Lich reborn as a magic school student

I was born amidst the rolling hills of the kingdom of Vutia, a realm where the sunsets painted the sky in hues of orange and gold, and the whispers of ancient trees filled the air. My parents, humble serfs tilling the fertile soil, could never have foreseen the extraordinary destiny that awaited their child. From the moment of my birth, it was evident that I possessed an extraordinary gift – magic flowed through my veins like a song, a melody that resonated with the very essence of the world.

It was this rare gift that caught the attention of Sir Reynald, a high-ranking knight in the kingdom. Seeing the potential in me, he adopted me into his noble family, and thus, my life became intricately woven into the tapestry of Vutia’s royal court. From the sprawling stone halls of the castle to the quiet corners of the royal gardens, I found solace in the enchanting embrace of the court.

In the 451st year since the kingdom’s inception, a momentous event transpired – the birth of Prince Edward, a child destined for greatness. I was entrusted with the honor of being his guide, a role that bound our fates together. As the years unfolded, my magical abilities flourished, and by the time I reached the age of thirty, I stood as one of the most formidable mages in the entire continent.

My days were adorned with remarkable feats. I stood as a shield against barbaric invasions that threatened our borders, faced the fiery wrath of dragons with courage, and thwarted the nefarious schemes of demon lords that dared to challenge our kingdom’s peace. Yet, amidst these grand adventures, the quietude of Vutia’s court remained my sanctuary. Unlike the bustling and hurried courts of neighboring realms, Vutia’s sanctuary stood serene, a haven of tranquility where I found my true calling.

Within the court’s hallowed halls, I discovered the profound joy of belonging – I was not merely a mage; I was family. The royal family embraced me as one of their own, their laughter echoing through the corridors like sweet music. Most of my days were spent in the company of young Prince Edward, a curious mind eager to absorb the knowledge I eagerly imparted. As I nurtured his intellect and spirit, I witnessed him blossom into a wise and splendid young man, a beacon of hope that illuminated our kingdom’s future.

In those halcyon days, Vutia’s future shone with unparalleled brightness, a promise of prosperity and peace that seemed boundless. Little did I know then that the sands of time would soon carry away this idyllic existence, sweeping me into a torrent of events that would shape my destiny in ways I could never have imagined.

In the 472nd year, a shadow fell upon our land with the rise of the formidable Habarene Empire. Swiftly, they spread their dominion across the continent, their conquests casting a long, ominous shadow that darkened even the brightest corners of our realm. By the 474th year, a third of the continent was under their ruthless control, and the echoes of their rapid advance reverberated through every kingdom.

In the 475th year, a chilling declaration of war arrived at the heart of our court, a stark proclamation of imminent doom. We, the defenders of Vutia, stood resolute, our hearts intertwined with the fate of our homeland. For four grueling years, we fought valiantly, our determination unyielding even in the face of overwhelming odds. Yet, the gods, in their capricious ways, had bestowed their favor upon the Habarenes, their divine intervention tipping the scales of battle against us.

During the harrowing siege of our capital, Prince Edward, our gallant beacon of hope, led the garrisons with unwavering bravery. The clash of steel and the roar of cannons filled the air as our forces desperately tried to hold the line. However, despite the indomitable spirit of our defenders, it became painfully clear that this battle was slipping from our grasp. The walls of the capital, once impervious, now seemed to crumble beneath the relentless assault of the enemy.

In the hushed stillness of the throne room, where the weight of impending defeat hung heavy in the air, I stood by my king’s side, his loyal servant and confidant. His eyes, once filled with the wisdom of generations, now held a glint of resignation, a silent acceptance of the inevitable. It was then, in those moments of despair, that he uttered the words that would echo in my mind for centuries to come.

“Run, far away,” he said, his voice firm yet filled with a melancholic tremor. “Return when you have the power to reinstate our kingdom.” His command uttered with the weight of nearly five hundred years of Vutian history, was a beacon of hope amid the encroaching darkness. With a heavy heart and a promise burning in my soul, I fled the throne room, leaving behind the kingdom I loved, carrying with me the legacy of a fallen realm, and the determination to see its restoration.

Across the tumultuous Berescola, I fled, leaving behind the crumbling remnants of my homeland. In the savage lands inhabited by fierce barbarian tribes, I sought out the elusive Devil of Names, a being of shadow and whispers. With desperate determination, I made a pact, binding my fate to the darkest of magics. The forbidden knowledge seeped into my very core, transforming me into a vessel of both power and malevolence.

