Iscariot's first memory was of a voice, a faint whisper that seemed to call him into existence. "Iscariot," it murmured, barely audible. With each recollection, the whisper grew louder until it became a commanding force that thrust him into being. He found himself crawling out from the tangled roots of a great tree, his body emerging into the world with a sense of urgency.

  Surrounding him were freshly created lizardmen, primitive beings struggling to stand and walk. They were like newborns, their eyes confused as they attempted to make sense of their surroundings. Iscariot, too, was filled with the instinct to survive, learn, and adapt. The grove was a place of beginnings, a cradle of life where he, like the others, had to learn to navigate his new existence.

  The voice returned to Iscariot frequently, becoming his constant companion and teacher. It was a maternal presence, instructing him in the basics of language and the mysteries of magic. "This is how you speak," it would say, guiding him through the sounds and meanings of words. "This is what you eat," it instructed, pointing out the fruits, plants, and small creatures that were safe to consume. It also warned him, “Avoid these,” indicating the poisonous flora and dangerous predators lurking in the shadows.

  The voice was not just a teacher; it was a protector. It told him who to avoid, steering him clear of certain lizardmen and other beings that roamed the grove. Stay away from them, it warned, instilling a sense of caution in him.

  One of the most crucial lessons was leaving the grove early. You must go before Zavet, the voice urged, referring to the largest and strongest among the lizardmen. Zavet was a formidable figure, but the voice insisted that Iscariot's destiny lay beyond the confines of the grove. He never questioned the voice's wisdom; to him, it was an unquestionable authority, a maternal figure he trusted implicitly.

  Iscariot never questioned the voice's identity. To him, it was his mother, a source of soothing words and encouragement. The voice calmed him with gentle reassurances when he was frightened or uncertain. You are strong, Iscariot. You have a great purpose.

  The teachings extended beyond the immediate needs of survival. The voice imparted to him the secrets of the undead, knowledge that surpassed even the most skilled lords of necromancy. The dead are not to be feared, it taught him. "They are a source of power, a tool for those who know how to wield it."

  This knowledge sets Iscariot apart from his peers. While the other lizardmen were learning to hunt and gather, Iscariot was delving into the arcane arts, guided by the wisdom of his unseen mother. He practiced the incantations and rituals, feeling the surge of power that came with mastering the dark arts.

  The time came for Iscariot to leave the grove. The voice had prepared him well, instilling the knowledge and skills he needed to survive in the world beyond. Go now, it urged. Your path lies elsewhere.

  Iscariot obeyed, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He knew his destiny was out there, waiting for him to claim it. The grove had been his birthplace, but it was not his home. His home was somewhere beyond, where he could fully realize his potential and fulfill the purpose that the voice had hinted at.

  As he stepped away from the familiar trees and the primitive lizardmen, Iscariot felt a sense of loss but also a sense of liberation. He was leaving behind the only life he had known, guided by the voice that had been his constant companion. But he was also stepping into a world of endless possibilities, armed with knowledge and power that set him apart.

  After leaving the grove, Iscariot traveled toward the graveyards, where heroic souls lay buried. These were no ordinary graveyards; they were sacred resting places imbued with dense, raw, necromantic magic. The voice had instructed him to go there to amass an army, promising him the power he needed to fulfill his destiny.

  However, these graveyards were heavily guarded by the kingdom's army. Soldiers were stationed there specifically to prevent necromancers from desecrating the graves. The voice's guidance was crucial as it led Iscariot through hidden paths and dense forests, ensuring he remained unseen by the kingdom's patrols. You must be cautious, she warned him. The kingdom's soldiers are vigilant and will not hesitate to strike you down if they sense your intent.

  Iscariot moved silently through the forest, his senses heightened, and his mind focused on the task ahead. The voice directed his every step, guiding him through routes that kept him out of sight. Turn here, she would whisper. Hide in the shadows. Move quickly but quietly. Her instructions were clear and precise, ensuring that Iscariot avoided detection.

  The forest was thick and treacherous, with twisted roots and low-hanging branches that could easily trip or scratch an unwary traveler. But Iscariot was agile, his movements fluid and deliberate. He had learned to trust the voice implicitly, knowing that her guidance was his best chance of reaching the graveyards undetected.

