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

She stood slowly, stretching carefully, gaze immediately seeking Damien's seated figure, still deep within meditation.

Vathrian's eyes flashed sharply at the sight of Lyrisa awakening, his mouth curling into a predatory smile. Without hesitation, he signaled his allies silently, and together they swiftly encircled her, trapping her in a tightening ring.

"Lyrisa," Vathrian addressed her smoothly, voice dripping with dangerous charm. "You've kept us waiting. But no matter, join us willingly, or suffer."

Lyrisa's expression hardened instantly, eyes narrowing sharply. Her scimitars flashed swiftly into her hands, blades humming faintly with readiness. "You really think I'm easy prey?" she challenged coldly, her voice steady despite the odds.

Vathrian chuckled lightly, the sound cold and mocking. "I think you're intelligent enough to understand your position. Without your protector, you're vulnerable. Join me, and spare yourself needless suffering."

Lyrisa's gaze flicked briefly toward Damien, anxiety and frustration evident in her expression. He remained perfectly still, his aura swirling powerfully yet unaware of the unfolding danger.

"Your silence is answer enough," Vathrian murmured coldly, stepping back slightly and signaling sharply to his followers. "Take her."

Immediately, the warriors surged forward, spells and blades lashing out in perfect unison. Lyrisa spun into motion, her twin scimitars gleaming as they carved clean arcs through the air. She met them head-on with ferocious speed, deflecting blades and redirecting spells with practiced finesse. Her eyes remained focused, but the numbers were not in her favor. Vathrian's coalition had sent seven elites to corner her—more than enough to overwhelm through attrition.

Within the depths of meditation, Damien's breathing remained slow and steady. He was deep within the swirling concept of death, bathed in the resonance of the Death Stone Relic before him. The monolith pulsed with silent authority, a beacon of ancient will. Death surrounded him—not as an enemy, but as an invitation.

Still, something pulled at the edge of his awareness. A ripple. A note of dissonance in the silence. His brow twitched slightly, and with calm focus, he allowed a sliver of his perception to extend outward. A faint thread connected him to the world beyond.

He glimpsed Lyrisa. Surrounded. Cornered. Outnumbered. Her breath labored. Her blades a blur of desperation. She moved beautifully, but she was tiring. And there were too many.

Anger stirred within Damien. The instinct to rise, to cut through space and put an end to the assault, ignited like a flame.

But then came the voice again, deep and deliberate, echoing within the sea of death energy.

"You understand death as homecoming, Damien. But can you manifest that understanding? Can you truly fuse it into your very core and wield it as your own?"

Damien's fury stilled. The voice wasn't taunting, it was reminding.

This was the trial. This was the price. His power would not grow if he fled from death's lessons the moment things grew difficult. And as with his Artistic Intent, Lyrisa's death would be homecoming for her.

All is well.

He took another breath. Focused.

Death was not wrath. Death was resolution. It came after struggle, not in the middle of it.

He shut his eyes again and sank deeper.

Damien's thoughts sharpened abruptly, clarity surging powerfully within him. Death was not merely an ending, it was release, reunion, completion. It was a power born from certainty, finality, and ultimate freedom. His mind crystallized, comprehension finally becoming total and undeniable.

With newfound purpose and resolve, Damien extended his hand toward the massive monolith before him. "Death is my domain," he murmured firmly, voice steady and commanding. "You are mine."

Instantly, the Death Stone Relic's overwhelming power flowed willingly into him, flooding his body and soul with refined, pure death energy.

His necromantic core spun faster and faster, absorbing this unprecedented influx. Damien felt himself transcend previous limitations, his power reaching unimaginable new heights.

Meanwhile, in the real world, the clash grew more chaotic. Lyrisa parried three blades at once, spinning low to avoid a blast of lightning, retaliating with a sudden upward sweep that sent one of her attackers tumbling. But her strength was draining quickly. Her arm stung from a glancing cut. Her steps were growing less precise.

A fireball hurtled toward her from the left, and Lyrisa knew she couldn't dodge in time.

Then everything stopped.

The fireball fizzled out midair. The air thickened. And from the edge of the field stepped a figure cloaked in stillness and power.

Nyxara.

The representative of House Umbra walked forward slowly, silver hair flowing behind her like a river of moonlight. Her presence silenced the battlefield. No one dared move. No one even dared breathe.

She walked past Vathrian's protectors as though they were insects beneath her feet. Past the spells still flickering in the air. And finally stopped between Lyrisa and her attackers.

Vathrian's jaw tightened. He stepped forward. "This is not your concern, Nyxara."

Her head turned slightly, eyes glimmering with quiet disdain.

"No trial allows for sabotage in the presence of comprehension," she said softly, her voice smooth but weighty. "You knew that. You ignored it."

"You think to lecture me?" Vathrian asked, fists trembling with suppressed fury.

"I think you should back down," she replied.

For a moment, it looked like he might refuse. His lone surviving protector shifted, readying a spell.

Then Nyxara lifted one hand.

That was all it took.

The spell unraveled before it was cast. The protector staggered back, choking silently as the pressure of Nyxara's aura pressed against his lungs.

Vathrian growled low, but he stepped back.

Nyxara looked toward Lyrisa then, only briefly. A glance. Nothing more. Her face was still expressionless.

Lyrisa stood, panting lightly, scimitars lowered slightly but still in hand. She nodded once, a silent gesture of acknowledgment and wariness.

Then Nyxara turned and walked away, returning to her position as if nothing had happened.

Lyrisa watched her carefully. She hadn't just stopped the fight—she could have ended it entirely. Her blades, her eyes, her stance had all said the same thing. She could have killed them all. With ease. And perhaps… she had wanted to. There had been a flicker of something in her gaze. Coldness. Hunger. A predator recognizing another predator.

But she hadn't.