The tension in the room shifted from uneasy to dangerous. The air itself seemed heavier, charged with the weight of unspoken conflict. Roland could feel it like a storm about to break.


    Celeste straightened, her expression unreadable, but her voice was firm when she spoke. “If you continue down this path, I will be Oath-bound to intervene.”


    Nallensen tilted his head, intrigued but unconcerned.


    “I swore an Oath,” she continued, “to ensure that the power granted by Viridius is never used to undermine the natural order again—never used to destroy what little balance exists in this world. If you twist life itself into something that can be taken at will, then you won’t just be defying the gods, Nallensen. You’ll be challenging the very foundation of society.”


    For the first time, Nallensen let out a genuine laugh. It was soft, almost amused, but something about it sent a shiver down Roland’s spine.


    “You speak with such conviction,” Nallensen mused. “Tell me, little Treekiller, do you truly believe you have the power to stop me?”


    As the words left his lips, his Aura flared.


    The aura crashed down on them, a force so overwhelming that it became impossible to move. It wasn’t just the pressure of a skilled warrior or the weight of an ancient scholar’s knowledge—it was pure divine energy, raw and unyielding, pressing into every inch of the space around them. The air itself warped, thick with power, as if reality bent under his presence.


    Roland felt it lodge in his chest, cold and suffocating, the same primal terror he had felt the moment he first laid eyes on Nallensen at the gates. But this was worse. This was the presence of someone who had spent centuries wielding the divine, someone who should not be opposed—and yet, here they were.


    Celeste’s expression did not change.


    “No,” she admitted simply. “But I would try anyway.”


    For a long moment, the two of them simply stared at one another.


    Then, Nallensen’s Aura faded as quickly as it had appeared. He exhaled, almost disappointed, and gave a small shake of his head. “You are fascinating, Celeste,” he said with something resembling genuine admiration. “But ultimately… irrelevant.”


    He turned away from them, already dismissive. "Your assistance has been invaluable," he remarked, adjusting his posture as if a sudden insight had clarified the situation. “I now have a clear direction for my research. But your services are no longer needed.”


    The conversation was over.


    Celeste glanced at Roland. No words passed between them, but the message was clear.


    They had just become a problem for Nallensen. And now, they needed to leave.


    As they stepped beyond the fortress walls, the heavy air of the place still clinging to their skin, Celeste and Roland walked in silence, their thoughts a tangled mess of possibilities. Stopping Nallensen would not be simple. He was too powerful, too intelligent, and now, too certain of his path.


    Celeste let out a sharp breath, frustration bleeding into her voice. “We should have ended this when we had the chance.”


    Roland didn’t answer immediately. He wasn’t sure he agreed.


    “How?” he asked finally.


    Celeste hesitated. “I don’t know.”


    Neither did he.


    Stopping Nallensen? Maybe. But ending him? That was something else entirely.


    They had barely taken a few steps down the ruined path when the first sound broke the silence.


    A scraping, shifting noise.


    Then another.


    Then dozens more.


    Roland’s grip tightened on his sword as figures emerged from the mist between the distant trees and the shattered ruins of the outer fortress walls.


    An army of undead.


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    They were not like the ones before. These did not wander aimlessly, did not cling to old routines of patrols or empty duty. These creatures moved with intent, their hollow eyes locked directly on Roland and Celeste.


    Celeste swore under her breath and took a step back. “Nallensen—”


    Roland shook his head. “This isn’t him.”


    Celeste shot him a sharp look. “Then who?”


    He turned toward the fortress just in time to see the massive stone gate slam shut behind them, sealing them inside.


    His stomach dropped.


    If this were Nallensen, he would have faced them himself. No, this was something else—something that could command the undead, something Nallensen had shown no interest in doing.


    This wasn’t his will at work.


    Roland turned his gaze toward the towering fortress, and felt it—a familiar pull, deep and unnatural.


    The artifact.


    The power at the heart of this place, the one Nallensen thought he had mastered.


    But it wasn’t serving him.


    “It’s the artifact, I can sense it,” he said as he ready himself.


    The first undead reached them in an instant. Roland barely had time to react before a blur of metal and rotting flesh lunged at him, its rusted sword flashing in the dim light. He barely deflected the blow, his arms jarring from the force—these things weren’t slow, shambling corpses. They moved like trained soldiers, fast, precise, and utterly relentless.


