12 Relic of the Past (Patreon)

"Talk about a tough situation."

Flamelle glances up at Jorick's muttered words only briefly before her attention returns to what is most important.

Ever since first encountering Kette, Flamelle's life has been a non-stop run of shocks and surprises one after another like an endless line of sucker punches.

Most recently, paying such an absurd amount of money just for a rail ticket without even batting an eye. Then getting into an argument and threatening a Cohenberg all while giving a lecture that was mostly fascinating while occasionally seeming slightly deranged. Flamelle isn't really sure what to think about it all. About weighing every interaction by metaphorical 'debt'.

The bit about making sure to be aware of what the people you interact with want at least resonates within Flamelle as a good idea. The rest..? Flamelle isn't sure if she wants to live a life like that.

She resolves herself to ask Kette for further clarification in the future to make sure she isn't misunderstanding anything.

That is, if she can even live that long.

She isn't really sure how long she was asleep for, but her waking was incredibly abrupt and immediately followed by a blur of confusion.

By the time she came to, she found that she was lying on what should have been the ceiling of the carriage, groaning in pain amidst echoing moans from the rest of the cabin. Except she wasn't actually in any pain at all, just disoriented from all of the movement. But somehow, despite it all, she felt perfectly fine.

Jorick was naturally the first to regain himself, helping her back to her feet before opening the side-door to see what the heck was going on.

Which lead to the here and now.

On one side is the rail. Entirely detached from its namesake rail lines and twisted on its side and back, depending on the carriage.

On the other side, a massive army of Undead. Formed in a semi-circle and notably containing a number of [Black Giants] and even a [Black Wyvern], the Undead variants of their respective races. 

It is a force more than capable of razing a major city to ash. The thought evokes no small amount of unease, to put things lightly.

And in the middle stands the rail's former occupants. All huddled up together, stilled under the glare of the man riding his wyvern.

A silent consensus elected Jorick as their representative, as the strongest among them by a longshot.

Not that it really matters much here.

A few dozen civilians and a couple dozen more Adventurers, none but Jorick at Orichalcum or higher.

Against them?

An army. She can't count that fast, but there must be thousands of them. Of the regular Undead.

If it was 'just' that then perhaps they could have fought instead of complying with the Necromancer's order to surrender.

But a [Black Giant] is a creature that hovers around the level 1,100 range, while the Wyvern likely exceeds 1,200.

Titled.

Six Giants, one Wyvern and the Necromancer controlling them all. That makes for at least eight Titled-level foes.

Just one of those creatures alone would be enough to bring ruin to a city, let alone all of them. It is a force that, while not enough to overshadow an entire nation, it could certainly do plenty of harm.

Hence the surrender.

She just has to wonder how in the world such an army of the dead had been gathered without anyone hearing about it.

"Voice of the weak," the Necromancer's gravelly, scratchy voice rings out from his perch atop the half-skeletal Wyvern, dripping with arrogance. A number of people flinch at the sound. "Step forth."

Jorick sighs and strokes the neck of the [Great Falcon] by his side, a Tamed Beast the Ranger summoned upon noticing the horde of death.

As he moves to step forward, Jorick's eye catches Flamelle's own, and he sends her a small grin.

"I sure hope your Master comes soon. It'd suck for there to only be one survivor."

Somehow she gets the feeling that he isn't talking about himself as the sole survivor, which she finds odd.

"Greetings! O' Great Lord of Death!" Jorick begins pleasantly, pausing only to turn back at a thunderous sound to see three of the [Black Giants] hefting the entire rail into the air. His face pinches slightly at the absurd sight, but Jorick doesn't let it distract him. "To what service may we be of you?"

The Necromancer straightens himself out with clear pride, showing off his horrific form. Human, but for half of his flesh missing to reveal bone. He is dressed in old, worn black robes and wields a bone-white staff that Flamelle has been struggling not to look at.

His aura is also terrifying, though that is only an issue for Flamelle. It's nearly as large as what she's seen of Kette, which in other words means that this is a being so far beyond her in scale that she may as well not exist.

