~~~

  Clashes erupted among the knights, spears hurled through the air, and arrows whistled across the vast throne court. Watching the battle unfold, I was struck by how outmatched the opposing forces were compared to my summons. It was as if my undead fought with better training and coordination than the enemy ever could muster.

  At the grand entrance, my undead clashed with another group of skeletal warriors, mostly spearmen. Their formation initially gave them an edge, but our archers quickly forced them to scatter. Once we fully entered the throne court, my summons were able to flank the disorganised skeletons. The archers picked off the tougher foes, clearing the path for our two knights and lone spearman to clean up the rest.

  One of my spearmen hurled his weapon into an unfortunate enemy, then drew his short bronze sword and finished the job. Only two enemies remained out of the seven that once stood.

  “Just two more, and we can finally reach the boss in the great altar,” I said to Alexander.

  He smiled slightly, pleased to hear it, and added as we both inspected our summoned forces:

  “I must warn you, the great altar will change us. Everything we knew about ourselves, even the bond between us, will evolve. You and I will become far stronger, sharing the same mind completely. No more of this advisor nonsense I’ve been doing for the past nine hours. But once the transformation happens, there’s no going back. We must accept whatever comes.”

  “Is there a chance I’ll lose my memories?” I asked. “All the things I went through as a kid… even the terrible stuff from the place where we first met?”

  Alexander looked thoughtful. “I’ve never made it this far… But maybe, just maybe, your new self will remember. Maybe he’ll show you how much we both loved her. I promise, those bastards will pay.”

  It’s hard to believe that between my past life and this one, I still wonder if I ever made the right choices. Sometimes, I feel like I should just let the past go. Move on from the mistakes, mistakes people might forget five years from now or ones that still haunt me today.

  A soldier… then a summoner. Both lives, same outcome. I ended up with thankless jobs, barely enough to survive in a nation that feeds only the upper class. I had to deal with corrupt officers abusing their power, people who got me killed. I was a fool. I let myself be responsible for the death of my sweetheart… and the only friend I ever had.

  Their voices still whisper to me. Their final words echo. I close my eyes… and those voices awaken something deep inside me.

  “NOOO!”

  Alexander, standing behind me, saw me twitch violently, yet he remained calm. I was horrified as the memories surged back, every detail of the betrayal, the beating, the trap… the killing.

  “FUCKING BASTARDS!”

  I grunted in reality.

  Alexander said nothing as I clutched my chest, feeling as if I’d been stabbed. I quickly realized it was merely an illusion, my mind dragging me through memories, only to return me to the present. Combat still echoed faintly within the throne court, though most of it had died down. My undead summons were still standing; many cleared out. I let out a long, steady breath, knowing things were only going to get worse from here.

  Just wait till I come to the surface, I thought.

  My chest rose and fell in deep, slow breaths as I surveyed the throne court.

  Quiet.

  The air still reeked of ash and iron rot, but the battle was over.

  My undead had cleaned the area.

  Archers.

  Spearmen.

  Knights.

  All accounted for. No casualties.

  Not even for my first summon, Major Dasha Feofil. A stroke of luck.

  Some of the units stood proudly, even defiantly, satisfied with what they'd accomplished.

  It was unsettling, seeing the dead exhibit pride.

  Dasha stepped forward, her armour clicking softly with every step. She said nothing, simply placing a brown leather pouch into my hand. The soft clink of metal echoed faintly within it, silver and bronze coins, mostly.

  But something else was in there. Something that caught the light.

  A red sphere. Smooth. Mirror-like. Hypnotic.

  I ran a thumb over its surface. For a moment, I swore I saw my own eye staring back at me, only… off.

  “What’s this?” I asked, glancing toward Dasha.

  She shook her head.

  “Unsure. But it feels precious. Perhaps magical.”

  Alexander stepped in behind me, eyes narrowing the moment he saw the orb. He didn’t say a word, but the way his jaw clenched told me enough.

  He knew something.

  And he was staying silent.

