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Chapter 26
Phase One
Bartholomew’s breath is steady as he kneels, his
prayers slipping from his lips with ease. The words come naturally, each one
carrying the weight of years spent in devotion. The air shivers, as if the
stones around him are alive, vibrating beneath the power of his voice. When the
prayer ends, a heavy, divine presence fills the room, suffocating and
all-encompassing.
He rises slowly, his hand tightening around the
hilt of his longsword. As he stands, the light flickers before exploding into
brilliance. Holy energy bursts from his back, splitting the air with raw force.
Two massive wings unfurl from his shoulders, glowing with radiant light. They
shimmer like fire, stretching outward. Each feather is a perfect beam of divine
brilliance. Bartholomew’s breath catches at the sight—overwhelming, both
beautiful and humbling.
A shield forms in his left hand, born from the
light itself. It pulses with raw power, glowing so brightly that it feels as
though it could erase the darkness in the room. The hum of the shield vibrates
through the air, carrying the weight of countless prayers woven into its form.
Above him, a golden halo materializes, spilling rays of light across the
chamber and casting long beams into the shadows.
The silence is broken by the stirring of Malak.
The lich’s bones rattle as his shattered form
rises from the cold stone floor. His skeletal hands grip the dark staff with
unnatural strength. His robes twist and settle as if guided by unseen hands.
With a groan that shakes the very walls, his form solidifies, towering and
horrific. His eyes flare to life, burning with the fires of death, hungry and
unrelenting.
Bartholomew stands tall, sword raised, shield
firm. His wings ripple with holy power, the air humming with the impending
clash between light and death.
Crispin adjusts his grip on his arcane-forged
sword. “Always had a chip on his shoulder,” he mutters, eyes narrowed.
Cindy chuckles, dry and low. “And you always left
the orphanage ‘cause of it.”
Eileen raises her hand, her staff shifting into a
small idol of holly. She murmurs a soft prayer. “Father of Dawn, Mother of
Light, Spirit of Purity. Bless this hollow land once more.”
Genevieve weaves her fingers through the air,
runes sparking into life. “I’ll keep the buffs up. Cindy, Crispin—be ready the
moment Malak moves.”
Bartholomew steps forward, sword in one hand,
shield in the other. His armored foot crosses the gilded inlay on the floor,
and the air thickens. Malak’s eyes burn with an eerie hunger. A low growl
rumbles from deep within the lich’s chest. Slowly, he raises his staff, the air
crackling with charged power. The room feels smaller, tighter. The battle is
about to begin.
Dark magic pulses from Malak, thick and
suffocating, charging the air with green-black energy that spreads outward. The
ground trembles beneath the force, and Bartholomew braces himself. Necrotic
power slips through the seams of his armor, a faint hum that makes his skin
crawl. The temperature drops sharply, the air heavy with the stench of decay.
Cindy and Crispin stagger, their faces twisting in pain as their health bars
fall. Their bodies shake under the blast.
“Genevieve! Cleanse that now!” Eileen commands,
her voice sharp. She raises her Idol high, golden light streaming from its center,
cutting through the shadows like a beacon.
Genevieve doesn’t hesitate. Her hands glow
softly, an ethereal light flowing toward Cindy and Crispin. “Done! Keep
moving!” Her voice is steady, even amidst the chaos.
Bartholomew’s heart pounds as he charges. His
boots clang against the stone, and he hurls his radiant shield toward Malak.
The shield gleams, striking the lich with a thunderous crash before returning
to Bartholomew’s hand. Malak flinches, his dark eyes narrowing in fury.
“I’ve got his attention! Get behind him!”
Bartholomew calls, his voice cutting through the battle.
Cindy reacts at once. She spins, narrowly dodging
a blast of dark magic, then darts to the right. Her enchanted blade flashes as
it strikes Malak’s ribcage, sending a crackling surge of blue energy through
his bones. They groan in protest. Crispin follows, his longsword igniting in
arcane flame. He strikes with precision, the blade cutting deep into Malak’s
left side.
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Malak laughs—a dry, rattling sound, like bones
scraping together. His skeletal fingers twitch, then curl in the air, summoning
chains of ghostly energy. With a sickening lurch, the chains snap around
Crispin and Genevieve, yanking them into the air.
“Soul Tether,” Malak growls, tightening his grip
on his staff.
Crispin gasps, struggling against the chains.
“Well... he doesn’t have him.”
Cindy grimaces, her eyes sharp with resolve.
“That’s how it goes.”
