The Little Necromancer [LITRPG]

"P-please don't hate me," Enya choked out, her voice trembling.

For a long time, there was only silence.

Her sobs echoed weakly in the mist, small and fragile against the wide stillness that had swallowed the world. The fog drifted lazily, the storm of wraiths suspended midair—unsure if their mistress still commanded them.

Pell stared down at her. His jaw clicked faintly, half from the lingering anger, half from disbelief. The fire in his sockets had dimmed to small coals, still hot but no longer wild like before.

"Alright, kid," he muttered, voice rough. "Stop crying already."

Enya didn't move. Her hands were still gripping the front of her dress, knuckles white, eyes red and unfocused. She was shaking so hard it looked like her body might come apart.

Pell exhaled—something between a sigh and a rattle. He walked over toward her, leaving Elria and his scythe still lying across her stomach. He got close and crouched beside her, bones creaking, and awkwardly reached out. His fingers hovered in the air for a second before dropping onto her head with a clumsy pat.

The contact broke something in her. Enya lurched forward and hugged him, her small arms wrapping tight around his ribs. "P–please," she gasped between hiccups, her words broken and uneven. "Please don't hate me. I—I won't do it again, I'm sorry—I'm sorry—"

Pell froze, stiff as a board for a moment, then sighed again. His other arm came around her shoulders, clattering faintly as his bones shifted. "I don't hate you, kid," he said gruffly. "Just got pissed. You don't go controlling my body like that. I don't care if I'm some peasant undead skeleton and your status is higher than mine—you don't get to treat me like a puppet, understand?"

Enya sniffled against his chest.

"It's one thing if I'm helping you out. Fighting a monster or two trying to kill us. Helping you level up that class you have or whatever. But forcing me to kill someone I ain't trying to kill is off-limits. Especially when I tell you no. Understand?"

Enya nodded against his ribcage, still trembling.

"Good." Pell's tone softened, though his words stayed coarse. "Look, I ain't your real dad or anything. But I am looking after you, like it or not. And yeah, I get it—you're a necromancer now. You wanna kill things. Raise the dead and all that. Can't say I blame you. I'm the idiot who made you become a necromancer in the first place. And to be frank—you've got a few screws loose. A lot more than even me. But that also means you need to control yourself, so you don't end up in some dungeon dying alone with regrets, like me."

He paused, rubbing the back of her head with a careful hand. "There's a difference between killing monsters, bandits, people trying to kill you, and murdering folks just 'cause you're pissed off. She already surrendered. And you weren't even in your right mind to hear her. She's right—if she dies, we're probably screwed. We have no idea how to use that stupid teddybear to retrieve the cauldron. You did some of that spooky witchcraft shit last time with her guiding you, but I ain't letting you do that again by yourself—considering she said the thing is strong enough to blow up this entire prison. You kill her—we might never leave. Maybe even kill ourselves in the process of trying to escape."

"I'm sorry," Enya whispered again, voice barely audible.

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't do it again." Pell huffed. "This is why I never looked after brats at the orphanage. You're all literally impossible to deal with."

Despite his tone, he gave her head another small, clumsy pat. "Alright. I forgive you, kid. But next time, make sure we're on the same page before you order me to start going 'round murdering people. Believe it or not, I have a flawless criminal record."

Enya sniffled and nodded again, voice small. "You do?"

"No, of course not. I've been arrested like four different times," Pell deadpanned, rolling his soul-flames.

Enya chuckled, trying to calm her heaving.

The silence that followed was fragile, thin as glass. Then a voice sliced through it, smooth and dripping with exhaustion.

"How touching."

Pell's skull turned sharply.

Elria stood behind them, half-covered in dirt, her long red hair wild around her shoulders. The Dullahan loomed at her back, its eyes glowing faintly. Pell's scythe still lay at her feet.

The knight's helm turned toward them, its burning gaze locking onto Enya.

"Damnit," Pell muttered, tightening his grip on Enya.