It's terrifying. 

Yet.. Flamelle doesn't find herself paralysed this time.

For sure, her knees are weak. Shaking like she's freezing.

But at this point? Terror is becoming dull. She has felt so much of it over the past few days.

Not to say that she has somehow become immune to fear. She is sure that if there was a reprieve between recent terrors and right now that her reaction would be no different.

But honestly, she just woke up and didn't get much sleep in the first place. She is just too tired to go past fear and into terror.

"I am Sevete Nich Ooal Brundiche! Immortal General of Lord Vincent von Kvattersiev's Third Corpse Army! Introduce yourself, Voice of the Weak!"

Flamelle, like all those around her, freezes at the Necromancer's words. A pool of dread forming in the pit of her stomach.

Vincent von Kvattersiev. The Sixth Cataclysm.

This Necromancer is a General of the Sixth Cataclysm.

A being that fought against the Heroes of 100 years ago.

She is standing before one of the single most powerful, and evil beings not just in the world, but in history.

We're all going to die.

How is he even alive!? Why is he here? How has he remained undiscovered until now!? There is no Kingdom on the face of the planet that would suffer the existence of a Cataclysm's former forces!

Distantly, Flamelle realises that she is hyperventilating. She isn't the only one, as some absent part of her mind notices a number of her fellow passengers collapsing onto their knees or even outright weeping.

Is my 'luck' to blame for this? Flamelle thinks, finding it to be the only reason she can come up with to explain why a literal figure of legend is now standing in front of her instead of remaining in the storybooks.

"I am Jorick Davison, Orichalcum ranked Adventurer, Ranger of the Silver Sword Adventurer Party. Might I ask what you intend of us?"

Flamelle is impressed that he managed to keep his voice steady in the face of a literal mythical figure of history.

"A choice." Sevete's ghoulish eyes scan over them, visons of death and malice shining in the glow of his iris. "I have need of the living, yet I can never have too many corpses. So choose. Live, and serve me. Or die, and serve me in death."

"Not much of a choice," Jorick mutters under his breath, low enough that Flamelle thinks she is probably the only one to have heard him.

She can only agree. Flamelle has no desire to become a part of the living dead, but she also can't even begin to imagine what sort of horrors such a powerful Necromancer, one who once even served a Cataclysm, would push upon the living.

Jorick doesn't respond right away. In fact, he waits until Sevete's impatience becomes visible to respond, cutting things close for no apparent reason.

"May we have a moment to discuss amongst ourselves our futures?"

"No," Sevete immediately denies, making Jorick's face cramp. "Decide now or I shall decide for you. Kneel, or die."

For a tense moment, no one moves an inch. Then, again, right at the last moment of silence, Jorick speaks up once more. She almost wants to kick him and yell that he stop trying the Necromancer's patience.

"Could I at least ask what would come of us in servitude? Y'know, make an informed decision?"

Sevete's glare could not be misunderstood as anything but what it is, and Flamelle can only wonder why Jorick seems to be tying to antagonize the Necromancer.

"I tire of you," Sevete says, raising a bony finger in Jorick's direction, only for the man to drop to his knees and raise his hands immediately.

"I choose to serve!"

"Hmph, good," Sevete comments, his attention falling to the others only briefly before Jorick pulls it back to himself.

"Before we get going, could we choose someone to be left behind to carry everyone's farewell messages to our families?" He asks, and Flamelle can only be confused as to why.

The request itself is obviously one that would be appreciated, but who in the world would ever think that a Cataclysm's General would accept such a deal?

However, it is not a moment later that Flamelle's disbelief is answered as Sevete and Jorick's heads snap to the side at the same moment, looking into the distance. Flamelle follows their gaze to see a tiny dot in the distant sky, glowing like a star.

"Heh, finally," Jorick mutters to himself, his muscles untensing as he relaxes with a relieved smile. "I was totally out of stalling tactics here."

She doesn't even get a second to question that before the dot in the distance rapidly grows. Like a shooting star except infinitely faster, it zips across the sky in a blink to land up above them, at roughly the height she would expect a bird to circle its prey.

