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

Damien turned his head slightly and cast his gaze deep into the heart of the forest.

And then he saw it.

The King of the Northern Beast Kingdom stepped into view, smashing trees aside as if they were reeds.

It was a Great Razorback Wyrm.

A grotesque, towering hybrid of dragon and ape, its body was coiled with dense muscle and plated with jagged obsidian scales.

Long, bony wings hung from its back like tattered sails, twitching with barely restrained violence. Its maw split open across a snout lined with metal-hard tusks, and a mane of red-black fur streaked down its spine.

Mana oozed from its body in visible waves… Raw, primal and malevolent.

It was bigger than Damien had expected.

And judging by the cunning glint in its serpentine eyes, smarter, too.

The beast king's golden eyes locked with Damien's, burning with fury and disdain. Its mouth curled into a snarl.

"You filth-born sorcerer," the Beast King snarled, its voice a guttural blend of language and primal roar. "You desecrate the dead. You twist the natural order. You think your rot can win against my warriors?"

The Great Razorback Wyrm raised one clawed hand and drove it into the ground with a thunderous crack that sent a tremor across the battlefield.

Twelve flares of mana erupted around him like sunbursts, their light igniting the bloodied air.

"Come forth, my Generals," the Wyrm commanded, voice thundering through the forest. "Rid our kingdom of this rotten army!"

Four monstrous forms emerged from the smoke and trees, each one a legend in its own right.

The Four Dreadlords of the North.

Behind each of them, the forest split as if in mourning, and the beast horde emerged.

Over a million strong, they were the heart and soul of the Northern Beast Kingdom.

For every undead that Damien commanded, the beasts brought ten. And these were not frenzied waves of wild creatures. These were armies. Disciplined, trained, and filled with fury.

The assault began like an avalanche.

Against Frostmourne and his Palefang Host, the Basilisk General's army advanced under a similar but more powerful storm of ice and frost.

With every hiss, spells flew. Sheets of freezing wind and jagged spears of solid mana that pierced undead skulls and shattered bone. Frostmourne's host of undead predators charged to meet them, but the sheer cold stole speed from their limbs and strength from their strikes.

In the sky, the Razorwing General's aerial forces dove from the clouds, talons glowing with elemental fire, lightning trailing their wings. They clashed with Sythrix's flight mid-air, sending chunks of bone and shadow spiraling to the forest floor. For every one beast that fell, three undead were ripped apart mid-air, burned by enchanted winds or blown to pieces by sonic pulses.

The Mantid Queen's swarm tore through the trees like a sawblade through silk. Her scythe-armed vanguard met Veyraxis' brood in a spinning dance of violence. Limbs clashed. Venom mixed with acid. But the mantids were faster, sharper, coordinated through a hive mind that responded faster than any scream.

The spiderlings fell in droves, impaled, sliced, gutted, as Veyraxis retreated deeper into the dying forest.

At the center, the Void Ape General teleported mid-leap into the heart of the Palefang Host and pincer attacked Frostmourne. It exploded with gravitational shockwaves, scattering undead like dry leaves. Feral beasts with dark-blade auras surged in behind him, tearing through the fractured line.

All across the battlefield, the undead began to falter.

They were durable, relentless, unfeeling machines of war.

But they were slower.

Their strength came in bursts, powerful but imprecise, often missing as the living beasts wove effortlessly around their blows.

Even with sharpened minds, they couldn't match the coordination, elemental fury, or sheer numbers of the beast legions.

The beasts struck with brutal precision.

No fear. No hesitation.

They had one purpose—eradicate the rot.

And they executed it with terrifying, ruthless efficiency.

From above, Damien watched in silence. Arms folded. Eyes still.

Below him, his undead forces fell by the thousands.

Ice shattered bone.

Fire vaporized limbs.

Sonic blasts tore through skulls like dry clay.

Exploding beast bodies collapsed entire formations into craters of ash.

His field tried to replenish what was lost—new undead rising from the corpses of beasts as fast as they dropped—but it wasn't enough.

The pace of destruction had outstripped his regeneration.

For the first time in a long time, the ground beneath Damien bled with more of his army than theirs.

Undead lay scattered in heaps. Bone and ash littered the burning fields. For every beast that fell, ten of his own had crumbled.

But Damien didn't flinch. He didn't panic.

His gaze moved slowly across the chaos, unblinking, calm. Violet light pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. His necromantic core burned with quiet hunger, drinking in the death energy of the fallen, deep, steady, bottomless.

Then, from across the battlefield, the Beast King's voice tore through the smoke, thick with contempt.

"So this is your great tide of death? A parade of brittle corpses, crumbling under real power?" It laughed, a sound like grinding stone.

"Come down, little necromancer. Or are you afraid to die and meet your own gods?"

Damien's lips curved into a thin, cold smile.

"Gods? I've already met them," he said, his voice soft and sharp as a blade unsheathed. "They bowed."

His eyes flared with violet fire.

Below him, the undead generals froze—Frostmourne mid-leap, Sythrix mid-turn in the sky, Veyraxis crouched in absolute stillness beneath a dying tree.

And then their blackened death cores began to churn.

Time and death energy twisted violently within them, spiraling in patterns not meant for the living to witness. Threads of chrono-mana and pure death essence coiled around each other like serpents in a pit, writhing with ancient hunger.

The space around their cores became distorted before finally shimmering into an ethereal orb.

It became a dimensional gate of sorts.

Unholy seals began to throb and slowly open, revealing what had always waited beneath.

Nine levels.

Nine descending tiers of damnation and power.

The Nine Hells of Undeath.

Each a prison. Each a crucible. Each a forge that hammered souls into demons.

Their cores pulsed once. Then again.

Then a third time—deep, thunderous, like war drums struck by the fists of fallen gods.

And from that final pulse, Damien whispered—quiet, cold, and absolute:

"Descend."