  As he traveled, Iscariot could feel the power of the necromantic energies growing stronger. It was a palpable force, thrumming beneath the earth's surface and vibrating in the air around him. The closer he got to the graveyards, the more intense the sensation became. It was as if the ground was alive with ancient power, waiting to be harnessed.

  Finally, he reached the outskirts of the graveyards. He could see the faint glow of the protective wards the kingdom had placed around the area, and he could hear the occasional clink of armor as soldiers patrolled the perimeter.

  The voice whispered, " Remember what I have taught you." You must disable the wards and neutralize the guards without drawing attention to yourself. Use the knowledge I have given you.

  He nodded, even though he knew she couldn't see him. He waited until nightfall when the darkness would provide the needed cover. As the moon rose, he crept closer to the wards, using his magic to blend into the shadows. He extended his senses, feeling the intricate weave of the wards' magic. With careful precision, he began to unravel them, using the techniques the voice had taught him.

  One by one, the wards fell, their glow dimming until completely extinguished. Now came the more dangerous part: dealing with the guards. He moved silently, his movements fluid and precise. He used his magic to cloud their minds, making them tired and disoriented. They slumped to the ground one by one, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  With the wards disabled and the guards neutralized, he finally entered the graveyards. The raw necromantic energy was overwhelming, but he felt excited. He was finally here, ready to fulfill the purpose the voice had set for him.

  Now, my child, the voice urged. "Raise the fallen heroes and make them your own. They will be the foundation of your army."

  He began the incantations, his voice low and steady. The ground trembled, and the air grew cold. The heroic souls started to rise, their spectral forms glowing with an eerie light. They were bound to his will, their eyes filled with reverence and determination.

  You have done well, the voice said, a note of pride in her tone. "But this is only the beginning. There are many challenges ahead, and you must be prepared for them. But know this: I will always be with you, guiding you every step of the way."

  He nodded, feeling a sense of purpose and resolve. With his new army at his command, he knew he was ready for whatever lay ahead. The first time Iscariot and Zavet met was on the way to the second graveyard. It was not face-to-face, but Zavet came to him through Astral projection. The voice spoke for him, the first time she had done that. It is also the first time since he came into existence that he heard his name. He thought a lot about that first encounter with Zavet. The voice seemed afraid, and she wanted Zavet away from him.

  The second graveyard proved even easier for Iscariot to conquer. The wards that protected it were intricate, but he had quickly learned how to unweave such magic. With each spell he dismantled, his confidence grew. The voice guided him, teaching him the subtleties of magical wards and how to counter them.

  There were more guards this time, but Iscariot's undead minions quickly overpowered them. The soldiers, though vigilant, were different from the combined strength of Iscariot's growing army. This time, he created an even stronger undead, flexing his magical prowess and pushing the limits of his necromantic abilities. Each new minion was a testament to his power and skill.

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  Isariot's display of power was noticed. It drew the attention of Merek, the lord of liches, a formidable figure known for his mastery of necromancy. As Iscariot worked his magic, he felt a presence approaching. The voice spoke through him, introducing him with confidence. “Merek, lord of liches. My name is Iscariot. I am--”

  Merek interrupted him, his tone dismissive. “I do not know you. I make a point of knowing all the necromancers.” His voice was commanding, carrying the weight of authority and expectation of obedience. Merek's presence was overwhelming, his power palpable.

  Before the voice could respond, Merek asserted his will over Iscariot, attempting to dominate him with a command. However, Iscariot felt nothing, no compulsion to obey. Merek's eyes narrowed as he tried again, but the result was the same. Iscariot stood unaffected, defying the command of a lord of liches.

  The lord of liches stepped back, disbelief evident on his face. No necromancer had ever defied his voice commands. Iscariot turned to face Merek, feeling the magic within the command fizzle and fail. The voice within him surged, and his eyes began to glow a bright green, the color of necromantic power.

  Typically, greater undead had eyes that glowed red, and living necromancers did not have glowing eyes at all. But Iscariot was different, a unique blend of the living and the undead. The glow in his eyes was a testament to his power and the voice that guided him.

  Merek, stunned by Iscariot's resistance, gathered his power, readying himself for a confrontation. “What are you?” he demanded, a mix of curiosity and anger in his voice. He had never encountered a necromancer who could resist his will, let alone one who exuded such raw, untamed power.

  The voice within Iscariot responded, filled with authority and confidence. “I am Iscariot, born from the fall of the forgotten. You will not command me, Merek. Your power holds no sway over me.”

