Spectral Arena: A Dark Fantasy LitRPG Light Novel
Spectral Arena
A Dark Fantasy LitRPG Light Novel
Wolfe Locke
Fantasy Unlimited Publishing Group
Contents
Title Page
Introduction
Other Books By The Author
Other Books And UPCOMING Books By Fantasy Unlimited Publishing Group
Prologue: A Meeting in Pandemonium
Chapter 1: Champion of the Dark Lord
Chapter 2: The Starting Kit
Chapter 3: The Change Within
Chapter 4: The Goatmen
Chapter 5: The Other Champions
Chapter 6: The Bloodying
Chapter 7: The Magic Within
Chapter 8: The Lingering Power
Chapter 9: A Group Battle
Chapter 10: Scorpions
Chapter 11: Aftermath
Chapter 12: The Item Shop
Chapter 13: Reunited
Chapter 14: The Hero’s Soul
Chapter 15: The Duel
Chapter 16: Be Prepared
Chapter 17: The Animal
Chapter 18:The Next Wave
Chapter 19: The Armored Demon
Chapter 20: Favor For A Lord
Chapter 21: The Rematch
Afterword
Want More LitRPG
Introduction
This title was original published as "The Skeletal Champion". It has since seen extensive revisions. It is a stand alone novel set in the Pandemonium Universe. You will see the characters shown herein again.
Other Books By The Author
The Retired S Ranked Adventurer, I, II, III, & Beyond
The Genesis Game: Volume I, II, & Beginnings
Apocalypse Hero
True John Crusade
The New World Adventurers of John
Tower of Ruin
The Hollow Blade
Arcane Summoner
Dungeon of the Old Gods
Otherworld: The Forgotten King
Other Books And UPCOMING Books By Fantasy Unlimited Publishing Group
The Dungeon Shop
This Cursed Sword is E Ranked
Mana Harvest
The S Ranked Magic Girl
Prologue: A Meeting in Pandemonium
In a room constructed of blackest obsidian, Eldritch fire burned in torches gleaming off the walls as the Shadow Council convened in the heart of Pandemonium. Four of their members waited for the return of a fifth.
Footsteps echoed down the hall as Mr. Black, the long awaited fifth member, entered and took his seat at the table before announcing tiredly, "It is done. Per our last discussion, Helion has forfeited his seat and his title. A suitable replacement is being groomed as we speak to steal his essence and replace him as the master of Afterlife. What has been done cannot be undone."
At the head of the table, Mr. Light nodded in approval. "No, it cannot, but that is our way. Let us turn towards the first order of business, and then we will circle back to that. I would like to introduce Amarath's chosen, the vessel who has inherited his power."
Mr. Black turned and looked towards the far end of the table to see a pale man step through a portal from the mortal realm to join them. The man's face was crisscrossed by scars as if his very skin had been sewn together in grafts of scar tissue and bonded with black steel. Protruding through the man's blue scale armor, Mr. Black could see two mounded stubs of scar tissue where wings had once been.
"This is the candidate?" Mr. Black asked curiously as an uncommon feeling of anxiety struck him at the oddity of the situation. As creatures of eternity, it was not common for their members to be replaced, he himself had replaced the immortal Wednesday, but that had been nearly a millennia ago. Yet, here they were voting to replace one of their own and working to replace another. "What of Amarath then?"
The scarred man answered. "His spirit lives within me, slumbering and regenerating. His true body, the world dungeon, was heavily damaged. Just like how my own body was torn asunder during our fight with Aeon. The outcome of the battle was poor for us. Even without the drain of the travel through time, Aeon would have still been beyond us."
"Poor indeed, and an ill omen for the future. Amarath was quite as powerful as were you in your own right. I know of you." Mr. Black answered with a nod. "They called you a tyrant, did they not? The murderer. The Black Seraph, the man from the future. I understand that you've taken over the function of the dungeon until Amarath awakens. Do you believe a hero capable of slaying Aeon can be cultivated on those floors?"
The man paused and shook his head no. "When Amarath was at his full power, I was the strongest among humanity to pass through the floors of his dungeon. I consumed, just as he did, millions of lives to gain my power. That power wasn't enough. My fight with Aeon lasted seconds at best before I was forced to retreat.”
“My wings were torn from my body, never to heal. Much of our mutual power has been used to spread the influence of his dungeon to raise up humanity. There will be no savants among them, though I am confident we can produce soldiers and have places to expand using the dungeon seed.”
From the other side of the table, still wearing her full battle regalia of full plate armor, Ms. Blue spoke up as her aura glowed gold as she looked at the scarred man as if seeing firsthand the truth of his story firsthand. She was Scrying. "So, you have faced Aeon himself and lived to tell the tale. The proof is in those scars where wings used to be. I vote to confirm. You will be a valuable asset to our group. It's a yes from me."
