“Just… take it, man—or… girl?—Why are you being so bashful?” Harkon sighed, pleading with both his hands. “It’s a gift from Myrkul himself! You’re an undead, right? You’re supposed to want this!”


    The orb hung between the decayed man and the entity. Frail didn’t know what gifts the orb would impart him, but he knew one thing for sure:


    This thing can’t be trusted.


    His doubts were justified—Frail was speaking to a walking corpse whose sanity he couldn’t determine. Myrkul, for all he knew, could simply be a product of Harkon’s imagination.


    Yet… he also understood the rift between their strength. This… man, or corpse, could dismantle all his efforts in seconds. Even after minutes of yapping, his skeletons remained in pure stasis. Caution was more than just warranted.


    “So… what do you say? I can be very persuasive… if I have to.” Harkon smiled. This one, however, the creases of his lips did not reach his bulbous eyes. “Make this easy for me. And relax, Myrkul loathes micromanaging his subjects. He’s more… what do you call it? Laissez-faire? Our god loves freedom.”


    A veiled threat; rejection here meant death.


    Both sides knew it. He had no choice. All this talk, the jests… They were nothing but small talk.


    Frail directed his attention to the dark orb. At least I get something out of it… but what exactly?


    [Myrkul’s gift - ???]


    Harkon grinned. “Go on. Drain it.” He wiggled the ends of his fingers. They moved too smoothly for his tastes.


    [Drain essence]


    Black inks spread from the orb to his entity crystal. Frail exulted in the delight; the surges of pure power and ecstasy blinded his mind.


    Darkness drowned his whole self—a reminder of his nonexistence before he became an Entity.


    Unknown, bone structures erupted on the dark horizon, forming a jagged series of structures, each less discernible than the last. A mountainous throne sat in the middle, occupied by a colossal skeleton larger than life itself. A golden crown rested on its head, adorned with diamonds and sapphires. Three-pronged tips protruded upwards, each holding a diamond on its end. Enameled on its front center was a skull.


    The giant skeleton''s joints sang when it held its hands together, singing the harmonious tune of death. Bones could not smile without muscles, but Frail somehow captured its expressions.


    “Another soul joins the legion.” A sonorous voice bellowed. “And not just any soul… An entity, too. A peculiar sight.”


    Frail drifted in nothingness, his mind fried from the sight. Incredulous would be an understatement.


    “Are you… afraid? Of your own God? Of your kind?”


    Myrkul.


    “I see you’ve met one of my chosen. Ah… that one, I see why you’re so… cautious. Pay him no mind.” The God rasped. “Your fate…” He leaned forward, “…is set in stone, I fear. A fate I can alter, shall I bargain correctly.”


    What fate?


    “Prove yourself worthy, Frail, and you may unshackle yourself from the chains of destiny. To do that… I shall impart one of my better blessings.”


    Service… What-


    The god raised one of His fingers, “My subjects are free. But I have one decree you must follow. You can do what you wish outside of this… command.” Myrkul detected Frail’s hesitation. “Kill the servants of life; Hecratia’s chosen. Raise them as your dead. Sully their bodies and Her name.” His voice rose to a fever pitch, undulating the foggy structures around him.


    Tense air filled the scene as Myrkul fell silent. “And… survive the tutorial, of course. You have no worth otherwise.”


    Chosen. A term used for those with blessings imparted by a God… if Frail had to guess its meaning.


    “Correct.” Myrkul, again, like Harkon, answered Frail’s thoughts. “Swear you will do that.”


    Like Harkon, his inquiry was no inquiry. Myrkul demanded his servitude.


    Frankly, his terms didn’t restrict Frail’s freedom outside of the Godly business. If He kept his word, then Frail wouldn’t mind the conditions set by this blessing. All he must do was deal with Hecratia’s chosen when they appeared… if they appeared at all.


    “They will come. Her subjects thrive on killing our kind.” Myrkul said. “-Her and I… this is the one thing we agree on: Slaughter—complete eradication. You will meet them sooner or later. Whether you accept my blessing or not… it matters naught. After all… You are an undead. An undead entity, no less.”Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Surely, those blessed would come with indescribable power compared to the goblins he had faced. If this God spoke nothing but truth, his blessing would be appreciated—no, essential, in some ways.


    Frail drifted amid Darkness before the presence of Myrkul.


    Yes.


    “Good.” He detected Myrkul’s smile, “Then… let me impart you with a blessing most suitable for your kind. Feed it essences, and I shall improve your blessing.”


    [Blessing granted by The God of Undeath; Myrkul.]


    [You gained a new trait!]


    [Trait: Undeath legion - Undead.]


    [Reduces all undead construct slot requirements by 1. This trait does not apply to constructs whose slot requirement is 1.]


    A trait. It didn’t come with fancy descriptors nor fanfare, but its effects rippled throughout Frail’s non-existent body.


    “We will meet again.” Myrkul’s voice faded as the darkness shrunk. “Do not fail me.”


    ###


    Harkon vanished when Frail returned. His constructs lingered in his pedestal room, their faces blank, their bodies facing the entrance, bracing for invaders. Only traces of rot permeated the room.


    A single stained letter lay on the surface. It carried Harkon’s stench.


    “<3- Harkon. P.S. Do explore the world outside. There are others. They may need your assistance. You know, power of friendship... and all.”


    What nonsense. The ordeal regarding the Gods hung fresh within Frail’s train of thought.


    Frail spied the outside. Red-tinted light bathed the forest, denoting the passing of day and the arrival of night. The once verdant trees glowed with orange, the barks of trees ruddying, their fingers casting dark, bony shadows on the brown soil beneath. He wished to venture—to see more, but his immobility denied such a plea.


