Amidst the echoing halls of the Cathedral of Light, the grim aftermath of two years of unceasing conflict painted a haunting tableau. Crumbling walls, scorched tapestries, and shattered stained glass windows bore witness to a relentless tide of violence that had washed over these once-sacred grounds. The flickering remnants of candles clung to their sconces, casting long, flickering shadows. A suffocating air of desolation permeated the grand, hallowed halls.
Archmagus Z'albor of Sardoniel, clad in ebon plate embedded with intricate sigils of power, moved forward with unwavering determination. His attire was a deep obsidian hue that seemed to drink the very light from the air, making him appear as a spectral figure amidst the ruins. The arcane symbols adorning his armor emitted a faint, silvery glow.
Malekith, the resplendent dark elf warrior, walked with graceful poise. His amber armor, a masterpiece of Oherien craftsmanship, shimmered like a cascade of molten gold, contrasting the gloomy surroundings. An arrow, finely carved from the wood of ancient Ilyndor trees, rested nocked in his bow—a weapon renowned for its ability to fell even the mightiest of dragons.
Nikolas, King of the Yaylith Drokkar, was a towering figure that commanded attention. Standing at a staggering eight feet tall, his massive frame was a testament to the strength of his people. He moved with the grace of a predator, his forest green skin gleaming with hints of earthy shades under the dappled forest canopy.
Several other heroes from different nations joined them in this final battle. Their destination lay beyond a final corridor, guarded by imposing grand doors that bore the weight of ages.
Within this chamber, enthroned upon a macabre seat fashioned from the skeletal remains of countless victims, sat the malicious Necros. His visage, once that of a man, had been grotesquely altered. Skin clung in tattered shreds to his cadaverous frame, his ghastly transformation amplified by the decaying vestiges of dark, tattered robes. He was the embodiment of horror, a Corpselord, and he reveled in his grotesque form—a representation of the vile power he'd harnessed.
By his side stood three champions, each of a different race, evidence of his unholy alliance with the Archons. Their eyes burned with an unsettling devotion to their master's will.
The Corpselord's voice, a symphony of doom, resonated through the chamber. "You are too late. Even if you win this battle, you have lost the war. Death will come to all in this room, and I am ready to embrace mine today. But you, you will soon see the disaster that awaits you and your kin."
"Bold words for a corpse about to find eternal slumber," declared Malekith, his bow at the ready, arrow poised.
"So you say. Come, heroes. Show me your might. But it will not come without the loss of at least some of you," the Corpselord retorted with an eerie calm that only heightened the tension.
"Shut up," Nikolas growled with fury. "You've killed many of my people and brought shame to the Drokkar. I will enjoy splitting you in two."
"Your reign ends here, Necros. I will pray for your soul," vowed Paladin Kreighton, his divine aura radiant in defiance of the encroaching darkness.
Necros raised his hands, and with it rose dozens of obsidian astral spirits that emitted a deathly aura, their crimson eyes piercing through the darkened atmosphere. The very ground blackened beneath their hateful presence, causing nearby plant life to wither and decay in an instant. The air grew heavy with the stifling presence of death, casting a chilling pall over the once-sacred cathedral.
Amidst the chaos, Kreighton, his holy fervor undeterred, attempted to channel the corrupted sanctity of the cathedral itself, seeking strength to dispel the blight. He fought against the relentless tide of darkness with awe-stricken determination, hoping for divine intervention. However, the blight resisted his efforts, barely yielding to his sacred power.
Meanwhile, the Dread Wraiths and the sinister champions engaged the heroes in a fierce battle, buying time for their cruel master. Necros, casting aside the very sanctity of the cathedral, conjured a storm of darts forged from blood and bone, each sharpened to pierce even the strongest steel. In response, Z'albor, the Archmagus of Sardoniel, invoked protective barriers around his allies, shielding them from the harrowing storm. Though unnerving to common warriors, the deadly tempest proved harmless against the arcane defenses woven by Z'albor.
