear. The action made the group think that he had given up and was ready to talk, but instead, the ancient man spoke carelessly:
"In this new world… what position would we occupy?"
"You will be my bridge for information," Manon spoke grimly. "Don't resist; otherwise, it would hurt a lot."
With renewed purpose, the Sky Spear set his sights on a grim objective—he would seize the four intruders and extract every ounce of knowledge they possessed. In his eyes, they were tools—living vessels of information about this strange, forgotten future.
And once he had wrung them dry, Manon saw no further use for them. They held no value to the legacy of the Sekhmet Empire, nor to the slumbering Lord he still served.
Disposal would be swift and without hesitation.
But the warriors of Eldorin were not ones to surrender quietly. Manon would have to fight for them if he intended to take them.
Sensing the gravity of the situation, Eris sprang back, her hands already weaving intricate sigils in the air as she drew upon her mana. With a whisper to the veil beyond death, spectral wraiths materialised around her, shifting, ethereal figures cloaked in gloom. Simultaneously, skeletal warriors clawed their way from the shadows, each radiating a different intensity of magical energy, their hollow eyes glowing with unearthly light.
The air grew thick and oppressive, heavy with the stench of old magic and forgotten souls. What was once a silent crypt now brimmed with unnatural vitality. The catacombs pulsed with a new, dreadful energy—animated not by the living, but by the dead.
"The Death Witch plays tricks…"
Manon twirled his golden spear with lethal grace, the weapon slicing through the air with a metallic hum. He poised himself, muscles coiled, ready to lunge forward and incapacitate Eris in a decisive strike.
But before he could make his move, two blurs surged into motion—Gale and Adelia, flanking him like twin storms.
To Manon's left, Gale brandished his massive Zweihänder, Blue Tempest. A pale blue flame ignited along the blade's edge, then erupted into a blazing inferno as he summoned the full might of his power. His Three Suns—ancient, celestial forces—roared to life, pouring raw energy into his weapon. The very ground trembled beneath the weight of his fury.
At his right, Adelia moved with precision and grace, her rapier Argent Sun flashing like moonlight on steel. She, too, summoned her Three Suns—one bursting with overwhelming power, the other radiating blinding speed. The dual forces wove together in deadly harmony, striking in perfect rhythm with her partner.
Together, they created a pincer of blazing might and dazzling finesse, leaving Manon with no room to counter, only to defend.
Yet even as the ancient warrior was driven into a corner, his golden spear raised to parry the onslaught, his composure never faltered. Instead, a smile curled across his lips—slow, amused, and almost... eager.
With a single, fluid spin of his golden spear, Manon effortlessly deflected the combined assault of Gale and Adelia, sending them hurtling backwards through the air. The manoeuvre was executed with such precision and control that it seemed less like combat and more like a demonstration—an unmistakable display of absolute mastery.
In that fleeting moment, it became painfully clear: Manon's prowess in martial arts was leagues beyond anyone in the chamber.
But that didn't deter Fenric. Without hesitation, the runic monk surged forward, arcane sigils flaring to life across his skin. As he launched into the fray, the rune for strength lit up across his fist, while speed shimmered along his leg.
The opposing energies coalesced into a devastating strike, his body honed into the perfect vector of power and precision. His punch soared forward, just inches from Manon's chest.
But the Sky Spear did not flinch. With a subtle pivot of his foot, Manon shifted his weight and delivered a swift, brutal roundhouse kick directly into Fenric's side. The impact cracked through the air like thunder. The monk was launched dozens of meters back, his body crashing into the stone with bone-jarring force.
Only the rune of defence, which glowed faintly across his torso, saved him from suffering fatal internal injuries.
Still, the damage was done.
Three warriors—each formidable in their own right—had fallen in mere moments. Manon stood unscathed, not out of luck, but through sheer, overwhelming superiority.
The gap between them was not just wide—it was insurmountable.
The only one still conscious, Eris surged to her feet, her eyes blazing with fury and desperation. She unleashed her spectral wraiths with a cry that echoed through the catacombs, sending them hurtling toward Manon like vengeful phantoms.
At the same time, her skeletal warriors charged forward, bones rattling and weapons raised, driven by a righteous fury to protect their summoner from the ancient menace before them.
But Manon moved first.
With a measured motion, he raised his golden spear and struck its base against the stone floor. The impact echoed with a deep, resonant chime—not a sound of war, but of something older, something sacred.
It rang out like a funeral bell across the crypt. In an instant, the undead froze mid-charge. Their ghostly forms wavered, trembling as if bound by unseen chains. One by one, their spectral eyes, once glowing silver under Eris's command, shifted to a haunting gold, reflecting the will of a new master, or rather… their original master.
"Whose souls did you think you summoned, Death Witch?"
That was when Eris realised her mistake. They were in the crypts of the ancient dynasty, and any soul she summoned would be part of Manon's army. They immediately turned on Eris when they realised who they were about to fight, and held her down like a prisoner.
Manon casually swung his spear over his shoulder, and as it came to rest, the lethal tip shimmered and morphed, transforming seamlessly into a golden bell. Its surface pulsed faintly with an ancient, hypnotic glow.
A wave of unnatural drowsiness swept Eris like a heavy, inescapable tide. Her limbs trembled, her vision blurred, and sleep clawed at the edges of her mind. Through the haze, she saw Manon lower himself into a squat before her, calm and composed, as if time bowed to his presence.
"Don't worry, I won't kill you. If you are helpful, I may bestow upon you the honour of joining His Majesty's troops in our new age."
That was the last thing Eris saw as Manon covered her eyes with his cold, sturdy hand. And then, she thought:
'Amon, you bastard… That brat better save me or I'll haunt you when I'm dead.'