CHAPTER 66: KARETH’S END

The days that followed were filled with fighting and blood.

What started as just Fenric and Aria became three. Laxin—the heir of the Death Supreme—now walked beside them. His very presence was heavy, like a cold mist that carried the feeling of death. But it wasn’t his bloodline that kept him here. It was vengeance, tied tightly to the one thing Fenric gave him: truth.

Fenric swore an oath.

Not to protect Laxin.

Not to guide him.

But to always tell him the truth.

And that truth hit harder than any sword. Laxin had grown up surrounded by lies and betrayal. Hearing Fenric’s blunt, merciless words left him stunned, unable to hide or make excuses.

So he didn’t argue. He didn’t fight back.

He only listened.

And slowly, he began to nod—short, silent nods, carrying the weight of Fenric’s words in his heart.

That’s how the three of them were forged together.

Fenric, the cold-eyed prince who measured everyone.

Aria, fire and laughter, fighting as though the night itself burned for her.

And Laxin, heir of death’s throne, venom in his blood and shadows behind him—now standing at Fenric’s side.

When the battles ended and smoke faded, he no longer stood apart.

Where there had once been two, there were now three.

Not friends. Not yet.

But fighters, bound together by survival—and Fenric’s truth.

The next morning, steel rang across the training yard.

Fenric’s blade cut in swift arcs, every movement precise. Aria leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching like a cat amused at mice. And in the dirt stood Laxin, bare-handed, eyes burning as shadows stirred faintly around him.

"Again," Fenric ordered, stepping forward. His silver hair glimmered under the sun, his strikes direct, unrelenting. "You’re holding back."

Laxin’s fists tightened. "If I use it... you’ll get hurt."

Fenric’s lips curved, not quite a smile. "Then hurt me."

Steel clashed against shadow. Black tendrils lashed from Laxin’s arms, writhing like serpents, meeting Fenric’s sword. Sparks flew. Fenric didn’t stop; he pressed harder, his strikes sharper, testing, forcing.

"You fear your own power," Fenric said between blows, his voice steady despite the clash. "That fear will chain you. And chains are for the weak."

Aria called out, smirking, "Try not to die, Laxin. He’s not exactly gentle with lessons."

Laxin growled as the shadows thickened. This time, when Fenric’s blade came down, a wall of black mist rose, halting the strike. The ground beneath cracked. Fenric’s eyes gleamed in approval.

"Better," he said. "Now again. Control it—don’t let it control you."

And so they clashed. Over and over, sword against shadow, truth against fear, until sweat ran down Laxin’s face and his arms trembled from strain. But each time, Fenric’s words cut sharper than his blade, driving him further.

By the time the spar ended, the training yard was scarred with gouges of shadow and steel. Laxin stood panting, but his eyes—those no longer wavered.

Fenric lowered his sword. "Good. You’re not running from it anymore. Now we can begin."

He tilted his blade, the glint of steel catching the light. "You should learn to use your power properly—to raise an army of the undead. Or, if you prefer, focus on quality over quantity. Either path has its merit."

Laxin’s expression twisted, his fists tightening. "That’s... wrong. The dead should rest."

Fenric smirked faintly, shrugging as if the matter were trivial. "Might makes right. So what if it’s wrong? Necromancy isn’t some human invention—it’s a natural magic born from the world itself. Humans didn’t create it; they only discovered it. The world allowed it. Why should you be ashamed of wielding what already exists?"

Laxin’s eyes sharpened, his voice rising. "How can you say that? Aren’t you supposed to be a prince? A leader? Don’t you care what people think of you?"

Fenric chuckled, brushing aside the question with a careless swing of his blade. "For now, I’ll think of saving my own neck. Let the world think what it will."

His strike came fast, sudden. Laxin barely raised his arm in time, a dark tendril lashing out to parry the blow. The impact sent dust spiraling around them.

Fenric pressed forward, eyes gleaming. "So—will you cling to ideals? Or will you grasp power, no matter how dirty it feels?"

Aria’s voice rang from the sidelines, half-mocking, half-serious. "Careful, Laxin. He’s not testing your morals—he’s testing your will."

