The Necromancer King Reborn

It was quiet when Vermond opened his eyes.

White lights above. A faint hum of the ship. Cool sheets beneath him. The medbay.

His body ached… but not the same way it had before. This was different.

He slowly pushed himself up, the blanket sliding off his chest. He froze.

His chest—his entire torso—was different.

Muscles rippled beneath his skin. His arms were thick, veined. His stomach—six full abs, cut like stone. His shoulders were broader, and even his skin had taken on a healthier tone.

“What… the hell…” he muttered, staring down at himself.

He looked like someone who’d spent five years locked in a military gym. Not like the scrappy salvager boy who’d grown up eating ration bars with grease-stained hands.

The door hissed open.

Captain Fredene stepped in, holding something in his arms.

He stopped mid-step.

Vermond stared at him. Fredene stared back.

“…Damn,” the Captain muttered, blinking. “When the hell did that happen?”

“I—I don’t know,” Vermond said. “I just woke up like this.”

Fredene raised an eyebrow, then gave a small grunt. “You been hiding that physique under your rags all this time?”

Vermond looked confused. “What? No—I—!”

Fredene tossed him a neatly folded Federation uniform. “Well, whatever. You’re going to stink the whole damn deck up. Go wash. You smell like a dead skag beast.”

Vermond blinked, then sniffed himself.

“…Gross.”

He found the small shower unit connected to the medbay and stepped in, letting the hot water run over his skin. He stared at the mirror as he scrubbed off the dried blood, sweat, and whatever the hell else had soaked into him.

His muscles didn’t feel just for show—they felt powerful. Tense, like something waiting under the surface.

He dried off and slipped into the uniform. It clung tight across his new frame, but it fit. Mostly.

Fredene looked him over as he came out.

“…Huh. Doesn’t look too bad on you,” he said, crossing his arms. “Almost like you’re one of us.”

Vermond gave him a hesitant smile.

But something was off.

He could hear things.

The distant footsteps of crew walking on metal decks. Conversations two rooms over. Someone was muttering about reactor tuning—and Vermond could hear it perfectly.

His ears rang. Not painfully—but like they’d opened to another frequency of the world.

He shook his head, trying to focus.

Just then, the intercom blared to life.

“All ships, report to alert status. Long-range scanners detected heat signatures—unverified vessels. Possibility of pirate presence. Repeat: full alert status.”

Fredene’s eyes narrowed. “Great. Nothing’s ever easy, is it?”

Crew ran past in the corridor. Soldiers snapped into formation. The ship tilted slightly as flight controls rerouted power. Vermond stepped to the door but hesitated.

“I’ll head back to medbay,” he said.

Fredene nodded. “If something happens, stay out of the line of fire.”

Vermond walked alone through the narrow hallway, the lights flickering above. He returned to the quiet of the medbay, his mind racing.

Something was happening to him. Not just the muscles. Not just the hearing.

He stood before the mirror again.

His eyes—

He leaned in closer.

They weren’t the same.

Not just color now—though the emerald shimmer was still there.

The shape of the pupils had changed. And in his irises… strange patterns, faint glowing glyphs twisting around the edges like ancient writing.

He touched his face. It was still him.

But it wasn’t.

“What… Kiana.. what have I become?” he whispered.

The reflection offered no answer.

Only the steady, glowing gaze of something… evolving.

The stars were distant glimmers beyond the hull, but Vermond barely noticed. He sat on the edge of his bed in the Corvette, his mind spinning. The image of Kiana fusing into a glowing orb and entering his chest—it haunted him. His body felt strange. Stronger. Different. But not his.

He rubbed his face with shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

Then the alarm blared.

"Unidentified ships approaching. All hands, brace for engagement."

Fredene burst through the door. "Get to the bridge! Now!"

Vermond followed him at a run, the corridor swaying under his feet. The Corvette rocked as the enemy’s plasma fire struck near the flank.

"Pirates," Fredene growled. "Scanners picked up six light-class raiders and a heavy cruiser. They're locking on."

