CHAPTER 159: RESURRECTION

In the heart of the enemy’s domain lay a chamber steeped in silence, its stillness broken only by the faint hiss of oil lamps hung along the stone walls.

Their dim glow threw long, flickering shadows across the ground, making the place resemble a graveyard carved out of darkness itself.

Twelve graves lined the floor in an ordered circle, each mound marked not with care or reverence but with power.

Around them were etched runes that pulsed faintly with a sickly light, their glow feeding into staffs planted firmly in the earth.

Atop those staffs rested skulls — cracked, yellowed things — and other ritual trinkets meant to bind the spirits of the fallen to this place.

This was the graveyard of Amon’s clan, the unholy anchor where their dead did not rest but instead clawed their way back to the world.

Here, death was less a conclusion and more a delay.

The soil stirred at one of the graves, a low vibration trembling through the chamber as the last of the goblins Eli had slain began its return.

The ritual was never swift; the stronger the fallen, the longer the tether pulled them back from the void.

Weak, low-born goblins could rise within minutes, their crude souls needing little to knit together.

Those of middling strength might take hours to re-form their bodies. But the powerful — the chosen, the marked — demanded nearly a full day before their essence was whole again.

But the pace of resurrection could shift depending on the strength of the graveyard itself.

There were six known tiers of such places, each more potent than the last, and this clan’s graveyard — the Bone Pits — stood at tier two.

It was crude by higher standards, yet still powerful enough to hasten the return of its fallen, binding them back into flesh even when death should have held them longer.

That was why several of the goblins Eli had slain had already clawed their way back to life, their bodies dragging themselves from the dirt despite the short time that had passed.

Yet one grave remained untouched, its silence deeper than the others.

The goblin within had not risen because his soul was far heavier, his essence weighted by strength, by rank, and by the curse of his title.

Ezekiel.

Ingrid, though chosen as well, had fallen before him and thus risen earlier. He had already staggered from this chamber to report to the chief, carrying word of Eli and the threat he posed.

But Ezekiel’s return was slower, dragged out by the sheer power that had once made him formidable.

Now the wait was ending.

From the last grave a ball of light swelled, bright enough to stain the walls with its glow.

The radiance thickened, shaping itself into limbs, bone, sinew, and skin, until a body took form upon the stone.

With a dull thud, Ezekiel fell to the ground, his chest heaving as breath returned to lungs that had been ash not long ago.

And then, with a ragged, heavy gasp, life tore its way back into him.

Ezekiel’s chest convulsed as he choked on air, coughing so violently his whole frame shuddered.

Even when the spasms subsided, he could not steady his breathing.

Each inhale felt too shallow, each exhale too jagged, as though his lungs had forgotten how to work.

His skull throbbed with a merciless ringing, the kind that drowned out thought, leaving only the sensation of pain.

Disorientation swamped him — the confusion of death clashing with the force of being pulled back into existence.

Resurrection was not the miracle imagined. It was brutal, jarring, the mind torn apart into fragments that had to be pressed back together, memory and sense reassembled piece by piece. The process left behind gaps, splinters, and agony.

He lay there for what felt like an eternity, writhing and gasping, until at last the pain dulled to something bearable.

Slowly, Ezekiel let his body go slack against the cold stone, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. When strength returned enough to push him upright, he forced himself onto unsteady feet.

His eyes darted around the chamber, still blurred at the edges, still trying to anchor themselves to reality.

Where am I?

The thought rang hollow in his mind, almost childlike in its confusion.

He lowered his gaze to his own hand, flexing the fingers slowly, and the sight froze him.

Why is my skin green?

Even lower, his eyes traced the length of his body — bare, exposed.

Why am I naked?

The realization struck like a slap, and for a moment panic welled in his chest, his breath coming quicker, harsher. But then, like shards of glass sliding back into place, memory began to return.

He clutched his head, pressing his palms against his temples as fragments of the past bled through the haze.

Piece by piece the story of his end surfaced. The clash. The pain. The final blow. Until at last his mind settled on the last image seared into him before death claimed him.

