“Stop what you’re doing,” Van Dijk’s voice commanded.
Ludwig’s skeletal frame immediately froze. His body, now a slave to the dark mage’s orders, was locked in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t act, except as dictated by the sorcerer’s whims.
“I’m sure I scanned your mind,” Van Dijk muttered, his voice low and thoughtful as he circled Ludwig. “You’re impossibly empty of thought and sentience.”
The dark mage seemed to be talking more to himself than to Ludwig as he continued pacing around the skeleton. His gloved hand rested under his chin, his eyes narrowing as though trying to solve some unseen puzzle.
“You see, for most undead, it’s hard to give them complex or meaningful orders before they reach a certain level of evolution,” Van Dijk continued. “For you, though… You’re at the very bottom of the chain. A skeleton grunt. Not a warrior, not an archer, not even one of the rare skeleton mages. You are the lowest of the low—something that shouldn’t even be considered a true soldier.
You’re nothing but a brittle test subject, barely fit for anything.”
He tapped Ludwig’s bleached bones, as if to emphasize how fragile the skeleton truly was.
“And yet,” Van Dijk mused, “with each evolution, an undead grows. Through battle, through endless killing, they evolve—gaining intelligence, strength, and eventually, autonomy. A skeleton swordsman might become elite, and further beyond that, they could earn a name. Rarer still are those who ascend to become Death Knights.
I’ve only witnessed such a transformation once or twice in my entire six-hundred-year existence.”
Van Dijk’s gaze turned sharper, more curious. “But you… you’re showing signs far beyond what should be possible. Traits akin to a Death Knight’s intelligence, and yet you’re barely at the first level. You’ve yet to make your first kill, haven’t even honed any of your abilities, and still—still—you follow my orders with a level of precision no grunt should possess.”
Ludwig’s nonexistent heart, or what might have been his spirit, pulsed with a sense of alarm. The more Van Dijk studied him, the more his curiosity turned dangerous. As the dark mage completed his fourth circle around Ludwig, his words carried an edge of frustration.
“What bothers me most isn’t your ability to understand me—it’s those two fools who botched your resurrection. They think themselves capable dark mages, but they ruined you before you could even develop into something of value. If they had waited, allowed you to grow as a hero, and then killed you… you might have become an elite. A Death Knight, even. But now?
Look at you—just a walking pile of bones who can barely clean a room.”
The words were casual, dismissive, but they carried a threat that chilled Ludwig’s soul. Van Dijk saw him as nothing more than a failed experiment—a wasted opportunity. And Ludwig knew too well how people like the Tower Master treated their failures. He wasn’t valuable; he wasn’t needed. The thought of being discarded—or worse—loomed over him like a dark cloud.
But Van Dijk wasn’t finished. His eyes glittered with malice, but also intrigue.
“It didn’t escape my notice,” Van Dijk said, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “You tried to mimic my spell earlier.”
Ludwig’s mind raced. He had thought he was subtle, that his attempt to replicate the dark mage’s magic had gone unnoticed, but clearly, nothing escaped the Tower Master’s gaze. His spirit trembled as though a phantom heartbeat had suddenly thudded in his chest.
“And it intrigues me,” Van Dijk continued, his gaze locking onto Ludwig’s empty sockets. “Don’t dodge.”
The Tower Master’s hand moved, and in an instant, the same black flame he had conjured before flickered to life. It swirled with deadly energy, hungry and wild. This time, the power behind it was palpable—raw and violent.
[You are in a hostile environment!]
[The Power of the Incoming Spell will destroy you and send you to eternal rest!]
[You cannot move!]
Ludwig’s entire being froze in terror. He wanted to move, wanted to dodge, but the binding magic that held him in thrall wouldn’t allow it. He was a slave to Van Dijk’s command, forced to stand there and watch as the deadly magic arced toward his temple. The black flames whistled through the air, knocking over several books as they cut a blazing path toward Ludwig’s skull.
And then… it stopped.
The deadly flames halted just millimeters away from Ludwig’s bone, close enough that he could feel their heat, but still. Van Dijk’s smirk widened as he observed his captive.
“You truly are subservient,” Van Dijk said, withdrawing his hand. “I had a thought, just for a moment, that you weren’t completely under my control. But I see now that I was mistaken.”
The tension in the room didn’t ease. If anything, it thickened as Van Dijk drew closer once again, holding the flickering black flame in front of Ludwig’s face.
“Do you know what this is?” Van Dijk asked, his voice silky and taunting. “This is Dark Flame—one of my most prized creations. It’s a flame that consumes not just the physical but the very essence of its target. But if that were all, I wouldn’t be called Tower Master, would I?”
He reduced the flame to a mere wisp, barely visible but still pulsing with the same malevolent energy.
“This spell uses both mana and demonic energy, something I had to sacrifice my soul for in order to wield. You, however, as an undead, already possess some degree of demonic energy. It taints your very existence. You could, in theory, learn to use this magic, to cast curses, hexes, and debilitating spells that weaken your enemies.
Dark magicians like myself don’t rely on raw power—we rely on the ability to exhaust and weaken our enemies so that we can tear them apart piece by piece with the most basic of spells afterward. Why fight the Strong when you can kill the weak?”
Van Dijk’s tone shifted, becoming more instructive. He seemed to enjoy explaining the nuances of dark magic, perhaps because he rarely had an audience intelligent enough to comprehend it.
“And now, you,” he continued. “I want to see what you’re capable of. Replicate this wisp.”
A command. Ludwig had no choice but to obey.
Raising his finger, Ludwig felt the mana within him stir. It was strange—alien, and yet somehow, familiar. It flowed through him as if it had always been there, waiting to be used. But Ludwig had never been a mage, never been taught how to wield magic. This was the first time he had ever attempted to harness mana, and yet, it felt natural.
The mana gathered at the tip of his bony finger, coalescing into a faint, glowing wisp. For a split second, Ludwig felt a surge of exhilaration—he had done it. He had channeled magic. He had control. But just as quickly as the wisp had formed, it sputtered and died, evaporating into nothingness.
To Ludwig, that brief moment of magic felt like triumph. To Van Dijk, it was a disappointment.
“Pathetic,” Van Dijk sighed, his eyes narrowing. “You managed a flicker, but you have no idea what you’re doing. Your body only followed the order, not your will. That confirms it—you’re nothing but a puppet, capable of only the most basic tasks. I had hoped there might be more to you, but it seems you’re no better than the rest. A waste of a summoned hero’s soul.”
He turned his back on Ludwig, walking toward the exit of the study. His movements were languid, confident—he had decided Ludwig was no longer worth his time. Stopping near a coat hanger, Van Dijk pulled a long, flowing coat over his shoulders before glancing back at Ludwig one last time.
“Continue cleaning the room,” he ordered. With that, he stepped out of the study, slamming the heavy door behind him.
Ludwig remained motionless for a few moments, the weight of Van Dijk’s words sinking in. He was alone again. Truly alone.
And free. At least, for the moment.
A sigh of relief escaped him—figurative, of course. His bones creaked as he allowed the tension to drain away. The dark mage had left, and though Ludwig was still bound to him, those brief moments of freedom, no matter how finite, were everything. He was still here, still existing. Still thinking.
And as long as he could think, there was hope.