The main corridor of the Azalith Academy received him like a marble tomb.
With each step Kael took, ancient echoes mingled with the real sound of destruction—memories of student voices, laughter, heated debates about magic and philosophy.
Now, only the sound of blood dripping from the walls and the air cracking under the pressure of distorted mana remained.
His shadow stretched across the floor like a living river, touching the walls, the ceilings, the doors.
Each time he crossed a room, a deformed creature appeared—torsos of mages sewn together with arcane roots, eyes burning with blue flames, mouths begging for help that would never come.
Kael did not hesitate.
A single step.
A single blow.
The black blade cut through the air without making a sound—steel and darkness mingled in an almost serene movement.
The monsters disintegrated, turning into smoke.
No resistance, no confrontation. Only the inevitable march of the necromancer.
