Chương 22: B6C21 - The Process

A true lich was, effectively, an immortal being. Not just undying, not just undead, but an entity able to recover even from utter destruction. He knew the theory, but actually designing the methodology to make it possible was a structural challenge quite unlike anything that Tyron had encountered before. A demi-lich was bound to its remains, just as a wight was, and those remains were most definitely a physical thing, capable of being broken, shattered and destroyed.

The first challenge was to find a way to bind the soul to a phylactery, such that even if the undead were destroyed, the soul wouldn't be lost, vulnerable to attack or destined to move into the Realm of the Dead given the passage of time. In effect, the phylactery was a repository for the soul, summoning it regardless of distance or even dimension once it had been freed from its shell.

Tyron hadn't been able to create a perfect, flawless device without any restrictions at all, but in his own opinion, what he and Master Willhem had managed to craft was impressive regardless. If the lich bound to it were to die anywhere in the same realm, the soul would be snatched up without any chance of interference or capture, outside of a few very specific circumstances.

Adapting it to work across dimensions added at least a dozen layers of complexity that Tyron had judged to simply not be worth tackling in the limited time they had. Capturing the soul, however, was merely the first step. At this stage, if Master Willhem's remains had been destroyed, then his soul would have snapped into the phylactery and then... remained there.

His bones would have been damaged or destroyed, perhaps beyond the chance of recovery, and Tyron would have had to try and house him in a new shell, most likely using entirely different remains, to which his affinity would have been much, much weaker. Less than ideal. So now he had to come up with a method that would transform the demi-lich into an entity capable of being constructed entirely out of magick.

After all, a ghost, no matter how powerful, was nothing more than a soul bound to a magickal construct, no material components required. However, he needed his lich to be formed of bone in order to benefit from the many methods and feats he possessed to empower them. It wouldn't do to have Master Willhem locked into an insubstantial, ghostly form. His greatest strength and his deepest desire were his abilities as an Arcanist. He couldn't utilise them as a spectre!

Thankfully, he didn't have to look too far for inspiration. Already he was capable of making spirit flesh, a bond of magick and soul that created an ethereal, half-physical, half-insubstantial approximation of human tissue. If he could do it to flesh, why not to bone? As it turned out, there were a hundred reasons why not to bone.

Bones were the anchor around which almost all of his Necromancy functioned, and if the remains he was working with weren't even physical, then all of that magick needed to be redesigned, almost from the ground up. Even if he were able to resolve those issues, he still had to find out how to make spirit-bones in the first place!

As much as Tyron would like to think he had engaged in a thorough, studious process to hunt down the solution, he had instead once again entered into a near fugue state, working in a frenzy, acting on instincts and half-formed thoughts he had developed over time. Scrabbling in his notebooks like a madman, he'd gone through dozens of failed methods, destroying hundreds of skeletons in the process before he'd finally gotten it to work.

The resultant material was significantly weaker than noctic bone, but much more responsive to Soul Marrow, which was definitely a plus. As a result, an undead created with this material was physically quite weak, but magickally potent, which wasn't ideal but perfectly suited for a lich. They could defend themselves with their increased reserves of arcane energy as far as Tyron was concerned.

Creating a weave to the new form of bone was also difficult, but he managed to work it out and come up with a design that would give Master Willhem the maximum possible dexterity and control of his hands. After that, he had to find a way for the phylactery to recreate this form from scratch. Sadly, this had proven to be impossible. No matter how Tyron had thrashed, scribbled or raved, he hadn't found a solution to the problem. Which meant he'd needed to switch gears.

When he really thought about it, the phylactery didn't need to work from scratch, it didn't have nothing, after all, it had a perfectly good soul in its possession. Branding a soul hadn't been something Tyron had thought he would ever need to do. It was the method by which the Empire's Magisters controlled the Slayers, so the only way he'd ever wanted to be involved in that kind of magick was to destroy it. Especially since his conduits already gave him perfect control over his minions.

