No! I don't want to be a Super Necromancer!

They came in silence, not one voice among the horde.

Only the steady thunder of their footstomps, the grind of bone against rusted armor, the unnatural rhythm of claws raking through dirt and ash, filling the air.

But not all among them were ordinary undead.

At the heart of his army marched thirty resurrected S-Rank beasts, monsters that had once taken entire battalions to bring down.

Now, they moved in perfect formation, eyes burning with pale violet light. Their roars had died with their bodies, but their hatred lived on, reborn in service of a darker master.

They were no longer just corpses. They were relics of slaughter perfected by death.

Damien had long upgraded his Lesser Revive into a true Undead Resurrection, able to return elite creatures at 80% of their original strength, with intelligence and instinct mostly restored.

And among the thirty, three reigned supreme.

Frostmourne, the Demon Ice Wolf.

A hulking titan of muscle and jagged ice, taller than a tank and draped in a mane of frozen mist. Its breath froze mana in the air. Its footsteps turned soil into permafrost.

Once, it had slain two S-Ranked Chinese Generals single-handedly. Now, it led the Palefang Host, undead predators tearing across the white plains with terrifying speed, their fangs glinting like crystal daggers.

Sythrix, the Winged Bone Serpent.

A monstrous wyrm whose wings spanned over fifty meters, its skeletal form wrapped in necrotic membranes pulsing with flickering runes. Its flight cast shadows the size of buildings. Its venom had once melted steel.

Now, it soared above its Deathwind Flight, a legion of aerial undead beasts, bats, drakes, and shadowbirds raining decay from above.

Veyraxis, the Horrorback Widow.

A grotesque, obsidian spider with legs longer than trees and a venomous core that pulsed like a dying star. Her carapace was jagged and slick with poison, and her shrieks fractured lesser minds.

She led the Venom Brood, a crawling tide of undead insects, many still bearing the ruptured shells of their natural deaths.

The three armies surged into the northern forests from different flanks, enveloping the beastlands like fingers of an incoming plague.

The clash was instant.

Beast shrieks tore through the air as they scrambled to form ranks, caught off guard by the speed and precision of the assault. Spells were cast. Claws slashed.

The forest ignited with fire and storm. Trees exploded into splinters. Mana lit up the sky in bursts of blue and red.

Frostmourne crashed through the eastern front like a living glacier forged in hatred. Every step froze the ground solid, trapping beast soldiers mid-sprint, locking their legs in blocks of ice before his jaws closed around their necks.

He slammed his tail into the ground, sending a surge of frost that shattered a dozen beastlings into glittering fragments.

One of the flame-scaled brutes lunged at him, mouth glowing with magma.

Frostmourne opened his own, released a breath of glacial mana so cold it crystallized the enemy's heart mid-roar, then crushed its skull with a casual snap of his jaws.

He didn't slow.

He tore through the next wave with reckless grace, limbs moving faster than something his size should have allowed. He decapitated a rhino-horned charger with a swipe of his claw, then turned and skewered a mantid beast through the thorax with an ice spike from his shoulder.

Every motion was efficient. Every kill clean.

Sythrix swooped down from the clouded sky like death wrapped in bone and lightning. He dove through enemy flight formations with surgical precision, spinning mid-air as his tail lanced through the necks of two wyverns in a single strike.

With a beat of his wings, he unleashed a gale of death energy that ruptured the internal organs of everything it touched. Bat beasts fell from the sky in droves, twitching and shrieking as their nerves withered into mush.

He rose, turned, and dove again.

This time, he spiraled into the heart of a beast mage squad, snapping jaws filled with acidic saliva that burned through spell-shields like paper. The casters screamed. None of them finished their chants.

Above, he crackled with stored lightning and then released it in a blast that lit the entire forest canopy on fire.

Veyraxis, meanwhile, did not move quickly.

She didn't need to.

She crawled through the northern flank like a slow-moving catastrophe, her bulk crushing trees as if they were weeds. The beasts tried to flee at first, then realized too late that her venom had already soaked the earth. Their paws slipped. Their legs burned. Eyes turned blind.

Then she struck.

She impaled a leaping beast commander with two front legs, lifted it high into the air as it screamed, and sprayed its writhing form with a fine mist of liquefied toxin. It disintegrated mid-scream.

She spun, dragging her rear legs through a crowd of panicked infantry, cutting them down in waves. Smaller spiderlings, her revived swarm, spilled from her abdomen and tore into the retreating flanks, biting, poisoning, exploding.

Every step she took made the forest more silent.

Each of the three led their forces like generals born in death, methodical, merciless, intelligent.

Thousands of awakened beasts fell in minutes. Their leaders screamed for retreat only to be silenced by tail strikes, frost breath, or acid bursts.

The undead were tireless. They didn't fear pain. And they followed Damien's intent with terrifying precision.

The battlefield had become a canvas.

And death… was the brush.

Damien drifted high above the battlefield, arms folded behind his back, death mana swirling around him like a flowing mantle. His eyes were calm, unblinking, watching the chaos unfold below.

He floated forward slowly, each movement effortless, as if gravity no longer had claim over him.

The wind twisted around him unnaturally, dragging ash and mana like ribbons in his wake. A faint crown of dark light flickered above his head, the mark of a sovereign who needed no throne.

And Damien watched.

Unmoved. Unforgiving. Unstoppable.

The forest would not survive his vengeance.

Then… something shifted.

A tremor rolled through the trees.

It was not magical, but physical.

Weight. Mass. Intent.

Something ancient and colossal stirred at the edge of the northern ridge.