Eli.

His teeth ground together, the sound harsh in the quiet chamber, and rage boiled over as he bellowed, voice echoing against the walls. "That damn goblin!"

He lurched forward, desperate to move, but his body betrayed him.

His leg buckled, muscles too raw and unsteady to hold his weight, and he crashed to the ground with a grunt. Pain lanced up through his thigh, sharp enough to tear another hiss from his throat.

Still sprawled on the cold stone, he clawed for strength and shouted, his voice hoarse but urgent:

"Marcu... Marcus!"

Ezekiel’s voice rang out in the chamber, raw and hoarse.

He had called for Marcus, the clan’s main shaman. Amon was just one of many protégés who had died at the hands of other chosen or at the hands of Marcus himself.

By tradition, Marcus always carried a draught meant for the newly resurrected, a bitter potion that aided swift strength recovery and cleared the fog of a fractured mind.

Ezekiel wanted it, needed it, but the silence that followed his cry was telling.

Either Marcus wasn’t here... or he was within earshot and chose not to answer.

The latter would not surprise him.

Marcus was not the kind to rush to anyone’s aid.

He was despised by most of the clan, whispered about in fear rather than welcomed in trust. Cruel, sharp-tongued, and merciless with his power, he had made himself hated — yet the chief saw something in him, enough to call him a friend when no one else would. That strange bond set Marcus apart, a shadow that walked too close to authority for anyone’s comfort.

But now, sprawled and aching on the cold stone floor, Ezekiel knew the shaman would not be coming to ease his return. Marcus had no interest in dulling another’s pain.

With a curse pressed between clenched teeth, Ezekiel forced himself upright, his limbs trembling under the strain, every muscle rebelling against the weight of his own body.

Then, just as he steadied himself, the air shifted. It was subtle at first — a faint disturbance, a ripple he felt more than heard. He froze, breath caught in his throat, until the sound came again.

A footstep.

He assumed it must be Marcus and turned sharply, ready to curse him for his delay.

But what met his eyes stole the breath from his lungs.

It wasn’t Marcus.

It was the goblin who had killed him, Eli. And just behind him, a strange fox-like beast padded silently into the chamber, her presence marked by the eerie drift of blue flames that floated lazily around her body, casting ghostly light across the graves.

"You..." Ezekiel’s voice broke into a gasp of terror as he stumbled backward, his legs giving way until he landed hard on his back. The raw panic in his eyes betrayed the truth — resurrection had not returned his courage.

Eli stepped forward, his expression twisting into a wry smile, the kind that cut deeper than any blade.

Ezekiel’s body jolted with instinct.

He scrambled against the stone, hands clawing at the ground, dragging himself away as his voice cracked into a desperate cry:

"Marcus! Marcus!!"

His calls rang through the chamber, frantic and sharp, a plea for the shaman who might not even care to answer. In his state — weak, newly risen, and still unsteady — Ezekiel could do nothing else.

But Eli moved, pressing down with one brutal step, his boot slamming against Ezekiel’s throat, pinning him to the ground and cutting his plea short in an instant.

The cry choked off into silence, leaving only the echo of his panic hanging in the air.

Eli’s gaze then swept slowly across the chamber, taking in every detail — the ring of twelve graves, the runes carved into the stone, the staffs crowned with skulls, and the faint, pulsing light that bound it all together.

His lips curled into something halfway between wonder and disdain.

"So this is what a graveyard looks like, huh?" he murmured, his voice carrying easily in the heavy stillness.

Ezekiel’s breath came in ragged bursts beneath his boot, but he still managed to rasp, "What... what do you plan to do...?"

Eli drew his blade in one smooth motion, the steel catching the dim lamplight as he angled it downward. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the intent was carved plainly into every line of his expression. "What do you think?"

"NO!" Ezekiel’s eyes bulged with sudden clarity, the horror of realization dawning too late.

His body writhed weakly, pinned by the weight at his throat.

Eli leaned in closer, his tone low, almost casual, but edged with the promise of violence.

"I’m looking forward to destroying it."