Minthar grunted as the pale thing crawled above the snow.

The soft hiss that escaped his lips, unbidden, told him much of his failing control; he was dying. His blood slowly seeped into the whiteness around him, staining the ground crimson. The cold air in his lungs made breathing hard. His staff, a relic of the Greatest Necromancer, was only a few inches away; it might've been capable of saving his life if he could reach it. But alas, things were never as simple. His limbs were frozen and purple. He couldn't feel or move them no matter how much he wanted to. At the very least, the biting cold made the pain a distant thing. 

Weakened by blood loss and mana-exhaustion, Minthar could hardly muster any power to save himself. 

The end was coming. 

Maybe he really should've invested a few more points into Endurance. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

Minthar breathed in the cold air and hung his head back against the trunk of the tree behind him. The corpses of his enemies lay strewn around him; assassins they were, sent by the Church of Healing. In death, they succeeded; he'd give them props for that. They were good at what they did. He never even saw that last arrow that made its way into his inner thigh and cut open an artery. And the dagger that sliced apart the tendons of his right hand, making him incapable of even holding his staff, was a stroke of unparalleled martial genius. The buggers must've been around level 50 or 55 to put up as much a fight as they did.

Sadly, no one would ever congratulate them for ridding the world of Minthar, the last Necromancer, because they were all dead. 

Then again, the assassins likely wouldn't be the ones to have the honor of taking his life. Oh no, that honor would, unfortunately for them, fall towards the creature that now feasted on their corpses. 

It could almost be described as human-like. But it was thin, far too thing to be human. It was tall and gangly - pale, and hairless skin pulled taut over a vaguely muscled form. Its bones seemed to jut out of its abominable body; everything about it was unnatural. It shouldn't even be capable of surviving the cold of the wilderness. And yet, as the creature slowly devoured the dead flesh of Minthar's would-be assassins, it didn't seem fazed by the ice and snow. In fact, it seemed right at home in the ice. Its face was sort of humanoid if one ignored the fact that its mouth seemed to open far beyond what its jaws should've been capable of, revealing rows of shark-like teeth in its maw, which were apparently sharp enough to bite through plate armor with little difficulty. Its eyes were all black, like windows into the deepest depths of the void. 

He recognized it as a Wendigo, one of the rarest naturally-occurring forms of undead in the wilderness; but, with his vision slowly turning hazy, he couldn't entirely be sure. It could've been a mangy and unnaturally ugly Polar Bear for all he knew. 

"So, you're the one that's going to kill me, huh?" Minthar would've chuckled if he was physically capable of the act. The pale beast didn't seem to understand him, despite its humanoid shape. It definitely heard him, unless Minthar was mistaken about the slight movement of its dagger-like ears. The old necromancer breathed in and sighed, "I guess that's fair enough. The sins I have are many; if I listed them all down on a piece of paper, I'd have a sheet that spans the whole bloody continent." 

The beast moved to the next corpse, having already devoured one of the assassins. It took only thirty seconds for the pale creature to eat a full-grown man, clothes and bones and weapons included. And yet, its gaunt stomach did not appear larger and neither did it appear any less hungry as it tore into the flesh of the next assassin. Minthar watched with avid fascination as, once again, the gangly thing devoured another man in less than a full minute. Only one other corpse remained after that and then it would be his turn. 

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His mind was growing weak with blood loss; soon, he would lose consciousness. But, while awake, Minthar had a moment to ponder on the thing humanity often pondered on the doorstep of death - legacy. 

What would be his legacy in this stupid world? 

No doubt, much of the continent would remember him as Minthar the Terrible, the Necromancer-King who razed entire towns and villages and impaled the heads of kings on spikes atop the walls of their own cities. Many would remember him as the dreadful conqueror, who brought the Golden Empire to its knees; he would be remembered as the butcher, who led an army of the dead. The few who would remember him as anything more were already dead, old friends who knew Minthar the man, the human being who laughed when he was happy, cried when he was sad, and drank and made merry with his family. 

Oh, how he missed the good old days....

Now that he had a chance to really think about it, he didn't really have much of a legacy, did he? With his death, his undead legions would lose cohesion and become a rampant force that will easily be mopped up by any army worth its salt. Whatever territory he managed to conquer would be retaken by the Golden Empire or whatever Kingdom managed to splinter from it. The Healing Church would quickly cover up why he decided to attack, but Minthar figured that part hardly mattered. 

Minthar, the greatest necromancer of his era, would die and leave absolutely nothing behind, but ashes and blood. In a century, the world might just forget about him and all he stood for. 

"Atlan was right," Minthar chuckled. Already, he'd lost all feeling over his thighs and could hardly feel his ears, nose, and lips in the biting cold. The pale beast was already crawling towards him, having eaten the corpses of his assassins as he pondered on his legacy. Minthar would've shook his head if he could move his neck. "My path would leave me with nothing in the end; don't you agree, beast? I have nothing. And, soon enough, I would be no one." 

The pale creature ignored him and began gnawing on his frozen feet. Minthar chuckled hoarsely at the fact that he felt nothing as his right foot was swallowed whole, including his boots. 

And then, an interesting thought came to mind - the darkest of heresies that even he, if he were not at the crux of death, would not attempt. The System of Power, a means by which the mortal races were able to grow in strength and gain powerful abilities by leveling up, was a sacred thing that even the most despicable miscreants revered. The Church of Healing liked to preach that it was the final gift of the Old Gods, before they sealed themselves in the heavens forevermore. It was what kept the sapient races - Men, Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, Ogres, and Halflings - separate from the beasts of the wilds and the dungeons. To be born without the System of Power was the height of shame; parents often killed their children because of it. 

But Minthar no longer cared for sacred things. He was dying and he was absolutely sure that it would be Malkath, the God of Evil, who would claim his soul. What more could he possibly do to deserve hell? Nothing. 

And so, the Necromancer reached deep within himself and, with the last of his strength, performed the Ritual of Inheritance, a ritual that was meant to pass one's System of Power to the unfortunate few who were born without it; it was considered an act of the ultimate self-sacrifice and love, to give one's System of Power to another. There was no one, Minthar figured, profane and crazy enough to gift their system to an actual monster. The very thought of doing so would've definitely secured him a cozy little spot in hell if he didn't already have one. 

No one else had the gall and the profanity to even think about performing the Ritual of Inheritance on a man-eating monster. 

"No one," The Necromancer smiled as the pale beast ate both his legs and began gnawing on his innards. "Except me...." 

This would be his last act; this would be his gift to the world that took everything from him - a monster with a System of Power. 

His eyes blazed for a moment as he felt his spirit, the very fiber of his being, ripping itself free from his body, before surging right into the pale creature. The beast did not seem to react as Minthar's system became one with it. It wouldn't notice for a while, really; the System of Power took several days to fully integrate itself into a being that'd previously lived without it. Whatever experience he'd accumulated, levels he'd reached, stats he'd upgraded, and skill he'd unlocked would cease to be. But, the System of Power would come from Minthar the Necromancer, a fragment of his will would always linger. 

"You," Minthar rasped as the pale monster moved from his torso and took a gnawed off his right arm. "Will be my legacy. Grow strong... my child... grow strong and finish my work for me. Or don't... hehe... just make sure the world trembles before you." 

And then, he breathed his last. And Minthar, son of Telvor the Blacksmith and Maria the Seamstress, saw darkness and was welcomed into Malkath's dark embrace.