From Ashes To Scales

The throne room of Volkos was a place where nightmares found their refuge, a dark sanctum that echoed with the whispers of the damned. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the lingering aura of malevolent magic, oppressive and suffocating. Shadows clung to every corner, alive with a sinister intent, as if they were waiting for the right moment to lash out at any intruder.

The walls of the chamber were formed from a grotesque amalgamation of bones and jagged black rocks, their surfaces slick with a foul, oily residue that glistened in the dim, sickly light. The bones weren’t just part of the walls; they were embedded into the very structure, forming twisted patterns and eerie mosaics. Skulls stared out from the walls, their empty eye sockets filled with a faint, ghostly light, as though the souls of the damned were still trapped within, forced to bear witness to the horrors of this place.

At the far end of the room stood Volkos’s throne, a monstrous creation forged from the remains of the dead. It was a seat of power built from countless bones, expertly arranged to form a structure both grotesque and grand. Skulls of various sizes adorned the armrests and the back of the throne, their hollow gazes fixed eternally forward. Spinal columns twisted together to form the legs, and the base was an uneven mound of broken bones, as if the very dead themselves were holding up their dark lord.

Volkos himself sat upon this throne, a figure that seemed to embody the very essence of death and corruption. His skin was a sickly greenish-gray, stretched tight over a frame that was both skeletal and muscular, like a creature caught between life and death. His eyes were a haunting shade of glowing orange, burning with an otherworldly light that pierced through the gloom of the chamber. The lower half of his face was obscured by a mask that looked as though it had been carved from bone, jagged and sharp, lending him an even more terrifying visage.

His body was cloaked in tattered robes of deep crimson, frayed and stained, as if they had been worn for centuries without care. Chains and talismans adorned his chest, each one made of bone or twisted metal, pulsing with dark energy. His hands, elongated and tipped with razor-sharp claws, rested on the armrests of his throne, idly tapping against the skulls as if they were nothing more than mere trinkets. His presence radiated malevolence, a dark power that seemed to drain the very life from the room.

This was Volkos, the Necromancer Lord, ruler of the dead, and the architect of countless horrors. His throne room was a reflection of his soul—twisted, decayed, and filled with a hunger for power that knew no bounds. He sat in silence, the weight of his dark power palpable, as if the very walls of his fortress trembled in fear of him.

A low growl echoed through the throne room as a ghoul, twisted and hunched, dragged itself toward Volkos. Its flesh was a patchwork of rotting, mottled skin, clinging to a skeletal frame with sinews barely holding it together. The creature’s yellowed eyes flickered with a dim intelligence, but its movements were jerky and unnatural, as though the corpse it inhabited was a poor fit. It stopped before the throne and knelt, its joints creaking like old wood, before rasping out its message in a voice that was more a hiss than speech.

"M...Master... intruders... they... attack... front... gate..." the ghoul managed, its words struggling through rotting vocal cords.

Volkos’s fiery eyes narrowed as he gazed down at the pathetic creature before him. The corners of his mouth, hidden behind the bone mask, twitched with contempt. He leaned back in his throne, one clawed hand tapping the skull of the armrest rhythmically.

"So... the fools dare to challenge me," Volkos mused, his voice a low, resonant growl that filled the chamber. "How amusing. They march to their deaths, believing they can stand against the one who commands the dead."

He rose from his throne, his towering figure casting a long, ominous shadow across the room. With slow, deliberate steps, he descended from the dais, his heavy robes trailing behind him like a river of blood. His presence seemed to suck the warmth from the air, leaving only the chill of the grave.

“Mortals," Volkos continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "They are always so eager to fight, to rebel, thinking they can overturn the inevitable. They are but insects, scurrying about, believing they have power. But in the end, they are nothing more than food for the crows."

He paused, his gaze drifting toward the far wall of the chamber, where the dim light seemed to falter under his stare. A slow, malevolent grin spread across his face, revealing teeth like jagged shards of bone behind his mask.

"But perhaps this will be entertaining after all," he mused, a sinister excitement creeping into his voice. "To crush their hopes, to snuff out that last flicker of defiance... Yes, this shall be a lesson to all who dare oppose me. I shall enjoy tearing down their little resistance, limb by limb."

Volkos turned his gaze back to the kneeling ghoul. "Return to your post. Ensure the defenses hold. I will savor the moment when their last screams echo through these halls."

The ghoul nodded frantically, backing away on all fours like a beaten dog, before scuttling off toward the door. Just as it reached the threshold, however, the entrance exploded inward with a deafening crash. The ghoul's body was thrown back into the room, slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch. It crumpled to the ground in a heap, its already broken form now a twisted mess of shattered bones and torn flesh.

Through the swirling dust and debris, a figure emerged, stepping confidently into the throne room. Magnus. His silhouette was stark against the gloom, the light from the hall behind him casting him in a sharp, almost blinding contrast to the darkness of the chamber. His eyes, fierce and determined, locked onto Volkos with an intensity that even the Necromancer Lord couldn’t ignore.

“Hmm? What's this? Who are you?”

“Oya, oya? You're actually capable of speech? And here I thought I would be facing a mindless savage. I guess it wouldn't hurt to introduce myself. My name is Magnus.”

“Magnus? Never heard of you. What do you want? And more importantly how did you get in here? My security should have devoured your scales, lizardman.”

Magnus let out a small chuckle before continuing.

“If by security you mean those rotten mummies, they were so poorly constructed that walking by them was almost too easy. As for my objective, it's quite simple. I’m here to end your life!”

“Huh!? Hahahaha!! That's rich. Did the council hire you or something? I command death. Do you think someone as great as myself…”

But before Volkos could finish his sentence, a magical circle was already prepared at the tip of Magnus's staff.

“Sorry. But I don't have time for a grand speech. Die quietly, vile creature. 7th tier holy spell… Celestial Flash!”

A roaring flash of lightning. Celestial Flash was a high speed damaging spell. By firing that at the opponent, it would tear the opponent apart from the inside. While it would continue to bestow slip damage to the opponent for a fixed amount of time and paralyze them, it had the effect of bestowing large damage at the end. The "large damage" is a pure white explosion caused by a pillar of light that engulfs the opponent.

And Volkos was fully caught off guard… and took the full force of Magnus's spell. But the question that Magnus had in his head… was that enough to take him down?