The Dullahan stomped forward, dragging along its greatsword. The ground shook beneath each step.

Above, the wraiths began to stir again. All of them had been stunned, most likely due to Enya's control over them slowly unraveling. But now, they were unbound. Their forms unravel into long, clawed silhouettes. Without Enya's skill holding them, their gluttony returned—and now she and Pell were the target of their hunger.

Pell stood and stepped in front of her, spreading his arms slightly. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice low and firm.

There was no chance he could defend her. No chance he'd win against that many. But he still stood his ground.

Pell raised one hand, the air shuddering around his arm as the Harvester blinked back into existence beside him.

Behind him, Enya staggered to her feet. Her legs wobbled. The air around her flickered faintly—her instinct reaching for magic. She spread her palm and tried to form a spell circuit. She needed to summon another soul-forged bone-dome.

But nothing came. Her chest tightened. The hollow weight inside her told her what she already knew. She was empty.

Mana: 4/30

Soul-Energy: 0/800

No mana.

No soul energy.

Inside of her acolyte form, she had initially relied on her mana and Soul-Energy for everything she did. But it all quickly vanished since the time she summoned Beatrice to portal into the underworld. It had all depleted right then and there. Instead, she drew upon something else to cast her skills and spells. There was another well of power she had drew from. But now—it was gone.

The Dullahan roared.

It charged. Each step cracked the ground, sending sprays of dirt and shattered bone splinters into the air. Its greatsword dragged beside it, black aura spilling from the blade like smoke from a forge. Above, the wraiths screamed as one—an army of the dead, now turned against their former master.

Ted.E tried to roar back, but only a mangled growl escaped. Its hind legs were crushed beyond repair; the boarbear's body twitched as it tried and failed to crawl forward.

"Shit—" Pell grabbed Enya's shoulder. His soul-flames flared bright purple as he was about to use blink. "Hang on, kid. We're getting outta—"

"Enough!"

Elria's hands snapped up, palm facing toward the Dullahan. Immediately, a dark clouded fog smothered its entire body. The suit of armor convulsed, the metal on its body violently shaking and clanging against its pieces. Lines of what seemed to be black mana trailed down along its plates, dark, but also shimmering.

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The dullahan stopped mid-charge. Its trembling stopped all at once; it picked up its sword, and drove its blade straight into the ground.

A deafening impact tore through the clearing.

The entire world convulsed. The fog rippled, then exploded outward as if a bomb had gone off. Waves of black pressure surged from the Dullahan's strike, shredding through the horde of wraiths mid-flight. One by one they disintegrated, their bodies scattering into ribbons of light and ash. A complete zone of darkness exploded outward, blinding everything.

The shockwave continued, tearing through the bone forest Enya had created. Dozens of spires shattered, bursting into clouds of ivory dust. Cracks split the ground. The remains of her own constructs scattered like broken glass.

Pell canceled his blink, raising an arm up to instinctively cover his soul-flames. The rest of his body turned, covering Enya from the attack. Strangely enough, he felt no pressure ore sensation on his body, aside from a powerful gust of wind and dirt shearing up at them.

When the chaos finally settled, the clearing was half-destroyed—reduced to jagged craters and drifting white powder. The Dullahan stood at the center, sword buried to the hilt, its armor steaming with residual magic. The last of the wraiths were gone.

Pell and Enya looked around, trying to get their bearings. The Dullahan had obliterated nearly everything. All that remained was the two of them, a graveyard of white ash—and the knight.

Elria was nowhere to be see—

"You fucking imbeciles," came her voice, sharp and ghostly, right beside Pell's ear.

Her wraithlike form misted out from between his shoulder bones, reforming in front of his skull.

"Ai–yah!" Pell shouted, stumbling back so fast his bones clattered. He let go of Enya, who scrambled away in a panic.

The rest of Elria's body took shape, just as they'd first met her—an ethereal outline of a woman, translucent and pale, hair flowing like smoke. She crossed her arms and chuckled. "Scaredy cat."