The confirmation of Ms. Blue was followed up by a confirmation by Mr. Green, then Mr. Light, then Mr. Black. The only one who had said nothing was the oldest among them, Mr. Sunday, who spoke up in a low and calm voice. "I'll provisionally allow it. Amarath was one of the true immortals like myself. I have fought alongside his chosen in battle under a different name when summoned. I grant you a new title. From this day forward, your former name of Seraph is no more. You shall henceforth be known as Mr. November. Sit back down and take your rightful place among us."
"Now, Mr. Black, tell us of the candidate to replace Helion," Mr. Sunday ordered. "How long do you think it will take? Things move in the outside world slowly, but we do not have the luxury of time."
Mr. Black raised his hand in acknowledgment. "It is not uncommon for any of us to establish a tower, dungeon, or labyrinth. Indeed, it's even encouraged like in Ms. Blue's Arcanasium, but Helion's Tower is a perversion of that. It’s an abomination he keeps as a toy in his palace. I've seen it myself. In there, I found the candidate."
"How has he perverted Afterlife?" Mr. Green asked with concern, both for himself and for the group, wondering what crime Helion had committed.
"The tower is infinite." Mr. Black answered. "There is no top, and when the last of his climbers die, he resurrects them in waves to try again. A cursed existence for those trapped within it. But that was not his crime. He has failed in his duties to prepare for Aeon. He kills climbers for sport rather than preparing for our war. He has lost the mandate of his title and, with it, his name."
"So, who will replace him? One of those Wraiths he keeps as pets?" Ms. Blue asked skeptically, "I've my doubts, cousin, that you've somehow managed to go about finding a suitable candidate among that wretched lot that he found wandering between the stars."
Mr. Black shook his head. "No, not one of his Wraiths. I meant among the souls he's stolen for himself, his climbers. I managed to reach the last of them before the group's complete wipe and right before the tower reset. If all goes to plan, one of them should replace Helion. I've given them an artifact I've claimed allows time travel. Instead, it will
allow one of them to retain their memories and a way to subvert the Wraiths to our own ends."
Mr. Sunday paused in contemplation before responding. "That is good. Keep me updated on the progress. However, we still need more soldiers. To our newly appointed member, Mr. Sunday, I task you to forge as many warriors as you can. If we cannot count on either the tower or the dungeon for the production of Elites, we must look elsewhere. Mr. Light, what of your ventures in Otherworld?"
Mr. Light shook his head. "It goes slowly, but I believe it will produce candidates who will be useful lieutenants and captains in the war to come, stronger than all but us. Though, how many will be produced this way, I do not know. The Forgotten King of that realm has been amicable."
"I've got a proposition," declared Mr. Green as they all turned to look at the armored demon lord. "The Gehenna Pits feed directly into the Well of Souls. As they are removed from the cycle of reincarnation, I can take a portion of those souls and craft an arena for those long dead warriors and bind them to our cause."
"What of Ouroboros then? Can he be restrained in your absence?" Mr. Sunday asked with a thought towards the infinite and all-consuming entity that Mr. Green was tasked with maintaining.
"I believe so." Mr. Green continued, explaining bluntly, "But not forever, though forever can wait on the pending war with Aeon. For now, he contents himself with wars and empires in the world he has created within his cage."
"So be it then," Mr. Sunday responded as he moved to adjourn the meeting. "You all have your missions. Meet back here in two weeks and plan on meeting every two weeks until our council is whole again."
Chapter 1: Champion of the Dark Lord
Mr. Green returned from the Spectral Council's meeting in Pandemonium, and with his return, took up his true identity of the Dark Lord Zekant, the icy ruler of the Great Empty. In his frozen castle deep in the Nether, Zekant stared down at the souls whirling within the Well of Souls, fed by the Gehenna Pits that had been scattered throughout the realms by the other members of the Spectral Council.
He leaned close. His glacial armor gleamed in the flickering green light emanating from the spirits’ wispy bodies in the Well as he contemplated which one to choose, which one would be his next warrior. Which one he would raise to be a champion. Which one, indeed.
Tortured souls, all of them having been removed from the cycle of reincarnation. Heroes, monsters, victims, and villains alike, the variety and options to choose from were near boundless. Now, they were but spirits that circled endlessly in the Well, weeping in soundless misery until Zekant began to speak whispers to them of what was to come.
Zekant took his time, truly contemplating his choices. The Path of Graves awaited them once more. Whoever it was that he chose to raise up would compete, testing their mettle to prove him right or wrong. The battle of warrior against warrior in the Arena was an important one. The great war was approaching, and with it, the need for an elite army of soldiers and minions.
The other rulers of Pandemonium would be watching his progress with interest, looking for any sign of weakness, and eagerly awaiting the opportunity to seize upon it. With the coming of Aeon, it was expected to not show anything but strength. Survival demanded it.
After some time, Zekant saw what he was looking for. He reached a mailed hand into the Well and dragged out a blackened soul by the neck. It flickered through forms. First, a blurred face, then a sun-bleached skeleton as it tried to wriggle out of Zekant’s clutches. The Soul’s efforts were futile. With a firm grasp on the spirit, Zekant moved to the great stone table where three cards were already laid out and waiting for him.
