Chapter 1: Return of the Bone Caller
The liminal space stretched endlessly in every direction, a swirling void of muted grays and shimmering blacks. Shadows twisted and danced like restless phantoms, though no light source seemed to fuel them. John stood at the center of it all, his breath a faint mist as he stared into the nothingness. It was cold here—not the sharp chill of winter, but the kind of deep, hollow cold that settled into your soul and refused to leave.
“Of course, it’s creepy and existential,” he muttered, rubbing his arms. “Couldn’t have ended up in a sunny meadow or a nice coffee shop, could I?”
His voice echoed back, distorted and faint, as if the space itself was mocking him. John glanced down at his hands, his fingers flexing experimentally. He felt... different. Stronger, yes, but also heavier, as if the very air clung to him with unseen weight. The faint glow of necromantic runes began to creep up his arms, their soft blue light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“Neat,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Because glowing runes always scream ‘good decision.’”
The void pulsed, and a doorway began to form ahead of him—a jagged tear in the fabric of the space, its edges rippling like liquid obsidian. Beyond it lay Frostholm: the snowy expanse of the Viking village he’d fought to protect, the people he’d come to care for, and the dangers he’d barely survived.
And yet, doubt rooted him in place.
“Do I really want to go back?” he asked aloud, his voice raw. “I mean, what’s waiting for me? More battles? More skeletons? Freya yelling at me to stop whining?”
He snorted at the thought but didn’t move. His mind wandered to Earth, to his old apartment with its perpetually leaking sink, the faint hum of his gaming rig, and the greasy takeout boxes stacked precariously on the counter. It had been... comfortable. Safe. But was that really enough?
“Comfort’s overrated,” he muttered. “All it got me was a dead-end job, a bad back, and a complete inability to talk to people.”
He looked back at the tear in the void, his pulse quickening. Frostholm had been dangerous, terrifying even. But it had also given him something he’d never had before: purpose. For the first time in his life, he’d been more than just another face in a crowd. He’d mattered.
And Freya...
John clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. “Alright, Frostholm. You win. I guess I’ve got unfinished business.”
The moment the words left his lips, the transformation began. Pain lanced through his back, sharp and searing, as if his very bones were being reshaped. He cried out, falling to his knees as the void around him seemed to constrict.
“What the hell?! Is this... normal?” he gasped, though he doubted anyone was listening.
His muscles burned as they stretched and twisted, his skin prickling as new sensations flooded his senses. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay conscious. Slowly, wings unfurled from his back, massive and black, their glossy feathers shimmering faintly with the same necromantic energy that coursed through his veins.
John staggered to his feet, the wings folding seamlessly into his back as if they’d always been there. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling from the effort, but he managed a shaky grin.
“Well, that’s new,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Guess I’m skipping the economy flight plan from now on.”
The tear in the void widened, the light beyond growing brighter. It beckoned him, warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness around him. Without another word, John stepped through.
The sensation was instant—a rush of icy air, the crunch of snow beneath his boots, and the distant sound of Frostholm’s villagers going about their day. He fell to his knees, gasping as the cold bit at his skin. For a moment, he stayed there, his breath fogging in the crisp air as he adjusted to the world once more.
“Alright,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “Home sweet Frosty home.”
He dusted himself off and began walking toward the village, his dark wings folded neatly against his back. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he was ready.
Or at least, he hoped he was.
John trudged across the icy expanse, the snow crunching underfoot as the silhouette of Frostholm came into view. The village was nestled by the river, its wooden structures outlined against the snow-draped forests beyond. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and faint shouts and laughter echoed in the crisp air. It was idyllic, even peaceful, but John couldn’t ignore the weight in his chest.
Several weeks had passed since he vanished into the liminal space, and spring was almost upon the land. The snow was softer now, patches of frozen earth beginning to show through. Yet, the warmth of the season didn’t touch him. The transformation still pulsed in his body: his wings folded neatly into his back, but their weight was a constant reminder that he wasn’t the same man who had left.
As he walked, a translucent system prompt flickered into his vision:
[SYSTEM NOTICE: Balance Must Be Restored.]