The fleet—wounded, low on energy, with only five ships left—was in no condition for a firefight.

"Evasive maneuvers!" barked Vice-Captain Yurell over the comms. "Keep the transports behind the line!"

The Federation ships scattered into defensive positions, firing up pulse shields. Fighters launched from the small hangars of the scout frigate, zipping into combat with the pirate swarm.

One raider exploded in a burst of fire.

Then another. But they kept coming.

The Corvette shook violently, sparks flying from one of the side consoles. Vermond stumbled, gripping the railing.

Fredene cursed. "We can't take another hit like that. They're targeting our engines."

A pirate boarding craft detached from the cruiser, rocketing straight toward them.

"Brace! They’re going to latch on!" someone yelled.

The impact came with a grinding screech. The airlock shuddered.

Vermond’s heart pounded. Something inside him was stirring.

"They're boarding! Defensive teams to Section Four!" Fredene shouted, grabbing a rifle.

Vermond followed, unarmed but unwilling to hide. As they turned a corner, the wall exploded in a blast of plasma. Three pirates stormed in—tattooed, armored, and feral.

Fredene took one down instantly. The second went for Vermond.

He dodged—barely. But then something took over. His hand moved faster than thought. He grabbed the pirate’s wrist mid-swing, twisted—crack—and flung him against the wall like he weighed nothing.

Everyone stopped for a second.

Vermond stared at his hands.

Fredene blinked. "What the hell was that?"

Before he could answer, the hallway erupted into chaos again. More pirates. Screams. Gunfire.

They fought through corridor after corridor, sealing doors behind them. The Federation soldiers were trained, but the pirates were relentless.

On the bridge, alarms screamed.

"Hull breach in Sector 9! We’ve got decompression!"

"They’re targeting our core!"

Just then, the scout frigate unleashed its main cannon, blasting through the pirate cruiser’s side. Flames burst in zero-gravity, illuminating the debris field with haunting light.

But the battle wasn’t over. Not yet.

Vermond stood over the body of another fallen pirate, his breath ragged, blood on his fists.

Something inside him had awakened.

Something terrifying.

He didn’t know what he was becoming.

But whatever it was… it was hungry.

The battlefield burned with chaos. Pirate vessels spiraled in orbit, cannons blazing at Federation ships. One of the smaller Federation destroyers flickered, its lights dimming, systems failing.

"The Saber is gone! They’ve taken it over!" someone screamed over comms.

Fredene clenched his fists. "Secure the Corvette! Lock all airlocks and flush the decks of any remaining hostiles!"

With a thunderous clunk, the Corvette sealed its hull. Alarms finally died down.

Vermond stood in the dim corridor, staring at the unconscious pirate he had taken down. His breath was ragged. His heartbeat... irregular.

The orb embedded in his chest pulsed faintly. Then—

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A whisper.

Kiana’s voice.

"Consume it..."

He didn’t understand. But his body moved on its own.

The orb flared, light stretching like tendrils. The pirate’s body twitched violently, a blood-curdling scream erupting from his mouth as his soul—his essence—was ripped away.

Vermond stumbled back.

The scream faded.

The pirate’s body fell still. Empty.

Then something flickered in his vision—a glowing number in the corner of his right eye.

1

“What… the hell?”

Another pirate nearby, half-conscious.

Hungry.

Driven by instinct, he reached out again.

Another scream. Another soul consumed.

2

Vermond’s breath shook. He felt... stronger. Faster. As if every fiber of his being had been upgraded.

But he also felt sick.

What was he becoming?

Before he could dwell on it, the ship rocked again.

"The Tempest is taking critical damage! We’ve lost her engines!"

The fleet was bleeding out.

Then... a warp ripple tore through space.

A single ship.

Huge. Black. Glorious.

A battleship.

Its sleek frame bristled with heavy cannons. A silver emblem gleamed on its prow—a crest shaped like a broken crown and a burning star.

Fredene’s eyes widened. "No way… That’s a Fallen-class warship."

