Chapter 1 – The End of the World

Chapter 1 – The End of the World

The world was finally ending.

All that lives must die to welcome the birth of a new god.

Serivhal, Lord of Ashen Eternity, sat on his dragonbone throne, surveying the battlefield with grim satisfaction. After thirty years of endless struggle against that overprivileged elven harlot, the hour of his ascension had finally come.

He soared above the clashing armies atop a mighty dracolich. Behind him, his undead legions stretched beyond the horizon, their glowing eyes an ocean of unholy flame. Before him, the last armies of men braced for a desperate last stand.

Above him, the World Tree burned. Its once-shining golden leaves, bright with the power of light and life, were devoured by green fire, and its glowing white bark blackened under necromantic taint. One by one, the sky-spanning branches crumbled into nothing. The eternal barrier against the outside, maintained since the dawn of time, fractured. And in the void that opened, the mad, infinite whispers of the Elder Gods burrowed into his skull, demanding destruction and worship.

No matter. Let them whisper. Soon, he would join them as an equal.

Steeling his will against the outsider influence, the Lord of Ashen Eternity commanded his infinite army to resume its march. Wave after wave of crazed undead surged forward, crashing against the iron bulwark of the last armies of men. Skeletal soldiers shattered by the thousands against the infantry’s disciplined shield wall. Blade auras shredded even the sturdy armor of his deathknights, and Grand Magic rituals annihilated millions in storms of searing spellfire.

But for every undead that fell, another hundred rose to take its place. His legions were endless, but the defenders had been fighting for days. They were spent and exhausted, standing only by sheer force of will.

And yet, they never broke. They never faltered. Under a burning sky, the mages and warriors of the Golden Compact, mankind’s first and greatest knight order fought and died.

There was no fear, only conviction. There was no despair, only faith.

Even when fatally wounded, they died with a smile, charging into his legions while igniting the last of their mana, a song on their lips.

They sang of victory. They sang in praise of light and life. They sang a single name: Liria.

The Lich King’s mood soured. Even now, in the mortals’ final hour, that undeserving wench had their complete and total trust. He could see it in their eyes, burning with fervour. He could see it in their posture, proud and unbroken. This was not an army awaiting the end. Even exhausted, even fighting one against a million, they believed without question that their goddess would lead them to victory.

Time to shatter their ridiculous delusion.

He raised his hand, and the ground darkened under the shadow of decaying wings. The eight dragon lords, killed and raised as dracoliches, led an army of their lesser brethren to ravage the exhausted human army. The Golden Compact’s disciplined ranks finally broke under the effects of dragon fear. Their hastily thrown up barriers melted under dragon fire.

The armies of men burned. But in that searing pain, the mad wretches found the strength to throw off the magical compulsion. Even while burning, even while choking on their own blood, fleeing soldiers turned back and charged into his undead legions, determined to take as many with them as they could.

How? How are these weak, pathetic sacks of flesh doing this? Where is their strength coming from?

The Lich King held back a snarl of frustration. The mortals’ stubbornness meant nothing; they were only delaying the inevitable. Victory would be his.

He focused his mind on the eight dragon lords, ordering them to end this farce. A pointless battle of wills followed. Even stripped of mind and soul, they still resisted him. They always did. And he would crush their futile resistance, as he always had.

Then the sky opened, and Aurendorax the Sun-Throned descended upon him like a golden comet.

His contingency spells flared to life, a fortress of interlocking wards snapping into place around him. The dragon emperor tore through them like wet paper, reality itself trembling beneath the force of his blows. Aurendorax the Sun-Throned flowed through ancient martial forms, his body wreathed in sunfire. The residual shockwaves alone were enough to send the dracolich horde crashing to the ground.

Barriers that withstood even the heavens-breaking castings of Archmage Caltherion Starfall shattered like glass. Layers of enchantments that would have rendered Serivhal immune to all damage, both magical and mundane, were easily dispelled.

But they still bought him precious seconds. Enough to withdraw his mind from the contest of wills with his disobedient slaves.

Enough to cast Time Stop.

Within the colorless gray world where only he could move, Serivhal studied the dragon emperor with clinical detachment. He scanned for weaknesses, identified the component spells forming the layers of Aurendorax’s magical protection, and took in his frozen expression—eyes blazing with white-hot fury.

Why is this overgrown lizard so angry? Does he have a grudge against me?

He idly wondered while weaving spells to strip away Aurendorax’s defenses and leave him vulnerable, counting the seconds. Each spell hung frozen in time, poised to strike once the duration of his Time Stop ended.

He completed his final spell just as the world lurched back into motion, extending his spectral claw to rip out Aurendorax’s dragon heart.

His spellwork was flawless, his timing impeccable, his calculations perfect. Aurendorax would have died—if his disobedient mount hadn’t buckled at the last second. Serivhal ended up with half a dragon heart anyway.

Intellect briefly returned to his mount’s eyes as she let out a tortured plea: “K…kill me, beloved.”