You have been marked. Prepare to face what is coming. You will be notified when you are called.
“Great,” John muttered, dismissing the notification with a mental swipe. “Because ominous warnings always turn out well.”
From the village, someone spotted him. The faint sound of alarm bells rang out, and a skeletal figure in pristine black and gold plate armor stepped onto the main path, his hand resting on the hilt of an ornate sword.
“Magnus,” John murmured, his lips twitching into a small, involuntary smile.
Magnus, the skeletal guard captain, raised his free hand in a sharp gesture to halt. His voice, dry and clipped, carried across the snow. “Halt, traveler! State your—” He paused, tilting his skull as recognition settled in. “Oh. It’s you. Well, if it isn’t our wayward necromancer.”
John stopped in his tracks, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “Wayward? I’d like to think of it as an impromptu sabbatical. You know, self-discovery, a little soul-searching—quite literally.”
Magnus stepped closer, his armor clinking with each movement. “And you came back with wings. Very subtle. I’d give you a standing ovation, but bones tend to rattle more than clap.”
“Appreciate the support,” John said, his smile faltering as villagers began gathering behind Magnus. They whispered to one another, their expressions shifting from curiosity to unease as they took in John’s transformed appearance.
“Look alive, people!” Magnus called over his shoulder. “Our necromancer has returned, and I’m sure he has a riveting explanation for where he’s been.” He turned back to John, his empty sockets somehow managing to convey dry amusement. “I’m assuming it’s a good one?”
John scratched the back of his neck. “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’ But, uh, thanks for the warm welcome, Magnus.”
From the crowd, a figure broke through, running toward him with hurried steps. Freya.
Her braided blonde hair glinted in the fading sunlight, and her eyes, sharp and piercing as always, widened as they landed on him. She stopped abruptly, staring at him as if she wasn’t entirely sure he was real.
“John?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Hey, Freya,” he said softly. “Miss me?”
Freya’s hand tightened on the axe slung across her back, but her lips parted in something between awe and relief. “You... I thought you were dead.”
“Well, technically, I was in a place that’s kind of like—” He stopped, his voice breaking slightly under her intense gaze. “I didn’t mean to leave like that.”
Freya stepped closer, her voice trembling. “I thought you weren’t coming back. None of us did.”
Her words hit him harder than he expected. The walls he’d built around his emotions crumbled slightly as he took a tentative step forward. “I didn’t want to go, Freya. But I had to. And... I had to come back.”
Her eyes softened, the mix of concern and curiosity now tinged with something warmer. “You look... different.”
“Yeah,” John said, forcing a weak laugh. “Apparently, wings are in this season.”
Freya reached out, her hand brushing against his arm. “You’re still you, right?”
“I think so,” he replied. “But I’m still figuring that out.”
The crowd murmured louder, and Freya finally stepped aside, letting the village elder, Bjorn, approach. The grizzled man, his hair streaked with silver and his arms still thick from years at the forge, studied John in silence.
“Bjorn,” John greeted, trying to keep his tone steady.
Bjorn’s weathered face was unreadable, his deep-set eyes narrowing as he looked John up and down. “You’ve been gone a long time, Bone Caller.”
“I know,” John said. “And I’m sorry for that.”
Bjorn folded his arms, his expression softening slightly. “You’ve changed. That much is clear. But change isn’t inherently good or bad. It’s what you do with it that matters.”
The elder stepped closer, his voice lowering so only John could hear. “You have power now, more than before. That will draw attention—some of it dangerous. Be prepared for that, and don’t waste what you’ve been given.”
John nodded. “I won’t.”
Bjorn stepped back, raising his voice for the villagers to hear. “Our Bone Caller has returned. Whatever doubts you may have, remember this: he chose to come back to us.”
The murmurs died down, and the crowd slowly began to disperse. Magnus gave John a mock salute before returning to his post, leaving John standing with Freya and Bjorn as the sun dipped lower on the horizon.
Freya glanced at John, her eyes lingering on his wings. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Yeah,” John said, his voice lighter now. “I figured that was coming.”
Bjorn chuckled, his voice gruff. “Come to the longhouse, then. We’ll talk there. And this time, no disappearing into another dimension without warning.”
