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

The Black Claw Matriarch leaned forward, shadows parting to reveal her colossal form. Her black scales shimmered like oil on water, and her eyes—twin eclipses—locked onto the lion standing below.

She stared for a long, heavy moment.

"You wield... Sovereign Flame," she finally said, her voice slow and cold. "Not borrowed. Not inherited. Not a stolen spark. You… remember it."

Askar lowered his paw. The flames vanished, but the air remained tense, the room still warped from the touch of his fire.

"I carry no illusion," he said, his voice steady. "I am not a Sovereign. Not yet. But I am Flame-Bound, chosen by the Will of the One Who Burned Empires."

The Matriarch's gaze narrowed further. "But how… Earth has not seen Sovereigns in a thousand thousand years."

"I do not know why I was chosen," Askar said. "But I have not come to beg. I represent the Flame Sovereign—and I come with purpose."

He raised his head, his voice deepening, echoing with strange resonance.

"I request your aid, Black Claw. The Flame Sovereign wills it. The dragons shall descend. Earth shall burn. We will sweep away the fractured powers of men, and claim what is owed. Join us… and rule beside us."

For a moment, silence.

Then a soft hiss of laughter slithered across the chamber, dry as ancient bones.

"You request the aid of dragons," the Matriarch said slowly, rising higher from her throne. "But you come as a messenger. A pawn. You are not yet a Sovereign."

Her wings flared, blotting out half the chamber. Darkness rippled outward—no longer just shadow, but presence, dense and suffocating.

"You dare to command us in the name of Flame?" she said, and her voice reverberated with something deeper. Older. "You think you are the only one with a Sovereign watching?"

Askar's eyes widened. His instincts flared.

The darkness around the Matriarch surged—coalescing, warping, twisting into impossible shapes. Not illusion. Not magic. Something beyond comprehension. Something sovereign.

"I am the Claw of Shadow," she said, her voice now layered with a second tone. "Touched by the Sovereign of Darkness. Do not mistake politeness for weakness."

The hall pulsed with power. Ancient runes hidden in the walls ignited. Some of the younger dragons dropped their heads in reverence, unable to withstand the pressure.

Askar's eyes burned. His jaw clenched.

"I will be back," he growled. "And when I return, I will not be alone."

He turned and left, the flames of his mane still whispering along the floor behind him.

And then the vision ended.

Damien stumbled back, heart pounding. The echo of Sovereign power still throbbed faintly in his skull.

But worse was the realization that followed.

Askar had left without a war. But if he returned… and saw the undead Damien now commanded, saw the whispers of death stitched into the battlefield, the resurrection of beasts and monsters alike…

He would know.

He would know that the Death Sovereign had chosen someone too.

And that someone was already walking the Earth.

He turned to look at Blackie.

She simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like she'd just handed him a folder marked classified as hell.

Damien looked at her, mind spinning.

"Did he return after that?" he asked quietly.

Blackie gave a solemn shake of her head.

Damien said nothing. He just stood there, staring into space, the last fragments of memory fading from his vision.

Because at that moment, he was reviewing his own status window.

At the very top, written in clear, unwavering text:

[Welcome, Damien Bloodbane, Sovereign of Death]

Sovereign of Death.

Not Acolyte.

Not Vessel.

Not Chosen.

Not any title that implied he was serving something greater.

But the title itself.

The Sovereign.

Damien's throat felt dry. He opened and closed his fingers slowly, watching the faint mist of death mana ripple along his palm.

He had often thought of himself as the Sovereign of Death simply because it was what the system called him.

He had found it cool, and quite fitting with the fact that he did control the dead by raising them into undeath.

But he had no idea that Sovereigns were so… Powerful. And Exalted.

"Blackie," he said softly. "How deep was your clan's involvement with… the Sovereign of Darkness?"

She met his gaze, calm and unreadable, then slowly tilted her head. And pointed to her mouth.

Right. She still couldn't speak.

Damien gave a faint sigh, then raised his hand. With a casual gesture of will and a stream of refined death energy, he reshaped her tongue—forming a perfect, functioning one from threads of mana and life essence.

It shimmered once before settling.

Blackie blinked, then tested her mouth, closing and opening it slowly. And then, for the first time, she spoke.

Her voice was soft, haunting, and almost too beautiful to belong in a battlefield. It echoed like wind drifting through hollow crystal, smooth yet impossibly ancient.

"A long time ago," she said, each word careful, deliberate, "the dragons did not rule. We served. Proudly, silently. The Sovereign of Darkness did not ask for our worship. He did not command us to kneel. He simply... was. And we obeyed."

Rage Monkey, still in human form and picking at a mana crystal like a snack, grunted from nearby.

"Hmph. Haven't heard you speak so gently in centuries." He glanced over. "You sound like an enchanted harp married to a stormcloud."

Blackie narrowed her eyes at him but didn't dignify the comment with a response.

Damien stepped closer, his voice quiet but heavy. "Did your people ever see him? The real Sovereign of Darkness?"

Blackie's expression shifted, her gaze distant, eyes reaching beyond the present. She nodded slowly. "Only the Matriarchs. Only once."

Her voice dropped lower, reverent and edged with something close to fear.

"He walked through the Dragon World as if it already belonged to him. Not as an intruder. Not as a conqueror. But as if it had been his playground since the beginning, and he had simply come back to see how it had changed."

She paused, the memory unfolding behind her eyes.