And Serivhal finally remembered. His mount had once been the dragon empress, and his throne was carved from the skull of Aurendorax’s adolescent child.

Ah. That would do it.

Even a dragon emperor was still mortal, with mortal weaknesses. Which was why this world had to be made efficient. His ascension would usher in a new era of unprecedented productivity.

An unnatural silence fell over the battlefield. Fire and blood poured from the ruin of Aurendorax’s chest as the dragon emperor regarded him with an eerily blank gaze.

When he finally spoke, his voice was the rumbling of distant thunder.

“Lady Liria. My sworn friend. My liege. This is as far as I go. I leave the rest to you.”

A magical vortex formed around Aurendorax, drawing in all the ambient mana within a hundred miles. A temporary dead magic zone was left behind in its wake.

Serivhal’s follow-up spell, meant to finish off the wounded dragon emperor, fizzled out on his fingertips.

He patiently waited.

Even a dragon emperor had a limit to the amount of mana that he could hold within him. Doubly so when half of his heart was gone. He could not do this for long; the moment he stopped would be the moment he died.

Aurendorax’s golden scales shone brighter than the sun. With every breath he took, he grew ever larger, until he towered over the highest mountains. Through his magically enhanced sight, Serivhal could see the dragon emperor’s cells undergoing rapid division, converting mana and life force into sheer mass.

The Lich King was unimpressed. This was idiotic folly. What did size matter when Aurendorax’s life energy was like a candle in the wind? A thousand times more so when his opponent was the master of death itself.

Then every atom that composed Aurendorax’s being began to undergo nuclear fission.

“You insane lizard!”

For the first time in ten years, against an opponent who was not Liria Yggdris, the Lich King cursed out loud.

He forcefully drew out mana from his half of Aurendorax’s dragon heart, ignoring the cracks forming on the surface of his body from the magical backlash. His physical vessel was easily replaceable, but the continent itself must survive at all costs.

He finished casting the strongest barrier spell he knew upon the world just as light and heat consumed him.

Reformation took him minutes as his body reconstituted itself from fossilized bones buried deep beneath the ground.

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Life was inefficient. Death left resources everywhere.

He tested the weight of his new body, felt the flows of magic, and gestured experimentally. The earth cracked open, forming a chasm that rose toward the surface.

The flickering green fire in his eye sockets dimmed.

That should have been effortless.

He floated upward, robes reforming around him and his crown settling upon his brow in a burst of magic. The situation was not ideal; what should have been a trivial calibration had drained a noticeable amount of his mana. It would be a while before he was back at full strength.

Molten stone sizzled against his robes as he neared the surface, emerging to a sea of lava and erupting volcanoes. The aftermath of the dragon emperor’s final attack had been catastrophic. His once seemingly infinite army had been erased without a trace. It would take time for him to replenish their numbers.

The trunk of the World Tree towered in the distance, immaculately white in its radiance. At its base, light and life, conviction and faith, blazed like a star in the darkness.

Liria Yggdris and her remaining allies had survived the devastation unscathed.

Of course she did.

For a moment, Serivhal considered retreating. The thought rankled.

The world had been all but his.

The magitech empires had fallen. The Church of Light had burned. The glorious knight kings had all been turned into his undead slaves.

Even the Demon Realm and the Forest of Spirits had been reduced to barren wastelands, filled with the spectral screams of wraiths.

All that remained was the final bastion, where the World Tree stood its eternal vigil.

But with the birth of a single elven upstart, his conquest had ground to a halt. For thirty long years, he had stood just one step away from ascension. If he retreated today, how many more years would he have to wait?

Not that he had a choice.

In this moment of quiet contemplation, the Lich King could finally admit to himself that the battle had felt wrong from the very start. The Golden Compact’s fanatic zeal, the dragon emperor’s willingness to crack the world and let the consequences be damned… these details now felt disturbingly ominous in hindsight.

The Lord of Ashen Eternity knew deep in his bones that if he did not finish things here and now, then he never would.

He grimly steeled himself.

No more underestimation. It’s do or die.

Without warning, his head separated from his shoulders and a glowing sword tip burst from his chest. Holy fire blazed, tracing the mystic connection that tethered him to his physical vessel, bypassing distance to strike directly at his soul which lay nestled within the world’s corrupted heart.

A wall of screaming souls intercepted it. Ten thousand enslaved souls—ten thousand backup lives—were purified in holy fire, passing on to their natural deaths. Still billions more to go.

An omnidirectional force blast sent the assassin flying, and Serivhal calmly reattached his severed head, turning around to regard his foe.

Alaric Sunwarden, last paladin of the Church of Light, faced him with flinty grey eyes, steam rising from his holy armor as the last drops of lava dripped to the ground.

His form flickered in and out of existence.

No, that’s not right. To be precise, I keep forgetting that he’s there.

“Resorting to assassin tricks now?” Serivhal rasped out. “Where is your vaunted honor, paladin?”

He quickly checked his defenses. True Sight and Tower of Iron Will were still active. He should have been immune to all illusions and mental compulsions.