But as it turned out, branding a soul was exactly the solution to this new problem. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Engraving the magick to recreate his form onto Master Willhem's soul had been traumatic for the both of them, but mostly for Master Willhem. When the process was finished, he destroyed his old master's demi-lich body, and then hoped to hell he'd done everything correctly.

As intended, the phylactery had snatched up the disembodied spirit without any issue. It had then begun the process of drawing in magick in order to form the lich's new body. Here, there had been some complications, but Tyron had managed to resolve them before leaving to deal with the Dust Folk. As a result of his hard work, Master Willhem had now ascended to become the first true lich in the service of Tyron's horde.

More powerful than a demi-lich, with his empowered soul that would theoretically enable him to reach platinum rank and with a vast reserve of magick at his disposal, Master Willhem could, with time, reach even greater heights as an Arcanist than he did in life. Eager to investigate his newfound potential and capacity, the lich drifted out of the old building, chasing down the materials to get started on some projects.

There was an endless need for enchanted arms and armour in the horde, so the old master would have no shortage of work to do. The more motivated he felt, the better off Tyron would be in the end. Satisfied with his work, the Necromancer sat down and took a breath. It had been a frantic week of work. He needed a little rest before throwing himself into his next task, but first he should check on his progress. Filetta spied him pulling out a loose sheet of paper and walked closer.

"Are you preparing for the status ritual?" she asked him. Tyron nodded.

"I'm a little surprised I didn't gain a new mystery after successfully creating a full lich," he mused, "but I'm sure there are some improvements. And after killing so many rift kin, I must have gained a level by now. Hopefully two." She shook her head.

"You're single-handedly doing the work of hundreds of Slayers right now. Clearing and defending, what, four rifts now?"

"Five," he said. His minions had cleared out Endless Sand a few days ago. That meant only three untamed rifts remained in all of the Western Province. Reynold, Blackrift and Undermist. Filetta snorted, a decidedly non-undead sound.

"Doing all of that and only one level? That's ridiculous!" Tyron shrugged.

"Don't underestimate the requirements of platinum ranked Classes," was all he could say. His mother and father had practically lived beyond the rifts, fighting the strongest kin they could get access to all year 'round, with periodic breaks to come back and visit him in Foxbridge, and their progress had frustrated them deeply. Also worth considering, they did all the fighting themselves, unlike Tyron, honing their combat skills and spells to a razor's sharpness, along with their instincts for battle.

He might be accruing Class progress at an unprecedented rate due to his undead fighting on his behalf, but he was keenly aware that he was lacking in real battle experience.

"Alright, let's see what sort of progress we've made," he said. He held out his palm towards Filetta, who looked at him oddly.

"I need you to make me bleed," he said, gesturing to his belt which was distinctly knife-free. The wight grinned at him as she pulled one of her blades from its sheath.

"Just like the old days," she leered, twirling the blade in her hands.

"You've always bled so pretty for me." The Necromancer threw out his hands.

"Is that even possible?" he protested.

"What does that even mean?"

"Do you want me to show you?"

"No, I don't want you to show me. Just cut my hand, please."

"You're no fun."

"I'm still annoyed you tricked me back then. It is not necessary or customary to use knives in the bedroom."

"You enjoyed yourself, didn't you?" He didn't reply and Filetta laughed before slicing a neat cut into the meat of his thumb, which he promptly pressed into the page, speaking the words of the ritual. It was easier to ignore her when he had something important to focus on. Looking at the words creeping over the page, written in the red ink that was his own blood, Tyron frowned. He had indeed gained only a single level. He was now a level 85 Ascended Skeleton Artifex.

Perhaps it was a little disappointing to have only gained so few, but he was eager to see what sort of feats he might gain now as a platinum. The other major change to his status was the progression of his mysteries. He may not have gained any new ones, but those he did have certainly had benefited from his recent breakthroughs. Essence of Death (Profound) INT +50 WILL +50 Soul Magick (Profound) WIS +50 CHA +50 Both had progressed from advanced to profound.

Since his Class had advanced, he should be capable of pushing them to a level higher than this, but he was yet to earn that blessing from the Unseen. No matter, he would. It was only a matter of time. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the feat selection. This ought to be interesting.