The Glitched Mage-Chapter 95: Spectral Forging

Riven left the Sanctum of the Abyss, his mind turning over Nyx's words. A key. A threshold. A risk. He didn't like unknowns, not when it came to abyssal magic. He would give Nyx time to study the runes, but that didn't mean he would sit idle.

There were other things he needed to test.

His footsteps carried him back through the winding halls of the Necromancy Temple, past murmuring students and scholars, until he reached the Hall of Mastery. The air here thrummed with structured power, a stark contrast to the untamed abyssal force in the Sanctum.

Inside, the elite necromancers were honing their craft. Some practiced soul-binding, weaving spirits into enchanted armor and weapons. Others shaped abyssal constructs, fine-tuning their control over pure energy. And a few—those with the most refined mastery—were performing spectral forging.

That was what caught Riven's eye.

At the far end of the chamber, a necromancer stood before a summoning circle, hands outstretched. The runes beneath him pulsed as he focused, his mana latching onto the lingering remnants of the dead. A faint wail echoed through the room as a spirit—half-formed and writhing—was dragged from the abyss.

Riven watched as the necromancer forced the ghoul-like entity into submission. The spirit screeched, its form flickering as its will was crushed beneath the weight of the caster's mana. Then, the true forging began.

The necromancer's hands twisted, manipulating the wraith's essence like molten metal. The spirit's body stretched, condensed, and sharpened—its formless shape molded into the form of a blade. A translucent edge gleamed in the dim torchlight, humming with bound spectral energy.

It was a weapon crafted from the very soul of the dead.

Riven's gaze flickered. Interesting.

This wasn't mere mana manipulation. This was dominion over the dead, binding them to a singular, permanent purpose. It required absolute control, an iron grip over not just abyssal energy, but the will of the spirit itself.

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His lips curled slightly.

Without a word, Riven moved to an empty summoning circle.

Nyx stirred in his shadow. "Now this I want to see."

He ignored her, stepping into the rune-inscribed ring. The technique was clear: summon, subjugate, forge.

He stretched out his hand, letting his abyssal mana seep into the runes.

A pulse.

The air grew cold.

Then—a wail.

The shadows around him trembled as a ghastly form materialized before him. The wraith shuddered violently, its form flickering between a humanoid outline and an amorphous swirl of mist. Its hollow eyes locked onto him, seething with mindless hunger.

Riven clenched his fingers.

The wraith lunged.

But Riven was faster.

His shadows lashed forward, wrapping around the spirit's form like chains. The ghoul screeched, thrashing wildly as his grip tightened.

It fought him.

Most necromancers eased spirits into submission, breaking them over time. But Riven? He crushed them.

His mana poured into the wraith, overpowering its will in an instant. The specter writhed, its movements growing sluggish as his abyssal energy devoured its defiance.

Then, he began the forging.

Riven's focus sharpened. The spirit's body twisted, shifting beneath his command. It resisted at first, but his grip never faltered. He pulled, reshaped, and refined—stretching its essence into the form of a blade.

It was like bending steel with his mind.

The wraith shrieked, its formless body stretching into something tangible.

His breath came slow and steady, his concentration absolute. Unlike shaping raw mana, this required more than control. It required unyielding dominance over the spirit's existence.

His fingers curled.

The weapon solidified.

A spectral greatsword hovered in his grasp, its form shimmering between material and ethereal. The edges glowed faintly, wisps of lingering soul-energy twisting around it like fading embers.

It wasn't just a weapon.

It was a bound soul, shackled into permanence.

Riven exhaled, flexing his fingers around the hilt.

It wasn't perfect.

The shape was stable, but he could feel the lingering remnants of resistance within the blade. The spirit hadn't been fully broken yet—it still retained fragments of its past defiance.

That wouldn't do.

With a flick of his mana, he poured abyssal energy into the weapon.

A final, strangled wail rang out—and then silence.