Pell's soul-flames tightened to slits. "You son of a—"

"You daughter of a witch would be the accurate insult, wouldn't it?" Elria said dryly, smirking.

"You—what's your goal here?" Pell snapped.

Enya sat on the ground, legs still trembling from the Dullahan's domain. Her robe was spread in a heap around her, hair ruffled, eyes glossy. She stared at Elria's hovering form only inches away.

Strangely—the resentment she'd felt earlier was… fading. There was still a kernel of it there, the sting of betrayal, but most of her anger had slipped away, leaving behind only fatigue and confusion.

"Goal?" Elria huffed. "I just stopped all those wraiths from dragging your bony ass down to the Underworld."

"I've already been there," Enya said quietly, as if it were just a casual addition to the conversation.

Both Pell and Elria turned to look at her.

"Ah—" Enya murmured, shrinking a little, her confidence evaporating. She'd had a breakdown moments ago, and the aftermath sat heavy on her shoulders. Her hands twisted the hem of her robe.

"We'll talk about that later," Elria said, tone clipped. She rose a few inches higher, ghostly tail hovering at head height, her outline pulsing faintly with weak, stubborn power. "You two really have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

Neither of them answered.

Elria sighed, the sound thin and tired. "Figures. That Acolyte transformation nearly got you both killed. Use it again, and a god might breach through your soul. It's even easier for them to slip into this prison—this layer sits right between the living and the dead."

"What?" Pell said, confused. He shook his head, ignoring it for more important things. His gaze flicked toward the Dullahan. It stood perfectly still, greatsword lowered; it stood as a guarddog, a sentinel just watching them silently. "You… stopped them," he muttered. "The wraiths. The Dullahan too. Why?"

Elria tilted her head at Pell's question, her ghostly features sharpening with faint amusement.

"Why?" she repeated. "Because I already surrendered, you idiot. I'm not in the habit of going back on my word." She gave a small, smug smile. "At least, not this time. Maybe another time, though—that's not out of the question."

Pell's soul-flames tightened, purple orbs narrowing as if he could stare through her trickery. She only chuckled under her breath.

"I never wanted to fight you two in the first place," Elria continued. "You're the ones who came charging in with an army of wraiths like you were conquering the damned world. I only defended myself. But since you decided not to kill me…" her smirk widened, "I'm returning the favor. Though I think you both owe me much more than that."

Pell's grip on his scythe tightened. "You trapped Enya in that painting," he said flatly. "You tried to kill her."

Elria rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. It's a stupid painting. There's nothing in there except empty space. White and quiet. It wasn't going to kill anyone." Her tone turned mocking. "If you hadn't done that ridiculous vanishing trick and ruined everything, sending the voidlight bear in with her, I would've come back after getting the cauldron and let her out anyway. The riddle in that mansion needed a soul in the painting to solve it. So unless you two were planning to imprison me—the only person who knows how to escape—or wait for another poor soul to wander into this prison—then she was the best choice. You both made a mess of things because you couldn't just trust me."

Pell's flames flared. "Trust you? You murdered your own kid!"

Elria's translucent brows lifted, her voice turning thin with irritation. "And yet here I am, saving yours. Don't get self-righteous on me, skeleton. Lyssia wasn't my real daughter. She's just a piece of my soul. She was expendable. Besides, she is me in the first place. Everything she had, all belongs to me as the rightful owner. Just because she's in a separate body doesn't mean anything."

Enya stared at Elria, soaking in those words, but remaining silent.

Pell ground his teeth but said nothing.

Elria floated a little higher, tone returning to casual disdain. "Honestly, it wasn't even that bad. Being trapped in there for a single day? That's hardly worth the tantrum. I've been in this prison for millennia. I think I've earned the right to borrow a soul or two to get out."

Enya's small voice broke through the air, quiet and uncertain.

"…A day?"