The chains crash against the stone floor with a
deafening clang, sending dark energy rippling through the air. An eerie,
unnatural glow flickers along the links, connecting Crispin and Genevieve. The
chains pulse with sickly light, draining their strength, each tug feeding
Malak’s power.
Crispin grits his teeth, legs trembling as his
strength fades. His stance falters. He gasps for breath, feeling the necrotic
pull threaten to drag him down. Beside him, Cindy struggles to rise. Every
movement sends pain through her body. A sharp hiss escapes her as the chains
tear at her soul.
“Move! Break the tether!” Eileen commands, her
voice cutting through the chaos. Her Idol flares with gold, sending a wave of
healing magic toward them.
Cindy stumbles back, her boots scraping against
the gravel floor. Each step is harder than the last, the tether’s weight
pulling at her. Crispin rolls to the side, muscles straining as the chain pulls
tight. A golden spear crackles through the air, striking the chain. It snaps,
releasing a burst of energy that crackles through the room.
But Malak isn’t finished.
With a sharp screech, the lich raises his staff
high. "Unholy prostration!" he bellows, the words burning the air.
Bartholomew acts without hesitation. He swings
his shield, slamming it into Malak’s staff just as the lich brings it down. The
impact shakes the ground beneath them. Malak stumbles back, his attack halted,
but the danger isn’t over.
"Nice block!" Cindy calls, her voice
filled with determination. She spins, her enchanted blade flashing in the dim
light. Each slash leaves a trail of gold.
Crispin mirrors her, their blades moving in
perfect harmony. Together, they weave around Malak, weapons flashing as they
strike. Arcane energy pulses from their free hands, blasting into the lich’s
skeletal form.
"Make sure you’ve got his attention this
time," Crispin mutters, voice tight with focus.
Malak recoils, the sound of cracking bones
filling the room as their blows land. The lich staggers but, instead of
retreating, he throws his head back and laughs. The hollow, rattling sound
echoes through the chamber like the death knell of a thousand lost souls.
Malak raises his staff high, his skeletal fingers
gripping it as if it were an extension of his cursed soul. With a low hiss, one
of the towering bone pillars cracks, collapsing with a resounding crash that
shakes the room. "Spectral Summons," he breathes, his voice heavy
with dark power.
From the wreckage, twisted figures rise.
Deathknights—massive and armored in cursed black iron—emerge. Their skulls are
empty, save for flickering blue flames burning in their hollow eye sockets. The
air chills as they advance, each of their rusted weapons dripping with poison,
each step a harbinger of death.
"Eileen, focus on healing! Crispin,
Cindy—clear the trash! Genevieve, with me!" Bartholomew commands sharply.
He charges toward Malak, drawing the lich’s focus to him.
Crispin is already in motion, his sword flashing
as he meets the first deathknight. The blade sinks deep into its skeletal
chest. With a surge of magic, he releases a shockwave, and the knight crumbles,
its bones scattering. But before the dust settles, more rise in its place.
Cindy spins, her blade a blur as it cleaves through bones and skulls. Each
strike is swift and precise, severing limbs and skulls in graceful arcs.
Eileen stands firm, her Idol glowing brightly. It
shifts into a staff, which she slams into the ground. "Healing
Domain!" she calls, her voice steady. A pulse of radiant energy ripples
outward, counteracting the necrotic damage seeping from Malak’s spells.
Genevieve stands by Bartholomew, her lips moving
as she chants an incantation. Violet lightning crackles from her fingertips,
twisting into arcane bindings that lash around Malak, pinning his limbs.
"Captain! Now!" Genevieve''s voice cuts
through the chaos.
Bartholomew’s mechanical heart pounds in his
chest as he narrows his focus. He grits his teeth and hurls his shield. It cuts
through the air with a mighty force, rattling the bones of the undead. It
strikes Malak, ricocheting off and slamming into another deathknight, then
another, until it returns to Bartholomew’s hands. The lich stumbles,
momentarily distracted.
Malak’s eyes narrow, his fury palpable.
Bartholomew raises his sword high, whispering an
incantation under his breath. The blade shifts, transforming into a massive
two-handed mace that glows with heavenly light. A grin spreads across his face.
"Come forth, Guardian of Light!" he calls.
A pearly gate opens above the battlefield. From
within it descends a spectral Crusader, holding a spear of light. The Crusader
lands with a heavy thud, its polished silver armor gleaming. The ethereal
warrior’s spear rises in challenge. Bartholomew’s wings vanish in a swirl of
light, and reappear on the Crusader’s back, radiant with energy. Bartholomew
tosses his shield, and the Crusader catches it with ease. With a defiant
gesture, the ethereal warrior taunts the advancing deathknights.