Steel rang against shadow as their spar stretched on, the air alive with echoes of every clash. Fenric’s blade cut arcs of silver light, each strike sharp, measured, and merciless. Laxin countered with swaths of shadow that thickened and coiled, forming crude shields or lashing whips that kept him barely a step ahead of Fenric’s relentless offense.

Their movements carved circles in the training ground. Dust rose in clouds, the earth scored with lines where sword met shadow. Aria leaned against a column, watching silently now, her earlier jibes replaced by quiet focus.

Minutes bled into nearly an hour. Fenric’s hair clung damp to his forehead, his breath steady despite the long fight. Laxin’s chest heaved, his expression tight with strain—but his eyes had steadied. No longer running, no longer recoiling from the powers at his fingertips.

Finally, Fenric pulled back, lowering his sword. His voice cut through the heavy silence.

"So. What is it? Where will you stand, Laxin?"

Laxin’s shadows wavered before fading into smoke. He met Fenric’s gaze squarely, no hesitation left in him.

"I’ll go for quality. Not hordes of mindless corpses. But powerful undead—warriors, champions, things worth commanding. That’s the kind of necromancer I’ll be."

Fenric’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, his sword sliding back into its sheath with a clean click.

"Good. That path suits you—and it happens to be the one I needed. There are plenty of tales and techniques of necromancers who walked that road. I’ll pass them on to you."

Laxin exhaled, relief and resolve mingling in his breath. Aria clapped slowly, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "Well, at least you won’t be filling our camp with stinking zombies. That’s already a blessing."

Fenric smirked at her, then back at Laxin.

"Remember this—quality means control. And control means strength. Keep to that path, and one day, you won’t just be following me—you’ll be standing beside me."

Laxin scoffed, shadows curling faintly at his feet as he turned away.

"Who wants to stand beside you? I’m only staying because you’re my best chance to track down the real culprits who murdered my family. Don’t mistake this for loyalty."

He gave a sharp snort and stalked off, sweat still dripping from his brow.

Fenric watched him go, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

"Well," he muttered, half to himself, "at least this guy isn’t bad."

Aria arched a brow. "Not bad? He just made it clear he’s only here to use you."

Fenric shook his head, hands folding behind his back as his silvery hair caught the lantern light.

"No. At first, I thought the same—but now I can see it. He’s not evil. He lashes out because he wants to save his family’s honor. That anger, that obsession—it’s a false thread he’s been clutching, one that Drake spun to keep him bound. But once the real culprits are revealed... once he finds who truly murdered them..."

He trailed off, eyes narrowing with that calculating glint of his.

"Then he’ll cut that thread. And when he does, he’ll have a choice to make. Until then—let him cling to his vengeance. It keeps him moving forward."

Aria studied him quietly, then let out a small sigh. "You sound awfully sure for someone who’s only known him a handful of days."

Fenric’s smile returned—wry, but confident.

"I’ve seen enough to know when a man’s soul is lost, and when it’s only clouded. Laxin’s shadow isn’t corruption—it’s grief. And grief can be turned into strength."

Aria nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in her eyes. Still, she didn’t argue. Fenric’s words carried a weight she was learning not to dismiss.

"Besides," Fenric continued, his tone sharpening as he drew out the heavy tome bound in blackened scales, "I have a job for you."

Aria blinked at him. "A... job?"

Fenric nodded, his gaze drifting to the flickering lantern light. For a long breath, he said nothing, as though weighing whether to unseal the words from his thoughts. Then his silvery eyes sharpened.

"Yes. There is something in this world that was meant to be lost... and yet, it lingers still. The Grimoire of Rahcmis—the Necro-Archmagus."

Aria looked curious as she heard Archmagus, which in simple terms means A Supreme, the pinnacle of power.

"Necromancy?" she asked, voice low.

Fenric smirked faintly. "Not the cheap imitations that survived. The Ragos Dukedom with their Death Puppets—yes, they are just cheap necromancy. Twisting corpses into hollow dolls for battle. Or the lesser families with their mock rituals, clumsy parodies of what once was. Those are not necromancy. They are pale shadows."

"even Laxin abilities to raise those skeletons is just an lesser form of it, to get the true necromancy we need that Grimoire" he said as he looked at her.