    Celeste twisted away from another attacker, her daggers flashing as she struck out, slicing clean through its side. The undead staggered but didn’t fall. Instead, the wound barely slowed it down. It came back at her, movements smooth, its body snapping into place as though it didn’t even feel pain.


    Roland ducked under a strike, pivoting behind his opponent before slashing across its spine. The body collapsed instantly.


    For a second, he thought it was over—then the corpse convulsed.


    Before he could step back, the limbs jerked violently, as if yanked by invisible strings. The undead twisted unnaturally, its broken body snapping into position, and then it stood again.


    Roland’s heart pounded.


    It wasn’t just reanimating. It was being pulled back together.


    Celeste stabbed another through the heart, a kill shot for anything living, but it barely staggered before turning toward her again. “They’re not stopping!” she hissed.


    Another knight crashed into Roland, nearly knocking him off his feet. They hit like warhorses, with no regard for their own defence, only momentum and destruction. He barely managed to brace his shield before the impact sent him skidding back.


    He saw it then—the faint, pulsing glow beneath the helmet, the eerie shimmer within the ruined skull. The amulet.


    “Their heads!” Roland shouted. “It’s the amulets! That’s what’s controlling them!”


    Celeste didn’t hesitate. She leaped onto her attacker, twisting as she drove her dagger straight into its skull, ripping at the metal band embedded in the rotted flesh. The amulet shattered—and the undead collapsed instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut.


    That was the answer.


    Roland dropped low, narrowly avoiding a sword aimed for his neck, and with a powerful upward strike, he cleaved through his opponent’s helmet, slicing clean through the amulet lodged in its skull. The body seized for a moment, then fell limp.


    But there were too many.


    The undead swarmed them, faster than anything he had ever fought. Even when they landed killing blows, it didn’t matter. The moment the souls were forced back into the bodies, they would simply stand again unless the amulet was destroyed.


    “Celeste!” Roland gritted his teeth, knocking an undead off balance with his shield. “We’re getting overrun!”


    “I know!” she shouted, dodging a heavy strike and rolling into a crouch. “We need to break them faster than they can stand!”


    Another wave of undead charged, relentless and unyielding.


    If they didn’t end this fast, they wouldn’t last much longer. They were getting desperate when they felt him before they saw him.


    The air thickened, humming with pure divine power, pressing down on the battlefield like an unseen hand. It wasn’t just presence—it was command, the kind that refused to be ignored. Roland’s breath caught as his sword trembled in his grip, his body instinctively recognising the force of something far beyond him.


    Nallensen descended.


    He did not walk. He drifted down from the fortress wall, weightless, his long coat untouched by the wind. There was no shadow magic, no flickering tendrils of unnatural energy—just power, raw and unfiltered, woven into the air itself. It crackled around him, something ancient, something that had no place here.


    And in an instant—the battle was over.


    The undead jerked, as if suddenly seized by an unseen force. Then, one by one, the amulets embedded in their skulls ripped free, wrenched into the air by a power that had no need for gestures. The bodies fell where they stood, their unnatural puppetry finally, truly severed.


    Only when the last one dropped did Nallensen speak.


    And his voice shook the silence.


    “I offered you drink and hospitality.” He did not raise his voice, but the sincerity behind it was unmistakable. “We may have parted with disagreements, but a good host ensures the safety of his guests. Yet those behind this attack would besmirch my name.”


    This was not the cold amusement he had shown before, not the measured restraint of a noble carefully choosing his words. This was offence, deep and personal—the fury of a man whose very honor had been insulted.


    Roland took a step back, heart still hammering from the fight, but Nallensen’s gaze was not on them. His crimson eyes burned as he surveyed the fallen, his expression unreadable—until he moved.


    He stepped toward the nearest corpse, looking down at the hollowed remains of what had once been a man—not a soldier, not a monster, but a person. He knelt, fingers hovering over the lifeless form, his hands clenching into fists.


    “These were my friends,” he said softly.


    Roland felt something twist in his chest.


    “Some of them would have never raised a hand against you.” Nallensen exhaled slowly, forcing his breath into something measured, though his power still simmered in the air. “Even when their bodies failed them, even when their breath was gone, they would have stood by me.” His voice darkened, anger breaking through the sorrow. “And now, because of that damned artifact, they were forced to fight against their will.”


    Roland had expected many things from Nallensen. Cruelty. Arrogance. Indifference.


    But this? He did not expect.


    He looked toward the fortress, toward the artifact buried within, the source of all of this.