The greatsword stopped flickering.

It was no longer just a struggling spirit, forced into the shape of a weapon.

It was a perfect blade.

A pulse of abyssal resonance rippled through the room.

A few necromancers turned, sensing the shift in energy.

Riven lifted the weapon, turning it over in his hands. It was light, far lighter than a weapon of its size should have been, yet he could feel the sheer lethality radiating from its edge.

Nyx's voice curled through his mind, laced with quiet amusement.

"Not bad for your first attempt," she mused. "But I could do it better."

He scoffed quietly, rolling his wrist to test the balance.

Before he could analyze further, a voice cut through the air.

"You did that just now?"

Riven turned.

Kieran stood a few feet away, arms crossed. Unlike before, there was no arrogance in his posture—only curiosity, and maybe a hint of something deeper.

Riven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he swung the blade downward—and it sliced effortlessly through the stone training floor, carving a deep, smooth line.

The necromancers watching stiffened.

Finally, he looked at Kieran.

"I did."

Kieran's gaze flickered between Riven and the newly forged weapon. "Most of us take months to subjugate a spirit into a proper weapon."

Riven gave a small chuckle, "I seem to have a natural talent for necromancy."

Kieran exhaled through his nose, studying the spectral greatsword with wary interest. He took a step closer, his sharp gaze tracing the edges of the blade.

"This is beyond just talent," he muttered. "The forging, the stability—it's as if the spirit was never separate to begin with."

Riven tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his blue eyes. "I just never gave it a choice to begin with."

Kieran's expression flickered, but he said nothing. Around them, a few of the other necromancers had taken notice, whispering amongst themselves. Spectral forging was an advanced technique, something only the most disciplined could master after rigorous practice. Yet Riven had done it in a single attempt—and with a dominance that unsettled even the seasoned necromancers.

The blade still hummed in his grasp, the abyssal energy within it perfectly tamed. No lingering resistance. No echoes of the spirit that once was.

It was absolute.

He gave the greatsword a final once-over before dismissing it. The blade unraveled, its spectral essence dissolving into raw abyssal energy before vanishing entirely. The act was as effortless as if he had merely willed it out of existence.

Kieran exhaled, shaking his head. "If you plan to stay in the temple, you're going to unsettle a lot of people."

Riven gave a lazy shrug. "Then they should get used to it."

The necromancer studied him for a long moment before, to Riven's mild surprise, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Fair enough." Kieran turned away, his voice carrying a trace of something Riven hadn't expected—respect. "I look forward to seeing what you do next."

With that, he strode off, leaving the murmuring necromancers behind.

Riven watched him go, then flexed his fingers. The sensation of the forged weapon still lingered, the memory of its form imprinted on his mana. He could refine it, make it stronger. Next time, he wouldn't just forge a weapon.

He would forge something far deadlier.

Nyx hummed in agreement.

"You're learning fast," Nyx murmured, her voice laced with amusement. "It seems I should share a little secret about this technique."

Riven arched a brow. "Oh?"

"There's an old legend," she continued, her tone carrying the weight of something almost forgotten. "It's said that if a necromancer is strong enough, they can summon a spirit of immense power—one unlike any ordinary wraith. And if they succeed in forging it into a weapon… its soul remains intact."

Riven's eyes sharpened. "And what does that mean?"

Nyx's presence coiled tighter around him, her voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

"It means the weapon wouldn't just be powerful," she whispered. "It would be alive. A force beyond anything forged by mortal hands."

"And how do you know this is true?" Riven scoffed, skepticism lacing his tone. "How do you know it isn't just another fabricated legend?"

Nyx's voice curled through his mind, smooth and self-assured.

"Because…" he could hear the smirk in her words, dripping with amusement. "I happen to own a weapon just like that."

—x—

Riven stood in the mausoleum beneath the Academy, the dim glow of torches casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with residual death energy, a quiet, lingering hum that most would find suffocating.