  Merek's eyes blazed with anger. “You dare defy me?” He raised his hands, summoning dark energies, ready to strike down this insolent upstart. But Iscariot stood his ground, unafraid. He channeled the necromantic energies that thrummed beneath his skin, feeling the power surge through him.

  As the confrontation reached its peak, the air crackled with dark magic. The voice within Iscariot guided him, providing him with the strength and knowledge to counter Merek's attacks. With a wave of his hand, Iscariot unleashed a torrent of necromantic energy, meeting Merek's assault head-on.

  The clash of their powers was intense, shaking the ground beneath them. Iscariot’s defiance and unique abilities gave him an edge over Merek. As their dark energies collided, Iscariot felt the strength of his magic surge, a potent force that even Merek, the lord of liches, could not withstand.

  Merek’s eyes widened in shock as he felt Iscariot’s will pressing against his own. He struggled to maintain dominance, but Iscariot’s power was relentless, a tide of necromantic energy he could not hold back. The ground around them trembled, gravestones shattering under the strain of their magical duel.

  Slowly, inexorably, Merek was driven to one knee. His expression twisted with effort and disbelief; he fought to resist the overpowering force of Iscariot’s will. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled as he attempted to summon more dark energy to fend off the assault. But Iscariot’s strength grew, fed by the raw necromantic magic that thrummed through the graveyard.

  With a final, desperate effort, Merek tried to push back, but it was too late. Iscariot’s will crushed his resistance, seizing control of the lich’s mind. Merek’s defiance melted away, replaced by a blank expression as his consciousness was overwhelmed. He was no longer a master of necromancy; he was a puppet, his strings pulled by Iscariot’s commanding hand.

  Iscariot stood over the fallen lich, his eyes still glowing with the bright green light of his necromantic power. He had done the unthinkable: overpowered the lord of liches, asserting his dominance in a realm where no one dared challenge Merek. The voice within him hummed with approval.

  As Merek knelt before him, utterly defeated, Iscariot felt a surge of triumph. He had not only survived but had proven himself superior. The path ahead was clear—he would continue to amass power.

  “Reanimate all the heroes within this graveyard,” Iscariot commanded Merek, his voice firm. The voice within him hummed with approval, then whispered, I think it's time to test your power. Let us march on Nuri'Fon.

  Merek nodded and teleported away to carry out Iscariot’s orders. In an instant, the lich began a powerful ritual, casting a spell to raise the dead within a twenty-foot radius. Each incantation was precise, and with every wave of his hand, more corpses rose from their graves, ready to serve.

  Iscariot watched intently, absorbing the spell's intricacies. The voice guided him, helping him understand and eventually amplify the ritual. Soon, he could extend the magic to cover the entire graveyard, bringing all the heroic souls under his control.

  As the undead rose, chanting his name, a new presence intruded into Iscariot's mind. Zavet, the strongest among the lizardmen, pushed away the voice that had guided him for so long. This unexpected interruption made Iscariot momentarily falter, but he quickly regained his focus.

  Merek teleported back beside him, bowing slightly. “Master Iscariot, your legion of undead is ready,” he reported, his tone respectful. Iscariot looked at the vast army he had raised, a sea of undead warriors standing before him, their eyes glowing with necromantic energy.

  Though pushed aside, the voice still lingered, urging him to take the next step. Iscariot knew what he had to do. He turned to his newly formed legion, his expression one of cold determination. “Go forth and kill the living,” he commanded, his voice echoing with authority.

  Iscariot felt Zavet’s presence in his mind, pushing against the voice that had guided him for so long. Summoning his will, he directed his power toward Zavet, finding the task significantly more manageable than overpowering Merek. Zavet did not resist; he succumbed like an uncontrolled undead. Satisfied, Iscariot pushed Zavet's influence away, clearing his mind. The voice, however, did not return immediately.

  With his path clear and his mind focused Iscariot commanded his undead legion to march toward Nuri'Fon. The rhythmic shuffle of the undead filled the air, a chilling prelude to the chaos they intended to unleash. Merek, now firmly under Iscariot's control, moved beside him, an imposing figure symbolizing the power Iscariot now wielded.

  As they neared the outskirts of Nuri'Fon, the city loomed in the distance, its walls standing tall against the horizon. The anticipation of the impending conquest hung heavy in the air. Iscariot could feel the necromantic energies swirling around him, feeding his strength and resolve.

