Death Finger

The faint light of dawn, like the stingiest of alms, barely penetrated the tangled branches of ancient oak trees, sparsely scattering onto the crumbling family mausoleums of Orlando's old graveyard.

The heavy stone doors, once engraved with illustrious surnames, now mostly lay askew, revealing the deep, dark crypts within, like entrances to forgotten secrets.

Freya, a young lady with hair like a waterfall of gold, was idly flicking a clump of waist-high mugwort by the roadside with her riding whip studded with tiny sapphires. Her light blue riding attire couldn't conceal the vitality that felt so out of place in this desolate land.

She kept turning her head, her azure eyes filled with undisguised anxiety, looking towards the middle-aged guard beside her, as silent as an iron tower.

"Uncle Baroque," her voice was crisp, like the chime of wind bells, "are you sure that little purple-edged grass can cure Little Feather's diarrhea? He's been listless for days, he won't even peck at his favorite candied fruit anymore."

"Please rest assured, Miss," Roland, a young man standing on Freya's other side, immediately interjected. His impeccably tailored dark riding suit made his figure appear even more upright, but the deliberate obsequiousness in his brow made his handsome face seem somewhat unnatural.

He bowed slightly, his voice as gentle as flattery, "According to ancient texts, this 'Calming Grass' is indeed remarkably effective in alleviating griffins' gastrointestinal discomfort. Moreover, this graveyard was once a noble land, where many prominent families from Orlando's early days were buried. We might even discover some more valuable ancient medicinal herbs. For instance, that broken archway over there is said to be the entrance to the mausoleum of the 'Silver Moon Family' from three hundred years ago; their family was renowned for cultivating rare herbs..."

Roland chattered on, telling Freya stories about Orlando's history and the lore of this graveyard, attempting to capture the young lady's attention with his self-proclaimed vast knowledge.

Baroque, the seasoned veteran, remained silent, walking half a step ahead and to Freya's left. His weathered face showed no superfluous expression, his sharp gaze, like a falcon's, constantly vigilant for any stir in the surroundings.

The three passed through a cluster of crumbling stone statues and arrived at a relatively open area in the center of the graveyard.

The weeds here were noticeably sparser than elsewhere, and the ground was flatter, as if someone had regularly cleaned it.

In the very center of the area stood a mage statue, over ten feet tall.

The statue was carved from grayish-white granite, and time had left its mottled marks upon it, but it still couldn't hide the exquisite craftsmanship.

It depicted a thin-faced, stern elderly woman, clad in an ancient, ornate mage robe with a hood, her left hand tightly gripping a staff entwined with vine-like patterns, while her right hand held an open book, her gaze fixed on the distance, as if contemplating the mysteries of time and space.

On the bluestone base of the statue, an inscription in ancient Common was barely legible. Freya could vaguely make out words like "...Orlando's eternal guardian... Agnos..."

"Miss, look," Roland seized the opportunity, stepping forward and pointing to the solemn statue, "This is the legendary Archmage Agnos, one of the founders of the Orlando Mage Tower, a great sage who achieved immortal accomplishments in the field of magic. It is said that in her later years, she lived in seclusion in this graveyard, transforming into a stone statue to continue protecting the city's peace and prosperity with her power."

"Wow, she looks so serious! Completely different from the statue in front of the Mage Tower!" Freya blinked her azure eyes, curiously circling the statue a few times, tilting her head to examine the time-worn, yet still wisdom-filled stone face, "The top of her staff seems to have a glowing gem embedded in it!"

She pointed to the top of the staff, where indeed there was an irregular, fist-sized rhombus-shaped protrusion. Its surface was covered with a layer of dull stone skin, but at a certain angle, a faint luster seemed to emanate from within.

Just as Freya stretched out her slender finger, with a childlike curiosity, wanting to touch the gem-like protrusion on the mage statue's staff—Hummm!

The entire statue suddenly emitted a low hum and trembled slightly.

The statue's stony eyelids, as if alive, lifted upwards, revealing hollow eye sockets. Deep within them, two balls of ethereal blue Soul Fire suddenly ignited, cold and deathly still.

Fine, spiderweb-like cracks began to appear on the statue's surface, and stone fragments rained down. A powerful, oppressive magical energy surged from within the statue like an erupting volcano, stirring up gusts of chilling wind that made the surrounding weeds sway wildly!

"Wh-what's going on?!" Roland's face turned ashen, and he instinctively drew the longsword at his waist.

Baroque also roared, instantly shielding Freya behind him, while bringing his Kite Shield forward, gripping his battle axe tightly, his muscles tensed, ready for battle.

The "resurrected" mage statue slowly turned its stone head, emitting a creaking sound of joints rubbing together.

Its gaze, like two cold searchlights, swept over the horrified trio, and finally, the gaze burning with ethereal blue Soul Fire settled firmly on Freya, who was being shielded by Baroque.

Emotions of greed and desire flickered within the ethereal blue flames.

"Such... pure soul... such... vibrant... vessel..." an ancient, hoarse voice, as if from the depths of a tomb, slowly emerged from the statue's cracked stone lips, each word carrying a heart-stopping chill.

Seeing this, Roland pointed his longsword at the statue exuding a terrifying aura and shouted sternly, "Undead! You will not harm the young lady!"

The stone statue of Archmage Agnos, or rather, the ancient will residing within this cold stone shell, let out a disdainful snort at Roland's futile warning.

Her cracked stone arm slowly raised, and the seemingly lifeless rock finger pointed at the pale-faced Roland.

A beam of intensely condensed dark energy, like an ink drop fished from the depths of the Styx, gathered and compressed at her fingertips, emitting negative energy fluctuations that made the soul tremble.

Her dry, stone lips parted, and she uttered a cold, short syllable:

"[Death Finger]."

Before the words even fell, the condensed dark energy transformed into a pure black ray, finer than a strand of hair. Silent, yet carrying a terrifying will that stripped all life, it shot towards Roland's chest like a venomous snake from the underworld!

There was no violent explosion, no dazzling brilliance, only a bone-chilling coldness.

Roland felt an irresistible, icy force like a maggot gnawing at his flesh, madly devouring his life essence. His heart felt as if it were fiercely clutched by an invisible giant hand, stopping its beat instantly.

His vision rapidly succumbed to boundless darkness. His body stiffened violently, twitching several times, and the longsword in his hand clattered to the dust.

Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he fell straight backward, crashing heavily onto the cold stone slab.

His skin quickly lost its color, turning an ominous ashen gray. His eyes were wide open, his pupils unfocused, filled with extreme terror.

But strangely, his ashen chest seemed to have an extremely faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall, more like a state of deep coma or suspended animation, stripped of all sensation and ability to act.

Agnos's Soul Fire-burning eye sockets contracted slightly, as if she too were somewhat surprised by the effect of [Death Finger].

She looked down at her stone finger, still held in a pointing position, then glanced at Roland lying on the ground, murmuring with a hint of confusion, "The resurrection ritual... was disrupted... The power... has weakened so much..."