The mountain loomed behind them, its icy face veiled in mist. Wind howled between the jagged ridges, low and constant—like the breath of a sleeping god.
Mat crouched near the rocky outcrop where Nima was setting up the small shrine. Three stones, stacked into a kennel-like triangle, framed a smooth, round black rock. Nima handled it like it was sacred.
"The locals here don't pray to them," he murmured, placing the stone gently. "Their religion doesn't allow it. But where I come from… the mountains are the gods."
He said it without ceremony, like a truth so old it didn't need convincing.
Mat nodded, his gloved fingers tightening against the chill. It wasn't his first time on K2. He'd already summited twice—once from the Abruzzi Spur, and once from the Hockey Stick. But this was different. The East Face was near-legendary. Dangerous. Unclimbed.
Nima struck a match with a practiced flick and handed it over. Two incense sticks waited in his other hand.
"Here. Light these. Push them into the ground," he said softly. "We ask for safe passage."
The scent of sandalwood curled into the air as Mat held the flame to the sticks. He planted them into the frozen soil, steadying them against the wind.
He didn't know if the gods of the black stone listened to strangers. But Nima believed. And Mat had trusted the man with his life on seven summits—Annapurna, Dhaulagiri, Nanga Parbat, Manaslu, Kanchenjunga, and both routes on this very peak.
They'd first roped together on Everest, years ago. Now here they were again, at the foot of death's throne.
Mat closed his eyes.
May I and my friends be safe. May we live through this last climb.
He didn't care who heard the prayer—Nima's gods, the wind, or the mountain itself.
He just wanted to come back down alive.
___
With a touch of his fingers, the door opened to reveal another, smaller field of grass. Weeds covered the ground, flowering with tiny white petals that tugged at an ancient memory of his, a sense of nostalgia he did't know he had the ability to feel. Taller shrubs, of green and purple, glistened in the crimson veil of the moon, some apparent, some silhouetted.
As the opening door gently hit the wall and came to a stop, a flock of crows were startled and flew away in panic from the canopy of the giant tree towering in the centre of the garden. Its branches spread thick, and wide, overarching from wall to wall like a king on his throne.
A round platform surrounded the foot of the tree, lead up to by three steps of stairs. An old man casually sat on the third step, deftly handling a pipe between his fingers. He had an air of mystery around him, not revealing much, if at all about his person.
He pressed a powder-like material on the top of the pipe's bowl, and lit it up in an orange glow with a familiar flick of his fingers. A few short puffs expanded the embers across the entirety of the bowl's surface, and he proceeded to take a long breath, inhaling as much of the smoke he could, letting it fill his lungs. He casually let out a whiff, and relaxed as the smoke formed various shapes of cats and disappeared.
Mat was stuck in place, his feet unmoving, and his eyes frozen on the old man's every move.
"You're finally here." the old man spoke as if he was fully expecting Mat to reach him, which he might just have been. "You surely took your time, little fire lord, making sure to hunt each one of my little pets."
Mat took a minute to digest the implication, before he answered.
"More like they hunted me. I was just trying to survive." Mat didn't know what to expect from this interaction. He spoke in the most neutral tone he could muster, being uncertain whether this man was friend or foe. If he wasn't the latter, he would very much not like making him one.
"Ho ho, is that how it is?" the man chuckled in response, twirling his long white goatee around his finger. He was dressed his dark red robes, covered from toes to head, and a large hood rested down on his back. His grey hair showed his age, tied behind his head in a bun, not a strand sticking out of place.
"Who are you? How do you even know me?" Mat asked in a measured tone, fishing for any other information he could get from the him.
"That is of little importance, now what truly matters is why I am here." the man said, and a staff suddenly appeared in his hand. He used its support to stand up straight.
"You see, as much as you might like flaunting that fire of yours, with no noble family, and no support, having a power like that makes you more of a target than anything else. It may make you feel strong for now, but you are not strong enough to be worthy of that power."
This was news. Mat didn't know why Noxfire would make him a target, he could only guess. He would probably come to relatively accurate conclusions If he had any memories of Mordain, or any clues related to this world at all, but only things he's felt so far are subtle hints that pushed him in directions. For now, his only guess was people's greed for power. Who wouldn't think a young lord, even if undead, an easy target to gain such a strong source of power.
"I would suggest you to be careful, if you use it at a wrong place in front of wrong people, who knows what might just happen to you." the old man said while taking another puff of his pipe.
His eyes held no sympathy for Mat as he threw this piece of information to him. Almost as if he didn't care.
Mat knew at least that was not the case, not entirely. The fact that he was here and waited for him means he had a reason. Now, it may be a good reason, or bad reason, but Mat was inclined towards it being for his good at least.
"You are the necromancer who awakened those undeads?" Mat asked out of curiosity. He was less worried now about the man attacking him, he seemed too strong and knew too much.. if he needed to do something to Mat, he could have already done it. He would like to believe so at least.
'After all, to believe all men honest would be folly, but to believe none so would be something worse.' Mat smirked inside his own mind, he certainly liked quoting some of his favourite quotes, even if only to himself.
