The sand man froze mid-step, his towering, shifting body of swirling grit and dust halting as if the very air had thickened into stone.

His hollow eyes flared with a deep golden hue, pulsing with the rhythm of his heightened awareness.

"Did it really die in my eyes?"

He felt it again—that sharp, bone-deep sensation that ripped through his consciousness like a severed nerve.

One of his reanimation servants had fallen. AGAIN!

The connection to it, an invisible thread tied to his own soul, snapped violently, leaving a strange hollowness in his chest.

He straightened slowly, grains of sand trickling down from his shoulders like a waterfall as he focused.

The entire apartment seemed to grow quieter, the distant hum of the city replaced by the pounding rhythm of his ancient heartbeat echoing in the dark corridors of his mind.

Then, another thread snapped.

A second reanimation servant gone.

The sand man's mind reeled.

He knew his servants, born from the corpses of the robber-sorcerers, were not the strongest—he hadn't had the time to prepare them as true vessels, to engrave his full curse scripts upon their souls.

But even in this weakened state, under his command and infused with his power, they were far beyond the mortal trash they once were.

They were tools of fear, soldiers of the grave, capable of shrugging off blows that would cripple an average curse sorcerer.

To have them slaughtered so quickly… so cleanly…

Another jolt. Another thread snapped.

His golden eyes widened, grains of sand spilling from his form as his body trembled with a mixture of rage and disbelief. No… this… this is impossible… He had ruled an age defined by death and rebirth, a time where his control over the reanimated dead was absolute, feared across continents.

He had been worshipped, not merely as a warrior, but as a Pharaoh—one who could command legions from the underworld. And now, in this so-called Era of Prophecy, his first foray into battle was ending with his underlings being hunted like vermin.

"Who…" he growled, his voice a resonant rumble that shook dust from the ceiling. "Who dares?"

As if in response, the apartment answered him.

A voice, ethereal and haunting, rippled through the hollow halls and cracked walls, not from any one direction but from everywhere. It was distorted, layered, like the chorus of the dead whispering and screaming all at once.

"Name…" the voice intoned, deep and resonant.

The sand man's eyes darted across the ruined apartment. "What trick is this?" he demanded, his tone booming, commanding. "I am the Pharaoh of the Reanimation Era! I bow to no one!"

"I said, 'Name! Don't make me repeat my words! Come on, please take me out!' Plus don't worry, or else. Hmm?

The demand was firmer this time, burrowing into his mind, dragging at his thoughts.

The sand man let out a deep, guttural snarl, but he answered with pride swelling in his chest. "I am Kharezzet! Last Pharaoh of the Reanimation Era, supreme commander of the sands and master of the dead!" His voice carried through the apartment like thunder, each word reverberating off cracked tiles and shattered glass.

"Occupation…" the voice murmured next, echoing like a bureaucratic spirit from the underworld, its tone maddeningly calm against his fury.

"Occupation? Your job? Don't tell you all doing his en fkx " Kharezzet bellowed, incredulous. "I conquered kingdoms! I razed cities to dust! I commanded rivers of blood to flow through the deserts! My occupation is ruler, destroyer, and eternal king of the damned!"

"Hobbies…" the voice continued, mercilessly neutral, almost mocking.

The sand man faltered for a split second, his form flickering with confusion before rage reasserted itself. "Hobbies!? I— I brought death to those unworthy of life! I collected the skulls of my enemies and carved my victories into the bones of kings! My hobby was to decide who lives and dies beneath the sun!"

The voice seemed to hum in acknowledgment, then repeated the word softly, "Hobbies… Again, don't make me repeat myself or I'll bury you al al." as if tasting his memories.

Kharezzet's roars shook the apartment. Dust poured from the ceiling in thin streams, coating the bodies of the slain robbers. His booming voice rolled through the hollow hallways like the wrath of a storm god. "You dare toy with me?! I am the Pharaoh! I am reborn for conquest, and I will not be mocked by whispers!"

He extended his arms, sand spilling from his sleeves like waterfalls, and barked a new command to the remaining corpses strewn across the floor. His voice was sharp, a lash of authority that had once commanded thousands:

"RISE! MY SERVANTS! RISE AND SERVEN ME!"

The bodies jerked violently. Bones cracked, flesh twisted, and black curse lines etched themselves across their pallid skin as Kharezzet's sand coiled into their mouths and eyes.

They rose, staggering but animated, their bandaged forms regenerating as he reforged his servants anew.

"FIND THE ONE WHO DARES TO ACT LIKE THIS IN MY VERY PRESENCE!" he roared, each word trembling with fury.

"MAKE SURE YOU HAND HIS HEAD OVER TO ME TOO!" His voice carried down every hall, and the newly reanimated corpses lurched forward, scraping weapons and dragging their decayed feet.

Every sound was loud: the wet slap of feet on tile, the metallic screech of swords against the floor, the rasp of bandages tearing against splintered furniture.

The air grew heavy with the mingled stench of dust and rotting blood.

"Search every room! Crawl through the walls if you must!" Kharezzet's commands shook the building. "Bring me the head of the insolent fool! I will crush him, I will grind his bones into sand, I will take his very solid and I will take—"

Then, mid-roar, his words choked in his throat.

Another thread snapped.

Then another.

Then another.

The echo of each death reverberated through his soul, a void opening wider with each lost servant.

It was like being stabbed repeatedly in the heart—not from pain, but from the raw insult to his authority.

One by one, his freshly risen soldiers were extinguished almost instantly, erased from his dominion before they could even stagger to the end of the hall.

The sand man's chest heaved. He could feel it, each absence, each servant murdered in cold efficiency. This wasn't luck. This was a predator. A hunter.

For a long, terrible moment, Kharezzet was silent. His hulking form seemed to shrink as the reality of his loss pressed down on him.

His Reanimation Era techniques, feared for centuries, his soldiers—so many times the tool of his terror—were being plucked away like brittle leaves in a storm.

Yet, as the last thread of connection snapped, something strange happened.

Kharezzet… smiled.

It was slow, deliberate, an expression carved into his shifting sand like a hieroglyph of madness. His golden eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "So… there is someone in this era worthy of my rebirth," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that shook the dead air. "Good. GOOD. Finally… a challenge. I hope this time, this one, right here, right now, was promising and wasn't a disappointment."

The apartment seemed to darken as his aura swelled with renewed hunger.