Witnessing the unfolding battle from above, Malekith, the dark elf, harnessed the elemental power of rift magic to teleport directly above Necros. From this vantage point, he released four arrows, each individually enhanced with the elemental forces of fire, ice, and lightning. The arrows hurtled toward Necros at light speed, finding their mark with uncanny precision. They struck the wretched Corpselord in the skull before he could erect additional defenses. Yet, as a creature of unnatural power and undeath, these blows merely inconvenienced him.
In retaliation, Necros unleashed a cataclysmic shockwave, a wave of devastating force capable of tearing down castle walls. The shockwave hurtled towards Malekith, who, unable to evade in time, dropped his bow and was sent crashing through the cathedral's stone walls. Pillars shattered and glass fragments rained down in the aftermath.
Undaunted, King Nikolas released a resounding battle cry as he charged headlong at the headless corpselord. Cunning and learned, Necros surrounded himself with illusory duplicates, causing Nikolas to cut down one false apparition after another in a desperate attempt to strike his elusive foe.
Kreighton cried out, "Your tricks do not work on me, abomination!" as he used his abilities to sense the true form of the necromancer and smite him with the might of God. An apparition of bright white wings spread from Kreighton's back, a blinding light shining from the paladin as he focused his might on delivering a massive blow. Paladins of the Cross were notoriously fast, faster than sound. He split the necromancer in half and focused a massive amount of radiant energy in another strike to ensure the undead lord was vanquished. All that remained was a huge crater, so deep the bottom could not be seen.
Kreighton stood there for a few breaths, the sense of malevolence no longer tainting the air. "It is finished," he declared, his defensive magic easing and his wings fading.
"Necros shall not be so easily defeated," Z'albor retorted.
"Easily?" Kreighton scoffed, his voice resolute. "He's killed hundreds of millions and wrecked havoc and terror across the entire planet. He was up against some of the greatest our world has to offer. I wouldn't say that was easy."
Kreighton began to leave, but an unsettling feeling coursed through him just as he did. In the blink of an eye, it was too late. His head was cruelly severed from his neck, from a blade conjured of blood enhanced with Dark Essence. The wizard quickly forged spears from the crimson fluid, hurling them towards Gareth, the renowned dragon slayer. However, Malekith swiftly deflected the onslaught with his Essence-enhanced arrows.
"Where have you been?" Gareth asked.
"I was gone for a few seconds, and one of you managed to get killed. Humans..."
Necros sent out strands of blood at Malekith, seemingly harmless, but tearing through the stone pillars it touched, rending the cathedral's once-sturdy terrain asunder like a knife through warm butter. The elf evaded the threads with unearthly agility, a dance of grace amidst the unfolding horror. Each avoided strand left a trail of destruction, pillars crumbling to the ground, the very foundation of the cathedral shaken.
Z'albor conjured a tornado of pure flame, a swirling vortex of intensity that forced dwarven rune master Bruden to hastily create a forcefield. It became a desperate cage against the searing heat, preventing their very flesh from melting off their bones and trapping the corpselord in a sphere of tormenting blaze. Necros, now a mere pawn in this infernal dance, slammed against the forcefield, his agonized screams adding a discordant note to the symphony of chaos. Once solemn and resolute, the stone terrain now bore the scars of this otherworldly clash, shattered remnants strewn about as witnesses to the unfolding battle.
"My forcefield won't hold," Bruden stated, beads of sweat dripping from his furrowed brow.
"Hold it. We can banish him from these realms if your will does not falter," Z'albor encouraged, his voice cutting through the mayhem like a beacon of hope.
In a horrific display of power, Necros shifted into a colossal 1000-foot dragon of pure shadow. Bruden's barrier had been shattered. The sheer enormity and might of the creature sent shivers through the already shaken defenders.
