The cold air grew heavier as Vartos and the five dwarves descended deeper into the mountains, following a path known only to the ancient kin of stone. Torf led the way, his keen eyes sharp despite the gloom. Behind him, the rest of the dwarves moved silently, their faces set with determination, while Vartos brought up the rear, his senses on edge. They were approaching the catacombs again—though this time, the stakes were far greater.
As the entrance loomed before them, Vartos' heart pounded with a grim foreboding. The same dark energy he had felt before still lingered, if not stronger than before. The shadows seemed alive, watching, waiting. The catacombs beckoned like the mouth of an abyss, its promise of death inescapable.
Torf glanced at Vartos as they paused at the threshold. "Once we step in, there's no turning back," he said solemnly. "We've made our choice."
Vartos nodded. "Let's finish this."
The moment they crossed into the catacombs, a familiar chill crept into Vartos' bones. He could see the same unease reflected in the dwarves' eyes. The walls, carved with ancient symbols, seemed to pulse with a dark energy. The whispers returned, faint at first, but growing louder as they ventured deeper into the maze-like corridors.
"We're not alone," Dink muttered, gripping his axe tighter.
"Never are in places like this," Kob added, his humor missing for once.
As they pressed forward, the air grew thick with the scent of rot and death. The oppressive darkness seemed to close in around them, and the whispers grew louder, filling their minds with dread. Vartos' pulse quickened, but he steeled himself, pushing the fear aside.
They came to a wide chamber, the air inside heavy with the scent of decay. Torf raised a hand, signaling them to halt. In the center of the chamber was a stone pedestal, and atop it sat a strange artifact—an obsidian blade, glowing faintly with an eerie, sickly light.
"That's it," Gund said softly. "The Blade of Shadows."
But before anyone could move, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. The shadows on the walls stirred, coalescing into dark forms with glowing eyes. Vartos recognized the creatures immediately—they were the same horrors he had fought before, but this time there were many more.
"We've been lured here," Vartos said through gritted teeth. "It was a trap from the start."
The dwarves readied their weapons as the shadowy figures closed in, their whispers now a cacophony of voices. Vartos gripped his sword, his mind racing. They had no choice but to fight.
The battle erupted in an instant. The creatures lunged at them, their claws slicing through the air with terrifying speed. Vartos met them head-on, his sword flashing as he cut through the first wave. The dwarves fought beside him, their axes and hammers landing heavy blows. But for every shadow they felled, more took its place.
Vartos felt the pull of the catacombs once more, the very air sapping his strength. His limbs grew heavy, and the coldness within him deepened. The dwarves were being overwhelmed, and for the first time, Vartos felt true fear—not for himself, but for his comrades.
Tob, always quiet and strong, fell first. A shadow creature pierced his chest with claws of darkness, his body collapsing in a heap. Gund was next, struck from behind as he tried to protect Tob's fallen form. One by one, the dwarves were cut down, their battle cries fading into the whispers of the catacombs.
Torf, the last of the dwarves still standing, let out a roar of defiance as he swung his hammer, but the shadows swarmed him. Vartos could only watch, helpless, as his friend fell, his body disappearing beneath the mass of dark forms.
Desperation gripped Vartos as he fought on, but the shadows were relentless. Blood dripped from wounds he hadn't even realized he'd taken, his vision blurring from the exhaustion. His strength was failing.
And then, the killing blow came.
A shadow struck him from behind, its claws piercing his back and chest. He gasped, blood spilling from his lips as his legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees, the darkness closing in around him. The whispers grew deafening, the chill of death creeping into every part of him.
He was dying.
But as his vision dimmed, something stirred within the catacombs. A presence—ancient, powerful, and terrifying—filled the chamber, silencing the whispers. The shadows stopped their assault, retreating into the darkness as if commanded.
And then, in the oppressive silence, a voice unlike any Vartos had heard before spoke.
"Rise, Vartos."
He tried to open his eyes, but his body was failing. Blood dripped from his wounds, and the pain was unbearable. Yet, something pulled at him, forcing him back from the brink of death.
"You have been chosen," the voice continued, cold and ethereal. "The time has come for you to fulfill your destiny."
Vartos' breath caught in his throat. He knew what this was. The Celestial of Death.
A figure appeared before him, cloaked in shadows, its face hidden beneath a hood. It radiated an aura of death and decay, yet it was not malevolent. It simply was—a force of nature, inevitable and eternal.
"You fought well, blood hunter," the Celestial said. "But now you shall become something more."
Vartos felt the darkness around him shift, not as an enemy, but as something that welcomed him, beckoned him. The pain in his body faded, replaced by a strange cold calmness. His wounds no longer bled. The shadows no longer frightened him.
"You will be my vessel, Vartos," the Celestial continued, its voice like a whisper of wind through a graveyard. "You shall be the Demigod of Death, my hand in the mortal realm."
Vartos, now hovering on the edge of life and death, met the Celestial's gaze—or where its eyes would have been beneath the hood. He understood. This was his fate. The catacombs had claimed him, but in doing so, had also reborn him.
"I accept," Vartos whispered, his voice barely audible.
The Celestial extended a hand, and as it touched him, the transformation began. Darkness swirled around Vartos, his form fading into the shadows. His heart no longer beat as it once had, his soul no longer mortal.
He was Death's chosen.
The catacombs fell silent, and Vartos rose from the ground, his wounds gone, his body now infused with the power of the Celestial. The dwarves' bodies lay around him, fallen but not forgotten. He would carry their memory with him as he walked the path of Death.
The Demigod of Death had risen.
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