Whispers flooded the comms.

"Is that... a noble family ship?"

"The Fallen… they’re here..?"

The pirates froze.

Then the comms crackled with an open broadcast.

"This is Carlo de Fallen, rightful heir of House Fallen. Your pathetic assault ends here."

The pirate commander tried to respond—garbled static, panic in his voice.

But it was too late.

The battleship’s cannons turned.

BOOM.

A single round ripped through the pirate cruiser like it was paper. The shockwave shattered nearby raider formations.

BOOM. Another. A pirate corvette disintegrated mid-flight.

Panic.

"Retreat! All forces, retreat!"

But the Fallen warship didn’t stop firing.

One by one, pirate ships turned into fireballs in the void.

Vermond stood silently in the chaos. The number in his eye still glowed.

2.

And the hunger...

It wasn’t gone.

The battlefield slowly went quiet, the final pirate cruiser vaporized under the merciless barrage of Carlo de Fallen’s battleship. The Federation soldiers aboard the remaining ships cheered faintly, but unease lingered.

"That guy… Carlo de Fallen," one of the soldiers muttered.

"Fallen family... damn psychos," another whispered with a chill.

Carlo's voice echoed through the open comms, laughing like a man possessed. His amusement at slaughter unnerved the fleet more than the battle itself.

In the Corvette, Vermond remained still, staring at the unconscious pirate he had left on the floor. A tremor ran through his body—hunger. A hunger not for food, but for something deeper... darker.

The orb in his chest pulsed once more. Kiana's soft voice, distant but clear, slipped into his mind.

"Feed, Vermond... it strengthens you."

Against his will, against his screaming conscience, he leaned forward. The pirate awoke just in time to let out a soul-wrenching scream. A shimmer of light poured from his body, sucked into the orb embedded in Vermond's chest. The number in his eye shifted again: 3.

His body quaked.

From the bridge, Fredene and the others were still glued to the tactical screen, watching as Carlo's battleship chased down the last pirate remnants. No one noticed the slow change overtaking Vermond.

Pain. Rippling, tearing, melting his thoughts.

His hands convulsed. His veins glowed. His skin shifted, tight around now-bulging muscle. His eyes—once emerald—were now bloodred, glowing with malevolent energy. He groaned, staggering toward the door.

He didn't want to move. But he was moving.

The first crewman he encountered in the hall gasped. "Vermond? Hey, are you alri—"

A flash.

The man's body hit the ground, lifeless. His soul ripped from flesh, consumed.

4.

Then 5.

Then 6.

The screams spread inside the Corvette like wildfire, but it was all contained within. No transmissions. No alerts. Just blood.

Fredene sprinted toward the med bay after hearing something unnatural from the hall. He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the massacre.

"VERMOND!"

The boy turned to him slowly. Face twisted. Eyes bleeding light.

"I... I can't stop it..." Vermond choked out. His voice was broken, hollow, but full of grief.

Fredene raised his sidearm. "Then I'll stop you."

The two clashed. A brutal, close-quarters fight. Vermond moved like a beast, wild and fast, but Fredene—a seasoned fighter—fought back with fire and grit. Sparks flew from steel, walls cracked with impact, the ship groaned under their rage.

Fredene managed to pin him. "Dammit, Vermond! Whatever this is, fight it!"

Vermond cried. Truly cried.

"I'M TRYING!!"

He twitched—just for a second. Fredene hesitated.

It was enough.

A pulse of red light exploded from Vermond's hand, blasting a hole through Fredene's throat.

Fredene's eyes widened. He collapsed.

"NO! NO, NO, NO!" Vermond screamed, clutching his head as the soul was drawn into him.

28.

His scream echoed into the empty hall.

The Corvette remained eerily silent, floating among the fleet.

No one knew.

No one saw.

Vermond stood there, surrounded by the dead. Eyes bleeding light. And inside, his mind shattered... but still aware.