"Oh? Necromancer? Now that is a name I haven't been called with in a long time. But yes, as a matter of fact, it was indeed me who did that. I wanted to test you, make sure you are ready to go out in the world."
The old man looked at Mat, and his grey eyes almost boring holes into him. Mat fidgeted nervously, forced himself to stand still and not run away. Being under scrutiny often made him uncomfortable like that. He was relieved when the man's eyes were now focused on his staff. He was giving it too much attention though, staring for long. Uncomfortably long.
'He is not gonna snatch it, is he..' Mat thought for a moment, hoping it wouldn't be the case. The man had another look at him and then snapped his fingers. A smaller, thinner, red-brown staff appeared in his hands which he threw in Mat's direction.
"That staff is too well know in myths. Maybe if that was it, you would have been okay, but all of the Twelve Great Houses know of each other's weapons, so you better keep it hidden too. Use it when you are at least Level 300. Seal it inside your soul until that day." the man had one last look at him, and sat down again.
He pointed at the staff he had just thrown at him, and said—"Check it if it fits you, I have some others, but that one seems good enough for you. When you grow past it, earn enough money to buy yourself a new one."—the old man breathed out another puff of smoke, and this time drew sheep and cows in the air.
Mat walked forward several steps to pick up the staff now fallen among weeds and tall grass. It was a short stick, barely three feet in length, thin and weak like the top most branch of a pine tree, pointing almost vertically upwards. It had a little red gemstone—the size of his thumb—embedded on top. It looked rubbish compared to the Heart of the Night.
Mat chose to give it some benefit of doubt, and invoked [Status] on the staff, and secretly also directed it towards the man.
+++
Level 25 Mage Staff (Rare)
Description: An Elfwood made magical staff used by mages to invoke magic in their environment.
+++
+++
Orren Kael
Level ???
+++
'No info..' Mat sighed in disappoinment.
The old man's eyes turned towards him in a slight glare, "Don't try prying into where you shouldn't." and he said in warning.
Mat nodded in a hurry, trying to assure him that it shall not be repeated.
"Now that you know what to do, and what not to do, my job here is done. I hope it never comes that you have to see me again, it will only be trouble."
Winds started picking up pace as a plume of green mana erupted from the man and he started rising up in the air.
"You have a long way ahead of you, young Noxleigh. Know that your house's task is not complete yet, you must carry it out further way. The hunt goes on, and it will come for you too. Make sure you get stronger. Not just for your own, not just on your own."
The winds quickened up to wrap around him, and the image of him that was so solid till now, started becoming ethereal.
"This is my last gift to you, if you are strong enough to get out of here, you are strong enough to survive in the outside world. Do no use your fire to get out of this, I will know if you do."
As he said so, the little shadow of his being that was visible finally disappeared too, and all Mat was left with was raging winds around him.
'What did he mean by a gift…' Mat pondered while looking down at the spot the old man was lecturing him from mere moments ago. Mat would know that soon, because just as the winds started dying, the tree in the centre was engulfed in a green source of mana emanating from its roots.
The stone platform cracked as a hand made of bare bones rose up from inside the earth, shattering the very foundation of the stage. Then, another hand reached out, similarly naked. The platform finally broke apart and shattered as a skinless, bony face raised itself out of the ground, its eyes lit in flames of green, and its body protected by black armour, wearing rags that barely reached its knees. In its hands, it held a sword half its own height, thick, black, covered in green runes of power.
It towered 10 feet over Mat as it stood on the 3 feet tall platform. It was truly the strongest undead he had seen so far.
Mat was almost afraid to use status on it. He kicked the ground and ground his teeth in frustration. The f\*ck sort of gift was this?
["Status"]
He whispered barely, trying to contain his useless fury.
+++
Guardian Lich (Captain of the Hollowspire Garrison)
Level 21
VIT: 5
STR: 46
AGI: 29
INT: 26
MAG: 14
+++
Mat looked at the stats of this monster, in both strength and terms, and turned around to see the door that lead him back to the inner courtyard of the castle. He still had a chance, he just had to run back and lock this guy out here, he could always find some other way out, some other time.
He was just about to sprint back towards safety, when suddenly a green layer of mana engulfed the door out of nowhere and slammed it shut.
Mat clenched his fists in despair, realisation setting in, that there really was only one way out.
"Curse you, old man. This is not a gift, you sadistic piece of shit. Pray to whatever gods you know that I don't come across you again."
Mat relentlessly cursed the old man—Orren Kael—in his head, and prayed for calamities to strike him when he least expected them.
["Status"]
Mat whispered to himself. It wouldn't do his confident any good, but he had to face the truth and accept how weak he was compared to the Lich. But above all, he had to see just how far was he in terms of strength.
+++
Mordain Noxleigh
[First of the Graveborn]
Age: 10 (154)
Level 4 Undead [Mage]
VIT: 4
STR: 9
AGI: 13
INT: 15
MAG: 17
+++
Indeed. He was no match.