  I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “It’s significant.”

  He didn’t argue. Just looked away.

  Fine. I wouldn’t press. Not yet.

  I tucked the orb into my pocket and nodded to Dasha.

  “Report.”

  She straightened and began.

  “Some spearmen met resistance in the west wing. No injuries. Minimal damage. The knights have salvaged better equipment; we've swapped rusty swords and cracked armour for good iron.”

  I looked at her. She no longer wore a a bronze plate. Instead, her armour was cleaner, tougher iron. Her shield was metal. Her sword was no longer a shortened blade but a full-sized claymore. I glanced around. The rest had followed suit. Wooden shields were gone, replaced with steel. The archers wore leather boots now. The spearmen had reinforced chestplates.

  We were still primitive by modern standards…

  But this wasn't a ragtag band of skeletons anymore.

  It was becoming an army.

  I closed my eyes, took in a slow breath, and focused, just as I had earlier.

  The whispers returned.

  Cold fingers brushed the edges of my thoughts.

  I pressed both palms to the stone.

  From the darkness, more undead began to rise, spearmen, supplementing our already swelling ranks.

  The others stirred in response, almost excited.

  Progress.

  Even Alexander nodded almost imperceptibly in approval.

  But it did not last.

  He looked along the ranks, then snorted to himself. "Still utilizing crude crap."

  "They're more equipped," I replied, picking out one of the newly standardized claymores.

  "More will not make a difference when they're pitted against murderers with guns," he snarled. "These zombies may be loyal, but loyalty cannot deflect bullets. We need weapons. Badly."

  You think that's feasible?" I lowered the sword. "This world doesn't even have black powder. No ammunition, no guns, not even a bloody matchlock."

  He chuckled, touching his forehead.

  “Doesn’t mean we forgot how to create them. Some of the deceased may recall, too. We just need the proper location to unlock it.”

  “And where might that be?”

  Alexander gestured toward the far corridor, the one that led deeper underground.

  We’d clean the altar. Then… begin the next step.

  Standing on the throne, I watched as a fireteam transformed into something more. A platoon. Fifteen undead, all ready for the next type of fight, with Major Dasha Feofil giving a briefing on the threat we were about to face.

  “Alright, comrades… Here’s what we’re dealing with. By 0900 hours, we’ll be facing a bitch like no other… something half you bastards have never seen before.”

  A few in the crowd chuckled, not the hollow, lifeless clatter you'd expect from skeletons, but actual laughter. Human. Real laughter. It had been a long time since I heard something like that.

  Strangely comforting. Odd… but grounding.

  At least they weren't emotionless husks. These weren't merely raised dead; they were my comrades. Our comrades. Old world warriors. Men and women who once bled beside me under red banners and grey skies.

  If only we'd have seen that ambush coming… Perhaps we wouldn't have ended up in this warped, godforsaken existence. But here we were, and the past was dead, literally. Now, revenge was all that was driving us forward. That, and the weak, dying memory of what we'd once been.

  "Quiet down!" Alexander's voice sliced through the babble like a blade. The crowd fell silent.

  Major Dasha Feofil stepped forward, erect, iron armour glinting with the orange light of the campfire. She retained the aura of a commander despite her hollow eyes and bones that had known the pain of war.

  "We're dividing the platoon into two units," she started, her voice commanding. "Most of you are spearmen; you'll make up the main line. Bravo team flanks left. Delta remains back to provide long-range suppression."

  An agitated rustling. One of the spearmen, his face creased with a bad scar across the skull, got loud.

  "Half of us will get sliced if we run in first. Even Alpha's smart enough to know that."

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  Dasha never blinked. "We're not sending you in blind. You're the distraction, not the battering ram. Alpha and Delta will try out the defences of the enemy. You sit tight until we spot a crack.

  That didn't relax the tension, but at least it gave it purpose.

  "What the fuck is this?" Second Lieutenant Maxim Leonidovich sneered. "Major, what are we even fighting, some sort of devil? Is this some Mario Kart boss crap?"