John smirked, following them into the heart of Frostholm. Despite the tension, the village felt alive, and for the first time in weeks, so did he.
The longhouse was dimly lit, its walls lined with hanging shields and tapestries dulled by smoke and age. The crackling fire in the center cast long shadows, the flicker of its flames reflecting off Magnus’s polished plate armor. The skeletal guard captain leaned casually against a beam, his gauntleted fingers idly tapping the hilt of his sword. Across the fire, Freya sat forward in her chair, her piercing eyes fixed on John. Bjorn, the elder and blacksmith, sat at the head of the gathering, his face weathered but calm, watching John intently.
John stared into the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “The Warden’s gone. That much, I’m sure of.”
Freya raised an eyebrow, her tone sharp. “Gone as in destroyed? Or gone as in waiting to jump out from a shadowy corner the moment we let our guard down?”
“Destroyed,” John replied firmly, though the memory of the Warden’s burning form still gnawed at the edges of his mind. “Whatever he was, whatever power he had, it’s been snuffed out.”
Magnus’s hollow voice broke the tension, dry and cutting. “Well, good for you, Bone Caller. One interdimensional horror down, a few dozen more to go. What’s next, wrestling a kraken?”
John smirked. “One thing at a time, Magnus. I wouldn’t want to show you up too much.”
The skeleton straightened, crossing his armored arms. “Keep it up, and I might have to teach you how to hold a sword properly. Can’t have our necromancer embarrassing himself in front of the villagers.”
Freya, clearly unimpressed by the banter, leaned closer. “And how exactly did you pull this off, John? The Warden wasn’t exactly small-time.”
John hesitated, glancing between Freya and the others. The memory of his transformation, the raw pain and power, wasn’t something he wanted to relive. “It’s... complicated,” he said finally. “Let’s just say I didn’t walk out of that fight the same way I went in.”
Freya’s frown deepened, but before she could press further, Bjorn cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through the room. “The Warden may be gone, but don’t let that lull you into complacency. The world beyond Frostholm isn’t as still as the snow around us.”
John met Bjorn’s gaze, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
Bjorn leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “You’ve been here long enough to see how isolated we are. But Frostholm is only one piece of Skjoldheim, a vast land divided by seas and rivers. Across those waters are nations that dwarf our strength. They’ve grown restless.”
Freya’s lips thinned. “You’re saying they’ll come for us?”
Bjorn nodded grimly. “They might not march on Frostholm directly, but our rivers are our lifeblood. If those are taken, we’ll wither.”
Magnus adjusted his stance, his tone light but edged. “So, what’s the plan? Roll out a welcome mat and hope they bring pastries?”
Freya gave him a pointed look. “You’ve got hands, Magnus. Maybe you should try baking.”
Magnus gestured dramatically to his armored gauntlets. “These hands are for swords, Freya. And clapping sarcastically. See?” He clanked his palms together in mock applause, the metal-on-metal sound drawing an exasperated sigh from Freya.
The door to the longhouse creaked open, drawing everyone’s attention. Two figures entered, the cold air following them briefly before the door shut again. The first was a young woman with soot-streaked arms and a stern expression. Her braided hair was tied back messily, and the leather apron she wore bore countless burn marks.
Bjorn gestured to her. “This is Ingrid, my apprentice. She’s kept the forge burning while I’ve been... preoccupied.”
Ingrid nodded curtly, her voice pragmatic and firm. “And I’ll keep doing it. But I’ll say this now: we can’t rely on skeletons to save us. Steel doesn’t crumble like bones. We need weapons. Better ones.”
John raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind. Though last I checked, the skeletons aren’t the ones getting tired in a fight.”
Ingrid’s expression didn’t waver. “And when they fall apart mid-battle? What then?”
Bjorn raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. “Enough, Ingrid. We’ll weigh all our options.”
The second figure stepped forward, a man who looked entirely out of place in the rugged simplicity of Frostholm. He was dressed in a fine blue cloak embroidered with golden thread, his boots gleaming despite the mud and snow outside. A jeweled sword hung at his side, and his sharp eyes surveyed the room with an air of quiet confidence.
