Chapter 400 – Lich's Diary (I)
Valley of Confusion, Castle of Weeping Souls
Beyond the faint whispers of wandering spirits, a soft scratching sound echoed through the air—the sound of a pen furiously inscribing words onto parchment, though no hand held it.
Upon closer inspection, one would discover the pen was carved from a human finger bone, while the book itself was bound in smooth, taut sheets of human skin. The pen dipped into fresh blood, each stroke and stroke leaving behind crimson ink—then, over time, deepening into the dark, dried hue of old blood.
"New Era 1786, September 12th, clear. Today I claimed thirteen fresh Spiritual Souls. Yet among those who barged into the Valley of Confusion, seven or eight had no Spiritual Soul at all. This is strange."
"Lately, these things keep appearing. They call themselves Stellarfallen."
"The interference grows. That Red Dragon has already unified Anzeta. I must be more cautious. I cannot afford to be discovered again—Antonio City’s Rune Arrays have all been cleared."
"Perhaps… I should activate the Concealment Ward to hide this place. But my Spiritual Soul reserves are running low. If I go too long without Feeding the Soul Vault, I’ll become a Half-Lich. Forget about maintaining stable Immortality."
"Maybe it’s time to consider Deep Sleep."
"Wait—someone has just entered The Mortal Tomb."
The bone pen froze mid-motion.
The human-skin pages slowly closed. The book’s ornate cover bore a stitched face—ancient, weathered, unmistakably Orestes’s own visage in life. Upon his forehead, three words were carved in blood: “The Great, Immortal Orestes’s Diary.”
In the dim, oppressive depths of the Hidden Chamber, scattered remains of internal organs, flesh, and bone littered the ground. Blood pooled and hardened across the floor, forming dark, cracked patterns.
On the blackened bone racks, vials of potion, scrolls, towering tomes of spells, wands, and even a few root staves were arranged in meticulous order.
Liches collected magic and enchanted items—anything tied to Immortality. That was their eternal obsession.
"Someone barging into my Mausoleum at a time like this?"
"Not good."
A flicker of ash and a swirl of blood mist coalesced into form. The master of the Valley of Confusion, the owner of the Castle of Weeping Souls—Orestes—finally emerged.
His form was gaunt, skeletal, flesh clinging tightly to bone like parchment over a frame. His eyes had long since decayed, leaving only faint points of light and swirling necromantic fog within the hollow sockets.
He wore the crimson robes and jeweled finery of his mortal days—but they were tattered, cracked, and frayed by centuries of time. Yet he seemed utterly unaware of it.
Liches pursued strength without regard for cost. They cared little for the affairs of living beings—unless it directly threatened their own existence.
They often planned in spans of years, decades, even centuries, for the sake of ultimate success. After all, a Lich had already escaped the shadow of death.
And Orestes was no exception.
Though indifferent to the world beyond, recent events in Anzeta had grown too loud—too disruptive. Even he had felt the ripple. He had even considered sinking the Valley of Confusion deep beneath the earth to avoid unwanted intrusion.
Orestes extended his withered arm and removed a crystal skull from its stand. His voice, when it came, was icy, devoid of warmth.
"Who is it?"
"Let me see… another fool seeking his own demise."
The Fate Chest—the Lich’s Spiritual Soul repository—was the key to survival. Without destroying it, no mortal could kill a Lich.
When a Lich’s body was shattered, its will and mind would be torn from the corpse, fleeing into the void.
Days later, a new body would form from the flickering ashes rising from the Fate Chest.
Because destruction of the Fate Chest could lead to permanent death, Liches kept it hidden in the most secure, heavily warded locations. Orestes had chosen The Tomb of the Death Priest—the deep resting place of the ancient Milcor, a sanctuary filled with countless high-tier Undead, and hundreds of traps and high-loop wards he had personally laid.
He had absolute confidence in the safety of his Fate Chest. Even a Legendary Mage, if they came, would not steal it without paying with their life.
"…"
"Ah~"
From within the crystal skull, a Spiritual Soul wailed. A necromantic mist formed a ghostly image—emerging from the skull’s forehead.
"Is it you?"
"Foolish mortal."
The image showed a Human Noble clad in rich robes. He was strikingly handsome, yet otherwise indistinguishable from the adventurers who had died in this very graveyard.
Yet, for some reason, upon seeing him, Orestes felt an inexplicable unease—though his chest was hollow, devoid of a heart.
"Why… is this happening?"
"No. This threat must be eliminated."
Orestes gently stroked the crystal skull. From his palm, necrotic shadow mist began to spread.
Far away, dozens of li distant, within The Tomb of the Death Priest, the stone statues with wings stirred. Gargoyle figures—horrifying, grotesque—rose from their perches, shaking off layers of debris from their stone skins.
They were predators, lovers of torment. Countless intruders had died beneath their claws.
But in the image, the man suddenly smiled. His pale golden eyes were deep, unfathomable—his gaze seemed to pierce through space itself.
"He sees me?"
Orestes felt the thought rise.
As a spellcaster of his caliber, instinct was razor-sharp—sometimes more accurate than logic itself.
But the feeling vanished as quickly as it came.
The man in the vision turned his attention away, focusing now on the enemy before him.
Not just the Gargoyles—within the mausoleum, from the coffins, from the corners, countless foul spirits with putrid stench emerged. Sorrowful, twisted spirits drifted through the air, swarming toward the lone human figure.
"Woo-oooh…"
More sounds followed—wails, rustling, the scrape of footsteps, the heavy clank of deathplate armor lifting the coffin lid. A rusted greatsword was hefted from the armor’s gaps, and a low, guttural war cry echoed from within.
Bodda corpses rose from the decaying pile of bones, their faces contorted in a grimace of madness and terror.
The heavy stone door began to close.
Even the light from Heaven’s Mountain could not penetrate the earth above.
In this narrow tomb, over a hundred different forms of Undead surged from all directions, encircling the single-handed adventurer. The breath of death hung thick in the air—the perfect Deathtrap.
Even a high priest of the Amanatara Church would not claim to survive such a place unscathed.
Over the past centuries, hundreds of adventurers had entered. All had died. All had become nourishment for this cannibal tomb.
Living flesh rarely came here.
The Undead were starving. They devoured one another when no prey was available.
Now, with an intruder’s arrival, their hunger for fresh flesh flared uncontrollably. They were eager—eager to tear apart this new, juicy offering.
"Yes…"
"Kill him. Kill him."
"Skin him. Strip the meat. Crush his bones. Devour his Spiritual Soul."
Orestes’s low voice echoed through the chamber.
Any mortal who dared invade his tomb, seeking to steal his Immortality, would be cursed with the Lich’s most vile hatred.
He relished the terror, the despair on their faces—the ultimate homage to his eternal life.
Yet, in the vision, the man only smirked.
"Tsk tsk… so many."
Calmly, he adjusted the lapels of his rich robes—then slowly raised his right hand.
"Boom—"
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
Report