Still crying

The silence inside the Corvette was thick, the kind that pressed down on the soul. Vermond lay still among the broken bodies, surrounded by the very people he once tried to protect. Their vacant stares haunted him, his trembling fingers clutching Fredene's jacket, soaked in blood. Tears streamed down his face. He couldn't stop them.

"Grandpa..." he whispered. "Why... why is this happening to me?"

The orb on his chest pulsed, slow and eerie. Then, the silence broke.

A voice echoed inside his mind—deep, guttural, mocking.

"You were always meant to be more than just a salvager... Vermond... More than just human... More than flesh."

Vermond gasped, eyes widening. It was the same voice—the one Kiana heard before everything went wrong. It wasn’t his own thoughts. It was something else. Something inside.

Suddenly, static crackled over the comms.

"This is the Vice Captain. Do you copy? Repeat, do you copy?"

No response. Just static.

"The signal's not right," a Federation officer said. "We’re detecting... an anomaly on board."

Carlos de Fallen's voice crackled in over the shared frequency.

"Point your external cams at the Corvette. I want to see what's inside. Now."

"Sir, something’s blocking the internal visuals—" the tech began.

"Then dock. I want eyes inside that ship," Carlos snapped.

A squad of Federation soldiers moved in. One of them activated a bodycam. As they entered the Corvette, the feed cut to black.

"Visual just went dark," one of the officers reported. "Something's jamming us."

Inside, Vermond backed into the shadows, his body shaking. The orb on his chest flared again. "Don’t come near me..." he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please... just stay away..."

But they didn’t hear him. The soldiers pushed deeper inside. One stepped over Fredene’s lifeless body.

That’s when the massacre began.

A flash. A scream.

One soldier’s body lifted and twisted in mid-air before slamming into the bulkhead with a sickening crunch.

Another turned to run, only for a blackened tendril of energy to rip through his armor, tearing his soul from his body in a shimmering wisp.

"What the hell is happening?!" one screamed as their comms burst with static.

Outside, Carlos narrowed his eyes. "Get me a manual override. I want to see. Now."

Inside, the final soldier’s scream was cut off by a violent sound—something ripping, followed by silence.

And then, Vermond stood alone again.

The orb dimmed.

He fell to his knees, shaking violently, drenched in blood that wasn’t his. His eyes glowed an intense, unnatural red-green, and in them, the number had grown:

41.

Vermond sobbed.

The voice returned.

"You’re doing so well... Just like she did. Embrace it, Vermond. Become what you were always meant to be..."

Outside, the remaining crew stared at the now-quiet Corvette.

And none dared approach again.

Not yet.

Not until they figured out what Vermond had become.

Smoke filled the corvette's corridor, mixing with the faint stench of scorched metal and blood. Vermond stood amidst the chaos, panting, his hands trembling and dripping with a dark, almost glowing ichor. His eyes still burned—a deep blood emerald hue—and the number etched into his vision pulsed ominously: 41.

He dropped to his knees again, screaming into his palms, “I didn’t want this! I didn’t want this!”

But the voice inside him just chuckled.

“Oh, but you did… You always did. I saw it in your eyes before even you did. That hunger.”

Vermond clutched his head as the walls around him flickered like a glitch in reality. The laughter grew louder—layered and ancient, like thousands of whispers overlaid atop one another. Then, silence.

SLAM!

The hatch at the far end of the corridor hissed open. A squad of Federation soldiers cautiously entered, rifles raised, helmet lights sweeping the area. Their comms were still jammed, visual feeds cut off, yet orders were orders.

“Visuals dead. Proceeding with caution,” one of them whispered.

They moved slowly, unaware of the crimson eyes watching them from the shadows.

“Wait… what is that?” one soldier muttered, catching the glint of something ahead.

Then—Vermond moved.

A blur of motion. A scream. A burst of static on the comms. Blood sprayed the walls, and within seconds, three soldiers dropped lifelessly to the floor. Their souls ripped from their bodies in silent agony.

44.

The remaining two opened fire, but it was too late. The orb in Vermond’s chest flared like a second heart, absorbing, feeding, changing him.

