Had it been that long? I’d almost forgotten about the Necromancer class.

To be fair, I hadn’t exactly dived deep into it before—its talents were unique, yeah, but not always useful or easy to manage.

Yet, the more I thought about it, the more certain memories resurfaced. When a skill really meshed with the Necromancer’s talents, the whole experience changed; it became a style of gameplay all its own.

“Wow, has it really been that long? I almost forgot about that character—my Weaponmancer.”

Yeah, another made-up name. Like Bloodzerker, I coined the term Weaponmancer to capture exactly what this character could do.

The Weaponmancer mixed the crafting skill, Weapon Craft, with the Necromancer’s talent.

Unlike the straightforward Fire or Ice Mages, which only boosted their element’s damage, the Necromancer’s talent had a twist.

“What was it called again? Right, Animus.”

https://i.imgur.com/aEc79nU.jpeg [https://i.imgur.com/aEc79nU.jpeg]

[Necromancer Trait: Animus]

This trait allows the necromancer to infuse latent life force into inanimate objects, turning them into animated constructs that obey the necromancer's will.

It was like adding a heartbeat to the inanimate, breathing life into cold steel. With Animus, my character could turn weapons into little soldiers ready to follow my every command. Simple as that, and just as amazing.

“Honestly… It was pretty cool.”

It had been the perfect blend of crafting and command, this Weaponmancer I’d created. And because I had the crafting ability Weapon Craft, I didn’t have to wait around for new minions—I could just make more. At first, I thought it would just be a temporary gimmick, but the more I played, the better the synergy got. It was like stacking skill on top of skill, a setup that kept growing stronger. By the end of that run, the Weaponmancer was a walking armory, surrounded by a swarm of self-made weapons that moved at my will. It wasn’t just a class—it was like having my own army in my pocket.

I’ll admit, I’d gotten attached. It was so versatile. As the game went on, I could upgrade to stronger materials and craft weapons that hit harder and lasted longer. It turned the class from just another fighter into a strategic powerhouse, able to adapt to whatever the game threw at me.

“What a shame…”

That Weaponmancer was probably one of the most fun characters I’d built. And yet, that character also taught me a lesson I never expected: betrayal. The kind that cuts deep.

The Necromancer’s whole image—it was dark, edgy, and, let’s be honest, a little creepy. That alone made NPCs uneasy, especially those from holy factions. And in Dungeon End, NPCs aren’t just decoration. The world was so immersive and full of life that anything could happen, anywhere. You could be heading to a blacksmith’s to get a sword reforged, and out of nowhere, you’re surrounded by thieves. Or maybe you’re on the outskirts of a village, and some local do-gooders decide it’s time to “take down the necromancer.” Just an average day for a Necromancer in Dungeon End.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I used to think it was high-level AI and clever writing. But now, standing here, I realized that I wasn’t just up against code. These were real people interacting with my character, responding to my actions. They were actually out here making decisions in real-time, and I was just one more individual for them to deal with.

And that’s when it hit me. Sure, there were dozens of classes to choose from, but picking one here wasn’t as simple as scrolling through a list. This place had its own social structure, a hierarchy where “who you are” mattered almost as much as what you could do. Even if a class lined up perfectly with your skills, you couldn’t just grab it and go, thanks to something they called “casteism.”

Casteism here was like a social code of conduct but worse. The hierarchy didn’t care about race—humans, elves, dwarves, they all got along fine. But classes? That was a different story. The way you were treated wasn’t about your skills but about the title you held.

The first division was the hierarchy. Here, nobles were the ruling class, and then everyone else fell in line below them. If you were born into nobility, you had access to better gear, better food, just an overall better starting point. Non-nobles, like me, were shackled by contracts—slave contracts. Nobles held the keys to power, and if you were born without it, you were basically just here to help them keep it.

The second division was the classes. Even beyond noble and non-noble, classes like the Necromancer were considered “evil.” That label didn’t just mean people avoided you; it made you a target. People who chose classes like Necromancer or Warlock usually had a history of going rogue, burning villages, practicing forbidden magic… basically, they were the villains of the world. So anyone who chose one of those classes might as well wear a sign saying, “Please, ambush me.”

And that brings me back to betrayal. Dungeon End had a way of rubbing it in, a lesson about trust and how easily it could be broken. For me, that betrayal came hard and fast. My Weaponmancer was leveling up like a dream, gaining power at a crazy pace. But all that growth didn’t just make me stronger—it also made people nervous. Or rather, it made my Cleric companion nervous.

This Cleric wasn’t just some low-level healer. He was from the holy faction that prided itself on keeping the “dark arts” in check. And apparently, that meant keeping me in check.

The more powerful I got, the more nervous he became. He saw what I was capable of and, as a Cleric, couldn’t help but worry about what I could turn into. Necromancers had a reputation for going rogue, after all. Just having that power over life and death freaked him out.

So, he called in a favor. Or “guidance,” as he put it. The church decided that waiting to see if I’d turn evil wasn’t an option. They set up an ambush to take me out.

“Self-righteous jerks.” I muttered. “Doing something so underhanded while they preach about righteousness.” I shook my head, that old sting of betrayal bubbling back up. I’d really liked that character.

That was the day I learned that “companion” didn’t mean “trustworthy.” You couldn’t just team up with anyone here; you had to build a bond. For some classes, like Necromancer, people’s prejudice made it even harder. Fear could twist anyone’s perception, especially when it came to “evil” classes.

I realized then that choosing a class wasn’t just about what would make me powerful. It was about what would keep me alive. And not just in the dungeon—but out of it, too.

But here I was again, no better off than when I first started that run as a Weaponmancer. Did I really have a choice? If I picked the Necromancer again, was I just walking into the same disaster?

The thought looped through my mind as I scanned through the list of classes again. There were others—Warrior, Mage, Hunter—but none of them had the potential that the Necromancer offered. All the risks aside, deep down, I knew this was still my best bet.

Years of gaming experience told me that much.

“So be it.” I finally muttered, feeling a strange mix of determination and dread settle over me. “Right now, survival’s the only priority. I’ll keep my class under wraps, if I have to.”

Decision made, I felt a twinge of excitement—even if I knew the risks. Tomorrow, when the dungeon opens, I’ll pick the Necromancer class again and face whatever comes.

“Here’s hoping this isn’t a huge mistake…”

“But I will survive, no matter what.”