    That will wait. The entity thought to itself. He hadn’t known what an entity meant, what it did, or its purposes. Survival preoccupied his focus, a touchstone from which he’d find his goals, but without the capacity for genuine emotions… what life would he have if he survived? Should he feel? Should he care? The longer he stayed awake, the heavier these questions weighed on him.


    First… upgrades. Defenses. Wishes can’t be fulfilled if I am dead.


    With the new trait, three more slots opened up in addition to the departure of his wanderers—totaling six. A balanced composition would be best: staunch warriors led by his Domain lord, deft archers with their acid arrows dealing with the stragglers.


    The dream of a Domain lord fabricator sailed so-ever closely out of reach. Five thousand essences would take him another raid to achieve—if he survived. There was no telling if the subsequent invasion would pose as little issue as today, and Frail loathed counting on luck. Not especially after the introduction of Myrkul and his demands. The chosen might visit him like Harkon, appearing out of nowhere, nipping his life in the bud before he blinked.


    Not that he could blink in the first place.


    Frail opened the construct fabricator menu and purchased the skeleton warrior schema.


    The chill of night encompassed the forest beyond the entrance, its cold seeping in, cladding the now warmer mining shaft with its frosty embrace. Leaves rustled. Heads peered through the bark of trees, their eyes glowing.


    Goblins weren’t the only things roaming outside.


    Perhaps he might find those with a similar fate. Other humans, perhaps?


    ### Humans ###


    “Arthur. Pleased to meet you.”


    A dozen or more men bustled beneath the shadow of the wooden palisades ahead of them, paying them no attention. Across Damon, a handsome man extended his arms, flashing an infectious smile. His blond hair breezed from the occasional rush of calm wind, his amber, almost golden eyes staring, searching.


    Damon found a stretch of open field housing a homely camp. Haven, they called it.


    Arthur’s golden eyes sparkled. No, burned described them better. An illusion—a product of Damon’s imagination, but the embers of his glare seemed so real. Too real. Yet, the leader himself didn’t hammer disbelief as much as the place they stood on.


    “Sorry for the abrupt entrance.” Damon reached out for a handshake. “Thanks for welcoming us.” Sarah and Agil watched their handshake with an optimistic caution.


    Optimistic caution? I’m delirious.


    “Don’t sweat it,” The handsome man grinned.


    Wooden palisades fenced the encampments filled with tents and campfires. A tall stone structure towered over them, serving as a beacon—the heart of their camp. Laughing people—folks of all shapes and colors were bountiful. Here, race and gender mattered naught. Beyond the southern walls, a mountain brooded over them, its shadow creasing one-half of Haven in its full glory.


    “We are going at 98 strong—if you choose to join, we’ll breach the 100 men milestone. Again.” Arthur continued. “There used to be more of us… but a few disagreements split us apart.”


    “If you don’t mind me asking-“ Damon coughed, “-How did you do this in a week? The buildings… the people… and… how organized everything is…”


    Arthur brushed his hair, “Met nice people on my first day here. Trustworthy people. They helped. Well, there’s also the matter of the system itself. You see that protruding slab of stone?” He paused, pointing at an obelisk-looking structure, “Looks like a long brick, if you ask me, but… once you access its features, feats like this become realistic.” Then he smiled, “Well, the whole thing was already built when we found it. There’s that too.”


    Damon sighed. “I see now.”


    “Putting that aside-” Arthur held his shoulder. Damon noted the strain in his eyes. “-you mentioned a goblin horde?”


    “Yeah.” Damon turned away from the mountain, “They came out of nowhere. Started killing us, one by one. We’re lucky we made it this far.”


    Arthur’s eyes dimmed. “So it is true. We heard traces of them a few days ago—footsteps, constant shrieks, distant shrills.” He let go of his hand. “We were too busy leveling up to check. Your story fits.”


    Damon wiped the sweat off his upper lip.


    “We best be ready. Get strong. Get levels. Get loot. Explore. All that.” Arthur directed them toward the beacon. “I must insist you stay. In grave times like these… it is best we group up. Touch that beacon and register; you’ll gain useful benefits-”


    “Benefits?” Sarah finally spoke. Damon couldn’t help but smirk. Always honest.


    Arthur’s eyes relaxed. “It’s not much… our beacon is at tier one. You get passive experience every day. Not bad, right?” Arthur’s grin didn’t last long. “I’ll be frank, you lot looked capable. We need all the strong hands we can get. Talk to Judas, he’s-” He flicked his fingers at a guy clad in a complete set of steel armor delegating tasks to others. A scar slashed his left eyebrow. His silhouette screamed the word intimidating. “-that one. He’ll help you out. Don’t mind his looks. He’s a good man.”


    Arthur tapped his back and left. Sarah sighed.


    “So… what do you think? Trustworthy?” Sarah flashed the haven another look. “Cozy place, I admit. Everything looks… safe. Orderly. Can’t help but think it looks too good to be true.”


    “Always the skeptic,” Agil grinned, resting his hands on his hips “I say we give this place a chance. It’s not like we have anywhere else to go; either we stay or deal with the… shit outside on our own.”


    Damon mulled things over again. Both his allies spoke their minds… and both were right. Things were too good to be true and they were out of choices.


    By staying, they could level with a place to call home… and others to count on. He refused to brave the horde alone in the future.


    He glanced at his old friends. They had aged years in the span of a week; wrinkles and dark circles under their eyes, a persistent frown that never seemed to wane—that was the level of stress they had to deal with on a daily basis.


    “I say… we stay.” Damon cracked his knuckles. “For once… I want the comfort of a bed.” He glanced at a nearby bed sack.


    Good enough.


    Sarah shrugged. “Then let’s register.”