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Bjorn gestured to him. “This is Elias, a merchant from beyond the Northern Sea. He’s brought news we can’t ignore.”
Elias inclined his head, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Honored to be here. Though I must admit, the tidings I bring are grim. The nation of Varrosk is on the rise. They’ve seized control of the southern trade routes and begun raiding settlements. Not just for plunder, but for dominance. And your village sits on a river they’ll soon want to claim.”
Freya’s jaw tightened. “And what happens if we resist?”
Elias gave a thin smile. “You’ll need to resist wisely. Varrosk doesn’t just bring swords and shields. They bring enchanted ships, warlocks, and a relentless hunger for expansion. If you aren’t prepared, you won’t stand a chance.”
Magnus tilted his head. “So, what you’re saying is we’re about to star in someone else’s conquest story?”
“Not if we write our own,” Bjorn said firmly, his voice cutting through the room.
Freya glanced at John, her expression hardening. “Looks like you’ll be putting those wings to work sooner than you thought.”
John nodded slowly, the weight of responsibility settling in. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at the fire. “I figured that was coming.”
As the flames crackled on, the longhouse seemed to shrink under the weight of what lay ahead. Frostholm wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore—it was preparing for war.
The longhouse was quieter now, the fire in its center reduced to glowing embers that painted the room in hues of red and orange. The village leaders and newcomers sat in a loose circle, the tension palpable as Elias, the merchant, stood to address the group. His fine cloak shimmered faintly in the firelight, a stark contrast to the worn leathers and homespun attire of the Frostholm villagers.
Elias’s voice was calm but urgent. “Varrosk is not merely a nation—it is a machine. Their ambition knows no bounds, and they’ve already begun tightening their grip on the rivers to the south. Every settlement they conquer strengthens their control over trade, and Frostholm is perfectly positioned for their next move.”
Bjorn leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly. “How long do we have?”
Elias shook his head. “Weeks? Months? It’s hard to say. But make no mistake—they will come.”
Magnus, leaning against the wall with his sword resting casually against his shoulder, broke the silence. “And what happens when they do? We’re not exactly a thriving metropolis over here.”
“They’ll test your defenses,” Elias said simply. “If they find you weak, they’ll strike hard and fast. If they find you strong, they’ll negotiate—but only to buy time to strike harder later.”
Freya scowled. “So, either way, we’re fighting.”
Elias inclined his head. “Precisely.”
John, seated near the fire, glanced at Magnus. “Guess that means we’re about to get real busy, huh?”
Magnus gave a humorless chuckle. “Busy’s one word for it. Personally, I was hoping for a vacation.”
Ingrid, the young blacksmith’s apprentice, crossed her arms. “If we’re going to fight, we need more than skeletons and clever words. We need real weapons. Steel doesn’t crumble, and it doesn’t rely on magic.”
Magnus turned his head toward her, his skeletal jaw clicking faintly. “Steel’s great and all, but last I checked, it doesn’t get back up when you knock it down. Unlike my squad.”
The room tensed as Ingrid stepped forward, glaring at Magnus. “And what happens when your squad collapses because they’re held together by magic and wishful thinking? Real warriors don’t fall apart.”
“Enough,” Bjorn said sharply, his voice cutting through the brewing argument. He looked between the two. “We’ll need both. Skeletons and steel, magic and muscle. Fighting each other isn’t going to save this village.”
Freya leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on John. “Elias said Varrosk uses sorcery. If they’re bringing magic, we need someone who can match that. That’s you, John.”
John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Great. No pressure or anything. Just me against an army of warlocks.”
“You’ve already faced worse,” Freya said, her tone softening. “And you came back stronger.”
Elias raised a hand, drawing attention back to himself. “Varrosk is formidable, yes. But they aren’t invincible. Their strength lies in their numbers and their control of resources. If you can disrupt their supply lines—cut off their river access, claim the trade routes for yourselves—you’ll force them to spread thin.”
Bjorn nodded slowly. “Then we start with the river. But we’ll need more than the villagers to hold it.”
