Opening Orestes's diary would reveal the source of his supreme confidence: the next burial chamber was a true sanctuary of death where living souls were forbidden to tread, impassable even to legendary figures.
"December, Year 1407 of the New Calendar. Clear skies."
"This marks my second year as a great immortal. Having torn free from the shackles of mortality, everything has become utterly sublime."
"Yet... hidden perils remain."
"I require a superior method to safeguard my phylactery. To that end, I purchased thirty-five female elves from the black market, laid curses upon them, and transformed them into banshees—"
"I watched with my own eyes as they struggled, wailed, their flesh rotting and their minds unraveling until death took them, turning them into undead horrors. In the end, twenty-seven survived the transformation."
"Ah... what fascinating undead creatures they are. Incapable of experiencing joy, left with nothing but the torment of existence, yet still coveting the beauty they possessed in life."
"Fortune favored me; my experiment succeeded. I sealed the remaining twenty-seven banshees inside a bottle, condemning them to eternal imprisonment, where their sorrowful shrieks will never cease—the Bottle of Banshee's Wail."
"Heh, from now on, not a single living soul shall ever leave this place alive."
Wail of the Banshee.
Mages regarded it as "one of the most terrifying ninth-circle spells." The shriek it unleashed produced immense negative energy capable of rending a soul to shreds.
Yet Orestes had made this very ninth-circle spell permanent, enshrining it in the deepest chamber of the tomb to protect his precious phylactery.
Gazing at the scrying projection upon the crystal skull, Orestes fixed his hollow stare on the man about to enter the chamber, muttering in a raspy whisper, "Taste death... you arrogant mortal."
"Hehehe..."
***
"So this is the Tomb of the End."
"In my past life, I only heard tales of its reputation. To think I'd step inside it now."
Cassius wiped away the dust clinging to the stone door, gazing at the revealed holy symbol of a bone skull with a soft sigh of nostalgia.
In his previous life, players had finally pushed through the excruciating ordeal of the Death Corridor, convinced they were about to taste the sweet fruits of victory.
Yet the moment they shoved the stone doors open, the ninth-circle spell Wail of the Banshee laid them low, wiping out their entire raid once more.
Only after someone devised a strategy using soulless constructs to shatter the Bottle of Banshee's Wail were players finally able to set foot into the chamber.
"Fascinating thing."
Cassius narrowed his eyes. With the aid of his Cataclysmic Dragon Eye, his gaze pierced straight through the stone slab, spotting the crystal bottle beyond and the twenty-seven banshees trapped within.
It was a legendary-grade artifact. The instant a living creature drew near, the imprisoned banshees would unleash their wail, tearing the intruder's soul to shreds.
He rested his hand lightly against the stone door.
"Just like that... just like that..."
"Foolish, ignorant mortal..."
"Push open the gate to death and embrace your end!"
Watching through the magical scrying projection, the lich urged him on anxiously, wishing he could teleport there this instant to throw the door open himself.
Yet the unexpected occurred. The man curled his fingers slightly, and within the burial chamber, a shimmering, claw-shaped force field materialized out of nowhere, snatching up the crystal bottle containing the banshees.
"No—!"
"What is he doing?!"
"Impossible! How could he have known?!"
The lich roared frantically in his mind.
An instant later, something even more harrowing unfolded before Orestes's eyes—the shimmering claw tore a rift through empty space, vanished into thin air, and carried the bottle along with it.
It was stolen!
The trap he had painstakingly designed over decades had just been stolen!
The lich's withered hand trembled faintly, the twin ghostly flames dancing fitfully in his hollow sockets. He realized the situation had turned dire.
Reaching for a bone staff on the rack, Orestes prepared to cast a teleportation spell to travel directly to the Tomb of the End.
Yet to his utter horror, he discovered that the space surrounding the tomb was severed and sealed.
"Damn it!"
"Why can't I cast my spell?!"
The lich descended into complete madness.
Dense necromantic mist billowed from his skull, and the flames in his eye sockets flared violently.
Yet even after exhausting all his power, Orestes could not break through. He could only watch helplessly as the man stepped into the sanctum concealing his phylactery.
"No, he won't find my phylactery..."
"My design is foolproof."