From this distance, though the detail isn't clear, Flamelle can recognise the sight of her teacher, and relief floods her bones. She has no idea how her teacher will compare to Sevete, but at the very least, Flamelle doesn't think Sevete could crush her without a fight, which is more than anyone else here could say.

"Hm," Sevete grunts, a sound not unlike a corpse's growl. "A Mage. How-"

Whatever he was going to say never manifests as a thin purple line spears from Kette's form and into one of the [Black Giants] holding aloft the rail before swinging across and through the other two in a blur of movement.

Almost immediately, all three Giants disintegrate into nothing but dust, dropping the rail only halfway down before an unseen force holds the carriages in the air. The sound of screeching metal rakes over the air like the sky itself is crying out, but she doesn't notice any of it.

Three Titled level Undead all killed by a single Spell in the blink of an eye.

Flamelle has trouble recognising the sight as real. Simply staring at the billowing dust without comprehension, stunned at the sight of a feat she would have called impossible for any but the Six Heroes to accomplish.

She isn't the only one, as a stunned silence fills the air in the wake of Kette's Spell.

However, that silence is broken by Jorick blurring into movement, raising one leg to prop himself up from his knees and summoning a bow into his hands. Almost in the same movement, he draws and releases an arrow glowing with radiant golden light.

The arrow flies true for Sevete, so fast that Flamelle doesn't even see it move beyond the trail it leaves in its wake, yet the effect is clear when the arrow explodes into golden light a metre in front of Sevete. A spherical translucent barrier glowing faintly green sits as a aegis before the Necromancer, protecting even his clothes from harm.

Jorick doesn't even have the time to mutter a complaint before Sevete is retaliating, raising his bone-white staff into the air in Jorick's direction.

Kette is there.

Everyone freezes once more as they recognise her appearance. Sitting crouched on the tip of Sevete's staff, staring down at the frozen Necromancer without any fear.

"Sevete," she says into the silence, her voice as bored as ever, no hint of anxiety sitting before a Cataclysm's General. "You should be dead."

"You know of me?" Sevete returns, his scratchy tone taking a cautious hue. Unsurprising, considering Kette's showing against the Giants.

"Hm. The coward of Kvattersiev." The words, delivered in that same bored tone, cause a hitch in Flamelle's breath as she struggles to comprehend why everyone seems to be antagonising a Cataclysm's General.

Almost immediately, Flamelle's concerns are given form as an explosion of sickly green energy erupts from Sevete, engulfing Kette's form and shooting out into the clouds, turning clear skies into a thunderstorm before their very eyes. The sheer power behind the attack has the animal instincts of her brain rooting her in place, hoping to avoid the attention of a deadly predator.

An appreciative hum fills the air following the attack, and Flamelle almost can't believe her eyes when the necrotic blast fades away to reveal Kette now crouched down on top of Sevete's head, looking down at the Necromancer without a change in expression.

"You've improved."

Sevete only responds with a yell of anger, twisting to swipe his staff over his head, glowing with the power of death, filling the air ever more with the stench of rot and decay.

But once more, he hits nothing as Kette disappears right before impact and already their eyes search to find her, soon discovering Kette now crouched on the head of one of the remaining three [Black Giants].

With a casual movement, Kette lays a hand on the top of the Giant's head, and in the next second, Flamelle can only watch in awe as the Giant collapses into flower petals, billowing away with the wind without even the opportunity to defend itself.

A scream of rage tears its way through Sevete's throat, mirrored by a roar of his draconic steed that shakes the ground like an earthquake. "Attack!!!" He yells, ordering his army forth, but Flamelle only has a brief moment to panic at the charging horde before Kette acts again.

In less time than it takes to blink, Flamelle sees her teacher briefly appear above the other two Giants, one after the other, before they too dissolve into flower petals. So quickly that they do not even get the chance to take a step forward let alone make any kind of attack.

Immediately after, Kette appears between Sevete and his captives and sucks in a deep breath. The army of Undead only manage to take three thundering steps forward before she is done, and a tidal wave of Divine, golden fire erupts from betwixt Kette's lips.