John straightened, an idea sparking in his mind. “What about the clans displaced by the Warden? There are survivors out there—warriors, hunters, people who’ve lost their homes. If we offer them a place here, they might join us.”
Freya’s brow furrowed. “That’s a gamble. Not all of them will trust us, and some might bring more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Maybe,” John said. “But if we’re going to hold this village, we need allies. People who’ve seen what the Warden could do might understand what we’re up against better than most.”
Bjorn’s eyes gleamed with approval. “A sound plan. Start with the clans nearby. If we can grow our numbers and strengthen our position, we’ll stand a better chance.”
Elias smiled faintly. “Recruiting allies is a good step, but don’t lose sight of what’s coming. Varrosk sees Frostholm as a backwater. They’ll underestimate you. Use that to your advantage.”
Magnus tapped his sword against the floor. “So, step one: turn Frostholm into something that doesn’t look like an easy target. Step two: remind Varrosk why underestimating us is a mistake.”
“Pretty much,” John said, standing. “But it’s not going to be easy. We’ll need every resource we can find, every skill we can use. And we’ll need to move fast.”
Freya rose to her feet, her expression resolute. “Then let’s get to work. This village has survived worse. We’ll survive this too.”
Bjorn stood, his presence commanding. “Tomorrow, we begin preparing for the river. Elias, stay and share what you know of Varrosk’s ships and tactics. Magnus, organize your squad. Ingrid, get the forge running. And John…” He met John’s gaze, his voice heavy with meaning. “Find those clans. Bring them here.”
The room dispersed, the villagers and leaders moving with purpose. John lingered near the fire, staring into its embers as the weight of the task ahead settled on his shoulders. Freya placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding him.
“We’ll figure this out,” she said quietly. “Together.”
John nodded, a small smile breaking through his worry. “Yeah. Together.”
As the fire crackled on, the longhouse seemed to hum with determination. The days ahead would be hard, but Frostholm was far from beaten. And John was ready to prove it.
John stood on the snow-covered banks of the Frostholm river, the icy water flowing steadily beneath a thin crust of ice. The docks, little more than a collection of weathered planks and leaning posts, jutted out into the current. A few small fishing boats were moored there, their patched sails flapping faintly in the cold breeze. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, adding to the blanket of white that covered everything.
His wings were folded neatly into his back, a strange but not unwelcome sensation. The necromantic runes along his arms and shoulders glowed faintly beneath his cloak, their light pulsing in rhythm with his thoughts. He tugged the fabric closer around him, though the cold didn’t bite the way it once did.
He stared at the river for a long moment, his breath visible in the crisp air. “Comfortable but meaningless,” he muttered to himself. “That’s what Earth was, wasn’t it? At least here, I have... something.”
“Talking to yourself already?” Freya’s voice cut through his thoughts. She appeared beside him, her heavy boots crunching in the snow. Her axe was slung across her back, and her wild blonde hair was braided neatly over one shoulder.
“Didn’t think I needed a permit,” John said, flashing her a wry grin. “But if I’m going to start charging admission, I should probably get better material.”
Freya smirked, though her gaze softened as it lingered on him. “You’ve been quiet since the meeting. Everything okay?”
John hesitated, his eyes drifting back to the river. “It’s a lot, you know? All of this. The village, the threats, the... changes.” He flexed his fingers, watching faint trails of necromantic energy swirl at his fingertips. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”
Freya stepped closer, her tone steady. “You’re John. That’s all that matters.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “John, the necromancer with wings. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as ‘John from IT.’” He paused, his expression turning serious. “But for what it’s worth, I made the right choice coming back.”
Freya tilted her head, her curiosity evident. “Why?”
John gestured to the village behind them, the faint sounds of activity drifting over the snow. “Because they need me. And, honestly? I need them. Earth was safe, but it wasn’t... alive. Here, every day feels like it matters. Even the bad ones.”
Freya studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Because this place needs people who care about it. People who won’t give up when things get hard.”
John gave her a sidelong glance. “You’re not bad at the motivational speech thing. Ever think about a career change?”
Freya smirked. “Not unless it comes with better pay.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment before Freya nodded toward the docks. “If we’re going to survive what’s coming, those need to change. Fishing boats won’t stop Varrosk.”
