Family system

Darkness had been his companion since birth.

Born into a world of frost and blood, Xel'Kazur had clawed his way from barbaric obscurity to the heights of necromantic divinity. His people were savages, warriors who thrived on conquest and battle, but he was different. While they reveled in brute force, he craved something far greater—power beyond steel and muscle, which could not be broken by age, wounds, or even death itself.

He had been no different from the other brutes of his tribe at first—just another axe-wielding raider, a marauder who burned villages and took what he pleased. But then he had stumbled upon something, something that had changed everything.

A dying shaman, half-buried in the mud after a failed raid, had whispered to him secrets hidden in the land of the dead. He had seen the fire fading in the old man's eyes and the opportunity within that weakness. Without hesitation, he had driven his blade into the shaman's heart and taken his knowledge. Then, he first heard the whispers—the voices of the dead, the echoes of forgotten souls. They spoke of power buried in bones, of strength drawn not from the living but from the grave.

And so, Xel'Kazur abandoned the warrior's path and walked the necromancer's road.

His people had laughed at him at first. The warriors of his clan saw his strange rituals and obsession with corpses and called him weak. But he let them jeer, let them mock, and let them grow comfortable in their ignorance.

And when the night was right and the moon bled red across the sky, he took revenge.

The chieftain was the first to fall. A single poisoned blade across the throat in his sleep, and the strongest of the tribe lay dead in his furs. But death was no end—it was merely a beginning. With whispered incantations, Xel'Kazur forced the corpse back to its feet, its glassy eyes hollow and obedient.

The next morning, the tribe awoke to horror. Their great leader, their strongest warrior, had become something unnatural—his flesh cold, his will no longer his own. Xel'Kazur watched as panic spread, as the warriors hesitated.

Then he struck.

The dead chieftain was his first servant but not his last. The bodies of the slain rose at his call, and by dawn, the tribe belonged to him. Those who had once mocked him now served him, their rotting hands clutching the weapons they had once wielded in life. The few who survived fled into the wilderness, spreading the first rumors of the Deathlord.

He had tasted power, and it was intoxicating.

For years, Xel'Kazur wandered from battlefield to battlefield, growing his army and turning every death into fuel for his power. He struck in the night, lurking in the shadows of wars fought by fools who knew nothing of what lurked beneath the earth. He let kings and warlords wage their petty battles, knowing that every corpse they left behind was another soldier for him.

He learned quickly that power was not given—it was taken. And so he took.

He stole grimoires from the vaults of fallen kingdoms, slaughtered rival sorcerers in their sleep, and bound their souls to his will. He raided tombs, desecrated sacred sites, and tore knowledge from the lips of dying gods. He betrayed every ally he ever made, for his only loyalty was to himself.

And when he had grown strong enough, when the dead whispered his name with reverence and fear, he did something no necromancer had ever dared.

He seized divinity.

Xel'Kazur had never been meant to become a god. He had no prophecy, no divine right, no sacred destiny. He had only his ambition.

His ascension had been a moment of pure chance—an ancient artifact, long buried beneath the ruins of a forgotten civilization, pulsed with untapped power. He had reached for it, thinking to harness its magic, to siphon it for his ends.

Instead, it had shattered beneath his grip, and its power flooded him.

He did not know if it had been a mistake, a twist of fate, or some cruel cosmic joke, but it did not matter. One moment, he had been a man—a powerful man, but a man nonetheless. The next, he was something more. The dead did not just whisper to him—they worshiped him. His presence alone warped reality, causing the earth to rot beneath his feet and the air to grow cold with decay.

He was no longer just a necromancer.

He was a god.

The world had not been ready for him.

The living cowered, and the divine trembled at his rise. He cared nothing for the balance of the cosmos and the laws of gods and men. He sought only dominion, and for that, he needed enforcers.

So he made them.

From the strongest of his undead, he fashioned the Arbiters, warriors infused with his power and bound eternally to his will. They spread across the land, enforcing his decrees and ensuring that the dead remained the dominant force in the world. Kingdoms fell before them, temples were desecrated, and entire bloodlines were erased from history.

But power, once taken, was always challenged.

The war against him had been long and brutal. The forces of the living, led by rival gods and desperate heroes, had risen to oppose him. They had shattered his Arbiters and driven him to the brink. In the final battle, they had torn his physical form from the world, sealing him in the void between life and death.

For centuries, he had lingered, waiting to regain his strength. The world had forgotten him, had dared to believe he was gone forever.

They were wrong.

Now, he could feel it. His prison was weakening. The balance of power had shifted once more, and the whispers of the dead grew louder. His forces stirred in the world's dark corners, preparing for his return.

And then, there was a name he had heard: a new ruler, a new force rising in his absence.

A self-proclaimed god, a usurper shaping the world in his image. Xel'Kazur sneered at the thought. He had seen men like this before—pretenders, conquerors, little more than fleeting mortals who thought themselves eternal.

But Jack was different. His power was real, and his faith was strong, and that made him a threat.

Xel'Kazur would not allow another to rule where he had once stood.