  I rolled my eyes. Even dead, that son of a bitch maintained his sense of humour. Nevertheless, his words made the other soldiers chuckle, nervous energy coursing through their veins.

  Alexander didn't smile. "Discipline, Lieutenant. You're talking in front of the Major General."

  Dasha nodded and continued. "Whatever it is, it's not human. They referred to it as a 'narcomancer', some depraved version of necromancer. Just like our boss, but more powerful. Rumour has it, it can conjure like we can. So if it gets traction, we'll be outgunned quickly."

  That shut everyone up.

  “If we had firearms, this would be simple,” muttered another spearman, this one older. “During the Siege of Khost, we wiped out the mujahideen because they couldn’t match our range. End of story.”

  That name rang a bell. Khost. My chest tightened with recognition.

  I stepped forward. “Siege of Khost… Identify yourself.”

  The crowd parted. From the middle came a man, dead like the others, but with pride. He gave a sharp salute and showed the faded insignia of a bygone era.

  "Mládshiy serzhánt Andrey Fyodor," he said. "I served in the USSR. I died in Khost. It's an honor to serve the Red Army again."

  I blinked. The Cold War. Jesus. This poor bastard had probably assumed the Soviet Union was still standing. I looked over at Alexander. His expression of disbelief was exactly the same as mine.

  "I didn't know we could summon that far back," I spoke slowly.

  "From that war."

  Alexander laughed, more in awe than humour. "Can't wait to summon our great-grandfathers for this shit show. But hey, at least we've got men."

  The mood changed again as fire spat and wind screamed down the corridor like a breath from another dimension. Talk-time was done.

  Major Dasha gave the last orders, and the platoon moved as if they still had flesh and blood, disciplined, hungry, and ready. Weapons were inspected, and armour tightened. Even the archers nocked ghost arrows as if to face the enemy they couldn't yet see.

  I turned to Alexander, watching his face as he stared down the corridor toward the altar.

  He wasn’t nervous. He was grinning. That same devilish smirk he wore before every suicide mission we’d ever taken.

  He was ready.

  Ready for whatever was waiting in that hell ahead.

  Major Dasha Feofil and Second Lieutenant Maxim Leonidovich were at the front, each holding onto the huge iron grip of the throne room's giant double doors. Their armoured bodies seemed like statues themselves, firm, unyielding, and prepared. They just needed my command.

  I turned and took one more look at my platoon.

  Spearmen made up the front line, shields advanced, spears pointed forward like a thorn wall. The knights trailed behind, heavier and slower but better armoured to break. Five archers stood ready at the back, two of my original and three from the reinforcements. Not many, but they'd suffice.

  I met Alexander's gaze. No need for words. He already understood.

  "FORWARD!"

  A deafening roar. In an instant, the undead charged.

  Spearmen advanced, boots thudding on stone. Dasha and Maxim yanked the doors open with creaking effort, the old hinges shrieking as if the gates themselves complained at what we were doing. The soldiers flooded in one by one, shadows pouring through the gap like rats through a gap in the hull.

  The air grew colder. I brought up the rear, blade in hand, Alexander by my side. The void on the other side of the doorway greeted us with silence.

  Screams pierced the air. Not screams of fear, but screams of bloodlust.

  Bravo team covered the left flank. Spearmen occupied the centre. Delta team, our archers, guarded the door, bows at the ready.

  "HALT!" Alexander's bellow shook like a cannon, echoing off the ancient stone walls. The entire platoon halted.

  We stood within a gigantic, hollow chamber, an ancient shrine engulfed in darkness. Frozen, unlit braziers lined a gigantic summoning circle etched into the stone floor. Statues of forgotten kings and gods towered from the shadows like silent sentinels. And at the centre… the circle pulsed.

  I advanced. My breathing halted.

  The runes glowed, at first a dull red, then blazing into a grotesque red pulse. It emanated heat. The air changed.

