The Extra's Rise-Chapter 151: Lich (5)

Magnus Gravemore was born in the Western Continent, a place known throughout the world for its unrelenting fog and necromantic heritage. There, on a bleak stretch of moorland, every town bore a graveyard larger than its marketplace, and the children played with harmless specters the way youngsters elsewhere might chase fireflies. Almost every soul in those parts possessed some degree of dark mana from birth, as natural to them as breathing. Young Magnus was no exception—he displayed his affinity early, reviving small creatures by accident when his emotions ran high, sending the neighbors muttering about how he would grow up to be either a fearsome mage or a notable cautionary tale.

In time, he found his path. Necromancy was both an art and a craft in the Western Continent, and each generation produced a handful of truly gifted individuals, those who rose beyond simply animating skeletons or binding disembodied spirits. Magnus Gravemore, thin and pale with a shock of black hair, threw himself into his studies like a man possessed. The deeper the knowledge grew, the more determined he became to master it. He learned under no fewer than seven renowned necromancy tutors, each passing on arcane secrets gleaned from centuries of trial and error. By the age of thirty, he had developed a reputation for meticulous craftsmanship, whether it be inscribing runes on a cadaver’s spine or forging complex magical links between a spirit and its chosen vessel.

Eventually, Gravemore reached Ascendant-rank. He did what few necromancers dared to do at his age: he created a Lich of his own, knitting together skeletal remains, forging the runic architecture of command, and implanting a bound spirit to animate the husk. In the Western Continent, accomplishing this feat before one’s hair turned white was a mark of distinct prestige. His Lich, stoic and obedient, was evidence of his skill. People whispered his name with equal parts admiration and wariness. For a time, he basked in that subtle glow of recognition.

Yet, despite his successes, Gravemore was always keenly aware that there existed a higher peak on the necromantic mountain: the creation of an Ancient Undead. This was no mere reanimated skeleton or typical Lich but a fully autonomous, sentient being—blessed or cursed with its own consciousness, yet still leashed to the will of its creator. It was the crown jewel of the necromantic arts, the wall that separated the highest echelons of necromancers from those who could only approximate true mastery.

Many tried and failed; a few ended in horrors too dark to name. Gravemore, for all his talent, repeatedly found himself halted at the threshold. He could raise formidable constructs, even monstrosities that terrified entire towns, but not the Ancient Undead. He sensed the barrier, invisible yet impenetrable: the so-called "Wall of Talent."

For years, he examined why he couldn’t push past that boundary. At first, he blamed insufficient knowledge, so he spent countless nights poring over forbidden scrolls in crypt libraries deep beneath the oldest cathedrals of the Western Continent. When theory failed, he turned to practice, endlessly experimenting with new runic combinations, exotic creatures’ bones, and bizarre incantations gleaned from half-rotten tomes. Still, each attempt ended in partial success or total collapse. The Ancient Undead remained elusive—always just out of his reach, like an echo he could hear but never trace to its source.

Though he despised giving up, Gravemore had to concede, eventually, that there were no more local resources he could exploit. Rumor said that Mythos Academy, the best Academy in the world, offered teaching positions to accomplished mages who sought to broaden their horizons. More importantly, it boasted a library containing volumes from every corner of the world. Intrigued by the possibility of deeper knowledge and new perspectives, Gravemore made the journey across the sea.

Arriving at Mythos Academy, Gravemore discovered a place alive with young talent: students brandishing spells of every element, from brilliant flames to illusions that twisted reality. He was welcomed as "Professor Gravemore," an expert of the dark arts, who would teach necromancy to those brave or foolhardy enough to dabble in it

Still, the Wall of Talent nagged at him. He instructed his students on the fundamentals: raising lesser undead, binding ghosts, forging minor constructs. He cautioned them against hubris, reminding them how easily necromancy could turn on its master. But privately, he continued his research, determined to find the key that would let him mold an Ancient Undead.

From the dozens of students who passed under his tutelage, only a few showed genuine promise. Among them was Jin Ashbluff, the young prince from the Western Continent. Jin’s father was the reigning King and Radiant-ranker, also considered the most talented necromancer in the history of the Western continent.

The boy possessed an effortless knack for weaving spells that other students struggled with for months. Gravemore was impressed, even proud in a distant sense, but also felt the sharp sting of envy. Would the student surpass the teacher before Gravemore even figured out what he himself was missing?

He wrestled with these concerns for some time, hiding them behind a stony demeanor. His lessons remained thorough, even stern, as though he believed that harsh discipline and thorough practice might spur someone—perhaps even himself—to achieve the impossible.

Then, one day, Arthur joined Professor Magnus Gravemore’s necromancy class. It was late into the semester—a time when most students had already established themselves. The course was intended to refine, not introduce, and Gravemore raised a brow when the headmaster approved a new entrant so far along. It wasn’t just any student either; Arthur Nightingale arrived with the odd distinction of possessing both light and dark mana affinities, a rarity in the necromantic arts.

Gravemore had seen many prodigies pass through his classroom, students brimming with talent for the forbidden and complex art of necromancy. Yet Arthur struck him differently. He lacked the raw, innate aura of dominance that his other student, Jin Ashbluff, exuded. At first glance, Arthur seemed a contradiction: light and dark mana, yes, but neither seemed to synergize naturally. Gravemore thought Arthur’s dark mana affinity came from his Gift rather than his natural core, and as such, it would always be second-rate compared to someone born with it. Still, the boy was diligent—attentive during lectures, always asking questions that demonstrated a hunger for understanding.