Meanwhile, on the Noble's (Fallen) battleship, alarms echoed.

Carlos de Fallen stood calmly in the command deck, one gloved hand on the back of the captain’s chair.

“Still no visuals?” he asked, tone almost playful.

“Sir, all feed from the corvette remains dark. No comms, no scans. Something’s jamming everything inside,” the tech replied nervously.

Carlos narrowed his eyes, a strange amusement dancing in them.

“Then open the Red Signal channel,” he said.

The room went silent. Everyone turned to him.

“Sir… that channel’s restricted. You’re suggesting—”

“Open it. I want a full psychic trace scan,” Carlos repeated.

The psychic network pulsed alive—a rare and highly classified system designed for only the most supernatural of threats.

And immediately, they felt it.

“It’s like... a black sun,” the psychic operator stammered, sweat pouring from her temples. “It’s alive, it’s screaming. Something is eating souls in there. It’s… not human anymore.”

Carlos smirked.

“Good. Then we’re getting close.”

Back inside the corvette, Vermond stood alone in the red-lit corridor, his body steaming with dark power.

He turned to face the last standing soldier, who was frozen in fear.

“Please… I have a family,” the soldier whimpered.

Vermond’s eyes flickered.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Then, darkness.

45.

The silence on the bridge was broken by static as the remaining Federation fleet hovered in fractured formation—three ships now, after the devastating pirate assault. One of them was the Corvette, now shrouded in encrypted radio silence and ominous dread. The others, battered and scarred from the engagement, bore the weight of trauma and tension.

Vice-Captain Yurell stood with clenched fists, his eyes on the digital display highlighting the Corvette in crimson. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his second-in-command relayed more scrambled footage from the soldier cams—footage that kept cutting off, cloaked in an unknown interference.

"Still nothing from the Corvette?" Yurell asked, his voice sharp.

"No, sir. Comms keep getting jammed—like something’s actively intercepting. Visuals went black the moment the first squad docked. We tried reconnecting, but... nothing."

Yurell turned toward the rest of the room, where voices were rising.

"Why are we obeying a noble who’s not even part of our Federation?!" one of the officers barked. "We lost a patrol commander, lost a lot of comrades, lost a lot of our ships, and now we’re letting some outsider give orders?"

"That outsider’s ship obliterated a pirate cruiser in one shot," another countered. "We’d be space dust without him."

"That doesn’t make him our commander!"

Yurell slammed a fist on the console, silencing the room. "Enough. Carlo de Fallen isn’t part of the Federation, but he is a Fallen. We defy him, and there will be worse than pirates to deal with. You think nobles forget disobedience? They don’t."

Some muttered curses. Others nodded grimly.

"But that doesn’t mean we sit on our asses while something’s clearly wrong inside the Corvette. I’ve sent another team—armored and silent. If anyone’s alive in there, we bring them back. If Something’s a threat... we end it."

In the background, a low signal flickered—Carlos de Fallen’s private comm line.

"Vice-Captain Yurell," Carlo’s voice came, smooth and mocking. "Would you mind opening your external cams? I’d like to see what happened to your crew."

Yurell scowled. "We’re working on it. The interference—"

"No excuses, vice-captain. I want results."

Yurell muted the line and stared at the Corvette’s feed. A shadow moved across the docking corridor, dragging something limp. Then—static.

Onboard the Corvette, blood pooled across the floor. Vermond knelt among the corpses, trembling. He was no longer the boy who salvaged with his grandpa. His skin glowed faintly. The orb embedded in his chest pulsed like a heartbeat.

He sobbed. "Grandpa... what’s happening to me?"

A voice echoed inside his skull.

You are becoming.

It was the same voice Kiana once heard. Mocking. Ancient. Twisting his guilt into hunger.

"No more... please..."

More. You are not done.

A new group of Federation soldiers docked and entered, cautiously sweeping the halls.

"We’re in. No visual yet—wait, something’s... wrong with the lighting..."