  Finally, just as they were about to launch their attack, the voice returned, its presence a familiar and comforting guide. Wait, she instructed, her tone filled with urgency and purpose. I have an ancient but powerful spell we can cast on the townspeople. Then, we can kill a few and spread a necrotic disease.

  Iscariot paused, absorbing her words. The voice had never steered him wrong before, and he trusted her judgment implicitly. “What must I do?” he asked, his mind shifting gears to accommodate this new plan. Merek had instructed him to have the undead bury themselves.

  The voice detailed the spell, its intricacies, and its dark origins. “This spell will weave through the very essence of the townspeople, making them susceptible to necrotic magic. Once infected, the disease will spread rapidly, turning the living undead.”

  Iscariot began the incantation, his hands weaving the complex patterns necessary to cast the spell. The air around him shimmered with dark energy, and a faint green light emanated from his eyes, intensifying as the spell took shape. Merek stood by, ready to assist if needed, but this was Iscariot’s moment.

  With a final flourish, Iscariot unleashed the spell. Tendrils of necromantic magic snaked through the air, penetrating the city’s walls and seeping into the bodies of its inhabitants. Unaware of the impending doom, the townspeople continued their daily routines, oblivious to the dark magic taking hold of them.

  Satisfied with the spell's initial spread, Iscariot turned to Merek. “Now, we begin the second phase. Select a few targets and kill them. Their deaths will activate the necrotic disease.”

  Merek nodded and teleported into the city, selecting key individuals and ending their lives with swift, precise strikes. As each body fell, the necrotic disease began to spread, fueled by the dark magic Iscariot had cast. The townspeople started showing signs of the infection, their flesh turning gray and their movements sluggish.

  Within hours, the disease had spread throughout Nuri'Fon. Once vibrant and full of life, the city's inhabitants were now shambling corpses bound to Iscariot’s will. He watched with satisfaction as his army of undead grew, bolstered by the newly risen dead.

  As the undead marched through Nuri'Fon, Iscariot felt a surge of triumph. The voice within him whispered praise, reinforcing his belief in his destined greatness. With each step, the city fell deeper into his grasp, its living inhabitants either succumbing to the necrotic plague or joining the ranks of the undead.

  Iscariot stood at the forefront of his legion, his eyes glowing with the bright green light of his necromantic power. The voice, now a constant presence once more, guided him, her wisdom and strength ever-present. Together, they would conquer Nuri'Fon and any city that stood in their way.

  That's how he felt until Mah’nethotep and Talich jumped from the palace's roof. “Who commands you?" Talich said, with authority in his voice, attempting to force Iscariot to reveal his commander. Iscariot resisted Talich's attempts.

  Iscariot noticed that both men possessed the formidable power of necromancy. While Talich was no match for Iscariot, Mah’nethotep proved to be an insurmountable adversary, defying all of Iscariot's attempts to defeat him. When Mah’nethotep shook his head and spoke, he made it clear that he was neither undead nor considered a necromancer. Instead, he claimed to be the very creator of the magic Iscariot was using, stating, "My name is Mah’nethotep." His name alone exuded a commanding air of respect.

  As Iscariot ventured forth, he sensed the voice reacting in a manner he had never experienced. It was not fear for who he was but rather a fear for something else. Perhaps it was not even fear but rather an apprehension of what was. The voice warned Iscariot, saying, "Don't let him touch you. He will sever our connection."Iscariot noticed that both men had the power of necromancy. Talich was no match for Iscariot, but Mah’nethotep proved impossible to defeat, no matter how hard Iscariot tried. Mah’nethotep shook his head and said, “I'm not undead nor considered a necromancer. I am the creator of the magic you are using. My name is Mah’nethotep.”

  His name alone commanded respect. Iscariot could feel the voice react like he had never felt before. It wasn't fear for who he was, but her fear was for something else. Maybe it was not fear but fear of what was. The voice told Iscariot, "Don't let him touch you. He will sever our connection."

  As Iscariot stood among the fallen, savoring his victory, Mah’nethotep suddenly launched a powerful mental assault on him. The force of Mah’nethotep's will was unlike anything Iscariot had ever encountered. It was a torrent of raw power, an unyielding pressure that threatened to crush his consciousness. Alone, Iscariot knew he could not withstand this onslaught.

  But he was not alone.