The chest creaked open slowly, hinges groaning like they hadn’t moved in a decade.

  Alistair braced for something wild. A weapon. A cursed scroll. Another vial of weird liquid he’d need therapy to drink.

  What he found instead… was a rock.

  Or at least, it looked like one.

  A gemstone sat nestled inside the cloth-lined box. Palm-sized. Dull and uneven, with tiny fractures running across its surface like veins on aged marble. Faint light pulsed from within, slow, steady. Like it was breathing. Like it was alive.

  Alistair blinked. “That’s it?”

  He blinked, leaned closer.

  The glow pulsed again.

  Alive, but barely.

  “That’s not a sword,” he muttered.

  He picked it up carefully.

  Warm to the touch.

  He turned it over. Still nothing. No runes. No slot. No activation whisper. Just the same slow, internal flicker of light.

  A notification chimed.

  [Item Acquired: Heart of the Hollow Crown]

  Rarity: Epic

  Type: Artifact – Inert

  Description: A cracked gemstone pulsing with ancient authority. Once used to bind loyalty and shape will, it now sleeps.

  Effect: None

  Status: Dormant

  Lore: “In the age before titles, before borders, before names etched into stone, there were hearts of rule, not worn, but held. Bound not to people, but to land, to spirit, to legacy. Few remain. Fewer awaken.”

  Alistair read the screen again, slower this time.

  “Well. That’s ominous. Can’t just give me a nice helmet.”

  He turned the gem in his hand. Still no runes. Still no explanation. Just that faint internal glow, flickering like a heartbeat under glass.

  Behind him, Kaelren made a satisfied grunt.

  Alistair held up the Heart.

  Kaelren looked at it. Squinted. Tilted his head.

  “That’s a rock.”

  Alistair sighed. “Epic rock, apparently.”

  Kaelren shrugged. “Well, don’t throw it. Might grow legs.”

  He turned to Kaelren. “Any ideas?”

  Kaelren peered at it. “I think it’s haunted.”

  “That’s fair.”

  He turned the gem in his hand, watching the sputtering heartbeat under glass.

  “Guess I’m keeping it.”

  Behind him came the unmistakable wet crunch of something being pried off a corpse.

  Alistair winced.

  “Lovely.”

  The sounds continued, dull slicing, a squelch, something that sounded like bone popping.

  Kaelren muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  Alistair didn’t turn around.

  “Of course he’s enjoying himself.”

  He looked back at the gemstone, expression unreadable.

  He didn’t know what the [Heart of the Hollow Crown] did.

  Didn’t know how to use it.

  Didn’t even know why it was in the Arena.

  But he felt something.

  Not power.

  Not danger.

  Purpose.

  “Hey,” Kaelren called. “Give me a hand with this.”

  Alistair didn’t even look up from the [Heart of the Hollow Crown] in his palm. “I’d rather not.”

  The crunch of wet flesh continued. Kaelren made a disgusted grunt.

  Alistair sighed, stood up, put the heart into his pouch and walked over.

  The Wraithpanther’s body was a mess. Its crystalline back plates were partially pried open, glistening with blood and something that definitely wasn’t blood. Kaelren was elbow-deep in it, muttering to himself as he worked his blade under the remaining plates.

  Alistair crouched beside him.

  The smell hit first.

  Then the hunger.

  Sharp. Fast. His gums itched. His fangs pressed forward without permission.

  Kaelren didn’t look up.

  “Dude,” he said flatly. “Put those away.”

  Alistair grimaced. “Sorry. Fighting does things to my appetite.”

  Kaelren scowled. “Well, I’m not on the menu.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Relax. You’re too stringy.”

  “Say that again and I’ll use a Gravebark on you.”

  They kept working in silence. The plates came free one at a time, heavy, dark, and slick with faintly glowing veins of crystal. Eventually, they had them all stacked beside the corpse.

  Kaelren sat back and exhaled. “Since you’ve got a spirit guide and all, mind checking if these are actually worth anything?”

  Alistair nodded and focused.

  [Item Identified: Wraithpanther Spine Plates]

  Rarity: Epic

  Type: Crafting Material

  Description: Reinforced crystalline armor plates, naturally resistant to both physical and magical impact.