He said a word of power, and black ice crackled from his hand, freezing the soul in place. He put the soul on the table, chaining it down with restraints he had conjured from the ether. The soul shrieked and tried to break free, but Zekant held it fast.
Chuckling darkly at the terror of the spirit, Zekant turned his attention to the downward facing cards pulled from the Destiny Deck to determine how he would resurrect the soul and held a mailed glove over the cards as they began to glow.
He turned the first card over. Death. A skeleton dancing with a scythe, its eyes consisting of cold blue flames. The spirit on the table screamed in agony, but Zekant paid it no mind.
He turned the second card over. Death again, in a heavy black robe, holding his hand out to a beautiful maiden as she slumped lifeless to the ground. The spirit started to thrash, screeching louder than before, as Zekant turned over the last card.
For the third time, the Death card appeared. This time, Death was a dreadful ruler on a throne of broken iron. Three visages of Death grinned up at Zekant from the table, their ice-blue eyes seeming to dance with mirth at the prospect of the fight ahead.
“Yes,” Zekant said to himself as the spirit writhed before him. “This one will do nicely.”
The Dark Lord breathed in deeply, gathering his power within him. The air hummed with electricity as black sparks crackled around him. Zekant let his ice magic flow through him, feeling invincible as the raw power poured out of him. The cards had shown him everything he needed to know.
In life, this soul bound on the table had been the necromancer Xanthus. A man damned for eternity for his unholy work. His slain body was thrown into a Gehenna Pit by the long-forgotten hero who had killed him. He had raised undead armies for corrupt kings and emperors, glutting himself on the riches he received in exchange.
Xanthus’ pleasure palace of red and black marble had been famous throughout the known world, as had the diabolical feasts and orgies he had hosted there. In the end, Xanthus’ gluttony had what killed him, his appetites drawing the attention of heroes.
Zekant raised his arms and spoke another word of power. Black lightning shot from his hands and enveloped the spirit in the cracking blue fire of the Nether. Xanthus shrieked in pain, trying to escape from the ice bonds that held him fast to the table. Zekant chuckled in amusement at the spirit’s pain. In the Great Empty, the pain of the souls he possessed only made him stronger. He could feel his power growing as the spirit’s agony grew.
Slowly, Xanthus started to change, his wispy body solidifying into a corporeal form. Instead of a ghostly spirit, a skeleton writhed on the table, ice-blue eyes aflame, jaw clacking open and shut as it tried to scream and found itself unable to do so without vocal cords. Zekant frowned. This would not do at all.
He said three words in quick succession, and suddenly, the air was pierced with the skeleton’s screams. The Dark Lord had given the creature a magical voice.
“Enough!” Zekant boomed in annoyance. “I’ve given you life, do not force me to take it from you so quickly.”
The skeleton fell silent. The flames of its eyes danced in its head, watching Zekant warily out of an abundance of caution.
“You are lucky,” Zekant said. “You have been chosen for the Spectral Arena I will create and to fight in the great war against the God Aeon. If you do well, you will redeem yourself in the eyes of the Lords of Pandemonium and be returned to the cycle of reincarnation. If you do poorly, you will be cast into the farthest reaches of the Nether into oblivion.”
“Master,” the skeleton mewled. “I—”
“Silence! You are my slave now! I do not allow my slaves to speak to me unbidden,” Zekant snapped as a massive bolt of power began to form in his mauled fist.
The skeleton shut its mouth, fear of oblivion guiding its movements.
“Much better,” Zekant said. “You are no longer Xanthus. That is a name lost to time and the forgotten ages. You will now be called Edd the Conqueror. May you prove worthy of the name.”
The newly-christened Edd nodded mutely, unsure of his newfound fate.
“You will train for battle in the Arena. In my generosity, I have granted you a small portion of my power. A seed to grow within you in hopes of something worthwhile to bloom. If you fight with honor, I will bestow more of it upon you.”
Edd nodded again. A spark of iced lightning da
nced across his skeletal fingers. A light that cast blue into the darkness of the Great Empty.
“One last thing,” Zekant said. He raised his arm as his blue armor shone with heavy runes and enchantments. Blood-red lightning erupted from his hand and fingertips. The lightning completely enveloped Edd in a whirlwind of fire as the inferno rebuilt and remade the skeleton in dark baptism. When the fire vanished, the skeleton’s eyes had turned red. Edd roared with bloodlust and rage.
“I’ve also given you a vampiric aspect. Your desperate need for blood will make you stronger and more terrifying in battle. If you succeed, I will make many more like you. Pray that you serve me well. I have bonded a system to your soul, much like what my brethren have used in their towers and dungeons, to assist with your growth. Do not fail me.”
Chapter 2: The Starting Kit
Notification: You have been granted a Vampiric Aspect.
Specific subtype – Bloodlust