  "EVERYONE OUT OF THE CIRCLE!" Alexander bellowed.

  Panic broke out, but too late. Just as the first of the archers was at the doors, they thudded shut in a deafening boom. Iron. Магия closed over them.

  I swore under my breath. The archers reformed into line, and we closed ranks. Knights closed the circle. Archers drew bows. Spearmen wedged into wedges.

  The glow grew brighter.

  Then there was the laughter.

  Low, guttural, laced with mockery. It curled through the air like smoke, emanating from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

  "WATCH YOUR FUCKING SECTORS!" a knight bellowed.

  "STAY ALERT! THIS DEVIL'S TOYING WITH US!" another yelled.

  The ground shuddered. My teeth ground together. A tremor radiated out from the circle, cracks in the floor of the stone.

  I stepped into sight, holding my blade aloft.

  "It's here! Prepare yourself! We are not returning to hell; we FIGHT!"

  Then it spoke.

  A voice that boomed like thunder, distorted, familiar, ancient.

  "ALEXANDER BAKHIN… YOU SHALL RETURN TO HELL WHERE YOU BELONG!"

  At the centre of the circle, the floor burst apart. Fire shot upward, and smoke roiled high to the vaulted ceiling. From within the flames came a monster that made even my dead men recoil.

  Its horns were curved like serrated scythes, twice the length of any ram's. Its face, half-hidden behind a blackened hood, was leathery and emaciated, with yellow eyes that glowed like embers and a mouth that shrieked like a banshee. Its claws, long and blackened, scraped along the ground, leaving burn marks. In its right hand, it held a golden staff capped by a blue, glowing crystal that throbbed like a living heart.

  And then the wings arrived, gigantic, leathery, and veined with red. They unfolded wide, almost touching the walls.

  I looked at Alexander, heart racing, but holding my grip firm.

  "This is it?" I whispered.

  He nodded grimly. "The Legendary Necromancer."

  Standing in full now, it was twice a man's height, its armour merged with bone and sinew. A gruesome necklace of skulls dangled around its neck. Forty of them.

  The thing laughed again, mockingly, full of pride.

  "FORTY HEROES HAVE DIED TRYING TO KILL ME… AND YOU SHALL BE THE FORTY-FIRST."

  "I WELCOME YOU TO YOUR DEATH, FOR NO CHALLENGER HAS RISEN IN OVER A HUNDRED YEARS."

  My soldiers didn’t waver. They just tightened formation, eyes locked, grips firm. The dead don’t fear death. I raised my blade and stepped forward.

  “Then it’s about time someone reminded you what a real challenge feels like.”

  “URA!” The knights at the rear surged forward. Arrows screamed overhead from the archers, striking the creature as it shielded its face with a clawed hand. No pain, no reaction, just a few arrows lodged into its skin. Still, our knights charged.

  “CHILD’S PLAY,” the legendary necromancer muttered as its tail swept across the field like a whip. Several knights were launched into the cave walls, their armour screeching on impact. The raw power shocked me, but Alexander barked orders immediately.

  “Don’t get behind it; its tail will kill you! Go for the staff! Bravo team, flank right!”

  Somehow, Bravo survived, armour cracked and dented, but they rose without hesitation. Alpha flanked left while arrows flew again, some striking true.

  “NICE!”

  The necromancer screamed, the staff in its hand beginning to glow. A fireball formed, swelling fast. My heart dropped.

  “DELTA, MOVE!”

  The team scattered as the fireball detonated, the room lit in blinding heat. From the smoke, Bravo’s spearmen drove in, stabbing at the creature’s legs.

  “DIE, YOU FUCKING DEVIL!” shouted Private Roman Aleksei, right before the beast kicked him, sending him crashing beside me.

  “Private Aleksei!” I dropped to my knees, grabbing his fading body. He coughed, nothing came out.

  “Thank you… Major General… I shall see my mother once more…”

  Then he turned to dust. Gone.