Elria turned, meeting her gaze with faint annoyance. "Yes, a day. Maybe two. Could even be just a couple of hours depending on how shit goes. Time flows a little differently inside the painting, but not that much. A hundred hours here is maybe a hundred and fifty in there—give or take. I'm not exactly sure."

She crossed her arms, as if lecturing a slow student. "Lyssia was in that same painting, you know. When I pulled her back out, she'd been inside for… four hundred years? Or was it four thousand… whatever. She was perfectly fine. A single day is nothing compared to that. You two were being extremely melodramatic."

Enya didn't answer. She stared at the ground, fingers curling into the folds of her robe.

A day.

Maybe two.

But that wasn't what she remembered.

In her mind, it had been months—months of endless white, with no sky, no sound, no warmth. Every second had stretched like a lifetime. She had screamed until her throat broke, cried until she forgot what her own voice sounded like.

Why did Elria's words sound so confident, so dismissive? Was she lying?

Or… was time itself lying to her? Or something else entirely?

"Why didn't you just fucking tell us, then?" Pell snapped. "Tell us that you'd come back for her—that it was only temporary?"

Elria leaned forward, her ghostly outline flickering. "I. Fucking. Did." The words came slow, almost mouthed, dripping with mock offense. She leaned back with a huff. "I said I'd come back and get you two."

"What?!" Pell barked. "No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!" Elria shot back, just as loud. "I said, 'if I escape, I'll come back!'"

Pell threw his arms wide, exasperated. "That's not how you said it!"

He straightened his spine and lifted his chin, mocking her tone—drawn-out, lofty, and pretentious. "You said: 'If I escape… maybe I'd even come back for you two…'" He stopped himself halfway through the imitation and jabbed a finger toward her. "That's not a fucking promise—that's an afterthought!"

Elria gawked at him. "What's wrong with how I talk?! I said it exactly like that—what's the problem?!" She gestured wildly. "If I escape, I might be able to come back and get you two! You think that's easy? I'd have to find a soul, drag it all the way back into that painting, then pull her out! That's the 'might' part! I don't know what the world is like outside! For all I know, you two could've been the last living things left in the layers!"

She pointed a finger at him. "Besides, if I wanted to actually kill you, I would've taken the teddybear first and immediately killed you after since you wouldn't be useful anymore. I was going to actually have you accompany me to the end. Once I grab her cauldron, you could do whatever you want. Find your own damn soul and bring it back here if I happen to not feel like helping."

Pell groaned, rubbing his skull. "Then why talk in riddles like some cryptic jackass?! You sounded like a story villain giving their last monologue! It's a shitty trope! 'Maybe I'll come back for you two…' Who the hell talks like that?!"

"Excuse you," she said, indignant. "That's how witches talk, you imbecile! Where do you think that 'trope' came from? Witches are ancient, almost since the dawn of magic itself! I'll have you know that I know upwards of thirty-seven different languages. Even right now, the way we're speaking isn't the same as two thousand years ago! That's how we talked back then. Ever heard of Shilliam Meaksworde or his plays? That's how people talked."

She scowled, arms crossed. "When we get emotional, our speech pattern shifts. It's a thing. And I'll have you know—we're quite sensitive about it! People always mock us witches for it. But when you have the knowledge of thirty seven languages in your head, you try speaking coherently without mistakes!"

"What a load of bullshit, you stupid—"

"Oh, I'm the stupid one? You're the moron who dropped his weapon on an enemy who just surrendered!" she snapped. "You almost sliced my boob off when you dropped it! Then you turned your back on me! You're lucky I didn't stand up and shove that scythe right back up your—"

Enya stayed quiet. Her gaze flicked between them as they bickered, their voices echoing through the fog. The tension that had been suffocating moments ago was gone now, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that followed a storm.

Still… something in her chest wouldn't settle.

Something about Elria's words—about the time, the painting, about everything—it just didn't feel right.

She couldn't tell why.