"We require assistance!" Z'albor shouted, a desperate plea echoing through the ravaged battleground. He and Malekith flung spells and enchanted arrows at the monstrous shadow dragon, each strike a futile attempt to stave off the impending doom.
"We're kind of busy here too," Navafri, the War God of the North, bellowed as he single-handedly battled one of the archon's champions. The once-hallowed cathedral, now a twisted battlefield, bore no resemblance to its former self. Craters, fissures, and destroyed structures littered the landscape, testament to the cataclysmic clash of otherworldly entities.
The champion unleashed a relentless onslaught of death against Navafri. The War God of the Northmen parried each blow with his legendary spear, Gungnir, and retaliated with masterful thrusts. Meanwhile, the other heroes struggled against the remaining champions and an unending horde of Dread Wraiths, their hands full in the face of overwhelming darkness.
Necros, in a baleful display of cruelty, spat corrosive acid on the exhausted Bruden, who had no way of preventing his inevitable demise. The acid sizzled and ate away at the dwarf's flesh, causing him unimaginable pain, as his skin went from smooth to blistering in a fraction of a second. In the blink of an eye, no remnants of the dwarf remained, as even his bones had disintegrated from the blast.
Fueled by a burning rage, Gareth lunged at Necros, his magical armor allowing him to get a firm grip on the shadowy form. Despite Necros' attempts to shake him off, Gareth relentlessly stabbed the Corpselord with his daggers, each puncture drawing agonized screams from the dark entity.
In a surge of extreme elemental energy, Malekith unleashed serpent-like dragons that tore through the shadowy form, rendering the body of the dark sorcerer vulnerable. Seemingly weakened and defenseless, Nikolas charged at Necros with his great sword, swinging the colossal weapon with all his might. The blade successfully lopped off Necros' right arm, prompting a vicious retaliation as the Corpselord grabbed hold of his assailant and tore off the Drokkar's limb.
Seizing the opportunity, Malekith teleported behind the wounded necromancer, an aura of Essence swirling around his fist like multiple rotating discs. He unleashed a devastating punch that created a destructive force, imploding Necros' body into a gruesome spectacle of destruction.
The Archmagus' flesh began to decay rapidly as he channeled the Circle of the Archliches. Layers of skin peeled away from his bones, clinging to his tendons like a mummy untouched for centuries. His once luscious, charcoal hair grayed, and his handsome visage transformed into a grotesque portrayal of horror, for Z'albor himself was also a Corpselord. He used the forbidden magic to drain Necros, defeating the abomination for good.
Two Champions remained, outnumbered and realizing the inevitable defeat that loomed. But they had no home to return to, nothing to live for, as these so-called "champions" were mere pawns in the mysterious empire of the archons, an enigmatic force as powerful as the recently vanquished necromancer. Despite the realization of their impending defeat, the champions continued to battle on, their final moments marked by slaying two more heroes before succumbing.
The survivors—Z'albor, Malekith, Gareth, Navafri, and Nikolas—stood among the fallen heroes from different nations, their exhaustion overshadowing any sense of victory. Relief replaced triumph as they assessed the aftermath of the battle, acknowledging the heavy toll the world had taken that day. There was no mourning, for the heroes of Kal'emsha were not bound by friendship but recognized their value in defending their nations, maintaining peace, and upholding balance.
Sheathing his blade with his remaining arm, Nikolas began to make his way out. Gareth questioned, "Where are you going?"
"He's dead. I'm going back to Yaylith; my people need their king."
"The threat is not over," Z'albor warned.
"It is for me. You can handle the rest, should you choose. My people have lost enough."
"I do not care what happens to the humans, but I cannot allow the undead to grow stronger by raising the dead," spoke Malekith.
"Very noble," Navafri retorted sarcastically, the smirk on both faces showing a shared mischievous personality.
"I never said it was, but the humans use my people as slaves. Forgive me for being less than empathetic."
"Whatever your reasons, come. There is more work to be done," Z'albor stated. Nikolas went his own way, and the others assessed where their skills could be used.