  Bonus Trait: When used in crafting, may imbue item with Shadow Resilience or Phasing properties depending on forge method.

  Alistair whistled. “Epic rarity. Crafting material. Could give a gear piece special shadow traits if forged right.”

  Kaelren’s eyes lit up. “Nice.”

  Then his expression fell. “Shame we’ll have to break them up to carry them.”

  Alistair blinked. “Why would we do that?”

  Kaelren gave him a look. “Because they’re the size of a medium-sized dog. What are we supposed to do, tie them to our backs?”

  Alistair smirked.

  Then, in full view, he picked up the top plate and casually slipped it into thin air.

  Kaelren’s jaw dropped.

  “Where the hell did that go?”

  “Dimensional pouch,” Alistair said, loading the next one. “Got it off a naiad yesterday.”

  Kaelren stared at him like he’d just said he could turn water into ale. “You lucky bastard.”

  Alistair grinned. “Guess Tychos, the god of luck, likes me.”

  Kaelren muttered something that sounded like a prayer. Or a threat. Possibly both.

  [5x Wraithpanther Spine Plates stored in Dimensional Pouch]

  Alistair closed the pouch shut and exhaled. The plates were heavy, but not nearly as much as the anxiety starting to build in his chest.

  The sun was climbing. Shadows shortening. Midday wasn’t far.

  And they still didn’t have medallions.

  Kaelren stood beside him, scanning the treeline. “We need to move.”

  Alistair nodded. “Time’s running out.”

  Neither of them said what came next if they didn’t find one.

  “We hunt?” Kaelren asked.

  “Champions, medallions, loot drops, I don’t care. If it glows or bleeds, I’m interested.”

  They started moving, jogging at a steady pace. The terrain shifted, trees thinning, roots giving way to gravel and sharp stone. The ground rose gently beneath their feet.

  That’s when they heard it.

  The clash of steel.

  Shouts. A scream.

  Then silence.

  They reached a ridge and crouched low behind an outcropping.

  Below, in a rocky clearing, five champions moved through the wreckage of a battle. Three bodies lay twisted in the dust, broken and bloody. The victors were looting, quick, efficient, silent.

  Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

  Kaelren whispered, “Can we take them?”

  Alistair hesitated. He could feel the power humming through his veins. The glow of [Lightform] sat just beneath his skin, dormant, burning to be used.

  “Maybe,” he muttered. “With Lightform… maybe. But it’d be a gamble.”

  Then he saw it.

  A medallion, glinting around the neck of one of the looters.

  Kaelren shifted beside him, but before Alistair could speak, the elf’s eyes went wide.

  “What is it...”

  The ground below erupted with shouting.

  Alistair spun just as corpses began to rise.

  The three dead champions stood on shaking legs, unnatural and jerky, then still.

  From behind a jagged boulder, a figure emerged.

  Black robes.

  Eyes hollow.

  And a medallion hanging proudly from his neck.

  “Necromancer,” Alistair hissed.

  The same one from yesterday.

  Two more risen champions stood behind him, like trophies on parade.

  He raised his hand, fingers curled inwards, and spoke a single word in a language that scraped at the ears.

  Purple energy exploded from his palm, latching onto the undead.

  They straightened. Their limbs snapped into formation. Their eyes glowed with purpose.

  And they moved.

  Faster. Sharper. Focused.

  Kaelren whispered, “That’s a problem.”

  “That’s the understatement of the day.”

  The clearing exploded into chaos.

  Steel met bone with a thunderous crash as the five living champions surged forward to meet the risen.

  No hesitation.

  No mercy.

  A bearded axeman roared and brought his weapon down in a two-handed arc, cleaving into the shoulder of a zombie clad in shredded leather. The blow would’ve killed any living warrior.

  It didn’t slow the corpse.

  The zombie twisted unnaturally, bones cracking, and drove a rusted short blade into the man’s thigh.

  He screamed.

  To the side, a robed spellcaster, probably wind-aligned, whirled her staff and shouted something guttural.

  A blast of compressed air ripped across the clearing, sending dust and rock flying. One of the undead was thrown back but landed on its feet, knees bending wrong, spine flexing like it had no limits.