The radiant flames surge forth with an unnatural speed, as if the fire itself is eager to devour the horde of death, and devour it does. In mere moments, the golden flame engulfs the entire army, large enough that she can feel the heat licking at her skin even from a distance.

In only moments, thousands and thousands of walking corpses are annihilated as if they were not a force that could raze a city but a mere insect to be squashed. The scent of rot and death being washed away in favour of the almost floral scent of Holy Fire. Almost as soon as it came, the fire fading away into a hundred spots of small flames petering out across the field.

"WITCH!!!" Sevete yells, screaming the title as if it were a curse. A voice so full of hate and wrath that Flamelle feels her heart seize just from hearing it. Primal instincts locking her bones in place.

But Kette does not so much as flinch.

Instead, as the [Black Wyvern] opens its maw to burn them all to ash, Kette disappears again, reappearing crouched down on the spiky tip of the Wyvern's nose.

As she does, lines of golden rope appear beneath her, wrapping around the Wyvern's great maw and snapping it shut.

Sevete tries to attack, sending a piercing green beam of such magical might that Flamelle couldn't even guess as to how it works straight for Kette's chest. However, Kette simply tilts slightly to the side, causing the Spell to not only miss her marginally, but to twist and orbit around her as if she has a gravity, leaving the Spell to fly straight back into Sevete.

His own spell impacts him with such force that the sound of the impact almost deafens them as he is launched off of his steed, landing roughly on the baren grounds that once held an army but now only hold smouldering remains and small golden fires.

And as she watches this madness unfold, as she watches a mythical enemy of life itself be treated as if he does not stand near the peak of this world, Flamelle can only ask herself one thing.

Just how strong is her teacher?

///

Sevete Nich Ooal Brundiche

///

Growling in both pain and an unbearable rage, Sevete grasps blindly in the dirt around him, reaching desperately for his staff and only regaining his confidence once it is back within his hands.

Twisting, he pushes himself into a seated position, ignoring the dull ache of his temporary shell crying out in agony. He plants the staff into the earth and uses the leverage to push himself back up to his feet.

But as he does so, his rage only grows. As his eyes pan about the empty field, only a few small fires remaining of the great conflagration that annihilated his army.

He can only seethe at the destruction.

One hundred years! He spent collecting them. Building his army within these wastelands. Growing his forces and his own might in a bid for revenge a century in the making! And now it is gone! All of it! Gone!

The more he thinks about it the greater the rage burns within him!

His hands clutch at his staff hard enough he feels the bones creek as he turns wrathful eyes back upon his foe, just in time to see her floating down from the back of his Wyvern, the great beast dissolving into flower petals behind her.

That loss he feels even more keenly than the others, for his steed was almost as powerful as he himself. A knot of concern almost flutters through his silent heart before he reasserts his grip on his staff once more and banishes the doubt away.

However, as he watches this Witch float down from the sky, her own staff held behind her back in both hands, Sevete's mind flashes to the past.

Consumed by the thought, he replays the past minute over again in his mind. How this Witch had not used a single defensive Spell, only teleporting to avoid danger. Of how she chose to engage without any distance between them, fighting more like a Warrior with Magic than a Mage.

And as he does, he finds another image overlapping with the Elven Witch descending upon him.

An image of a similarly sized woman, one with crimson eyes and horns too big for her skull.

The only Mage in the world to possess such an absurd style of combat that spits in the face of every logical reasoning.

"Impossible." The whisper leaves him without thought, a coil of real fear racing up his spine and refusing to leave no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, no matter how tightly he clutches his stave. "YOU ARE-!"

The Witch appears before him, almost nose to nose and Sevete flinches backwards, falling back to the floor as the dread within him refuses to leave. All while those cold, familiar eyes look down on him, betraying no hint of emotion beyond a slight, barely there smile.

Nothing about this Elf looks like her. The appearance is completely off except for the height and hair, not enough to draw a connection by itself. 

