Higher up, there was a pair of long, slender legs, their purple skin faintly glowing, fading into the endless darkness.
In a hazy daze, Allen's vision blurred; he couldn't make out her upper body.
"My dear, you're about to die again."
The voice was exceptionally gentle, like that of an old lover long acquainted with him, speaking with deep affection.
"You really are a heartless, faithless man."
The voice continued, carrying a trace of quiet resentment. "You are clearly a darling of the shadows, practically born for the Void—can't you hear them? The shadows around you have always been restlessly yearning for your favor."
Her foot lightly ground against his chest.
"They call to you, embrace you, long to become one with you—and yet you turn a blind eye, leaving them aside while you go playing with those ridiculous Holy Light and Arcane."
A soft chuckle.
"What a pity. If you're willing…"
She paused, her tone turning even more seductive: "Be my slave for all eternity, offer me everything you have. I promise you, you will gain power a thousand times greater than the Holy Light and Arcane. Well? My lovely boy?"
Allen let out a relieved smile.
So it really is you, Xal'atath.
Although he had suspected it, he hadn't dared to be one hundred percent certain—after all, this involved an Old God. One could never be too cautious.
Now that it was confirmed the one whispering to him was Xal'atath, perhaps he really could…
Borrow her power. There were risks, of course, but Xal'atath wasn't particularly cruel to her host—at the very least, he wouldn't easily turn into some mass of Old God flesh.
And besides, Varian, Wren, Stella, Morgan… they were all here because of him. All of them were in danger because of him.
He had to save them.
And also… Milana.
I will personally avenge her.
Allen took a deep breath and spoke with all his strength: "In the name of Allen Prestor, I swear to you, my lady—I am willing to offer everything of Allen Prestor to you. Please, grant me power."
[Deception Check: Failed]
Her foot lifted abruptly—then came crashing down onto his face.
"My lovely boy—"
Her foot slowly slid across his face, from the bridge of his nose to his lips, from his lips to his chin, the touch cold and soft.
"A faithless man. From the moment you arrived here, I've been watching you with deep affection. I know…"
Her voice lowered, tinged with amusement:
"That is not your true name."
Her foot stopped at his chin, gently lifting his face.
"I don't like being deceived," she said, her tone carrying a coquettish reproach. "Use your real name, and swear to your master."
Allen gave a helpless smile.
"Alright."
His voice was hoarse, yet sincere. "In the name of Allen, I swear to you, my lady—I am willing to offer everything of Allen to you. Please, grant me power."
Her foot gently settled back onto his chest.
"That's more like it."
Xal'atath's foot lightly caressed his chest, and then she let out a lingering sigh. "Then… as you wish."
Time began to flow again.
Varian knelt on the ground, the poison still gnawing at his body, but his eyes were locked forward as an unprecedented rage surged from his chest.
In an instant, Varian felt the poison inside him forcibly driven back by that fury. Sensation returned to his numb limbs, and he sprang to his feet.
Wren also downed an antidote, the numbness rapidly fading. He grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow—
Then they all froze.
At some point, a dagger had appeared in Allen's hand.
It was a ritual dagger of bizarre design.
But upon closer inspection, it didn't seem like Allen was holding the dagger—it was the dagger holding him.
His arm was being guided by it as he slowly rose to his feet.
Then, the dagger seemed to come alive.
Countless black tendrils surged from its blade, wrapping around Allen's arm, shoulders, and chest.
A dim violet light flickered in Allen's eyes.
Faint purple patterns emerged across his skin, writhing slightly like living veins. His hair moved without wind, drifting within the shadows.
Boom—!
A vast surge of shadow energy erupted from Allen, sweeping outward.
Stalvan was violently blasted away, tumbling through the air before crashing onto the ground in a miserable heap.
"Why—?!" he screamed hoarsely, his voice filled with unwillingness and madness. "Why isn't it my Tilloa?! Just a filthy void spawn! Die!!!"
He kicked off the ground with both feet, launching himself like a cannonball into the air. His twin daggers crossed before him as he slashed down toward Allen.
Allen stood where he was, completely still.
He raised the blade of Xal'atath, Blade of the Black Empire in his hand, its tip pointing straight at the charging Stalvan.
All his fury condensed into a single shout: "Die, Stalvan!"
Mind Blast!
An invisible force burst forth from the dagger's tip. Stalvan's body froze midair.
He saw it—
Something utterly terrifying rushing toward him.
Indescribable. Countless eyes, countless tendrils, countless screaming mouths—forming a torrent that devoured everything.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
He wanted to run, but he couldn't move.
When he came back to his senses…
He saw his own body.
His soul—had it been blasted out of it?
The monstrous shadow entity tore at his soul in midair as he howled in agony.
Meanwhile, that grotesque, rotting body staggered and dropped to its knees. The daggers slipped from its hands, and the ghostly flames in its eye sockets gradually dimmed.
"No—!!!"
A shrill scream echoed through the night sky.
The shadow monster shredded his soul like a rag. His consciousness splintered under the unbearable pain, breaking into countless fragments of light that scattered into the Void.
Allen also collapsed to the ground.
Morgan, who arrived late; Varian, filled with rage; Wren, now freed from the poison; Stella, still hanging from a tree by her rocket boots—all of them were stunned by what they saw.
Their gazes fell on Allen, on that dagger, on the swirling shadows.
If Speak with Dead—that simple necromantic spell—could still be explained…
Then how could this utterly, irredeemably evil shadow magic be explained?
Wren immediately drew his bow toward Varian, his face resolute. "My young lord is absolutely not evil! I'm not asking for anything else—just let me take him away!"
Varian, facing the drawn bow, wore a completely natural expression.
He blinked, looked at Wren, then at Allen, and finally at Stalvan's corpse lying on the ground.
"What are you talking about?" His tone was utterly puzzled. "I didn't see anything. How did Stalvan just die on his own?"
He turned to look at Stella hanging from the tree and Morgan, who had just arrived.
"You saw it too, right?"
Stella nodded vigorously, still dangling.
Morgan, already involuntarily channeling Holy Light spells to heal Allen, let out a deep sigh.
Ah… his conscience was going to suffer again.
...
In the distance, a crow witnessed everything before spreading its wings and flying away.
At the edge of the Swamp of Sorrows.
The crow landed atop the vanguard's tent. With a flap of its wings, it transformed into a white-haired mage.
Khadgar stood before the tent, gazing toward Duskwood, his brows slightly furrowed.
Perhaps… he really had mistaken him.
Not long ago, he had made a trip to the forbidden tower—Karazhan.
Although the Kirin Tor had strictly forbidden mages from entering Karazhan privately, Khadgar had never been one to follow rules.
At the top of Karazhan, he encountered a chaotic flux. Within it, he seemed to see his deceased mentor, Medivh, along with countless disordered omens and visions.
Among them, Khadgar saw one especially clear prophecy—
In the future, a mage bearing three wave-shaped marks on his wrist would, at a critical moment, save the Sons of Lothar.
The face in that vision was unmistakably that young man from the tavern.
But there was nothing on his wrist.
And he couldn't even withstand a simple Arcane Intellect, now having fallen into shadow sorcery.
How could someone like that possibly save the Sons of Lothar?
Khadgar shook his head and turned to walk into the tent.
It must have been a mistake after all.
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