Their camera feed cut out.

Yurell watched as another signal died. He slammed the console again. "Get ready. We may have to destroy the Corvette."

Carlo’s voice returned, louder, amused.

"Now this... this is finally getting interesting."

An incoming signal from the Fallen Battleship.

Carlos de Fallen’s face lit up the main screen, wearing a grin too calm for the chaos.

“Vice-Captain Yurell,” he said, “are your men always so rebellious, or is that a recent development?”

Yurell stared him down. “This is still a Federation operation. I’ll thank you not to insert yourself into command decisions.”

Carlos laughed lightly, almost mockingly. “Then perhaps you should take command of the situation, Captain. Unless you’d prefer I step in and clean up what your little fleet can’t handle.”

Everyone in the room tensed. Yurell’s jaw clenched.

“You may have power, Carlos,” he said slowly, “but don’t mistake our silence for submission.”

Carlos’s smile didn’t falter. “Noted. Now—shall we talk about the abomination inside your Corvette?”

Yurell didn’t reply.

Carlos’s expression darkened. “That thing is no longer human, Yurell. My scans show a soul-eater. A kind of power not seen and known, If we let him roam unchecked…”

He trailed off. Everyone in the room knew what that meant.

On the Corvette, Vermond was still crouched beside Fredene’s body, his hands bloodied. His mind was breaking.

“I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to…” he whispered.

Then that voice returned. Cold. Familiar. Laughing in his ears.

“You’re not done, Vermond.”

“You’re becoming.”

Suddenly, the emergency lighting flickered, then the backup generator surged. The orb in his chest pulsed again, brighter than ever before. His eyes snapped open—blood emeralds, glowing with unstable power.

Then… silence.

Until a scream echoed from the docking corridor.

They had sent another boarding party.

“No… no more…” Vermond gasped, trying to hold himself back.

But the hunger surged. And the next massacre began.

Meanwhile, on the Fallen Battleship, Carlos sat back on his ornate command chair, watching the data pour in.

“That thing is evolving…” he murmured, almost to himself. “Fascinating. Prepare the containment field. We’ll take him alive... if we can.”

Screams echoed through the tight metallic corridors of the Corvette. Boots thudded against steel, rifles blazed with muzzle flashes—but it wasn’t enough.

Vermond moved like a shadow laced with lightning, his eyes glowing blood emerald, his body a blur of claws, fists, and spiraling void energy. The soldiers couldn’t keep up.

He grabbed a man by the throat, lifted him off the ground. “Run…” Vermond whispered, fighting against himself—but his body wouldn’t listen.

The orb in his chest pulsed. The soldier screamed—and his soul was torn from his body, sucked into Vermond’s chest in a streak of red light.

Count: 45

Another Federation soldier turned the corner, already pulling the trigger. Vermond twisted his body unnaturally, dodging the shots, then slammed his fist into the floor—sending shockwaves that threw the soldier into the wall, snapping bone.

Count: 46

Sirens blared on the Corvette. The other Federation ships were scrambling.

Onboard the lead frigate, Vice-Captain Yurell stared at the readings. “He’s… absorbing them.”

“He’s killing our own men!” someone shouted.

“No,” Yurell growled. “He’s not just killing. He’s evolving.”

Carlos de Fallen’s voice cut through the comms. “If you don’t act now, there won’t be anything left to save. Only the thing that replaces him.”

Back in the Corvette, Vermond was on his knees, breathing heavily. The walls were scorched, bodies littered the floor. His hands trembled.

“Stop… please…” he whispered.

But then another wave of soldiers entered—drawn by duty, by desperation.

Vermond screamed. The orb unleashed a blast of force, a spiraling vortex that pulled them into his grasp. One by one, their souls were ripped from their bodies.

Count: 47

One soldier, wounded but alive, tried to crawl away.

Vermond stood above him, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t want to…”

But the orb pulsed again, and the man screamed.

Count: 48

Then—the air snapped.