  My fists clenched. Anger boiled in my chest. Alexander was already repositioning, trying to pull the strategy back together when a Delta archer ran up.

  “Major General!” he called. “The staff, it’s the source. Every time it’s damaged, it beats like a heart. That’s what’s keeping it alive!”

  I looked back. The Necromancer was stomping madly, our troops scattering like ants, but the archer was right. The staff pulsed. Alive.

  “Alright,” I growled. “We focus everything on that staff. That bastard’s going down.”

  “Get word to Major Feofil, she’ll know what to do.”

  The Delta squad rushed off. Arrows rained again. Alpha managed to reach the Necromancer’s exposed flank. I pushed forward and caught sight of Alexander and Major Dasha already mid-briefing.

  “Alpha’s nearly wiped!” she snapped. “We need to break that staff!”

  They all turned to the staff, beating like a heart. A grotesque rhythm.

  "It's the weakness," I said.

  A silence, then,

  "Are you sure, Major General?" asked Major Dasha Feofil, her voice low but edged with urgency.

  "Trust me."

  The archers loosed their arrows. A few struck true, cracks split across the floating crystal.

  “ARGH!” it shrieked, recoiling.

  That was the confirmation we needed.

  Alexander snapped at me. “ITS LEGS ARE SKINNY AS SHIT! FUCKING MAKE IT KNEE IT SO WE CAN DESTROY THE STAFF!”

  I smiled.

  The devil itself, Bravo Team, rushed the right thigh, stabbing wildly. Blades pierced its Achilles tendon, severing it clean. The legendary necromancer let out a shriek that shook the cavern walls. Bravo didn’t let up. The left leg was next, sliced, slashed, and hammered. Corporal Nikolaevich Zhukov bellowed as he brought down his blade:

  “DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!!”

  His sword carved through, severing the leg. The beast screamed, pure agony echoing across the summoning altar. It flailed, toppling like a dying tree.

  “DISPERSE!” I yelled.

  The soldiers broke formation, diving away as the necromancer crashed into the ground. Dust exploded outward, thick, choking, blinding. We regrouped, weapons raised, Alpha, Bravo, Delta, all eyes locked on the settling fog.

  A wet cough cut through the silence.

  As the haze thinned, we saw it, slumped, shattered, barely alive. Its claws clutched a massive, gaping wound across its chest. The golden staff, now cracked and bleeding blue light, lay discarded nearby.

  It gagged. Not on power, but on its own cursed essence.

  The terror of ages… this “Legendary” horror… was dying.

  Its gaze lifted, locking with mine.

  “No revenge… will make you feel better for that girl. You will become the terror of the Northern Real. You will bring your past life with you… and this world… will kneel. Alexander…”

  I stared it down. A beast wheezing like a sick animal. I stepped forward, blade gleaming.

  "You stole my men. You revived the dead. You expected us to bow."

  I raised my sword.

  "Now you'll see them complete what the living couldn't."

  Steel drove into rotten flesh. The creature roared one last time, louder than thunder, and then,

  POOF

  Dust. Gone.

  The summoning circle pulsed blue. On the ground, something small shimmered, hovering, then gently dropping.

  The staff. Not destroyed, reborn.

  It was the same staff, unchanged yet changed, pulsing faintly with dying energy.

  The silence was broken.

  “WE DID IT, COMRADES! WE KILLED THE LEGENDARY NECROMANCER!”

  “URA!”

  “URA!”

  “URA!”

  The soldiers cheered. Some wept. Some laughed. Many just stood, breathing, alive. The undead even grinned, their spirits settled.

  Victory. Real, painful, hard-won.

  But I wasn’t applauding.

  I stood there, sword still in hand, gazing at the crumpled mess of what used to be the Legendary Necromancer. Its chest only just rose. Its burned wings quivered. And just a few feet away, the broken staff glowed weakly, flickering like a dying star.

  Alexander was standing next to me. Still ghostly. Still a ghost.

  He didn't say a word at first. Just gazed at the staff with an odd silence. It wasn't over. Not yet.

