Low-Fantasy Occultist

Nick had always known that Gaelen had been harboring a lot of malice. He had to have forged such a blade, and even his purification couldn’t have done much to weaken it.

Yet even he was surprised by what happened when it all came out at once.

The years of accumulated darkness from betrayal and the destruction of his House, the despair at seeing his family home profaned, and the raw anger at seeing so many of their people killed or turned had all pooled within the blade and were finally finding release.

Black veins spiderwebbed across Ephor’s neck and face in a matter of seconds, stark against his pale skin. The tainted magic devoured him from the inside out, eating his organs, his muscles, and his bones with ravenous speed. It was, after all, a curse meant for him, and him alone. Brewed and coaxed for over a decade, nurtured into something useful even beyond its scope, but always angry about it.

Now, it sang.

Ephor’s mouth opened wide, pulling in a breath that produced no sound. His eyes, which had burned with power just moments before, turned a dull gray as more and more of himself was devoured.

The man had been powerful; there was no doubt about it, but even being a Prestige class had its limits, and he’d hit them a long time ago, sustained only by his patron’s will and by the Forge.

With those gone, there was little he could do to counter such malice, having already spent his own power in the ritual.

Gaelen twisted the dagger once, severing the last threads of the Patriarch's life, then ripped it free.

Ephor Ultimer went still, and his body sagged against the altar, reduced to a hollow husk.

CONGRATULATIONS!

You have participated in the defeat of [Ephor Ultimer, Patriarch of those who Carve - Level 149]

+3,450,000 Exp

The notification chimed in Nick’s mind. The sum of experience was astronomical, a reward for toppling one of the North’s most dangerous men. Yet as Nick glanced at his status, the progress toward the next level was still insufficient, though he was close. The scaling had shifted fundamentally. He was swimming in a much deeper ocean now.

A sharp clatter echoed as Gaelen dropped his dagger. He stumbled back, his boots skidding on the grating, before his knees buckled.

He hit the floor hard, gasping for air. His face was the color of chalk, and a violent tremor shook his frame. Releasing the curse, especially with his body still expending vital energy to knit the flesh of his shoulder together, had exacted a toll. Dark magic demanded a price for every act, and its fulfillment most of all.

Rhea was beside him in a moment, her soothing mana washing over him and helping his body resist the shock.

"Just rest," she whispered, her voice tight with worry. "It is over. He is gone.”

Once he was sure Gaelen wasn’t about to die, Nick turned his attention from the siblings to the center of the room.

Rosmaria stood still for several long moments, eyes unseeing, until she let out a slow breath as a signal echoed back from the Forge—probably confirmation that Ephor was truly gone. The glowing blue runes etched into her exoskeleton slowly dimmed as she powered down the combat systems. Pneumatic joints hissed, venting plumes of white vapor into the air.

She leaned against the altar, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Nick watched her carefully. The adrenaline and sheer, unadulterated spite that had sustained the Matriarch. Without the burning need for vengeance driving her failing heart, the years caught up with her. Her skin seemed thinner, the lines around her amber eyes carving deeper into her face. She looked impossibly frail, a ghost haunting her own machinery.

Slowly, she reached out with a trembling hand and brushed a smear of soot from the altar, her fingers tracing the ancestral engravings.

Nick knew she was on borrowed time; he knew it with the same certainty he knew the sky was blue. The unbinding of her soul, the trauma of the battle, and the culmination of her life’s singular purpose had left nothing but embers. She would survive long enough to see the ink dry on the treaties restoring her grandchildren’s rights. Perhaps a few weeks. No longer.

"We are home," Rosmaria whispered, her voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the cooling Forge.

She turned her head, fixing her tired eyes on Nick, and gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment. A debt was owed, and a promise was kept.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from NovelPhoenix. Please report it.

Though he hadn’t done it for her, Nick returned the nod. He stepped closer and extended his arm to help Gaelen, who leaned heavily on him, to stand.

His armor was covered in a fine layer of frost, he noticed idly. Must be a consequence of the curse’s release. I might have to examine him once this is all said and done. I wouldn’t want to leave him afflicted by anything.

Not that he would trust himself to handle the delicate work of manipulating souls at the moment, but hopefully, in a few days, he’d be back in full control of his power.

"Let us go to the surface," Nick said calmly, though he was still tense inside. “We need to finish securing the estate, and the battle is still raging outside.”

They made their way out of the chamber and to the service lift, and Nick was surprised to find that the descent lines had been repaired by the Forge the moment Rosmaria reclaimed her authority. The doors slid shut behind them, sealing the chamber away, and the platform began its smooth ascent.

During the ride, Nick took a moment to focus inward. His soul had reached a new level of stability during his rank-up. Rather than a crystal Geode, it now took the shape of his whole body, filling every inch of his flesh with its light. The chaotic, surging currents of mana he had fought to control during the battle with Ephor were finally calming.

It’s still too hazy, though. I need to wait before drawing any conclusions.

More interestingly, [Eidolon of the Formless] offered a fundamentally altered relationship with mana. He could tell that the elements would answer his call without the need for spellforms now, at least in their basic expressions, and, more importantly, his spiritual magics would come much more easily, as his very existence was now an actualization of his soul.