For Riven, it was familiar.

Nyx emerged from his shadow, her form solidifying beside him. She stretched briefly, groaning as she rubbed her joints. "Gods I'm stiff from being stuffed in there all day."

Riven crossed his arms, watching her expectantly. "You said you have a weapon like the one in the legend. Show me."

Nyx sighed. "Impatient, as always."

She lifted her hand, abyssal energy swirling at her fingertips. Unlike the raw force Riven wielded, hers was different—refined, subtle, precise. Shadows coiled together, condensing into a solid form. A heartbeat later, a weapon materialized in her grasp.

A blade—sleek, obsidian-black, its edges rimmed with a faint, ghostly blue light. It wasn't just forged from abyssal energy; it radiated something deeper, something sentient. The air around it crackled, charged with an unnatural presence.

And then—it spoke.

A voice, low and smooth, echoed through the chamber.

"You haven't summoned me in quite some time, Nyx."

Riven's eyes narrowed slightly as he examined the weapon. This wasn't an ordinary spectral blade. The essence within it wasn't just bound—it was aware.

Nyx twirled the sword lazily between her fingers, her expression relaxed. "Did you miss me?" she teased.

A chuckle, quiet but amused, resonated from the blade itself. "As much as one can miss their captor."

Riven's interest sharpened. "It has a will of its own."

Nyx's obsidian eyes flickered toward him, a knowing gleam in them. "Not just a will. A soul."

She lifted the blade slightly, letting the spectral energy shimmer along its edge. "This isn't just a weapon, Riven. It was once a powerful spirit, an entity too strong to be fully erased. Instead of consuming it, I forged it into something… better."

The voice from the blade spoke again, a wry amusement lacing its tone. "Better is a matter of perspective."

Riven studied the weapon, feeling the subtle, pulsing life within it. Most necromancers broke spirits entirely, molding them into servitude. But this… this was something else. The soul inside hadn't been shattered—it had been reshaped, bound in a way that allowed it to persist.

"Does it have a name?" he asked.

Nyx smirked. "You can ask it yourself."

Riven turned his gaze to the weapon, his dark mana subtly reaching out, testing the nature of its bond.

The voice hummed, as if sensing his scrutiny. "I was called many things in life, but now… I am Erebus."

A fitting name.

Riven's fingers twitched slightly. This was a path he hadn't considered before. Spirits were usually tools, subjugated forces bent to a necromancer's will. But what if they could be more? What if, instead of breaking them completely, he refined them into something greater?

Nyx watched his expression carefully, then tilted her head. "Now do you understand? The legend isn't just a myth. If you're strong enough—if your control is absolute—you can create something like this."

Riven's mind turned over the possibilities.

This wasn't just about forging spectral weapons.

This was about wielding something with true consciousness, a bound soul that retained its power, its instincts, its knowledge.

And if a weapon like that could be forged…

His gaze flickered to Nyx. "I assume you're not just showing me this to brag."

Nyx smirked. "Hardly. I'm showing you because I believe you could forge one yourself." She twirled Erebus effortlessly in her grip before letting it dissolve back into the shadows. "But don't get ahead of yourself." Her obsidian eyes gleamed. "Even I can't maintain the blade for long without draining my mana dry. If you want to wield something like this, you'll need to become much stronger."

"You can't wield it for long?" Riven asked, his brows furrowing.

"Before the fall of the Shadow Kingdom, I could wield this blade effortlessly," Nyx murmured, her fingers tracing the air where Erebus had vanished. "But since returning from the Abyss, I've been trying to restore my mana heart." She exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "It's taking far longer than I'd like."

Silence stretched between them, the weight of her words settling in the dim mausoleum.

Then, Riven spoke, his voice measured. "Nyx… what circle are you at?"

She blinked, tilting her head slightly, as if the question hadn't even occurred to her. Then, with a small, amused smirk, she answered.

"Seventh."