The Dying Hero

[Promoted to a Second-Circle Wizard, your soul power has materialized.]

[You have gained the ability to cast higher-tier spells.]

[The "Life and Death Intertwined" effect is active…]

["The Thinker" continues to take effect…]

[Your soul observes the boundary between life and death, continuously contemplating the construction of new spells. During this process, you purchase new wizardry materials with soulstones.]

["Soul Collector" is active—your soul fluctuations are expertly concealed. No one is aware of your advancement in power.]

[You remain low-key, knowing full well that if other wizards were to discover the speed of your ascension, it would cause an uproar—even the rarely seen Tower Master might intervene.]

[You sigh deeply, unwilling to waste time on such matters.]

[You love learning and continue to study, combining real-world wizardry knowledge to independently create Second-Circle spells.]

[You begin delving into the realm of the undead, refining your spectral raven.]

[A single tear of a lich, ten stalks of ghostgrass, two wing bones of a spectral raven, and the blood moon at midnight—arranged within a spell formation.]

[Your incomplete spectral raven mount has evolved.]

[It has transformed into a true Raven of the Netherworld.]

[A creature of bone, devoid of flesh, its soulfire linked to the underworld—an undying entity.]

[Its strength is modest, with only speed as its advantage.]

[But for you, this is an excellent beginning, marking your official entry into the domains of the dead, souls, and death itself.]

[You gaze into the endless Netherworld…]

…

[Simulation Year Six, Age 23]

[After a year of cultivation, you have mastered multiple Second-Circle spells. Though you have yet to reach the peak of combat prowess, ordinary undead no longer pose a threat.]

[Even against mid-to-high-tier undead like Death Knights or Wraith Liches, you now hold some confidence.]

[This year marks the once-in-a-decade Undead Tide.]

[A carnival feast for the undead, yet a countdown to the world’s demise.]

[The White Raven Tower begins mustering forces, preparing to join the Aeoca Kingdom’s knight order in striking back against the incoming horde.]

[You have no interest in participating. Surrendering your room in the tower, you depart early.]

"The Undead Tide…"

"An event like this, a calamity of undead resurgence, should be the perfect opportunity to harvest soulfire. But with so many eyes around, the White Raven Tower is no place for it."

"My circumstances are unique. Acting alone is far more suitable."

Jagged wingbones pierce through the deathly mist.

Hollow sockets flicker with soulfire.

The Raven of the Netherworld beats its wings, leaving pale trails across the darkened sky, its skeletal tail weathered and frayed, a few tattered feathers fluttering like broken arrows in the wind.

Seated upon the raven’s back, Xu Xi rests on a cushion of soft material, cushioning the unyielding hardness of bone.

The wind howls.

Below, the towering walls—forged of steel and spellwork—loom.

Adventurers of all kinds come and go, weapons in hand, expressions grim as they brace for the impending tide.

Only a handful of wizard apprentices glance up, envy in their eyes as they watch the shadow streak across the sky.

In the past,

Xu Xi had left the White Raven Tower before.

But those were brief departures—to gather soulfire or other arcane materials.

This time was different.

This time, Xu Xi would leave for good. After harvesting enough soulfire during the tide, the journey would lead to distant lands, seeking the secrets of the undead world.

"Which direction first…?" Xu Xi surveys the vast land below.

Names of places flash through the mind.

But in the end, the gaze lingers on the path taken here.

A faint concern lingers—for that overly naive "hero."

…

Darkness, so thick it swallows the outstretched hand.

Cold, a lifeless world devoid of warmth.

Exhaustion, the weight of a sword-arm gone numb.

In this lightless realm, only the black sun and blood moon assert their presence. Pale fingers claw through the earth as skeletal figures rise one after another.

Rotting mud sloughs from their bones as they stand.

Deep within their skulls, azure soulfire flickers.

Boom—

Boom—

The undead do not speak. Only voiceless rasps escape them, yet the grinding of bone against bone forms a deafening tide.

The lands of the Clawphire Family

Are utterly,

Completely,

Overwhelmed by the endless dead.

Thud! Thud-thud!

Amid the horde, the sound of steel meeting bone rings out—a lone figure in armor moves with agile steps, cutting down undead after undead with swift swordplay.

Yet it is meaningless.

The tide is endless, a roiling sea of death that tramples everything in its path, burying all beneath the soil.

"No…"

"I won’t allow…"

"You to defile Clawphire’s land!"

From within the helmet,

A voice—hoarse, weary, furious.

The "hero" moves again, "holy sword" in hand, striking with "sacred light" against the encroaching tide.

But—

It’s useless. Entirely useless.

CRASH!

A massive skeletal warhorse charges forth, slamming into the hero, sending them tumbling across the ground before colliding with a jagged rock.

Struggling. Trembling.

The sword’s tip digs into the earth as they grip the hilt, forcing themselves up.

The helmet falls away.

Revealing a face—half-undead, half-human.

Filthy. Exhausted. Gaunt.

A portrait of despair that would shake any who saw it.

An undead girl, masquerading as a "hero," clad in ordinary armor, wielding an ordinary blade, standing alone against an apocalyptic tide.

"Father…"

"Mother…"

"I won’t fail you. Even if I’m the only one left… I’ll protect Clawphire…"

"AHH—!"

Soulfire flares, emotions fueling a desperate surge.

Servia charges once more.

But against such overwhelming force, it is a futile gesture.

The skeletal warhorse rears, riderless yet guided by an unseen will. It charges, its massive bone lance piercing straight through Servia’s torso.

Then—

The lance lifts, hoisting her into the air.

"I… I…"

Her armor splits, revealing the undead body beneath.

Her soulfire flickers violently, voice broken as she dangles mid-air, hands clutching the lance in a feeble attempt to resist.

But there is nothing she can do.

With a careless flick, the unseen rider flings her aside like refuse.

CRUNCH.

Servia’s body embeds into the earth.

Cracks spread from the impact.

So tired…

Father… Mother… Servia is so tired…

Clatter. Clatter.

The force of the throw sends loose stones raining into the crater, clinking against her bones like mournful raindrops.

The soulfire in her skull flickers, on the verge of extinguishing.

Tired.

So very tired.

This thought lingers—the "hero’s" final reflection.

Alone…

It’s so exhausting…