Chapter 47

With meticulous precision, Atlas etched the intricate runes into the surface of the sarcophagus, each stroke of the shard imbued with dark purpose. The ancient words he chanted echoed through the chamber, resonating with the power of the winds of magic as he sought to bind them to his will.

As the runes took shape, Atlas could feel the energy of death swirling around him, drawn in by the magic of the ritual. With each incantation, the power grew stronger, weaving together with the mystical properties of the runic matrix to create a potent enchantment unlike any he had ever attempted before.

But even as he worked, a sense of apprehension gnawed at him. The risk of failure loomed large, the consequences were dire should his spell falter or go awry. Yet Atlas pressed on, his determination unwavering as he focused every ounce of his will on the task at hand. He had failed once before – not again.

Finally, as the last rune was carved and the final incantation spoken, a surge of energy rippled through the chamber. The runes on the sarcophagus glowed with an ethereal light, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls.

With bated breath, Atlas watched as traces of dead souls began to coalesce around the sarcophagus, drawn in by the magic of the ritual. It was a moment of tense anticipation, the outcome hanging in the balance as the energies of death and magic intertwined.

And then, with a sudden brilliance, the transformation was complete. The sarcophagus shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and Atlas could sense the presence of something new growing within its confines.

With a mixture of awe and trepidation, Atlas stepped back from the sarcophagus, his heart pounding with anticipation. The process of relying on runes to cast the complex spell, bypast his lack of magical energy however meant that the transformation would take longer. The only way he could speed it up, was to funnel soul and death energy to it.

With a wave of his hand, Atlas signalled to a unit of waiting skeletons, their bony forms standing at attention nearby. As one, they moved forward, their skeletal limbs creaking softly as they approached the sarcophagus.

Working in unison, the skeletons carefully lifted the heavy stone coffin, their cold fingers gripping its edges with surprising strength. With measured steps, they carried it towards a chariot base fashioned from the bones of fallen enemies, a crude but effective means of transport for their newfound prize.

As the sarcophagus was lowered onto the chariot base, Atlas observed with satisfaction, his eyes lingering on the intricate runes that adorned its surface. It was a testament to his mastery of necromancy, a symbol of power that would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. His pride satisfied that his work wasn't just for one higher undead, but now he could create more – one after the other making use of the powers to slowly transform its occupant.

With the lich contained within and the chariot ready to move, Atlas knew that they were one step closer to achieving their goals. The journey ahead would be fraught with danger, but with the might of his undead army and the newfound strength of the lich at his command, he felt confident that they would prevail.

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As the line of carts made its slow progress through the treacherous mountain pass, weighed down by the spoils of their recent conquest, they faced a relentless onslaught from the fierce and untamed wildlife of the region. Large predators lurked in the shadows, their predatory instincts driving them to attack the vulnerable convoy.

With each ambush, Atlas and his followers were forced to defend themselves against the savage beasts. Using their necromantic powers, they called forth the spirits of fallen foes, sacrificing their blood and souls to feed the insatiable hunger of the sarcophagus that housed the unfinished lich.

Despite their efforts, the lich remained dormant within its stone prison, its transformation incomplete. Atlas could feel the power within, a potent force waiting to be unleashed, but he knew that patience and perseverance were required to complete the ritual.

As the attacks continued unabated, Atlas began to wonder what he was doing wrong. The calculations of the AI showed that he had already exceeded the required magical energy. Adding more, while would be beneficial, wouldn't make the lich rise any faster.

 He was missing something. Some ingredients he was lacking. He would continue to look for it – time was on his side.

A high-pitched scream echoed through the stone peaks and interrupted his thoughts.

New enemies awaited.

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As Atlas and his convoy approached, they beheld a sight both exotic and intriguing: a merchant caravan from the distant and mysterious land of Grand Cathay. The merchants, their attire richly adorned with silks and jewels, led a procession of ornate carts laden with treasures from the Far East.

Grand Cathay, also known as the "Silk Lands" or the "Celestial Empire," was a fabled realm ruled by immortal Cathayan Dragons, a land of ancient wisdom and mystical wonders. It was said to be the largest and most powerful of all the nations of Men in the Far East, its influence reaching far beyond its borders.

As the two caravans converged on the mountain pass, the Cathayan merchants found themselves in a dire predicament. Surrounding them were spider riders, their menacing mounts looming over the travellers with predatory intent.

The Forest Goblin tribes, known for their peculiar affinity with spiders, had deployed these arachnid-mounted warriors to ambush the unsuspecting merchants. The spiders, grotesque and formidable creatures, were adorned with vibrant colours and ridden by goblins wearing pointed hoods dyed in shades of red.

Each spider, with its steely mandibles and lethal venom, posed a deadly threat to the merchants and their guards. The Forest Goblin riders, skilled hunters and trappers of the forest, manoeuvred their mounts with uncanny agility, weaving through the rugged terrain of the mountain pass with ease.

With the spiders closing in, the merchants faced a harrowing battle for survival. The arachnid riders, equipped with crude bows and javelins, launched their attacks with deadly accuracy, their goal clear: to plunder the riches of the Cathayan caravan and leave no survivors in their wake.

Strickler pulled up his steed beside his master.

"Shall we stand and watch, my lord? The survivors would be weak and easy prey. Their blood, souls and riches our to harvest at our whim."

Atlas smiled and his underling. Strickler, despite being new to the vampiric lifestyle, was simple at heart. A true vampire that would have fit in well at the court in Sylvania.

It was a shame that Atlas wasn't a common vampire. He was something else entirely.