A ripple of space-time, and suddenly—

Carlos de Fallen stood in the middle of the Corvette corridor, untouched, calm. He had teleported directly in.

His coat flared behind him. His eyes locked with Vermond’s.

"That’s enough," Carlos said, voice smooth but commanding.

Vermond lunged—but Carlos raised his hand.

In a single second, a pulse of gravitational force slammed into Vermond, pinning him to the floor. It cracked the walls around them.

“You think I haven’t fought monsters before?” Carlos muttered, stepping closer.

Vermond growled. “Get… out… of me—”

“You’re still in there,” Carlos said. “But barely. If I wanted you dead, you'd already be in pieces across the stars. Now listen to me, soul-eater—if you kill one more innocent, I will end you.”

Vermond's body trembled, muscles seizing. But the pressure… it was holding him back.

The two locked eyes—monster and noble.

And for the first time, Vermond wasn’t the strongest thing in the room.

Carlos smirked.

“Let’s test your limits.”

The Corvette trembled under the weight of two titans.

Carlos de Fallen stood calmly amidst the ruin, his black noble coat drifting as if caught in a silent wind. His eyes glinted with controlled power, his aura sharp as a blade.

Across from him, Vermond snarled—his body trembling, both from pain and from the barely-contained energy coursing through him. His eyes, blood-emerald and spiraling, locked onto Carlos like a predator cornered yet undefeated.

Then it began.

BOOM—

Vermond shot forward like a comet, claws outstretched. Carlos flicked his wrist, conjuring a field of invisible pressure that shattered the floor in front of him, but Vermond twisted mid-air, slamming into Carlos with a shockwave that split the corridor.

Carlos skidded back, boots carving molten lines across the steel.

“Fast,” he muttered. “Too fast.”

He formed a sigil with one hand and threw it forward—a gravity rune that spiraled, imploding into a miniature black hole. It consumed the corridor for a moment.

But Vermond walked through it.

The orb on his chest glowed a deep, ancient red. Space bent around him—rejected him—like even the void was afraid.

Carlos blinked. “You walked through a singularity?”

Vermond’s voice split into two—his and something beneath it. “I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

He charged again.

Their fists met in mid-air, sending a shockwave that cracked the viewports across the Corvette.

Carlos unleashed a wave of knives made from crystallized gravity—each capable of ripping a starfighter in half.

Vermond growled. His aura exploded outward in a dome of soul energy—spirits of the pirates he consumed clawed through the air, forming a spectral shield.

The blades shattered.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’ve weaponized souls?”

Vermond blinked forward—teleportation? No, something older. Like he willed space to bend.

He appeared behind Carlos and kicked him so hard he slammed through three walls.

Carlos coughed blood but stood up, laughing.

“You're not a monster," he grinned. "You're something worse."

He snapped his fingers.

Gravity around Vermond crushed downward with the weight of moons.

But Vermond stood up inside it. Bones cracking, muscles screaming—but rising.

The orb pulsed. Count: 47... 48... 49.

Carlos launched himself back into the fight, his hands charged with gravitational distortion. They clashed again—blow after blow, punch after punch, tearing apart the ship from the inside.

The Corvette was breaking apart. Fire lit the walls. Sparks showered around them like rain.

Then—

Vermond roared.

Not a human sound. Not even beast.

Something divine. Something ancient.

A red pillar of light erupted from his chest, throwing Carlos across the hall and pinning him to the ceiling like a puppet.

Carlos gasped, eyes wide.

“No…”

He saw it now.

Behind Vermond, in the pulse of soul energy, were glimpses. Visions.

An entire empire of the dead. A throne of bones. A crown of shadows and stars.

“You’re not a monster,” Carlos whispered.

“You’re a—”

Before he could finish—

The ship’s emergency system exploded in alarms.

Vermond fell to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. The orb dimmed—but didn’t go out.

Carlos dropped to the floor, chest heaving.

The duel was over.

And he now understood…

Vermond wasn’t just changing.

He was becoming something that hadn’t walked the galaxy in eons.

A Necromancer King reborn.