Lukandor felt pain all over his body, he tried opening his eyes but it was too bright, he had to make an effort to keep them open.

Something was wrong, his body felt odd, he tried to block his nostrils from the putrid smell that filled the room but found it hard to move his hands, he could barely lift his head off the ground. The pain was unbearable and he was having trouble breathing properly.

He was dying. Lukandor almost let himself go, but Aena came to his mind, then Eloesh standing over her hunched, headless body. He couldn't die, he wouldn’t, not before killing that man.

He focused his mind and assessed the situation. His eyes had adapted to the room’s light, but he still couldn’t see properly, everything was gray and blurred. He looked down at his hand and his vision focused better, but the sight confused him, it was ridiculously small.

I’m an infant? he thought.

That’s why he felt so different, and it made Lukandor realize how bad his situation truly was. He wasn’t just dying, even if he managed to survive, his soul would soon start adapting to his body, to his undeveloped brain, and eventually he would lose most, if not all, of his memories, potentially forever. He couldn’t let that happen.

Despite the pain, despite the nauseating stench, he concentrated all his effort into moving his body, he had to be fast, while the soul adaptation didn’t completely rob him of his movements and will to keep trying.

He could feel a soul’s presence around him, so he looked, noticing he was between someone’s legs and, looking down, there was a white cord connected to his stomach.

Of course.

He had literally just been born. So the one to his side would be his mother, but he had no time to dwell on that. Her soul was faint, she was closer to death than he was, so using draining touch to heal himself and gain some time wouldn’t do much, if anything. He also couldn’t use the Aging Ritual to solve the problem of losing his memories and turning into an actual infant, since that would only kill him faster in his wounded state.

He noticed something glinting on the woman’s hand, hanging from her hand, which gave him an idea, a possible solution to his problem. He manipulated his own soul to push his weak body into movement, a variation of the tier one skill to use antumbras. He reached for her hand and pulled the hanging necklace chain, a white medallion with the symbol of a round shield fell to the ground.

That was it, his only option left was the Lich Ritual, well, an attempt at one lich ritual. There were no reliable records of anyone actually succeeding in such rituals, and the tales that did exist all differed on how to achieve it. Lukandor had read one such tale in an old grimoire in Aena’s rare collection, it was during his first years of learning necromancy, but it had stuck in his memory due to the author's humor. Their name was Lim, and after the alleged success, they commented on how, in hindsight, what they had attempted was akin to performing a heart transplant on yourself with only a knife, needle and thread.

In Lukandor’s case, the knife was dull, the needle was bent and the thread was breaking. He wasn’t appreciating the humor as much, now. Many elements were missing, elements that would improve the success rate of the Ritual, but all the key ingredients were there, a soul, blood and a recipient.

He immediately started drawing the directive with the pooling blood near his mother’s body. The circle was the only easy part, this directive had many complex symbols relating to life and death, which only became harder to draw with his dying newborn body. He just hoped he was remembering it all correctly.

After only finishing the first directive, his body felt like it was melting, burning and crumbling at the same time, he was pushing himself far beyond the natural, but there were two more directives left, one on the woman’s body and another beneath the medallion.

He crawled towards one of her legs and with his tense, trembling arm, began drawing the second set of symbols. As soon as he finished, he briefly let go of the soul manipulation, but that was a mistake, his body sank along with his consciousness, he barely managed to stay awake.

So cold…

Yet he struggled. Why? Why was he fighting it? Giving in would feel so much better, the pain would stop, he knew. His small body trembled on the hard floor, his hazy eyes wandered, more questions surfacing. Where was he? Did it matter? Who was he? He should just sleep. Yes… all would be better if he just let go.

So tired…

His eyes began to slowly close, then he felt a touch.

Lukandor! he heard, his eyes snapping open. Yes, he was Lukandor, he had to survive, he had to make them pay, he had to make them regret for all eternity.

Lukandor got on his knees, the hand of his mother sliding off his head, he looked at the woman whose face he still couldn’t see and thanked her, proceeding to draw the third directive beneath the medallion. He then made a line to connect all the three circles, and drew a larger circle to encase the triangle it had formed.

