Reviver. A title murmured by the rare few grateful undead who tread uneasily among the living, most of which are still tied to it by the chains of regret. Yet, this label is scarcely heard, for those who would bestow it are far fewer than one might imagine.

Filthy Necromancer, on the other hand, echoes far louder. It is a title both feared and despised, reserved for one consumed by an unquenchable greed for life itself—a hunger so insatiable it compels them to pry open the Grimoire of Undeath, absorb its forbidden knowledge, and wield its corrupted power with reckless abandon.

This title is not given by the sorrowed cadavers—no, it is the mark of revulsion uttered by the dignified among the undead—those who retained their sanity and honor in death. These tormented souls, bound by rage and resentment, would give anything to see the Necromancer’s severed head presented before them.

The choice of platter—be it polished gold, corroded steel, chipped ceramic, or rust-eaten iron—matters little. What matters is the letter accompanying the head. A merciless chronicle of every excruciating torment inflicted upon the Necromancer before their final breath, each word a dagger of visceral detail, cutting into the very essence of their cruelty. The more harrowing the suffering, the more grotesque the imagery, the greater the catharsis it delivers to the damned. For the undead do not yearn for the hollow balm of justice; they crave revenge—savage, unrelenting, and unrepentant—a reckoning as unholy and brutal as the desecration that shattered their eternal rest.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But why? Why such seething hatred? Why would creations yearn to obliterate their own creator?

The answer, as mentioned, is simple: greed

The Tome of Undeath tells but two stories, each a grim bargain for its wielder:

Command Undeath. Become its master, raising legions of corpses to do your bidding. Forge an army to conquer nations, exact vengeance, or fulfill your darkest ambitions. The cost? Immense. But to those hungry for power, every drop of sacrifice is worth it.

Consume Undeath. Desecrate the deceased, rip them from their eternal rest against their will, and in return, claim what you desire most: youth, beauty, and years added to your lifespan with every soul defiled.

It takes little effort to see which path this Necromancer chose. They did not seek power, conquer nor glory; they sought to feed—an abomination masquerading as Beelzebub, yet even He would not stoop so low. To steal not just life, but peace itself. Every risen corpse, every disturbed soul, is a testament to this insatiable greed. Every anguished cry of the undead is a harbinger of their reckoning.

And so the undead cry. Not tears of sorrow, nor tears of flesh and blood, but the unholy cry of battle—a deafening call for vengeance.

Their desire for retribution burns brighter than the fire of life itself.