But it is the demeanour. The poise. The look in her eye as if he is no threat at all. As if his centuries of life spent in the dedication of advancing his Magic means nothing!

It is unmistakable. His worst nightmare made manifest.

Kierra Kalashnikova lives.

A roar leaves Sevete's throat, born of rage and fear and the uncompromising refusal to meekly accept his fate as he points his staff with both hands in her direction. All of his mana, all of the Souls he has spent so long collecting. He puts all of it into his Spell, burning every resource available to overpower it as much as he is able.

"Die!! You vile wretch!!!" He screams his refusal to the world, cursing the being before him for daring to live.

Yet, his actions do not cause the Hero before him to waver or doubt.

No.

She smiles. As if approving of his desperate effort. The thought alone infuriates him beyond reason.

Yet still, a flash of dark green, almost black tainted with sickness leaves his staff, travelling forward with such speed that it may as well have been instant.

Sevete is almost surprised when the attack actually lands. Slamming into her chest and immediately absorbing itself into her being.

A disbelieving sense of accomplishment almost begins to well up within his chest before he notices something wrong.

"W-why?" He can only ask, seeing his foe standing there, completely unharmed and unbothered, as if the exhaustion he now feels meant nothing. As if the total culmination of his power, rising to such heights as to approach that fabled boarder of Cataclysm was for nothing!! "Why do you still live!?!"

His foe lets out a slight sigh, as if disappointed in the question.

"You hit me with an instant death Spell, idiot," she explains, as if that is an answer to anything. That Spell, overpowered as it was, should have killed anything. Everything. Nothing, not even the Heroes should have been able to survive it!

So how!!

Why!?!

As if reading his thoughts, his foe leans forward, pulling his staff from his weakened, unresisting grip and whispers the answer to him.

"I died long before you were born, Sevete the Coward."

One final burst of strength fills Sevete's bones as he rushes forward, a denial on his lips as he reaches for the Hero's neck.

His hands stop an inch away from her skin, hitting an immovable barrier, and he can only feel disgust at the Spell in his hands. A defensive Spell designed specifically for close-quarters combat. A Spell no self respecting Mage should ever bother to learn, for a Mage shouldn't even be in close-quarters in the first place.

With baleful eyes, Sevete glares deep into her eyes as he all but spits his words out.

"You are a disgrace to Magic," he accuses, but she just allows her smile to turn sardonic, even as she gently lays a palm on his chest. An action he knows deep in his Soul to be his end.

"Boy," she begins, her voice low but full of power, "I am Magic."

///

Kette/Kierra Kalashnikova

///

Watching the overambitious [Wraith] dissolve into colourful flower petals, Kierra doesn't find herself feeling much of anything.

Sevete, even with his improvements over the century, just wasn't enough of a challenge to really be fun to fight. But he was at least enough of a reason for her to cast some fun Spells, so she can't say that she's upset.

Especially with the wonderful gift he has left her.

Now that is a reason to be happy, Kierra thinks to herself as she observes the staff in her hand, brimming with power and all but whispering to her that she use it to bring about death and destruction.

It feels good. Holding it. Like the staff can recognise her and is itself happy to be in her hands once more.

Rising back to her feet, Kierra turns and eyes her student.

[Advanced Luck Glow] truly is something else, she thinks to herself, looking back down at the staff in her hand.

Sevete was the weakest of Vincent's Generals. By a long-shot, he was kind of like a joke character. One that would show up a lot, throw around a bunch of ads and then disappear. Hence the Coward.

But this Sevete was quite a bit stronger than she remembers, and the reason for that is clear enough.

It would be more difficult not to grow stronger when one wields the Legacy of not one but three Cataclysms.

The [Staff of the Lich King].

One of the mot powerful pieces of Legacy equipment in the game, for all that it does not look impressive at all nor inspire awe. First wielded by Menethas, then by Kierra during the open beta, and then again by Vincent, her one-time apprentice.

For such a thing to fall into her hands so easily is truly a miracle.

Her eyes find Flamelle's again, and her smile turns wry.