  Arrows flew.

  A ranger with a red cloak fired two in quick succession, one striking a zombie’s arm, the other buried in its knee.

  No effect.

  The corpse kept moving, dragging a battered longsword in a slow, arcing path as it advanced.

  Then fire.

  A brawler in scorched armor clapped his fists together, and his arms erupted in flame. He charged in, fists glowing, and delivered a burning uppercut that snapped a zombie’s jaw clean off.

  The body staggered but didn’t fall.

  [Ability Detected: Ember Gauntlets – Passive Enhancement Active]

  From the outcrop, Alistair could see it clearly now.

  The necromancer stood unmoving behind his minions. One hand lifted lazily. The other holding a twisted staff, topped with something bone-white and cracked.

  Dark energy swirled around him. He spoke no words but his mouth moved constantly.

  His fingers twitched, and a pulse of purple light surged into the zombies.

  They moved faster.

  More precisely.

  Coordinated.

  “He’s buffing them,” Alistair said under his breath. “He’s not even trying to fight. He’s conducting.”

  Kaelren crouched beside him, watching through narrowed eyes.

  “They’re in trouble.”

  The wind mage was the first to fall. One of the zombies blinked forward unnaturally, its body snapped mid-air, phasing from one spot to another, and sank its blade into her side.

  She screamed. A burst of wind threw the corpse back but too late.

  She collapsed.

  “That’s Blinkstep,” Alistair muttered. “Who gave zombies mobility skills?”

  Another champion tried to pull her back only to be intercepted by two of the undead. They moved like a pair of synchronized predators. Efficient. Cold.

  The axeman limped forward, trying to protect his group, his leg still bleeding from the earlier strike.

  Another purple pulse.

  One of the zombies glowed and exploded in speed.

  It dropped to all fours and lunged.

  Teeth snapped around the axeman’s throat.

  The clearing filled with sound. Screams. Steel. Bones breaking.

  Magic flashing through the haze.

  And all the while the necromancer watched.

  Unmoving.

  Untouched.

  Unsmiling.

  The last scream faded, choked off by a gurgle and the thud of a body hitting stone.

  The clearing was still.

  Five living champions now lay dead, scattered, broken, bloodied. Their weapons abandoned. Their armor cracked. Smoke still rose from scorched wounds.

  The necromancer remained untouched.

  He raised his hand, and the ground shimmered again.

  [Necromancy Spell Detected – Raise Servant (Advanced Variant)]

  Purple light coursed through the corpses.

  One by one, the dead stirred.

  Legs jerked. Arms twitched.

  They rose, silent, mechanical, without hesitation.

  Except for one.

  The brawler.

  His body, torn and seared by fire, made it halfway upright… then collapsed again, face-first in the dirt.

  Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “Too damaged.”

  The other four stood fully, heads lolling slightly.

  The unnatural sharpness from before, the sudden bursts of coordination and speed, was gone.

  Now they moved with the classic zombie gait. Jerky. Off-tempo. Lifeless, but functional.

  They turned.

  Walked, no, shuffled toward the necromancer.

  And began stripping.

  Armor. Weapons. Satchels.

  One by one, they laid it all at his feet.

  The medallion came last, unhooked from a bloody neck and handed over like a tribute.

  Kaelren’s voice was low.

  “That is one scary bastard.”

  Alistair nodded slowly.

  He watched the necromancer pocket the medallion, sling a new satchel over one shoulder, and shift the strange bone-topped staff in his grip.

  “He’s got new gear,” Alistair muttered. “Didn’t have that yesterday.”

  Kaelren narrowed his eyes. “So he’s looting what he kills through his zombies.”

  “No. Worse,” Alistair said. “He’s stockpiling.”

  The necromancer turned and walked away, his undead flock trailing behind him in single file, silent, obedient.

  No words spoken.

  No glance back.

  Just... gone.

  Alistair exhaled slowly.

  “Good news,” he said. “His zombies don’t last long. Yesterday he had a different set.”

  Kaelren looked at him.

  “And the bad news?”

  Alistair stared at the empty clearing.

  “He’s fucking powerful.”

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