The world had forgotten the Deathlord.

It was time for them to remember.

The sky darkened unnaturally as Xel'Kazur approached the great city of Aetheria. A chill swept through the air, an unnatural, soul-chilling cold that made even the bravest warriors hesitate. The ground beneath his feet blackened with decay, and the once-thriving flowers that adorned the outer roads of Aetheria wilted, turning to dust.

He had arrived.

With a slow, deliberate pace, the Necromancer God stepped forward, his long, tattered black robes billowing as if caught in an unseen wind. His skeletal-like fingers dripped with dark energy, his presence warping the very fabric of reality around him.

Atop the grand staircase leading to the temple of the Eternal Flame, the high-ranking warriors and priestesses of Aetheria had already assembled. Their hands gripped enchanted weapons, their expressions filled with determination and fear. Among them stood Selene, the Iron Warden-Commander, her hand resting on the hilt of her sacred blade.

Jack watched from the temple's highest balcony, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. He leaned against the railing, his posture casual. Beside him stood Amaterasu, her fiery hair gleaming in the fading sunlight, and Kali, who simply crossed her arms with an entertained smirk. None of them were concerned.

They had known Xel'Kazur was coming.

And they did not care.

The necromancer stopped at the base of the steps leading into the city and spread his arms wide. Deep and laced with a spectral echo, his voice boomed across the open square, reaching every ear in Aetheria.

"Pathetic children of the living, you stand before the inevitable." His voice carried an unnatural weight, sending a shiver down mortal spines. "You dare build your monuments, temples, faith as if they mean anything? As if they could outlast me?"

He lifted a hand, and a swirling mass of green necrotic energy formed in his palm. "I have seen civilizations rise and crumble, their kings and queens turned to dust beneath my heel. The gods themselves have tried and failed to unmake me."

He gestured toward Jack, though he did not look directly at him. "And now I find you—an imposter sitting on a stolen throne. Your so-called dominion will crumble, your worshippers will kneel before me, and your so-called godhood will be nothing but a whisper in the void."

Kali let out a loud snort of laughter.

Amaterasu simply shook her head. "He's serious."

Jack grinned, propping his chin on his fist. "Let's see how my people handle this."

Selene, unable to stand the insult, drew her blade and raised it high. "Aetheria stands against you, creature of rot! You will not take this city!"

The warriors of Aetheria roared in agreement. The Iron Wardens stepped forward, their enchanted weapons gleaming with divine light. The priestesses of the Eternal Flame began chanting, forming circles of holy fire meant to burn away the undead.

With a command from Selene, they attacked.

The first volley of arrows, enchanted with radiant energy, rained down upon Xel'Kazur. The moment they reached the aura surrounding him, they disintegrated into nothing. The holy flames, meant to incinerate any undead, flickered and died before they even reached him. The first warriors who charged found their blades striking empty air, as Xel'Kazur simply stood there, unfazed.

Then he lifted his hand.

A mere gesture and the entire front line of Aetherian warriors was flung backward like ragdolls, crashing against buildings, some even breaking bones from the sheer force of the necrotic wave. The second line, undeterred, pressed forward—but the moment they swung their weapons, their shadows turned against them.

Dark tendrils erupted from the ground, binding the warriors where they stood and dragging some screaming into the depths of the darkness itself. Their weapons rotted in their hands, and their enchanted armor cracked and crumbled as if aged by centuries in an instant.

Xel'Kazur let out a slow, mocking chuckle.

"Is this the best you have? I expected more."

Jack watched, completely unbothered, as his elite warriors were humiliated in battle. He did not move, he did not react, he simply observed.

Kali looked bored. "You know, I could kill him right now, right?"

Jack waved a hand lazily. "Oh, I know. But let's give the people a little lesson first."

Amaterasu exhaled, crossing her arms. "They've never faced something they couldn't beat before. This will be good for them. Let them struggle. Let them see what true power is. Then we'll remind them who truly holds it."

Jack smirked. "Exactly."

Selene now bloodied and gasping for breath, watched in horror as more of her warriors fell. Nothing worked. Every attack failed, and every strategy crumbled. She had faced countless battles in Jack's name, had fought and conquered, but this—this was something else.

Her hands shook on the hilt of her sword. She had never known fear like this.

Xel'Kazur stepped forward, slowly ascending the staircase. "Do you see now? Mortals cannot oppose me. This city is already mine. You just don't know it yet."

Selene fell to her knees, her breath ragged. She had failed. Aetheria had failed. Nothing could stop him.

Then, a voice.

Calm.

Amused.

Jack.

"That was entertaining."

Xel'Kazur froze. His undead eyes snapped up toward the temple balcony. Jack now stood, stretching his arms as if he had just woken up from a nap.

"But I think that's enough."

Behind him, Kali cracked her knuckles, grinning like a predator.

Amaterasu's golden eyes flared, her aura growing blindingly bright.

Xel'Kazur, for the first time in centuries, felt something foreign creeping into his hollow chest.

A sensation he had long forgotten.

Doubt.