Riven left the Sanctum of the Abyss, his mind turning over Nyx's words. A key. A threshold. A risk. He didn't like unknowns, not when it ca to abyssal magic. He would give Nyx ti to study the runes, but that didn't an he would sit idle.
There were other things he needed to test.
His footsteps carried him back through the winding halls of the Necromancy Temple, past murmuring students and scholars, until he reached the Hall of Mastery. The air here thrumd with structured power, a stark contrast to the untad abyssal force in the Sanctum.
Inside, the elite necromancers were honing their craft. So practiced soul-binding, weaving spirits into enchanted armor and weapons. Others shaped abyssal constructs, fine-tuning their control over pure energy. And a few—those with the most refined mastery—were performing spectral forging.
That was what caught Riven's eye.
At the far end of the chamber, a necromancer stood before a summoning circle, hands outstretched. The runes beneath him pulsed as he focused, his mana latching onto the lingering remnants of the dead. A faint wail echoed through the room as a spirit—half-ford and writhing—was dragged from the abyss.
Riven watched as the necromancer forced the ghoul-like entity into submission. The spirit screeched, its form flickering as its will was crushed beneath the weight of the caster's mana. Then, the true forging began.
The necromancer's hands twisted, manipulating the wraith's essence like molten tal. The spirit's body stretched, condensed, and sharpened—its formless shape molded into the form of a blade. A translucent edge glead in the dim torchlight, humming with bound spectral energy.
It was a weapon crafted from the very soul of the dead.
Riven's gaze flickered. Interesting.
This wasn't re mana manipulation. This was dominion over the dead, binding them to a singular, permanent purpose. It required absolute control, an iron grip over not just abyssal energy, but the will of the spirit itself.
His lips curled slightly.
Without a word, Riven moved to an empty summoning circle.
Nyx stirred in his shadow. "Now this I want to see."
He ignored her, stepping into the rune-inscribed ring. The technique was clear: summon, subjugate, forge.
He stretched out his hand, letting his abyssal mana seep into the runes.
A pulse.
The air grew cold.
Then—a wail.
The shadows around him trembled as a ghastly form materialized before him. The wraith shuddered violently, its form flickering between a humanoid outline and an amorphous swirl of mist. Its hollow eyes locked onto him, seething with mindless hunger.
Riven clenched his fingers.
The wraith lunged.
But Riven was faster.
His shadows lashed forward, wrapping around the spirit's form like chains. The ghoul screeched, thrashing wildly as his grip tightened.
It fought him.
Most necromancers eased spirits into submission, breaking them over ti. But Riven? He crushed them.
His mana poured into the wraith, overpowering its will in an instant. The specter writhed, its movents growing sluggish as his abyssal energy devoured its defiance.
Then, he began the forging.
Riven's focus sharpened. The spirit's body twisted, shifting beneath his command. It resisted at first, but his grip never faltered. He pulled, reshaped, and refined—stretching its essence into the form of a blade.
It was like bending steel with his mind.
The wraith shrieked, its formless body stretching into sothing tangible.
His breath ca slow and steady, his concentration absolute. Unlike shaping raw mana, this required more than control. It required unyielding dominance over the spirit's existence.
His fingers curled.
The weapon solidified.
A spectral greatsword hovered in his grasp, its form shimring between material and ethereal. The edges glowed faintly, wisps of lingering soul-energy twisting around it like fading embers.
It wasn't just a weapon.
It was a bound soul, shackled into permanence.
Riven exhaled, flexing his fingers around the hilt.
It wasn't perfect.
The shape was stable, but he could feel the lingering remnants of resistance within the blade. The spirit hadn't been fully broken yet—it still retained fragnts of its past defiance.
That wouldn't do.
With a flick of his mana, he poured abyssal energy into the weapon.
A final, strangled wail rang out—and then silence.
The greatsword stopped flickering.
It was no longer just a struggling spirit, forced into the shape of a weapon.
