Curse of Lysertis

A heavy downpour had settled over the city of Archoville. Thunder roared so loudly that it felt as if the gods themselves were unleashing their fury upon the world.

At the heart of the city stood the Moro Academy of Mages—a grand structure, more like a fortress than a school. It inspired a sense of security, but not peace. Something was wrong within its walls.

And indeed, something was very wrong.

Four professors hurried through the academy's dimly lit corridors.

"Professor Adrian! Do you feel that mana?" asked Charlotte Finnegan, the professor of potion-making, her voice tense.

"Unfortunately, I do," Adrian replied grimly. "The source is in the catacombs beneath the academy."

"Where is Headmaster William?" asked Professor Berendor, an elderly philosopher.

"I don't know. He hasn't returned yet. We have no choice—we'll have to deal with this ourselves," Adrian said, slightly out of breath as they ran.

Students appeared in the halls, confusion and fear in their eyes. The professors ordered them to head straight to the Great Hall, where Professor Aldric had already set up a protective barrier and was staying behind to maintain it.

Finally, they reached the heavy doors leading to the catacombs.

Adrian stretched out his hand to open them, but the moment he touched the door, a surge of lightning blasted him backward. He crashed into the stone wall, sending up a cloud of dust and scattering debris around him.

 "Damn it! That bastard put up a strong barrier!"

"Watch your language, Adrian. Be patient, and I'll take care of it," Berendor interrupted calmly.

"Hurry up."

Berendor stepped forward, raising his hand, which began to glow softly. As he murmured an incantation, the glow intensified for a brief moment, then faded.

He reached for the door handle, and this time, it gave way easily.

"There, done. And you were worried for nothing. You just need to be patient and handle things with care."

"Oh, shut up, old man. You know damn well that if I had tried to break this barrier, I would've blown up half the school."

"I know. But that's because you can't control your temper."

"Keep talking, and I'll turn you to ash. You've already lived long enough, haven't you?"

"Enough, both of you!" Charlotte snapped, exasperated. "You're acting like children. One of you is an old geezer, and the other has the temper of a teenager."

A deep, raspy voice interrupted them, calm yet firm:

"Are we here to argue, or are we going to stop whatever is happening down there?"

The three professors turned to look at Professor Leonard.

"I almost forgot what your voice sounds like, Leonard," Adrian muttered.

They descended the staircase at a hurried pace, nearly running. But the farther they went, the heavier the air became, pressing down on them with an oppressive force. The sinister mana seeping through the dungeon floors grew stronger with every step.

"This mana… it's terrifying! What is it?" Charlotte asked, her voice uneasy.

"Or rather… who?" Berendor added grimly.

They continued downward until they finally reached the lowest level of the catacombs.

The main chamber was vast, its high ceiling supported by towering columns. In the center stood a pedestal, covered in glowing symbols and letters from an unfamiliar language. Encircling it were eleven stone knights, draped in long, hooded cloaks, standing motionless like ancient sentinels.

Atop the pedestal stood a man in black robes, his hands drenched in blood. His hood concealed his face, but there was no doubt—this was dark magic at work.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Berendor's voice thundered through the chamber.

The figure slowly turned his head, but his face remained hidden beneath the hood. The professors' worst fears were confirmed—the man looked like a necromancer, and necromancers were considered the most dangerous criminals in the world. No one knew this better than the professors.

"STOP THIS AT ONCE!" Berendor commanded.

He took a battle stance, his palm raised, summoning a large sphere of water that hovered above his hand, ready to strike. The other professors followed his lead, preparing for a fight.

But then, the necromancer spoke, and his words froze them in place.

"Fight you? I'm not that foolish. There are four of you and only one of me—I wouldn't stand a chance."

His smirk betrayed no fear. On the contrary, he looked eerily calm, as if everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.

Then Adrian's expression shifted in shock.

"Richard?"

A stunned silence fell over the group.

The necromancer clapped mockingly.

"Bravo! Adrian gets a medal for the correct answer," he said with a sneer.

"What the hell are you doing? You're one of us! A professor, just like we are! Why?! What are you trying to achieve?!"

"You don't need to know my plans," Richard replied smoothly. "Just sit back and watch. When it's all over, you'll have all the answers.

The pedestal beneath him began to crack, deep fissures forming along its surface.

Suddenly, the professors fell to their knees, unable to withstand the crushing wave of mana pouring from the cracks. It was overwhelming—an unbearable, suffocating force.

The very walls, columns, and ceiling of the chamber trembled, crumbling like sand. The room itself felt like a collapsing tomb.

"What is this monstrous mana?! I've never felt anything like it!" Adrian gasped.

The pressure was unbearable, making even speaking a struggle. It felt as if death itself was breathing down their necks, its icy presence chilling them to the bone.

And whatever dark force was about to enter this world—it was almost here.

It seemed as though the pedestal was on the verge of shattering completely. The cracks deepened, and the necromancer's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with madness.

But then—it stopped.

The fissures ceased spreading. Instead, they began to mend, closing up like wounds healing before their eyes.

Richard's expression twisted from triumph to rage and despair.

"WHAT?! THIS CAN'T BE! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!" he shouted in frustration. "I FOLLOWED EVERY STEP EXACTLY AS YOU SAID! WHY DIDN'T IT WORK?!"

The pedestal fully restored itself, leaving no sign of cracks, no trace of the immense mana that had nearly consumed the room.

The professors staggered to their feet, brushing off the dust. The oppressive fear still clung to them, but at least they could stand again.

Richard, now turned away from them, bit into his index finger, a feeble attempt to ease his growing anxiety. But the panic only mounted. His eyes, once filled with certainty, now held a single desperate question: "What do I do now?"

Then, from the far end of the chamber, a voice rang out—calm, yet unmistakably familiar.

"You really are a fool, Richard."

A chill ran through the room.

The professors froze, their breath caught in their throats. Then, almost in unison, they whispered:

"Headmaster William?!"

Everyone except Richard.