"Focus on one or two summons, Nightingale," Gravemore advised him after their first few lessons. "Your talent lies in versatility, but necromancy requires mastery, not breadth. It’s better to specialize in simpler creations than spread yourself too thin."

Arthur simply nodded at the time, his expression unreadable. Gravemore assumed that the boy would heed his advice, perhaps attempt a Skeletal Mage by the end of the year. Most students with his profile didn’t aim high in necromancy—it wasn’t their primary discipline.

But then Arthur approached him a few weeks later, his voice calm but firm. "I want to make a Lich for my end-of-year project."

Gravemore nearly dropped his pen. He had to take a moment to ensure he’d heard correctly. "A Lich?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "You want to create a Lich."

"Yes professor," Arthur replied.

"Nightingale, I hope you know what you are asking," Gravemore pinched the bridge of his nose, "A lich isn’t just another necromantic construct. It is the pinnacle of dark summoning, requiring a mastery you lack."

"I understand," Arthur said, unflinching. "But I still want to try. And I’ll do it."

Gravemore stared at him, half expecting a smirk or some sign of arrogance, but Arthur’s expression remained steady. The boy wasn’t boasting; he genuinely believed he could do it. Against his better judgment, Gravemore found himself nodding. "Very well. I’ll guide you. But understand this, Arthur—this is not a task for ambition alone. It requires precision, talent, and luck in equal measure. If you misstep even once, it will collapse."

Internally, Gravemore didn’t believe the boy would succeed. A Lich required perfection in theory, programming, and execution. Arthur wasn’t even an Integration-rank necromancer—he was a Silver-ranker with limited experience. Still, the boy’s determination intrigued him. He decided to humor the attempt, if only to teach Arthur a valuable lesson about overreaching one’s limits.

But then the unexpected began to happen.

Arthur worked tirelessly, pouring himself into the study of Lich theory. Gravemore watched as he mastered the foundational mana-programming lines that most students struggled with. The boy’s focus was singular, his progress rapid. Then, as if to silence every doubter, Arthur formed a Black Star—a feat that even seasoned necromancers couldn’t achieve without years of practice. Gravemore was stunned. He couldn’t recall another instance of a non-dedicated necromancer accomplishing such a thing.

Arthur didn’t stop there. He began gathering materials—impossibly high-quality ones. A Blood Wyvern Skeleton, an Arch Lich Skull, a Basilisk Heart. Each acquisition defied expectation, both in quality and Arthur’s sheer audacity. Slowly but surely, Gravemore’s doubts began to waver. By the time Arthur announced that he was ready to assemble the Lich, Gravemore realized he had underestimated him.

The day came, and Gravemore guided him to his personal lab, granting Arthur the privilege of assembling a Lich—a historical feat, even for an experienced necromancer. As Arthur began, Gravemore watched closely, expecting to intervene at the first sign of error. But Arthur moved with precision, weaving the mana threads to harmonize the Body, Soul, and Mind aspects.

Then something unexpected happened.

"Stay back, Professor," Arthur said, his voice subdued but not weak. "I’m about to try something... different."

Gravemore felt a spike of unease. "Arthur, we must adhere to the known principles. The Soul band must follow the sanctioned method. If you deviate—"

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"I know," Arthur replied, voice low. "But the Basilisk Heart is more than a mere power source. I can feel it resisting in ways the standard texts never accounted for." His gaze flicked to Gravemore, then back to the Heart. "Trust me, Professor, or stop me now."

Gravemore’s grip on his cane tightened. Everything in him screamed that meddling with the established process was a fool’s errand. He had witnessed countless students, each convinced they had a new angle, only to watch them fail catastrophically. Yet Arthur’s determination was unsettlingly convincing. The tension in the air crackled, as though fate itself were holding its breath.

"Arthur, I warn you—" Gravemore began, but it was too late.

In a single fluid motion, Arthur rearranged his mana threads, severing several lines of the incomplete Soul band. Gravemore almost lunged forward in protest. Changing the structure so abruptly? That was unthinkable! But the Basilisk Heart shuddered, flaring bright in alarm, as though it recognized the shift.

"Arthur!" Gravemore shouted, his voice echoing in the small lab. "You’ll destroy yourself and everything we’ve worked for!"

But Arthur pressed on. With a steadiness that made Gravemore’s heart pound, he channeled mana directly through the Heart’s golden veins, weaving new connections into the existing Body and Mind bands. The complexity of it staggered Gravemore. Each thread was braided with a dark mana current that pulsed in time with the Heart itself. It was as if Arthur were coaxing the Basilisk’s will rather than overpowering it—an approach entirely off-book, verging on heresy by every standard Gravemore knew.

A surge of energy erupted from the Basilisk Heart, the glow intensifying as if it were alive. Gravemore felt the air shift, a heavy pressure settling over the room. He stepped forward, ready to intervene, but Arthur raised a hand, his expression calm.

"I’ve got this," Arthur said, his voice steady.

Gravemore froze, torn between his instincts and the boy’s unshakable confidence. Arthur continued weaving the mana threads, his movements precise yet unorthodox. Gravemore could only watch as the impossible unfolded before his eyes.

When the final threads were in place, the room fell silent. The Lich, incomplete but undeniably alive, stood before them. Gravemore stared, his hands trembling. For the first time in his career, he felt something he thought he’d never experience.

Awe.