Destiny really wants to turn you into a Lich, huh?

Ah well. Fate cannot pull something from nothing. The odds that there is another General of Vincent's or incredibly powerful necrotic artifacts that will be lying around close enough to their future path is incredibly low.

I wonder what path Destiny will take for you when all options for Lichdom fail?

It's an interesting thought, and one that she will likely find an answer to soon enough.

Shrugging the thought away, Kierra drops the staff in her inventory right next to Ner'char's sword and simply [Blinks] back and walks the rest of the distance to Flamelle.

The silent, wide-eyed awe of the gathered crowd is summarily ignored as Kierra simply pats Flamelle on the head.

"Good job. This is a bit early for you though."

Flamelle blinks. "Wuh? Good— I didn't— What?"

Kierra turns from Flamelle's cute fluster at the approach of Jorick, raising a single brow in his direction.

"Are you some kind of Dragon Royalty or something?" He ask, looking down at her with squinted eyes of suspicion. Though, for all that he acts, it is not lost to Kierra that her power has rattled him. The same is even more evident in the rest. 

Understandable, when the power displayed is so far beyond their comprehension. The unknown is the most terrifying thing for most, after all.

All except Flamelle, who does not seem to fear her in the slightest. 

That fact makes her smile just a tad more genuine.

"No, and I suggest you don't let any Royal Dragons hear you say that." Kierra turns away from Jorick without waiting for a response, facing instead the floating rail, held up by her [Telekinesis].

With a casual gesture, the rail floats back down and onto its rails. She doesn't bother fixing any of the damage. It should still function, and she isn't doing government work for free.

"That's it?" Jorick asks her, garnering her attention once more. "Just destroy the Undead army and then get back on the rail and go about your day?"

"Yes?" 

"Heh, you Dragons really are scary~. Well whatever, not my problem."

With a careless shrug, Jorick turns to the gathered crowd and starts organising them back onto the rail. She leaves him to it.

It doesn't escape Kierra's notice that the Luxury Suite is the only carriage locked closed, nor does it escape her the presences she can feel inside.

Clearly, the Noble and his lot locked themselves inside and hid, but she doesn't really want to deal with them again anyway, so Kierra just leads Flamelle to the first class seating instead.

It takes some time before the rail starts moving again, and longer still for Flamelle finish processing everything enough to manage speech. Understandable, really. How exactly is one supposed to react when a seemingly impossible foe is brushed away with such anticlimactic ease?

"W-what," Flamelle begins, swallowing and turning away from the passing scenery through the window to meet Kierra's eyes. "I mean– How? How did such a large force of Undead gather without anyone knowing anything? And how did you beat them so easily? How strong are you?"

"The staff," Kierra answers with a shrug. "It is a powerful artifact and likely the sole reason Sevete could have accomplished anything. And Aerion could have bested that army just as easily."

Well, maybe not just as easily, but she doubts he would break a sweat.

"So you're as strong as Archmage Aerion?" Flamelle whispers, her tone full of shock.

Kierra doesn't answer that with anything more than a coy smile.

Turning away from her student who is still processing, Kierra lays an elbow on the window beside her and rests her chin in an open palm, simply watching the scenery pass with a slight smile.

The fight, poor as it may have been, has gotten her in a mood, and now she is starting to feel excited about reaching home.

Though, she is going to have to deal with the staff in her inventory at some point. 

She knows what she wants to do with it, it's just awkward so she doesn't want to, even if she should.

A sigh leaves her at the thought.

Ah well. I'll cross that bridge when it collapses.

///

A/N: He~llo! Dear readers!

Okay, so that fight was anticlimactic, which was the point, but I don't feel like I properly made Sevete seem impressive enough for Kierra's ease of action to have been scary enough, idk.

Tbh, I was kind of thinking about this fic I read, and reccommend, called Tower of Adamant by Leanansidhe. Specifically, that fic does a really good job really imparting what it means to be invulnerable. From what I remember anyway, they did an excellent job showing what it means for Alexandria to be invincible, which i kinda what I was ging for here, but idk if I really got it.