As the years wore on, I honed my newfound abilities until I stood at the precipice of mastery. It was then, when I had reached the age of forty, that the realm was plunged into chaos once more. Azurfar, a demon lord of unspeakable might, descended upon the violent lands like a harbinger of doom. In the face of this monstrous threat, I forged an alliance with Olof, the fierce and respected king of the barbarians.

United by a common enemy, Olof and I stood as stalwart comrades on the battlefield. In the crucible of combat, he shared with me the ancient ways of the north, a brutal yet effective art of war that resonated with the primal forces of nature. Through battles fought side by side, we forged a bond of friendship, the likes of which transcended the boundaries of race and origin.

When the final confrontation with Azurfar arrived, I wielded my dark magic alongside Olof’s indomitable strength. The clash was thunderous, a symphony of magic and steel that reverberated across the violent lands. In the end, it was Olof’s relentless might and my unholy sorcery that brought the demon lord to his knees. With a swift stroke of Olof’s axe and the power of my dark arts, Azurfar fell, his demonic form crumbling into ash and shadow.

In a daring bid for even greater power, I harvested the fallen demon lord’s heart, a pulsating orb of malevolence. With a ritual steeped in ancient lore, I dared to replace my own heart with the essence of the vanquished fiend. In that moment, I embraced the darkness fully, transcending the limitations of mortality. I had become a demon lord, an entity driven by an insatiable thirst for power and the desire to reshape the world in my image.

Emboldened by my newfound demonic power, I ventured deep into the heart of the mountains, to the magnificent dwarven kingdom of Heorith. Beneath the rugged peaks, I found a thriving civilization of artisans, miners, and warriors. The dwarves, with their unmatched craftsmanship and indomitable spirit, welcomed me into their underground realm. Over two decades, I became part of their close-knit community, living in harmony with these resilient mountain folk.

During my time among the dwarves, I formed an unbreakable bond with their wise and mighty king, Damaec. We shared tales over tankards of ale, forging a friendship as enduring as the ancient stones surrounding us. But the march of time is unforgiving, and as the years passed, my mortal vessel began to show signs of weariness. It was then that the call of immortality resounded through the depths of the mountains.

Aldreni, the Undead Dragon, a creature of awe and terror, had sundered a dwarven hold deep beneath the earth. The king of the dwarves, his voice filled with a blend of reverence and urgency, beckoned me to join him in a perilous quest for eternal life. Together, we embarked on a treacherous journey through the labyrinthine caverns that led to the dragon’s lair.

In the shadows of the dragon’s lair, I stood alongside King Damaec, our resolve unwavering, our weapons gleaming with anticipation. Fire clashed with fire, and axes met scales as we confronted the towering beast. The battle raged on for an agonizing seven hours and thirty-two minutes, the clash of titans echoing through the depths. In the end, it was our combined might that brought Aldreni to his demise, his undead form crumbling beneath our relentless onslaught.

With the dragon vanquished, I spent seven years as a court mage to King Damaec, my expertise valued in the halls of the dwarven kingdom. In the depths beneath the mountains, I delved into the arcane secrets hidden within Aldreni’s corpse. Through ancient and forbidden rituals, I achieved Lichdom, my essence bound to undeath, transcending the limitations of mortality.

Yet, my thirst for power remained unquenched. Armed with newfound abilities and undying determination, I set forth once more, leaving the dwarven kingdom behind in my quest for greater dominion over the forces that shaped the world.

Into the heart of the Deepwood, I ventured, where the ancient and graceful elves dwelled amidst the towering trees and ethereal mists. However, the once serene realm had been reduced to ruins and unceasing warfare. For forty long years, the relentless grip of the Habarene Empire had tightened around the neck of this mystical land, their armies clashing with the resilient elves in a struggle for dominion.

I, a living calamity, strode through the chaos as a demon lord, a lich-king, and a harbinger of destruction. Each footfall I made carved an epitaph for thousands, a grim testament to the overwhelming power and seething anger that festered within me for nearly a century. The Habarenes, recognizing the devastation I wrought, bestowed upon me a title that echoed my dark presence – “Death.”

In my rage, I became an avenging force, a relentless storm that swept across the battlefield, leaving naught but devastation in my wake. When my fury finally subsided, I was greeted not with fear, but with reverence by the elven elders. They hailed me as a hero, a savior who had stood alongside their warriors for half a century, fighting valiantly to repel the relentless onslaught of the Habarene Empire.