He finished it.

It was far from perfect, but it had all been a bet from the start, he would either wake up, or not… no, he would, he had to.

It will work! With that final thought, Lukandor poured his potentia on the directive, but that didn’t last, the energy started to get sucked out of him and he once again felt his soul being pulled from his body as the circles and symbols drawn in blood began to glow, then darkness filled his vision once more…

—

The door creaked open, breaking the room’s silence, the sound of footsteps followed after and the door was closed again.

“Ugh, this place fucking stinks,” said a man.

“Looks like she popped another fucker out.” said another man.

“Is she dead?''

“What are you looking at me for? I’m not checking it, the bitch almost got me blind last time.”

“Fine,” he sighed.

Heavy boots approached the woman and stopped.

“So?” asked the one closer to the door.

“Dead.” the other answered.

“Gotta give it to the bitch, she could take a beating. I thought she’d die after the second kid, but seven? That’s something.”

“She did make us a lot of money.”

“Is the kid dead too?”

He put a hand in front of the body’s nose and another on its neck, saying “Unlucky number seven.”

“Or lucky, at least got to die with its mother.”

The man grabbed the infant’s body by the leg and lifted it.

“Hm? What’s this?”

He grabbed the medallion and said, “Hey, she finally let go of the…”

“What’s wrong?” asked the other man.

“I… I don’t know…” he said, dropping to his knees, “I’m not…”

The man collapsed.

The other man rushed to his side, saying, “Tanis, what’s wrong? You.. you’re bleeding, when did you—”

The woman lunged towards him, both hands on his throat. The man gave a strained low scream and tried to release her grip, but even in his panicked state he quickly realized it was useless, and what should have been a dead body was now trying to kill him.

He reached for something to the side of his hip, pointed at the woman and there were a number of small flashes of light from the tip of the device, but whatever that did, it had no effect on her, and the man soon stopped struggling, so Lukandor cut the energy threads linking the corpse with his soul.

It worked, Lukandor thought.

It didn’t seem real, the Ritual actually worked. His first instinct was to go to Aena and share with her the exciting news, but once again, the thought of her brought him back to the grim reality. Aena was dead, truly dead, beyond the reach of even necromancy. He didn’t feel sad, just hollow, an emptiness that turned into hatred as the face of the one who killed her came to his mind.

Eloesh, he thought with bitterness.

Focusing on the present, as confusing as his current situation was, Lukandor decided he had no time to ponder on it, his priority was safety.

He knew the spell worked, but he wasn’t sure on what exactly that meant, Lim’s report ended shortly after proclaiming success with the Ritual, where they said they would “enjoy their eternal vacation”, so Lukandor would have to figure out as he went.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Two things were for certain, first was that he could now see potentia and souls, it was what allowed him to draw a directive of draining touch to incapacitate Tanis, and manipulate the woman’s corpse as an antumbra to attack the other man.

Secondly, the ritual had split his soul in two, one part was in the medallion with what Lim called the “Self”, “the soul’s true essence”, his memories, experiences and emotions, basically what made him who he was; and the second part was in his body, being just that, the part of his soul that allowed him to move, see, the part that allowed him to experience the world. It was simple on paper, but he had no idea how it actually worked, Lim wasn’t very thorough when explaining it, but it didn’t matter for now.

There was one more thing he was worried about, which was potentially urgent, but it would have to wait. First, he had to age his body, a newborn body wasn’t very useful, even as an undead, and it would be a problem if people kept showing up. He wasn’t sure if the Aging Ritual would work, but he had to try.

His potentia reserves reserves were almost depleted, and being more of a theoretical necromancer, the amount of potentia Lukandor’s soul could hold wasn’t much, but it would still usually take a while to refill. Luckly, the place was so full of raw potentia that it was comparable to a sizable cemetery. All he had to do was filter it with his soul, so he did, it took only a few minutes.

His potentia flowed out of his hands and settled like a cyan mist below him, then slowly started to take shape at his will, forming the directive of the Ritual. When the last symbol took shape, he felt the rest of his reserves being depleted and saw the energy being drained from his body.

