The phantom itch in the void where my left arm had been gnawed at me with a maddening intensity, a cruel reminder of everything I’d lost in that jungle mission. For years, the itch was a constant whisper—telling me I wasn’t whole, that something had been ripped away. But today, standing in the cold, sterile morgue, surrounded by the still air and lingering echoes of the dead, I felt something new.

Power.

It wasn’t a sudden gift or some stroke of luck. This was earned. Years in this place, surrounded by death, experimenting with the bodies that arrived like unwanted guests, had brought me here. At first, I could only catch glimpses—faint echoes of their final moments: fear, pain, confusion. But I pushed harder. Dared more. And as I grew bolder, I realized I wasn’t just listening to these echoes. I was drawing from them, pulling their very essence into myself.

Now, here I stood, before a grotesque collection of parts—some human, most not. Laid out on a cold steel table were the pieces I had painstakingly gathered: the severed arm of a Harrow fiend, the twisted claw of a ghoul, a shard of Wyrm scale, sinew from something I couldn’t even name. Each piece thrummed with a strange life, remnants of the magic that had once animated them. These weren’t just trophies; they were the key to something greater.

I had prepared for this moment meticulously. Weeks of study, of mapping out the intricate web of necromantic energy flowing through each fragment, had led me here. Each one held secrets, dark and ancient, waiting to be bound. Waiting for me.

I closed my eyes and focused on the familiar void where my arm had once been. The phantom pain was gone, replaced by a steady throb, a tingling anticipation. Reaching out with my senses, I felt the swirl of death magic surrounding me. The remnants of life clung to the air, seeping from wounds that hadn’t fully healed. They whispered to me, beckoning, and I pulled.

The air grew colder, the lights dimming as shadows pressed closer, hungry for what I was about to unleash. I pressed the stump of my arm against the severed limb of the Harrow fiend, and instantly felt the dark energy stir beneath its skin, like I’d touched a live wire. A jolt raced up my spine, my breath catching as I drew the power down into the empty space where my arm had been.

Tendrils of necromantic magic coiled around the stump, winding themselves into the Harrow fiend’s flesh. It twitched, then writhed as the energy surged, fusing its essence with mine. Bones began to form—not just human bones, but something denser, sharper, reinforced by the monstrous strength of the creatures I’d studied.

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The ghoul’s claw was next, its serrated edges scraping the steel table as its death magic reached out like a predator, eager for life. I drew that energy in too, feeling it bleed into the growing structure of my new arm. The claw reshaped itself, aligning with the dark ethereal bones, sharpening into talon-like fingers.

I grinned. This was no longer the phantom itch of something lost. This was power—something earned.

Next, I turned to the shard of Wyrm scale. It glimmered with a cold, unnatural light, hard and unyielding. I focused on its toughness, its resilience. Drawing it into the mix, I felt its strength spread through the bones, fortifying them beyond anything human. My arm wasn’t just becoming flesh again. It was becoming something more—a weapon, a tool forged from monsters and the magic of death itself.

The surge of power was almost too much, the magic threatening to tear me apart, but I pushed harder, feeling the holy magic rise from within me to meet the dark energy, balancing it. The sinews and muscles knitted together, threads of light binding them with a strange harmony in the shadowed room.

A low, satisfied laugh escaped me as I flexed my new fingers. The muscles responded instantly, talons retracting and extending at my command, every motion smooth, perfect. The energy hummed through me—creation and destruction, light and dark, life and death. It was intoxicating, a rush of power like I’d never known before.

But it wasn’t enough.

I turned back to the table. More parts lay waiting—the severed horn of a Hellbeast, still slick with blood, glowing faintly in the dim light; the broken wing of a shadow wraith, pulsing with dark energy despite its frayed edges. They called to me, their power raw and unrefined, waiting to be bent to my will.

I reached out, feeling the necromantic energy flow from my arm like invisible tendrils, wrapping around the new pieces, drawing them in. The power flared again, brighter this time, more intense. The Hellbeast’s horn fused to my shoulder, the shadow wraith’s wing melded into the skin, snaking down my bicep in a dark pattern of intricate lines.

The power surged through me. I could feel the brute strength of the Hellbeast coursing in my muscles, the shadow wraith’s ability to manipulate darkness weaving through my thoughts. The shadows in the room thickened, responding to my will, coiling around my arm like living extensions of the magic within me.

I clenched my new fist, feeling the raw power ripple through me like electricity, hot and alive.

This wasn’t just an arm. This was the culmination of everything I’d done, every risk I’d taken, every corpse I had dissected. It was a fusion of light and dark, human and monster, life and death.

It was my creation. My weapon.

I opened my eyes, feeling the energy settle, like a living thing now bound to my will. The bodies laid out on the slabs, the ones that had whispered their secrets, their pain, their last moments—they had given me this. I had taken their fears, their struggles, their deaths, and forged something greater.

This was just the beginning. The gates had opened for a reason, and now I was beginning to understand why. The power of the dead, the magic that flowed through this broken world, wasn’t something to fear. It was something to command, to wield.

I flexed my new hand one last time, feeling the power ripple through me.

And I was ready to use it.