It was a perfect blade.
A pulse of abyssal resonance rippled through the room.
A few necromancers turned, sensing the shift in energy.
Riven lifted the weapon, turning it over in his hands. It was light, far lighter than a weapon of its size should have been, yet he could feel the sheer lethality radiating from its edge.
Nyx's voice curled through his mind, laced with quiet amusent.
"Not bad for your first attempt," she mused. "But I could do it better."
He scoffed quietly, rolling his wrist to test the balance.
Before he could analyze further, a voice cut through the air.
"You did that just now?"
Riven turned.
Kieran stood a few feet away, arms crossed. Unlike before, there was no arrogance in his posture—only curiosity, and maybe a hint of sothing deeper.
Riven didn't answer imdiately. Instead, he swung the blade downward—and it sliced effortlessly through the stone training floor, carving a deep, smooth line.
The necromancers watching stiffened.
Finally, he looked at Kieran.
"I did."
Kieran's gaze flickered between Riven and the newly forged weapon. "Most of us take months to subjugate a spirit into a proper weapon."
Riven gave a small chuckle, "I seem to have a natural talent for necromancy."
Kieran exhaled through his nose, studying the spectral greatsword with wary interest. He took a step closer, his sharp gaze tracing the edges of the blade.
"This is beyond just talent," he muttered. "The forging, the stability—it's as if the spirit was never separate to begin with."
Riven tilted his head slightly, amusent flickering in his blue eyes. "I just never gave it a choice to begin with."
Kieran's expression flickered, but he said nothing. Around them, a few of the other necromancers had taken notice, whispering amongst themselves. Spectral forging was an advanced technique, sothing only the most disciplined could master after rigorous practice. Yet Riven had done it in a single attempt—and with a dominance that unsettled even the seasoned necromancers.
The blade still humd in his grasp, the abyssal energy within it perfectly tad. No lingering resistance. No echoes of the spirit that once was.
It was absolute.
He gave the greatsword a final once-over before dismissing it. The blade unraveled, its spectral essence dissolving into raw abyssal energy before vanishing entirely. The act was as effortless as if he had rely willed it out of existence.
Kieran exhaled, shaking his head. "If you plan to stay in the temple, you're going to unsettle a lot of people."
Riven gave a lazy shrug. "Then they should get used to it."
The necromancer studied him for a long mont before, to Riven's mild surprise, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Fair enough." Kieran turned away, his voice carrying a trace of sothing Riven hadn't expected—respect. "I look forward to seeing what you do next."
With that, he strode off, leaving the murmuring necromancers behind.
Riven watched him go, then flexed his fingers. The sensation of the forged weapon still lingered, the mory of its form imprinted on his mana. He could refine it, make it stronger. Next ti, he wouldn't just forge a weapon.
He would forge sothing far deadlier.
Nyx humd in agreent.
"You're learning fast," Nyx murmured, her voice laced with amusent. "It seems I should share a little secret about this technique."
Riven arched a brow. "Oh?"
"There's an old legend," she continued, her tone carrying the weight of sothing almost forgotten. "It's said that if a necromancer is strong enough, they can summon a spirit of imnse power—one unlike any ordinary wraith. And if they succeed in forging it into a weapon… its soul remains intact."
Riven's eyes sharpened. "And what does that an?"
Nyx's presence coiled tighter around him, her voice dropping into sothing almost conspiratorial.
"It ans the weapon wouldn't just be powerful," she whispered. "It would be alive. A force beyond anything forged by mortal hands."
"And how do you know this is true?" Riven scoffed, skepticism lacing his tone. "How do you know it isn't just another fabricated legend?"
Nyx's voice curled through his mind, smooth and self-assured.
"Because…" he could hear the smirk in her words, dripping with amusent. "I happen to own a weapon just like that."
—x—
Riven stood in the mausoleum beneath the Academy, the dim glow of torches casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with residual death energy, a quiet, lingering hum that most would find suffocating.