  He regarded me.

  That glance.

  He didn't have to tell me, but he did.

  "Do you want to?"

  My throat caught in mid-air.

  Time hung in suspension.

  Everything – cheering, crackling fires, boots ringing in triumph – withered away to a hollow sound. My hand went automatically to the interior of my greatcoat. I gripped it. The locket. Slender and faded.

  I wrapped my fingers around it. the way I once wrapped hers.

  I closed my eyes. The cheers gave way to screams. My memories came back like a storm, blood on stone, fire in the village, her screams… my failure to prevent any of it.

  Her smile.

  Her voice.

  Lost.

  My hands shook. Not from fear. Not from weakness.

  From rage. From sorrow. From a wound that time and death had never cured.

  I opened my eyes. Tears ran down my cheeks, caring not that I wasn't even fully alive. That I was now more ghost than man but still felt. Still recalled love. Pain. Loss.

  I turned back to Alexander.

  He didn't push.

  He didn't need to.

  "If it means getting my revenge…"

  My voice broke, barely a whisper.

  "…I will."

  The staff thrummed again. Weak. Faint. But alive.

  I stepped forward, no hesitation. The air felt thicker, tighter. Like the world was taking a breath.

  Suddenly, the staff snaked out like a snake, a dark tendril of light wrapping around my arm and yanking me in. It grasped my soul. My essence. My very self.

  Alexander's voice sounded, not in the room, but in my mind.

  "Ovisia Merisa… my future self…"

  “I, Major General Alexander Bakhin, will carry this operation forward. My mind and body will take your place. From today onward… we will be one. Yours will be ours. Together, we will make them pay. Do you accept?”

  The room fell silent.

  Even the undead skeletons observed.

  Soldiers froze, unsure whether they were seeing a miracle or a curse.

  I turned around.

  Behind Alexander… they were there.

  My friends. My brother has fallen.

  Her.

  She was among them, shining gently, smiling as always.

  Waiting for me.

  If I were to merge, I would never return. Never talk again. Never hold her.

  I'd be a shadow. A memory. A relic that fueled the fire of revenge.

  But I had nothing to lose.

  And everything to exact revenge on.

  I closed my eyes.

  "I accept."

  The staff burst into light, blinding, raw, searing light. The walls trembled. Cracks propagated across the summoning circle. The undead covered their eyes as the very earth under our feet shuddered.

  Then, silence.

  A figure descended from the light like a war god reborn.

  Major General Alexander Bakhin.

  Not the spectre.

  The real thing.

  A melting of past and present. A warrior forged anew by sacrifice. The convergence of two shattered souls, fused into one vengeful power.

  Dasha Feofil moved instinctively forward, her voice ringing out above the wonder.

  "Everyone, back! Give him room!"

  Alexander descended like machinery, heavy footfalls sinking into the broken stone. Smoke drifted around him. His gaze roamed the remains, calculating the battlefield, the injured, the dead. Unfazed. Unperturbed.

  He gazed at the pool of necrotic ichor that collected in the circle. A broken reflection gazed back.

  Not the visage of a man in his prime.

  Older. Worn. Hardened.

  "My health… is improving," he grunted, nearly smiling.

  Then he turned, eyes meeting the last glimmer of his new self. Me. The ghost. My work was done. My revenge, shared.

  And there she was, standing next to me. Waiting.

  "Do it,"

  "Please."

  And then I was gone.

  Alexander turned to address the platoon, dead, loyal, bloodied. Still standing.

  Major Dasha came forward again, eyes alert.

  "What's the next move?"

  Alexander didn't flinch.

  He grinned. A cold, ruthless smile.

  “We’re going up.”

  The war wasn’t over.

  But now, it would finally be personal.

  If you are interested in seeing any updates for Chronicles of Two Powers, Golden Gates and my newest release, Soldier to Summoner.

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