The halls of Arkwatch Academy lay steeped in shadows, their silence deeper than the surrounding night. Not even the wind dared stir. High above, pale moonlight sliced between tower spires and caught on the fanged gargoyles perched along the academy''s walls, giving them the illusion of watchfulness. But Malrik knew better.


    They weren’t watching him.


    Nothing was.


    He moved through the corridors like breath slipping through broken glass, his cloak drawn close, his boots barely whispering against stone. The moon was his only witness, and Nyra—his unseen sentinel.


    "This way," she murmured in his thoughts. "The third floor’s west watch has been blind since last winter’s frost cracked the warding stone."


    He slid through the stairwell she indicated, bypassing enchanted locks and light wards. Questions stirred at the edges of his mind—how Nyra knew this, how long she’d truly watched the academy—but now was not the time.


    "Because I was here… long before you were born."


    That answer only bred more silence.


    Eventually, Malrik reached the outer curtain wall. A cracked iron drainage grate, half-swallowed by ivy, offered his escape. He slid through it and landed in the damp loam below.


    Beyond, the forest awaited—dark and wordless.


    The trail was barely a trail at all.


    Roots tangled across old stone. The underbrush clawed at his legs. Every breath felt like it carried the scent of rot and wet earth. He walked for hours beneath a sky of thickening clouds, the stars retreating one by one behind a gray shroud.


    Then he saw it.


    A black hollow cut into the side of the distant ridge, like the maw of something ancient and hungry. Crumbled stones marked the ruin’s mouth—cracked steps vanishing into the subterranean dark.


    Hollowdeep Grotto.


    Even from here, he felt it. The dungeon didn’t pulse with energy—it breathed. A slow, unnatural inhale, like something inside was waking. Or waiting.


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    "You’ll need a faster method next time," Nyra murmured. "A shadow step gate. A bound beast. A spectral steed with ribs like blades."


    Malrik smirked. “One thing at a time.”


    "Goblins favor clutter and corners," she continued. "Fear fire. Fight dirty. Clever in groups, cowardly alone. Expect scraps. Expect teeth."


    He reached into himself and called upon the Vault Ring. A silver flicker shimmered in the air.


    [Soulvault Accessed]


    With a silent breath, he summoned her.


    Veyna.


    She emerged in a cold ripple of magic, her skeletal frame clothed in layered shadow and rune-marked tatters. Her eyes, glowing violet, lit the dark around her like twin lanterns in a storm.


    "You called, master?"


    “We’re here,” he said, pointing to the broken steps below. “Test run. Light contact. If we find one, we study it. Then we kill it.”


    "A perfect evening." Her teeth gleamed behind the skeletal smile.


    The descent was slow.


    Dirt gave way to old stone, stone to rotting timbers and collapsed beams. Water dripped from the ceiling, the smell of mildew thick and cloying. Crates lay broken along the walls, scattered with torn cloth, shattered pottery, and something far worse—bones. Small ones.


    Goblin remains.


    “Fifteen minutes,” Malrik whispered. “And nothing yet.”


    “They move in packs,” Veyna replied, floating just behind him. “But if one is near…”


    She fell silent.


    Malrik saw it first.


    A single goblin hunched over a crate of something unidentifiable, greasy fingers picking through bits of bone and rusted junk. It hadn’t seen them.


    He raised a hand. “Wait—”


    But Veyna’s spell was already cast.


    A sphere of violet soulfire cut the dark like a meteor, hitting the goblin square in the chest. It screamed—a sharp, animal sound—and dropped to the ground, smoking and twitching before it went still.


    Silence returned.


    Malrik knelt beside it. Steam rose from the blackened wound.


    His first dungeon kill.


    No remorse. No hesitation. Just purpose.


    “Forgive me,” Veyna said smoothly. “But you did say kill it.”


    “Strip it,” Nyra whispered. “Bones are bones. And you have five more slots to fill.”


    He glanced down at the body.


    Not strong. Not special. But fast. Light.


    “Would a goblin make a decent scout?”


    “Perhaps,” Nyra answered. “They’re rats. But clever rats. If you need eyes, they’ll do. If you need blades… look deeper.”


    “A wraith, a revenant, a shadewood killer… those will serve you better.”


    “But not all undead must be kings,” Veyna added. “Some are meant to be servants. Some… to die twice.


    Malrik nodded. He reached down, cast the tether of Gravebinding, and the body shimmered before vanishing into the vault.


    [Stored Corpse: 1 – Goblin Scout]


    He stood.


    And turned toward the deeper dark.


    “Let’s keep going. Quiet. Measured. If this was a scout, others are near.”


    Veyna floated beside him, flame curling lazily from her skeletal fingertips.


    “As you command.”


    And in the back of his mind, Nyra whispered with the soft certainty of one who had watched kings rise and fall:


    “Every army starts with one corpse. Every empire, one grave. You’ve taken the first step. Now… bury the world.”


    Malrik said nothing.


    He didn’t need to.


    Because the dark was calling.


    And he was answering.