Throughout those years of strife, I formed bonds with many of the elves, forging friendships amidst the chaos of battle. Among them, Aywin stood tall and resolute, a champion dedicated to Falael, the revered elven hunt-god. In the crucible of war, Aywin and I became kindred spirits, sharing the weight of our shared burden and finding solace in each other’s presence.

Yet, even as the gods finally discarded the Habarenes, casting them into oblivion, my thirst for justice and restoration burned unabated. The fall of the empire was not enough to satiate my relentless desire. My quest, my purpose, persisted – I would find satisfaction only when my king was sovereign once more when Vutia would rise from the ashes of its former glory, and when the world would tremble before the might of its rightful ruler.

Upon crossing the formidable peaks of the Berescola Mountains once more, fate led me to a serpentine creature of immense wisdom and ancient power – Kythinu, the dragon. For two long centuries, we traversed lands unknown, our minds intertwined in a shared quest for knowledge. In many ways, Kythinu and I were kindred spirits, driven by insatiable curiosity, our hearts yearning to unravel the mysteries of the world.

During our extensive travels, we unearthed secrets that cut to the very core of my existence and fueled the flames of my hatred for the divine beings that toyed with mortal life. Together, we delved into the enigmatic nature of the gods, discovering that their divine games and capricious whims dictated the fate of entire civilizations. It became evident that the rise of the Habarene Empire, as well as the fall of Vutia, were mere pieces moved on the gods’ vast gameboard. Their interference had shaped the destinies of nations, leaving chaos and devastation in their wake.

Most chilling of all was the revelation that the entity who had crafted my dark pact, the Devil of Names, was but an alias for the god of fate himself. The realization that the strings of my existence had been pulled by a deity, weaving a tapestry of suffering and manipulation, only intensified the fury burning within me. My newfound understanding solidified my resolve to defy the divine, to challenge the very fabric of fate, and to rewrite the story of my existence on my own terms.

As I continued my journey with Kythinu, the shared knowledge of our discoveries served as a beacon, guiding me toward my ultimate goal. With the dragon as my companion, I would navigate the intricate web of fate and gods, determined to reshape the world and bring about the restoration of Vutia, freeing it from the clutches of celestial puppeteers.

After parting ways with Kythinu, I found myself drawn back to the desolate ash lands that had once been my kingdom. As I roamed the barren expanse, memories of days when prosperity reigned flooded my mind, a bitter contrast to the current wasteland before me. Lost in my thoughts, I became a wandering soul, haunted by the echoes of a glorious past that now lay buried beneath layers of ash.

In my solitude, a figure emerged from the shadows – Sagard, the Demi-God. He had heard the whispers of my mighty deeds, carried on the lips of historians, and sought to join me in my quest. Together, we embarked on a formidable journey, confronting the darkest evils that plagued the continent. With our combined strength, we crushed every malevolent force that dared to challenge our might.

During our travels, a plan began to take shape in my mind, a grand design aimed at revitalizing my fallen kingdom. I sowed the seeds of discontent among the oppressed, igniting a spark of rebellion against the existing order. When our quest against evil was finally concluded, I seized the fruits of this rebellion, orchestrating a revolution that plunged the world into anarchy.

For four tumultuous decades, chaos reigned supreme. The world, once governed by order, was now a tapestry of lawlessness and strife. But chaos is not without its purpose, and within its maelstrom, my plan continued to unfold. As the anarchy persisted, a bitter and unrelenting winter descended upon the land, a metaphorical reflection of the cold and unyielding nature of my ambition.

In the heart of this frozen world, I stood poised, my kingdom’s revival within my grasp. The sacrifices made, the battles fought, and the machinations set in motion had all led to this moment. With the world plunged into a season of perpetual winter, I prepared to breathe life back into the ashes of my fallen realm, ushering in a new era where Vutia would rise once more, from the icy grip of anarchy and the ashes of its former glory.

In the depths of shadow and secrecy, I forged an undead army, a legion of the damned risen from the very soil that had witnessed my kingdom’s downfall. With unholy rituals, I summoned a demonic host from the infernal realms and called upon allies steeped in the darkest corners of magic and evil. I, now heralded as the Lich-King, the Demon Lord, the Prime-Evil, led this unholy alliance with a thirst for vengeance that knew no bounds.

