Free Web NovelChapter 226: _Grave Keeper
Hovering over Ambrose’s head was a massive black Scythe. The blade gleamed under the lights of the throne room like icy obsidian.
It effortlessly blocked the orc King’s strike, forcing him to stumble backwards a few steps.
[NEW WEAPON PURCHASED.]
[Name: Grave Keeper’s Scythe.
Rank: S
Skills: Cuts not only flesh but souls. Even if an enemy survives physically, their soul sustains damage. Any enemy killed by the scythe automatically becomes easier to reanimate with 50% less EP cost.]
[Weapon cost: 25,000 seduction coins.]
Ambrose slowly lifted himself off the ground.
He swung the scythe over his head once before stamping its massive wooden shaft on the ground. Blue runic symbols pulsed along it.
Beherath’s expression switched to agitation. "Another toy?"
Ambrose didn’t answer.
Instead, he brought the scythe’s blade to the ground, letting it scrape against it harshly. Ghostly howls echoed around him as he dragged his feet forward, letting himself get used to the weapon’s weight.
"I guess you could call it a toy." He deadpanned. "But I doubt you’ll feel that way once I’ve decimated you—down to your very soul."
The Orc king growled.
He shot forward with his halberd, the ground trembling with each step he took.
This time Ambrose didn’t let himself feel threatened.
He met the halberd’s might with his scythe, blocking slash after slash from the orc king. They moved through the throne room like lightning, exchanging strikes, both testing the other’s strength.
Any orc in the way either gave them space or got hacked down by Ambrose’s scythe. Their souls then rose only a few seconds later.
’The aura of death appears stronger around him.’ Beherath mused. ’How? If he had such a weapon I should’ve sensed it all this while.’
Right when Ambrose was about to swing the blade at his head he teleported until he was several meters away.
But then he noticed he got cut across his chest—just a flesh wound. Or so it seemed.
[Target’s soul taking damage from cut.]
Ambrose’s lips curled into a faint, predatory smile as he watched the notification flicker across his vision.
The scythe felt alive in his grip, humming with an ancient hunger that resonated deep in his bones.
He planted his feet wider, aether flaring around him like a storm, crackling with blue flames that licked at the edges of his form. Frost began to seep from the ground beneath him, turning patches of the throne room’s stone into glittering sheets of ice.
"Give your life willingly, Beherath," Ambrose said, his voice low and steady. "It’ll be easier that way. For both of us."
The Orc King threw his head back and roared, a guttural bellow that shook dust from the rafters. Rage twisted his tusked features as he charged again, halberd swinging in a wide arc that could split mountains.
The air warped around him with raw aether—crackling bolts of emerald energy lancing forward like spears of pure fury. One bolt grazed Ambrose’s shoulder, searing through his outfit and drawing a hiss of pain, but he didn’t slow.
This time, Ambrose went all out.
He spun the Grave Keeper’s Scythe in a fluid arc, its blade trailing ghostly wails as it sliced not just air, but the fabric of souls around them.
Blue flames erupted along the weapon’s edge, merging with frost in a deadly cascade that flash-froze the incoming aether bolts mid-flight. They shattered like brittle glass.
Ambrose lunged forward, meeting the halberd’s next strike head-on. The clash sent sparks and soul-fragments flying, the scythe’s obsidian blade biting deep into the halberd’s haft.
While he duelled the king, Ambrose’s free hand flicked outward. Necromantic tendrils of shadow snaked across the floor, latching onto the fallen orcs who’d been hacked down moments earlier.
Their bodies twitched, eyes flickering with unholy blue light as they rose—clumsy at first, then surging into the fray.
One reanimated warrior barreled into a cluster of living orcs, tearing throats with frost-encrusted claws.
Ambrose didn’t even glance their way; he was too busy weaving through Beherath’s assault.
An orc captain lunged at Ambrose’s flank while he parried the king; the blade whipped around in a backhand, severing the brute’s arm and drawing out a spectral echo of his soul.
The orc crumpled, screaming as his very life force withered. Seconds later, he stood again, joining the growing undead horde that now swarmed the throne room’s edges.
Ambrose slaughtered them methodically even as he fought Beherath—frost exploding from his feet to slow groups of reinforcements, blue flames roaring out in wide cones that reduced armour to slag and flesh to ash.
All while his scythe clashed and clanged against the halberd in a deadly dance.
Beherath wasn’t done though. The Orc King channelled more aether, slamming his free fist into the ground. A shockwave of energy rippled outward, cracking the frozen stones and forcing Ambrose to leap skyward.
Beherath hurled a barrage of aether lances, each one humming with primal power. Ambrose twisted mid-air, scythe spinning like a rotor.
The blade absorbed the impacts, souls howling as it converted the energy into necrotic fuel. He descended like a comet, blue flames trailing, and drove the scythe’s tip into Beherath’s guard.
The king blocked, but the soul-cut was deeper this time.
Beherath staggered, clutching his chest where a ghostly wound bled ethereal light.
"What... sorcery is this?" He snarled, swinging wildly.
His halberd grazed Ambrose’s side, drawing hot blood, but the counter was merciless. Ambrose unleashed a point-blank frost blast from his palm, encasing Beherath’s weapon arm in ice, then followed with a scythe uppercut that carved through the king’s shoulder.
The throne room was a slaughterhouse now.
Undead orcs clashed with the living, Ambrose’s collection growing with every fallen foe.
He moved like death incarnate—slashing low to trip a trio of orcs, then igniting them with blue flames that consumed their screams.
All the while, he pressed Beherath, the scythe’s full potential on display: it phased through hasty blocks at times, nicking the soul directly, making each of the king’s movements heavier.
Beherath roared again, summoning a final aether storm overhead—crackling lightning that rained down in jagged forks.
Ambrose met it with everything: frost walls rising to deflect, blue flames spiralling into a protective vortex, and the scythe whirling to harvest the chaotic energies. One bolt struck, burning across his back, but he powered through the pain.
In a surge, he commanded his new minions to swarm the king from behind, buying the opening he needed.
With a primal shout of his own, Ambrose swung the Grave Keeper’s Scythe in a devastating overhead arc.
The blade connected with Beherath’s neck, slicing clean through armour, flesh, and soul in one horrific motion. The Orc King’s eyes widened in shock, his roar cutting off into a gurgle as his massive body toppled forward.
Blood pooled across the icy floor, mixing with the remnants of his aether.
Ambrose stood over the corpse, breathing hard, scythe dripping with spectral residue.
"Not bad, big guy," he muttered, a mocking edge to his voice. "You put up a hell of a fight. Almost made me break a sweat."
He didn’t waste time.
Channelling his necromancy, Ambrose extended his hand, soul manipulation weaving through the air like threads of midnight.
Beherath’s body convulsed, rising with the same blue glow in his eyes as the others. The fallen orcs around them followed suit, ranks swelling into a proper undead army—dozens strong now, silent and obedient, weapons at the ready.
They formed up behind him, a chilling legion of former enemies.
The throne room trembled violently just then, cracks spiderwebbing across the walls and ceiling. Dust and debris rained down.
With a grinding groan, a section of the far wall behind the throne slid open, revealing a dark passage lit by faint, flickering runes.
An exit, just as the structure threatened to collapse around them.
Ambrose hefted his scythe onto his shoulder, glancing at his growing collection with a satisfied nod.
"Time to move..."