John followed her gaze, his mind already turning over possibilities. “You’re not wrong. We’ll need better docks, warships, defenses... everything. And I think my skeletons can help.”
Freya arched an eyebrow. “You’re thinking undead boats?”
“Something like that,” John said, grinning. “But it’s not just the boats. If we want to hold this river, we need allies. There are displaced clans out there, people who lost everything to the Warden. If we can bring them here, give them a reason to fight with us, we might stand a chance. I need to go to them, and see if we can help…and how we can use them.”
Freya considered this, then nodded. “It’s risky, but it could work. And if anyone can convince them, it’s you.”
John glanced at her, surprised. “Why me?”
“Because you don’t give up,” she said simply. “And because you’ve seen what’s out there. People listen to that. And, you can fly.”
John let her words sink in, the weight of her belief in him settling alongside the responsibility already on his shoulders. He exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
Freya clapped him on the shoulder, her grin returning. “That’s the spirit.”
As she turned to leave, John lingered for a moment, staring out at the river. It wasn’t just a path to survival anymore. It was a battlefield, a lifeline, a place where the future of Frostholm would be decided.
A translucent system prompt appeared in his vision.
[SETTLEMENT SCREEN: FROSTHOLM]
Population and Resources:
* Population: 97 (87 villagers, including 18 children and 25 non-combatants)
* Clan Fighters: 10 trained (Level range: 5-10, equipped with dark steel weapons and a mix of heavy and light armor)
* Resources:
* Bones: 1,800 units (plentiful)
* Wood: 200 units (moderate)
* Stone: 100 units (low)
* Iron: 50 units (scarce)
* Mana Reservoir: 150
Key Buildings:
* Longhouse: Fully operational
* Stone and Bone Walls: Encircles the village with watch platforms
* Small Dock: Modest fishing capacity
* Smithy: Basic weapons and armor production
* Healing Hut: Herbal treatments available
* Bone Garrison: Houses 15 skeleton guards
Upgrades Available:
* Reinforced Walls: +500 Stone, 300 Bone
* Military Dock: +600 Wood, 200 Stone
John scrolled through the options, his mind already crafting a plan. He allocated resources to upgrade the docks to a military hub and started mentally preparing for the task of expanding Frostholm’s influence.
Finally, he opened his character sheet.
Name: John Harper
Level: 15
Race: Draugr Ascendant (A necromantic evolution granting enhanced resilience, wings for limited flight, and innate command over undead)
Class: Necromancer – Path of the Deathcaller
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ATTRIBUTES
Points Available: 4
* Strength: 5
* Dexterity: 5
* Intelligence: 23 → 25
* Charisma: 8 → 10
* Mana: 250
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SKILLS
Points Available: 6
* Death Lash (Level 1): Necrotic tendrils lash out to strike enemies. Gains a secondary pull effect on smaller targets at higher levels.
* Gravebond (Level 1): Enhances skeleton speed and durability. Upgradable for additional resistances and damage boosts.
* Gravebind (Level 1): Links John’s undead to him, allowing shared benefits like temporary regeneration.
* Tactical Spearplay (Level 0): Improves John’s personal melee combat with a spear, emphasizing quick thrusts and counters.
* Bone Armor (Level 0): Summons skeletal plating for moderate protection. Upgradable with spikes and regenerative effects.
* Mana Regen (Passive, Tier 1): Increases mana recovery rate by 15%.
* Bone Wall (Level 3): Creates a durable wall with necrotic spikes. Higher levels grant greater durability and piercing damage.
* Soul Anchor (Level 0): Stabilizes summoned undead, allowing long-term use without degradation.
* Minion Cap Expansion (Level 9): Increases active undead minion capacity to 50. Further upgrades increase cap or reduce mana upkeep.
* Bone Armory (Level 1): Allows John to outfit his minions with salvaged weapons, increasing their combat effectiveness.
* Bone Sentinel (Level 0): Summons a sentinel skeleton with advanced defensive capabilities.
* Bone Golem (Level 3): Summons a large, durable construct with Necrotic Furnace, which boosts nearby minions' damage and regeneration.