Aging so fast was different, he felt pain everywhere, his body hurt in places he forgot it could hurt, but he gritted his newly grown teeth and endured. His body started ripping itself apart, bones sticking through flesh and blood flying everywhere, he was about to pass out when he hastily drew another directive on his hand and reached for the man near him, using draining touch and feeling his body growth stabilize.

When he deemed it was enough, Lukandor broke the directive and lay on the ground for a few minutes, trembling, panting and sweating to a concerning degree, but it soon stopped. He slowly brought himself to a sitting position and moved the black, overgrown hair sticking to his face and blocking his vision out of the way.

The whole scene was different when depth and colors were add to it, he looked at the two men, one had become a mangled mummy due to the draining touch, and the other had his throat crushed beyond what Lukandor intended, dead, the severely abused corpse of the one gave birth to Lukandor on top of him.

Feeling the medallion hosting his Self, Lukandor turned his eyes towards it, picking up and noticing it had changed. Sculpted on it was an horizontal ellipse made of chains and filled with black and silver undulating patterns, a sword went through the middle of the ellipse and across a cyan fire at the center, ending with the blood stained tip of the blade coming out on the other side,

He recognized the drawing as a much more embellished version of the main symbol in the Lich Ritual directive. What concerned him and confirmed what he instinctively knew was the sword, it was cracked in several places, and the longer he looked at it, the more worn it seemed to become.

So that’s how it is, Lukandor thought.

His mother’s soul was stronger than average, but one seemed to not have been much, it only gained him a day or two at most. To maintain the directive, he would have to constantly consume souls.

Lukandor also noticed something else, something deep within his Self in the medallion, merged with it. He focused harder to try and see more, but his vision only became blurrier and convoluted. The longer he tried, the more an eerie feeling grew inside him and compelled him to stop looking, so he averted his eyes.

Lukandor slowly managed to get up, with some struggle. To his surprise, his body was somewhat fit, despite undergoing no training, but it was definitely on the leaner side. Perhaps due to combining the draining touch directive with the Aging Ritual.

Taking a better look around, there wasn’t much to the room, it only had a bed, a sink and a toilet, and despite having no lamps, through some unknown source, the room was dimly lit in a blue tint at the edges of the ceiling.

Odd, Lukandor thought.

He looked back at the first people he had ever killed and felt nothing, it was obvious from their behavior that they weren’t worth the weight on his conscience, though it was unfortunate that he couldn’t use their souls to feed the Lich directive anymore, but they weren’t without worth.

Lukandor approached the strangled corpse, carefully moving the woman’s body and propping it on the wall. He started to undress the man’s gray uniform, halting when he noticed the device the man had tried using it before.

Mimicking the man’s movements, Lukandor pointed the device at the wall and pulled the small lever with his finger. There was a muffled sound and a small flash of light.

Interesting, he thought.

Inspecting the wall closer, he found a small, hot piece of metal lodged in it.

A projectile launcher, he confirmed. Certainly deadly, but unfortunately for that man, only against living beings.

After undressing the corpse, Lukandor began clothing himself with its clothes, slowly moving his fingers to fasten the buttons on the front part of the gray uniform, but his body felt alien, resulting in awkward attempts when it came to movements of that level of precision.

“Tanis?” came a voice, “Weir? You guys in there?”

Lukandor quickly started to draw the penumbra directive on the strangled man’s body. His soul was extremely weak, most of its Self had already burned into the environment, but there was enough to raise a tier two Shadow, filling the gaps with information copied from Lukandor’s own soul.

“The boss told me to check on you guys,” continued the man behind the door. “I’m coming in… you better not be doing something nasty.”

Lukandor rushed to the center of the room and faced the entrance. The door unlocked with an unfamiliar sound and opened.

“I’m seriously going to repor—”

“Stop right there,” Lukandor said, pointing his weapon towards the short, blonde man. “don't make a sound or you’ll have a fate worse than your friend over there.”

Following Lukandor’s gaze towards the dried mangled corpse laying in the room, the man’s eyes widened.

“Oh fuck, oh fushit, oh fuck. Please, please don’t kill me. I-I—”

“Silence.” Lukandor commanded, and he saw the man’s weak soul tremble, forcefully complying to his order. “Come inside, slowly.”

