The two animated corpses went first, carrying with them all the tools needed for an exorcism. There wasn’t a need to go through, but since it was a rare occasion, it’d be a waste not to use it for training.

The first thing was to draw some wards around the site of the ritual. They had already drawn some around their own bodies, but taking into account the numbers and their use of possession, it might not be enough.

It was a strange sight to see so many evil spirits in the same place. Not even the ruin of the fortress of light had this many crammed together. As soon as the ritual started, they came in drove, throwing curse after curse and trying to break into the circle, into their bodies.

Thracian, moved circled them, waiting for a path to appear. Last time, the main culprit used the confusion to slip away and hide. This time, he’d go straight for the culprit and devour it… after that, he’d have a field day with all those damn spirits.

A curse catcher burst apart, another rotted down almost instantly. They had to devote so much of their attention on warding the curse, that the things hidden into the ground were now free to eat the corpses.

“Master, why don’t the curses kill them?” Asked a disembodied voice.

“We’re the one warding the curses. Ignore them, unlike the spirits they can only harm the body.”

“It’s awful, I feel them inside me.”

“They’re not; you’re safe outside!” He acted with assurance for his disciple, but it was naught a front. ‘Hurry, you damn ghost bastard.’

Less than half of the spirit had gone on the offensive, leaving Thracian to wonder if he should take the risk. However, when the fear of his host flowed through their link, he jumped into action. If it failed, they could try another day, but if he lost Azrael, he’d go back to be an erring ghost lost in the middle of nowhere.

The ghost mage retreated behind the others, there was no intelligence involved, just the simple repletion of past tactics and knowledge. The spirits didn’t act to protect it either, there was no collaboration: they saw an enemy and attacked.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He summoned his ghostly axe and cleaved any who got in his way, his mind entirely focused on the prey ahead. The destruction of their brethren caused a stir amongst the apparitions. Some moved out of the way, acting on the remnants of their instinctual fear responses, other became even more aggressive.

It was all for naught, though, as unlike Thracian, they weren’t equipped to fight the dead. The ancient king threw his axe, mowing down a dozen of spirit beside his target. He felt a rush of power like never before, a wave of memories and a sensation of loss.

“I could have done without that.” Complained the ancient ruler as a flood of regrets and losses washed his mind. He pushed them away – as he did with so many things during his life – to focus on the task at hand: the harvest.

He went after those targeting the pair first, with each kill, his body becoming even more defined. ‘Tch, things weren’t as rosy as I remembered.’ He’d been one child amongst hundred, unloved by both his parents. His rise to power paved by the corpse of his siblings and finally his father.

Weakness was despised amongst his people, and there was no greater weakness than attachment. His tribe desired perfect warriors, but what it got instead were ambitious calculating killers with no loyalty for anyone but themselves.

The vision he had of himself was getting destroyed by the coming memories. ‘I was never the great unifier revered, I just played my enemies and my allies against each-others until they were too weak to resist.’

The imperfect memories were far more agreeable than the complete ones, but he couldn’t stop, the feeling of being incomplete was that much worse to bear.

Two hours later, the ghost reappeared near Azrael, looking almost normal if it weren’t for his hue and his clothes being seemingly one with his body. “I’m finished. Was all that it said before donning its armor.

“Is there something wrong?” Asked the child, worried by the sudden change of comportment.

“I am complete.” Another laconic answer.

“Isn’t that a good thing.”

“No, it isn’t. As it turns out I wasn’t who I believe I was. I feel empty, what was it that I was striving for.” He wasn’t a hero. He’d lived all his life fearing an assassin, feeling safer on the battlefield surrounded by known enemy than at home, surrounded by secretive ones. Even his death was pathetic: poisoned by an elixir of immortality.

“It’s nice that you’re quiet for a change.” Mused Ignis.

“Shut up brat, I might not be half the man I though I was, but I’m still hundreds of time the man you are.”

“Scary. This old man doesn’t have any teeth, but he sure got some bite.”

“Can’t you stop fighting for two damn minutes?” Snapped the young apprentice. “There’s till work to do!”