* Necrotic Reclamation (Level 0): Reclaims mana and health from defeated undead or enemies.
* Command Aura (Level 0): Boosts the effectiveness of undead within a radius, increasing their coordination and damage.
* Necrotic Surge (Level 0): Temporarily enhances all active undead with increased attack speed and strength.
* Soulfire Volley (Level 0): Launches a barrage of soul-infused necrotic projectiles at multiple enemies.
* Soulfire Cascade (Level 0): A cascading wave of necrotic energy that damages enemies in a cone.
* Shadowflame Barrage (Level 0): A high-damage ranged attack with a mix of necrotic and fire elements.
NEW SKILLS AVAILABLE
* Flight (Level 0): Grants limited flight with extended gliding. Mana cost scales with usage duration. Upgradable for increased speed and stamina.
* Necrotic Convergence (Level 0): Channels energy into all active undead, temporarily combining their health pools for greater durability.
* Wraithbind (Level 0): Summons spectral wraiths that disrupt enemy formations with fear and confusion.
SELECTED UPGRADES
* Flight (Level 0): Activated for enhanced mobility and strategic advantage, allowing limited flight and extended gliding. Mana cost scales with duration.
* Minion Cap Expansion (Level 9 → Level 14): Active undead cap increased to 75, providing a significant boost to John’s ability to command larger forces in battle.
John leaned against the rail of the docks, staring at the glowing interface hovering in front of him. The translucent screen displayed his available attribute and skill points, each choice shimmering with potential. He exhaled a long breath, feeling the weight of his decisions pressing on him.
Intelligence had been an obvious pick. “Five’s the baseline,” he muttered to himself, thinking back to his old world and how absurd it felt to quantify people’s abilities with numbers. Here, though, it made sense. A standard adult human, freshly assigned a class, would average five across all attributes. By comparison, his intelligence was already leagues ahead at 25. But even with that edge, he’d learned the hard way that managing his mana pool and casting efficiency was crucial to his survival—and to Frostholm’s. Every point he invested gave him more room to work with, letting him command undead longer and unleash more devastating spells without worrying about running dry.
Charisma had been the tougher call. At only eight, he was already above the human average, but it wasn’t his strong suit, and he knew it. Still, leading Frostholm—and potentially other displaced clans—meant more than raw power. He needed people to follow him not out of fear, but because they believed in him. With a higher charisma score, his presence would command respect, and his aura—both figuratively and literally, given his growing necromantic abilities—would inspire confidence in allies and unease in enemies. Two points wouldn’t make him a bard, but they’d help tip the scales when it mattered.
The skill choices were no less daunting. He’d lingered on upgrading Bone Sentinel for a while, considering the value of a more powerful dedicated defensive minion to anchor his forces, but it felt too limited for now. Upgrading Necrotic Reclamation had its appeal as well, offering a way to recycle fallen minions into health or mana more efficently, but it felt more like a luxury than a necessity. He’d even briefly entertained upgrading Shadowflame Barrage, imagining the raw destruction it could unleash, but dismissed it as too situational.
In the end, Flight had been irresistible. The ability to maneuver above the battlefield or scout the terrain from the air wasn’t just practical; it was game-changing. The wings folded into his back weren’t just for show—they were a tool to exploit, a way to turn the tide in unexpected ways. The cons were clear: it would drain mana and take time to master, but the potential for mobility and flexibility outweighed the drawbacks.
As for Minion Cap Expansion, that had been an easy call. Increasing his undead forces from 50 to 75 wasn’t just about quantity; it was about battlefield presence. With that many minions at his disposal, he could divide his forces, control multiple fronts, and overwhelm enemies with sheer numbers. The cons? More undead meant more micromanagement, and his mana pool—bolstered though it was—could only stretch so far. But John had learned to think strategically. A horde of undead wasn’t just a blunt instrument; it was a tool he could use to outmaneuver his enemies and protect Frostholm’s people.
Each choice carried weight, but John was learning to carry it. He dismissed the interface with a wave of his hand, his resolve hardening. The decisions were made. Now, it was time to prove they were the right ones.