The man slowly stepped in, hands in the air and averting his eyes upwards.

“Close the door,” Lukandor said.

The short man was about to turn when Lukandor interrupted him.

“Not you, keep your eyes on me.”

The Shadow of the strangled man got up and with lifeless motion pushed the door closed. The blonde man fought the urge to look behind him and see who it was.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, and depending on your answers, I’m going to kill you,” Lukandor said, “I’m warning you, I will know if you lie to me.”

The man nodded in a panic.

Lukandor couldn't actually tell with precision if the man lied, but with how weak and afraid his soul felt, he figured a bluff and a threat were enough to make the man believe it.

“What is this place?” Lukandor asked.

“Wh-what?”

Lukandor took a big breath and calmly said, “I want to know what this building is.”

“I-I don't know what you mean! A prison?!” the man answered, and maybe Lukandor had sounded more threatening than he intended, because the man was almost bursting into tears.

“The next unsure and vague answer you give me will be your last.”

“We—they call it a breeding camp!” the man said, desperate. “Officially, it’s a prison b-but it’s all a facade. All of the prisoners are women, and most of them are pregnant.”

“A breeding camp?” Lukandor said. “Why?”

“I don’t know man,” he answered, crying, kneeling, begging in his tone, “I just work here, ok? I’m just following orders, please, please don’t kill me. I don’t know what your Rule is, but I don't wanna turn into that.”

Rule?

“What do you mean by—”

“Goddammit Ritz! I fucking told you that if I had to come he—”

The door opened.

In the moment it took the man dressed in blue uniform at the door to take in the whole scene and process what to do, Lukandor pointed the weapon at him and pulled the lever, there was a dull sound but nothing happened. The man’s eyes widened in shock and realization, going for his own weapon.

“Kill him!” Lukandor ordered his Shadow.

The penumbra charged at the man and they both fell.

“What the—Weir? What the fuck are you doing?” the man said, struggling with the undead attacking him. “Get the fuck off me.”

Lukandor heard a click and looked down to see that the pitiful man in front of him who was just a moment ago begging not to be killed, was now holding the weapon that Lukandor, not deeming him a threat, forgot to take it from him.

Even trembling, at that distance, the man didn’t miss. The first one hit Lukandor’s heart, making him take a step back from the impact, the second grazed the side of his neck and the third went straight for his head. Lukandor fell.

“Ritz!” came a shout from the door. “Help me get him off me!

“R-right,” Ritz answered, hurrying towards the door.

Lukandor opened his eyes to darkness, to nothing, he looked to the side and saw a smooth silver surface, it stretched for a short distance and ended in more nothingness. He tried moving but something restrained him, he looked down at himself to find he was chained. There was a woman leaning on a sword that pierced his body through the chains, but it didn’t hurt, perhaps due to the state of his body, or absence of a proper one. The shape was there, but there was no flesh to be cut, only a cyan fire that burned with fluid, gentle movements.

Lukandor focused on the familiar woman, she seemed to be sleeping, she too was just a shape of light, but her’s was white and she wasn’t burning. Chunks of her body were missing, and It was almost unnoticeable, but she was getting smaller, lesser.

Lukandor struggled against the chains and managed to pull one arm free, reaching for the woman. The moment he touched her, she started bleeding from a hole in her head and another in her chest that weren’t there before, then her eyes opened and everything faded.

“I’m trying!” Ritz screamed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he won’t budge!”

“Fucking shoot him then!”

“But—”

“He’s gonna fucking kill me, Ritz, shoot him already!”

“It’s Weir! He—he’s our friend! I can’t do it!”

“You piece of shit coward,” the man howled while struggling against the corpse, “If you don’t kill him, I’ll—behind you!”

“Huh?” Ritz turned to find Lukandor’s hand reaching for his head.

“Collapse” Lukandor said, a cyan flare beneath his hand, burning the command into the man’s soul.

Ritz’s eyes rolled back as he fell, hitting the ground limp before starting to convulse uncontrollably for a few seconds, making a number of incoherent sounds of agony then stopping, dead.