Years passed — anything but peacefully — as Alazaar's curiosity drove him to constantly experiment, teach, and push Lucien further.
Every day of Lucien's new life was a test. A lesson. An experiment.
Alazaar—the lich who had pulled him from the wreckage and named him—did not treat Lucien like a child. He treated him like a phenomenon. A riddle. A living thesis.
"You are not the first with power," he had once said, "but you are the first whose soul is built to shape it."
And so, for nearly four years, Alazaar observed. Prodded. Taught. Watched.
---
Lucien now moved through the Underspire's corridors in a bone-wrought wheelchair, constructed by Alazaar himself. Its frame was forged from skeletal remains—femurs and ribs bound with enchanted sinew, locked into place with black-silver runes. A faint hum of necrotic mana kept the whole thing stable as it rolled smoothly over the cryptstone floor.
His legs still hung limp. But the rest of him was evolving.
He could speak now, fluently.
He could channel mana.
And most importantly, he could use the Necroforge.
---
It had become a daily ritual.
But every creation still failed.
Lucien would spend hours crafting bone-crows, stitched rats, or skeletal hounds. The moment he activated them, they'd flicker—then crack, collapse, or explode into ash.
The problem wasn't his technique.
It was Alazaar.
Even across the room, the lich radiated pressure—soul weight so dense that Lucien's fledgling summons simply couldn't maintain coherence.
---
"Do not be discouraged, Lucien," Alazaar had said one evening, as a bone-drone disintegrated midair.
"It is not you who is weak, but them who cannot stand even my shadow."
---
Lucien wasn't frustrated. He was fascinated.
Every day, the constructs lasted a little longer. Some stood for seconds. Others managed minutes. Eventually, one skeletal bird flapped twice before unraveling.
Progress.
That was enough.
Success would come. And when it did, he would deserve it.
---
Lucien also spent time experimenting with the system itself.
He discovered commands — that he could whisper thoughts and activate panels. One afternoon, while Alazaar lectured with his back turned, Lucien quietly muttered:
"Inspect."
But before testing it on Alazaar, he looked inward.
---
[📋 [STATUS PANEL]
Name: Lucien Vaelthorn
Race: Human (Infant)
Class: None
Age: 4
Condition: Stable – Paralysis: Waist Down
HP: 16 / 16
Mana: 680 / 680
Stats:
CON – 1
STR – 1
DEX – 0
INT – 33 (+13 bonus)
WIS – 9
CHA – 7
*Stat development in progress — physical and mental growth not yet stabilized.*
Soul Points: 85
Traits: Mana Fiend • Magic Prodigy • Eidetic Memory • Scion of the Necroline Darkness Affinity • Blood Manipulation • Necroforge
Negative Traits: Bound to the Chair • Glass Body • Cursed Bloodline
Notes:
- Spell damage increased by 3.3%
- Summon Slots Available: 4
- MP regeneration moderately accelerated due to Mana Fiend
"Your mana capacity exceeds recorded thresholds for your race and age."
Lucien smiled to himself.
He was proud. And he had earned it.
Then he looked up at Alazaar.
And whispered:
"Inspect."
---
[Status – ???]
Name: Alazaar
Race: Undead (Archlich – Unique Class)
Level: ???
HP: 8,000,000
MP: 15,000,000
Traits: Soulbound Scholar, Eternal Undead, Forbidden Reservoir, Mana Cascade
Stats:
CON: 1500
STR: 1000
DEX: 900
INT: 9000
WIS: 9000
CHA: –
Disposition: Neutral – Investigative
⚠️ Warning: This entity's soul signature exceeds your comprehension.
⚠️ Further data restricted.
Advice: Do not antagonize.
Lucien nearly choked.
He had just been proud of 680 mana.
Now he realized… he lived with something that could erase a continent.
"You are being watched."
Lucien immediately dismissed the screen.
Alazaar didn't turn. Didn't say a word.
But the air around him shifted.
Lucien sat quietly in his chair and thought one thing:
Bone daddy is not to be messed with.
---
The next morning, Alazaar resumed his endless lessons as they glided through the lower crypts.
"Myrid," he said, "is not a world. It is an accident. Too much mana in one place. It should have imploded long ago."
Lucien's wheelchair creaked softly behind him. He listened closely.
"There were once dozens of gods," Alazaar said. "Now only three remain."
---
Remelus, God of Order.
"Steel. Flame. Purity. His followers destroy what they cannot control."
Irella, Goddess of the Night.
"Shadow. Mercy. Secrets. Her faithful work unseen, in death and beyond it."
Typhus, the Mad Demon.
"Ruin. Rebirth. Madness. His cults break the world to remake it."
---
Lucien echoed, "The factions came from them."
"List them," Alazaar instructed.
---
Factions of Myrid
Order Faction – Priests, paladins, and arcane regulators. Enforce structure. Purge the unstable.
Dark Faction – Necromancers, witches, and veilwalkers. Serve Irella in silence and power.
Chaotic Faction – Warlocks, wildbloods, cursed mutants. Follow Typhus. Burn all else.
"And beyond those?" Alazaar prompted.
Lucien answered without pause. "The remnants."
"Good. The last spawn of long-dead gods. Forgotten, scattered, dangerous."
---
Alazaar continued his lecture on the gods and the fractured world of Myrid.
Lucien listened, wheels humming softly beneath him as the bone-chair carried him forward.
Then a thought struck him. Simple. Curious.
"This body was born into this world… but which faction do I belong to?"
"Master Alazaar," he said, "what god do I belong to?"
The lich slowed.
Turned.
"I wondered that the day I found you," he said. "Your carriage bore the crest of House Vaelthorn — nobles of the Dark Faction. Necromancer lineage. Old blood."
He leaned closer, voice dipping to a pensive whisper.
"But your soul... your soul does not."
He knelt, studying Lucien's face as if peering past the skin.
"And that," he said, "is what makes you dangerous."