"And... and I still have my final arrangement! This human will never see it coming! He will die!"
Orestes gnashed his teeth in fury.
This was no empty bravado. The lich had indeed prepared for the worst-case scenario, taking every conceivable precaution.
Within the Tomb of the End rested a sub-legendary staff, placed as bait to draw attention and trick adventurers into believing they had claimed the 'ultimate reward,' prompting them to leave.
His phylactery, on the other hand, was hidden inside an inconspicuous secret chamber. One had to remove the paintings hanging along the walls in a precise sequence to unseal the hidden door.
More importantly, three beholders guarded the secret chamber. Summoning them had cost him a staggering number of souls, and their two-hundred-year term of service was nearing its end, meaning they would soon return to their home plane.
The lich had assumed he would never need to rely on this final contingency across those two centuries, never anticipating that disaster would strike today.
Greedy, hateful aberrations, beholders were the ultimate nightmare of any spellcaster. Their central eye projected an antimagic field, while their smaller eye stalks could unleash petrification, sleep, charm, and various other deadly rays.
Orestes was certain that anyone ambushed by three beholders in such confined quarters would meet a gruesome end.
***
Inside the Tomb of the End.
Within a massive stone sarcophagus lay the skeletal remains of that Elder of Doom, resembling an avatar of Myrkul himself.
Paintings hung along the walls, depicting men, women, and children in various stages of death and decay.
Cassius picked up the staff resting on the sacrificial altar and gave it an idle flick. Dark-green energy surged forth immediately.
"Not bad..."
"A staff capable of casting an eighth-circle spell. This must be that 'artifact' players talked about in my past life."
It was a sub-legendary Staff of Withering, capable of casting Blight at the eighth circle to siphon an enemy's life force and wither their flesh.
"And these paintings..."
Cassius chuckled softly and snapped his fingers. The oil paintings detached and dropped from the walls in a precise sequence.
Immediately after, accompanied by a deep rumbling, a hidden door appeared in the corner, revealing a path into a pitch-black inner sanctum.
"He really found it..."
"That human must know something. Could he be one of their remnants...?"
"No matter... Mortal, bearing witness to an immortal's phylactery will be your final honor! You shall die amidst the derisive laughter of beholders!"
The lich's body trembled violently, a tense expression surfacing upon his withered features. Despite the madness in his words, his desperation revealed just how much he prized his phylactery.
That was the very source of a lich's immortality!
Cassius descended the stone stairs step by step, entering the hidden chamber.
At last, beneath the flickering lamplight, he caught sight of the phylactery—a small jewelry box densely inscribed with warding runes.
"Made it at last."
"Though... what are those?"
Floating spherical bodies hovered in the air, their bloated central eyes glaring wide open above cavernous, toothy maws, while smaller eye stalks writhed and swiveled in all directions.
Three beholders emerged from the gloom, laughing derisively as their central eyes projected antimagic fields, converging on him from three different angles.
"Intruder!"
"Die!"
"Devour you!"
As anticipated, the man's form seemed to reel under the antimagic fields, fine motes of magical brilliance flickering and unravelling all across his body.
Watching with bated breath, the lich prayed beneath his breath, "That's it, beholders! Strip away every protective ward on that sorcerer and rip him to pieces!"
Yet what he failed to realize was that it was no defensive ward at all—it was the fourth-circle True Polymorph spell.
Boom!
A deafening roar erupted.
Stone fragments shattered outward, walls collapsed, and a dense cloud of dust surged into the air as something rapidly expanded amid the billowing debris.
Crack, snap...
When the dust finally cleared, the chamber lay in total ruins, completely collapsed. The arrogant smirks on the beholders' faces had vanished, supplanted by endless, paralyzing dread.
Before the colossal red dragon, the Tomb of the End appeared laughably cramped.
Its towering spine shattered the ceiling, crushing deep fissures across the stone, while its vast wings scraped against both side walls even when pulled tight against its flanks.
The dragon's bulk occupied the vast majority of the burial chamber.
This was no mere hyperbole, but terrifying reality.
The red dragon lowered its massive head, peeling back its lips into a savage grin, casting a suffocating shadow that swallowed the trembling beholders whole.
"I hear... you wanted to devour me?"
Chapter 398