For Riven, it was familiar.
Nyx erged from his shadow, her form solidifying beside him. She stretched briefly, groaning as she rubbed her joints. "Gods I'm stiff from being stuffed in there all day."
Riven crossed his arms, watching her expectantly. "You said you have a weapon like the one in the legend. Show ."
Nyx sighed. "Impatient, as always."
She lifted her hand, abyssal energy swirling at her fingertips. Unlike the raw force Riven wielded, hers was different—refined, subtle, precise. Shadows coiled together, condensing into a solid form. A heartbeat later, a weapon materialized in her grasp.
A blade—sleek, obsidian-black, its edges rimd with a faint, ghostly blue light. It wasn't just forged from abyssal energy; it radiated sothing deeper, sothing sentient. The air around it crackled, charged with an unnatural presence.
And then—it spoke.
A voice, low and smooth, echoed through the chamber.
"You haven't summoned in quite so ti, Nyx."
Riven's eyes narrowed slightly as he examined the weapon. This wasn't an ordinary spectral blade. The essence within it wasn't just bound—it was aware.
Nyx twirled the sword lazily between her fingers, her expression relaxed. "Did you miss ?" she teased.
A chuckle, quiet but amused, resonated from the blade itself. "As much as one can miss their captor."
Riven's interest sharpened. "It has a will of its own."
Nyx's obsidian eyes flickered toward him, a knowing gleam in them. "Not just a will. A soul."
She lifted the blade slightly, letting the spectral energy shimr along its edge. "This isn't just a weapon, Riven. It was once a powerful spirit, an entity too strong to be fully erased. Instead of consuming it, I forged it into sothing… better."
The voice from the blade spoke again, a wry amusent lacing its tone. "Better is a matter of perspective."
Riven studied the weapon, feeling the subtle, pulsing life within it. Most necromancers broke spirits entirely, molding them into servitude. But this… this was sothing else. The soul inside hadn't been shattered—it had been reshaped, bound in a way that allowed it to persist.
"Does it have a na?" he asked.
Nyx smirked. "You can ask it yourself."
Riven turned his gaze to the weapon, his dark mana subtly reaching out, testing the nature of its bond.
The voice humd, as if sensing his scrutiny. "I was called many things in life, but now… I am Erebus."
A fitting na.
Riven's fingers twitched slightly. This was a path he hadn't considered before. Spirits were usually tools, subjugated forces bent to a necromancer's will. But what if they could be more? What if, instead of breaking them completely, he refined them into sothing greater?
Nyx watched his expression carefully, then tilted her head. "Now do you understand? The legend isn't just a myth. If you're strong enough—if your control is absolute—you can create sothing like this."
Riven's mind turned over the possibilities.
This wasn't just about forging spectral weapons.
This was about wielding sothing with true consciousness, a bound soul that retained its power, its instincts, its knowledge.
And if a weapon like that could be forged…
His gaze flickered to Nyx. "I assu you're not just showing this to brag."
Nyx smirked. "Hardly. I'm showing you because I believe you could forge one yourself." She twirled Erebus effortlessly in her grip before letting it dissolve back into the shadows. "But don't get ahead of yourself." Her obsidian eyes glead. "Even I can't maintain the blade for long without draining my mana dry. If you want to wield sothing like this, you'll need to beco much stronger."
"You can't wield it for long?" Riven asked, his brows furrowing.
"Before the fall of the Shadow Kingdom, I could wield this blade effortlessly," Nyx murmured, her fingers tracing the air where Erebus had vanished. "But since returning from the Abyss, I've been trying to restore my mana heart." She exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "It's taking far longer than I'd like."
Silence stretched between them, the weight of her words settling in the dim mausoleum.
Then, Riven spoke, his voice asured. "Nyx… what circle are you at?"
She blinked, tilting her head slightly, as if the question hadn't even occurred to her. Then, with a small, amused smirk, she answered.
"Seventh."
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