Chapter 468: William
“I’ve attached my shadow to Max’s back,” Marcel said calmly, though his voice was edged with tension. His eyes flicked between Drevon and Max, calculating every breath, every twitch. “If Drevon tries to sneak attack him again, I can swap Max’s position with my shadow instantly.”
“Good,” King Magnar muttered, folding his arms, his eyes locked onto the young man standing beside the Young Monarch. “But it’s not Drevon I’m worried about right now. It’s that kid.” He nodded slightly toward the blackhaired figure who had stepped forward to challenge Max. “I’ve heard so wild things about him.”
“What do you an?” Elarion asked, his brows furrowing. The usually unshakable Elf King was growing visibly tense.
“His na is William Mackie,” Magnar said, his voice low, grim, and heavy with implication. “He’s Drevon’s hidden student—raised and trained away from the eyes of the world. And his class… it’s one of the forbidden ones. He’s a Necromancer.”
“A Necromancer?!” Elarion and Marcel exclaid at once, their voices thick with disbelief. Even Aurelia and Kate—two of the most powerful leaders from the Valora Continent—visibly stiffened.
Necromancers weren’t just rare. They were feared. Reviled. And outlawed in every corner of the world. To command the dead was to tamper with souls, with the laws of life and death. It wasn’t a class—it was a curse.
And now one stood beneath the Young Monarch’s banner, ready to battle Max.
There were countless types of classes that existed in the world—each one shaping the destiny of its wielder.
So were Divine, said to be blessed directly by the gods, radiating light and virtue, ant to guide and protect. Others, however, were cursed—taboo classes whispered about in fear, feared not because of their abilities alone, but because of what history had carved into their na.
Among those forbidden paths stood one class above all in dread and darkness: the Necromancer. A class not granted by any god, but born of the twisted edge between life and death itself.
Though it was always said that a class was rely a tool—and that how it was used depended on the heart of the user—Necromancer had never carried a good legacy. History did not offer even a single clean tale tied to it.
There was once a ti, not too long ago, when a young prodigy in the Middle Domain awakened the Necromancer class. By all accounts, he was a good kid—bright, kind, and full of promise.
At first, he used his powers only for healing the wounded through reanimation techniques, preserving the souls of the dying, and studying the laws of life with curiosity.
But as his power grew, so did his ambition. What began as small experints turned into twisted rituals. What was once research beca domination.
And before the world realized what was happening, he was raising the dead en masse, forming legions of lifeless soldiers to bend the continent to his will. He dread of turning the entire Middle Domain into a land of the dead, a necrotic kingdom where he reigned as its eternal king.
He would have succeeded too—if not for the hand of help from the Four God Nation. The land still hadn’t fully healed from the horrors he left behind. His na was erased, his grave sealed in sanctified fla, and from that day forward, Necromancer was not just forbidden—it beca a curse that no nation dared tolerate.
And while the Lower Domain had never borne witness to the rise of a Necromancer before, every ruler, every elder, every seasoned expert had heard the legend. The whispered nightmare of what could happen if a Necromancer class was born again.
“When I first heard the rumor about a child awakening the Necromancer class,” King Magnar said with a heavy sigh, his voice laced with frustration and regret, “I imdiately dispatched my best n to find him. I didn’t hesitate. I knew what kind of threat that class represented—not just to a nation, but to the entire balance of the Lower Domain itself.”
His eyes darkened as he spoke, the mory clearly weighing on him. “But it was like he vanished into thin air. No trace. No footprint. Like he never even existed. It’s just… I got the news too late.”
He turned his gaze toward the sky where the blackhaired youth, William Mackie, hovered beside Drevon, his presence now heavy with purpose and silence. “By the ti we pieced it all together, it was already too late. He was under the eyes of the Monarch. Hidden. Trained. Grood.”
He paused for a mont, his jaw tight, and then added, “I just hope… Max can kill him. But it won’t be easy. In fact, this might be Max’s hardest battle yet. William isn’t just strong—he’s dangerous in a way we’ve never seen before. He carries a class that defies nature, bends death itself, and twists the rules of life to his will.”
Elarion stood beside him, his face grim as he nodded slowly. “Let’s hope he does kill him,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Because if he doesn’t… the world might soon rember why Necromancers were erased from history.”
***
“Before I fight, I just want to say this,” William said, his voice cool and sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. He stood tall, the clouds behind him swirling ominously as if they sensed what was coming. His eyes locked onto Max with a hatred so deep it bordered on obsession.
“I loathe you from the bottom of my heart, Max Morgan. There has not been a single day—not one—where I didn’t dream of killing you. Ever since the day they called you the number one genius of the Valora Continent, of the entire Lower Domain… that should’ve been my title. Mine!”
He stepped forward slightly, his presence intensifying as tendrils of deathly energy began to curl around his feet like mist from a graveyard. “Only I, William Mackie, deserve that title. Only I am worthy to stand at the peak.”
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