Every iota of mana rushing through him was automatically colored by everything he was, making it very easy indeed to alter at will.

Do I even have coils anymore? I can feel mana rushing through the old channels, but when I look, there is nothing there to hold it.

It was somewhat discomfiting to find himself so changed without his knowledge, but he assumed that with the elevation of his existence, he was no longer in need of the metaphysical equivalent of veins. His entire body was a conduit for mana.

Breathing in, he applied [Sovereign’s Parsimony], drawing his aura in tight against his skin, ensuring he would not affect the world simply by existing.

It was something he’d have to get used to, so he thought it’d be better to get started as soon as possible, no matter how much he itched to be so confined.

The lift chimed, the doors parted, and they stepped onto the ground floor of the Elpen Manor, emerging into a scene of pure chaos.

The opulent hallways were a warzone. Expensive tapestries smoldered, filling the air with acrid smoke. Smashed porcelain, splintered wood, and shattered glass crunched beneath their boots. The bodies of Ultimer guards and Black Hound mercenaries lay tangled together in pools of drying blood. The sounds of violence still echoed through the estate.

Nick could hear the crash of overturned furniture, the shouts of men prying gems from the walls, and the occasional sharp scream from a dying defender. The Black Hounds were claiming their spoils.

He led the group through the corridors toward the grand foyer, where he could feel the strongest presences, avoiding the worst of the fighting.

They stepped through the shattered remains of the entrance doors and out into the courtyard's biting cold.

The snow was black with ash and blood. Inside the walls, the mercenaries were running wild. Squads of men were hauling crates of silver, enchanted weapons, and fine silks out of the manor’s side entrances.

The Elpens might have protested, but they knew this was the Ultimers’ wealth, as their own had been taken long ago.

Outside the smashed gates, however, an uneasy calm had descended.

A wall of polished silver shields formed an unbroken perimeter around the estate’s entrance. The Duke’s Silver Falcons had finally moved in and now stood in disciplined, silent ranks, awaiting a command.

They neither attacked the mercenaries nor provided aid. Instead, they focused on containing the chaos, likely to enforce the Duke’s claim as the city’s protector.

As expected, but they were quicker than I thought. They must have some scarily good sensor to be able to move in the moment Ephor died.

Commander Varg stood near the ruined gates, resting his axe on his shoulder. His armor was grimy and streaked with blood, like night to the day, of the untouched silver plates of the Falcon knights standing just yards away.

Varg was engaged in a tense, low-voiced argument with a tall, stern-faced man wearing a spotless silver cloak.

As Nick and the Elpens approached, a squad of five Black Hounds spotted them.

The mercenaries were clearly drunk on adrenaline and victory. They saw the fine clothes beneath Gaelen’s ruined armor, the frail old woman, and the unarmed young man leading them, and their eyes lit up at the prospect of high-value ransoms or easy plunder.

One of them, a burly man with a fresh cut across his cheek, raised a loaded crossbow and leveled it at Gaelen’s chest. "Hold it right there, highborn! Empty your pockets and drop your rings, or I'll pin you to the door!”

Nick stopped at the bottom of the steps and had to suppress a sigh of exasperation. Will these people ever learn?

Still, he directed a look at the group, letting just a hint of his displeasure echo through the ether.

The pressure in the courtyard ratcheted up. The air froze, and a terrible weight began pressing down on the would-be thieves.

The mercenary with the crossbow choked as the weapon slipped from his hands, falling into the snow. He fell to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat, suddenly finding the air too thick to breathe. The four men beside him stumbled backward, dropping their swords, their eyes wide with primal panic.

Nick pulled the sliver of power back before it could kill them, uninterested in unnecessary bloodshed. The mercenaries collapsed, gasping, scrambling backward on their hands and knees to get away from the steps.

At the gates, the argument between the commanders ceased as both turned toward him.

Varg’s eyes met Nick’s, and after a long moment of tension, he threw his head back and howled with laughter.

His glee was such that his voice shook the ground, halting any attempt by his men to aid their fellows.

“I know them,” he finally said, after recovering his wits. “Leave them be.”

The Silver Falcon commander mirrored the reaction, raising a mailed fist. Behind the shield wall, three dozen archers who had reflexively nocked their arrows at the shift in the air immediately lowered their bows.

The man then stepped past the ruined gates, and Varg matched his pace, keeping a careful distance from the knight.

They approached the steps, stopping ten paces away from Nick.

The tension in the courtyard was thick enough to cut with a blade. The looting inside the manor slowed as the silence outside spread, and mercenaries crept to the windows to watch the confrontation.

"I am Commander Georg of the Silver Falcons," the knight said, his tone measured and respectful. "Duke Mordhau extends his regards, Lord Crowley.”

“Pah! You waited until the walls fell and the blood was spilled before entering the fray, Georg," Varg grunted, crossing his arms over his battered chestplate. He looked at Nick, his gaze knowing. "The contract is fulfilled, and the Ultimer garrison is broken. We will claim the spoils as agreed.”

Nick looked between the two veteran commanders. They were canny, sensible men. They had both felt the raw edge of his Prestige aura, and though they were older and more experienced, neither was foolish enough to test him without knowing more about his abilities.

Before Nick could speak, however, a ripple echoed through the ether, and he knew they were about to have company.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!