Under my command, my Undying Armies swept across the lands, leaving trails of death and despair in their wake. The heirs of Habarene, once arrogant in their conquest, fell before the might of my relentless forces. The barbarians succumbed to the terror of my demonic host, their proud tribes crushed under the weight of dark power. Draconic legions, once noble protectors of the dwarves, now became instruments of their demise, their wrath bent to my will. I, a walking inferno, brought devastation upon the elves, reducing their once-mighty forests to ashes and ruins.

With the banner of evil and domination raised high, my dominion spread like a malignant plague, engulfing the entire continent. Land after land fell under my cruel rule until all territories belonged to me, every soul enslaved in the suffocating grip of my tyranny. I implemented a ruthless system, exploiting the people and the lands for the sole purpose of rebuilding my kingdom.

Using grand magics that defied the laws of nature, I recreated the skeletal form of my ashen king, a macabre puppet seated upon a throne crafted from the bones of the fallen Habarene royalty. This twisted symbol of power and dominion stood as a testament to the depths of my malevolence and the lengths I would go to see my vision of restoration fulfilled. Yet, in the shadows of my triumph, a whisper of rebellion lingered, a glimmer of hope that would ultimately challenge the iron grip of my reign.

Unbeknownst to me, in the depths of desperation, a secret alliance was forged among the former leaders of the continent. United by a common purpose, they orchestrated a grand prayer to the gods, beseeching them for salvation. Their plea, imbued with the fervent hope of a world enslaved, stirred the divine forces into action. From the echoes of their supplication, a Hero was born, a mortal guided by destiny and entrusted with the monumental task of confronting my dark reign.

This Hero, blessed with an unyielding spirit and unshakable determination, embarked on a journey akin to mine. With unwavering resolve, he sought out the relics of Vutia’s lost glory: the Silver Helm, last worn by Prince Edward; the Wings of the North, once wielded by the mighty Olaf; the Shield of the Mountain, which had protected Damaec, the dwarven king; and the Boots of the Green, once worn by Aywin, the revered elven champion. These artifacts, each steeped in the legacy of their former bearers, were reclaimed by the Hero, their ancient power resonating with his purpose.

During his travels, the Hero encountered Kythinu, the dragon of wisdom, who bestowed upon him a scale, a token of their shared determination to see my tyranny end. In addition, Sagard, the Demi-God, revealed to the Hero my weakness, a knowledge that would prove invaluable in our inevitable confrontation. Empowered and armed with this newfound insight, the Hero’s quest was further bolstered by the gods themselves.

In response to his unwavering courage, the divine beings gifted the Hero a holy sword, a weapon forged from their celestial essence, capable of piercing through the darkest of magics and striking down even the mightiest of foes. With this sacred blade in hand, the Hero stood as the embodiment of hope, the living embodiment of the people’s prayers and the gods’ intervention, destined to challenge my reign of terror and bring an end to the age of darkness that had befallen the continent.

Into the heart of my dark citadel, the Hero ventured, his every step echoing with the weight of destiny. Along the treacherous path, he faced and defeated my demonic dukes, ghostly warlords, and skeletal champions, each confrontation a testament to his unwavering bravery. He wrestled with corrupted mountain bears, vanquished my draconic vassals, and overcame the nefarious necromancer lords and bandit barons I had allied with in my bid for dominion.

Finally, after battling through the forces of evil that guarded my inner sanctum, the Hero stood before me, the Lich King, the Demon Lord, the Prime-Evil. At that moment, I, once the royal guard and court mage eternal, now a specter of my former self, confronted him with all the power I had amassed over centuries of warfare.

Yet, no matter how vast my knowledge, how potent my magic, the Hero proved unstoppable. His every move was guided by fate, his every strike blessed by the gods themselves. Former allies and friends, those who had once stood at my side, had forsaken me, but I held no blame for them. They had chosen the path of justice, leaving me to face the consequences of my malevolent ambitions alone.

In the climactic battle, the Hero’s sword, forged by divine hands and fueled by the hopes of an entire continent, pierced my chest. Despite my might and knowledge, I fell, and my reign of darkness extinguished. One might think that this victory should have marked the end of my tale, a saga of hubris, vengeance, and the inescapable march of fate, destined to echo through the annals of history.

But my story is more than that. It’s a tale of a human wish, twisted and corrupted by the passage of time and the influence of dark magic. The final words of my dead king, spoken nearly eight centuries ago, reverberated through my mind like an unending echo: “Run, Far away. Return when you have the power to reinstate our kingdom.” For centuries, those words fueled my existence, a thousand plans meticulously laid out to ensure I would never truly perish.

After my death, as foretold by my ancient plot, I was reborn in another world.