Tharaxes' life hadn't changed much when the system integrated his world. He still remained in his throne room, and could continue his experiments. However, there were now limits to his power. Frustrating, infuriating, and utterly unbreakable limits imposed by the accursed system.

His 'level' was fixed and his mana no longer grew as time passed. He had tried to circumvent the restrictions by summoning undead creations that surpassed him. When he'd first managed to summon a death knight that was a greater level than 51, he had rejoiced. Then, as time wore on, and he continued pushing the limits, he realised that even his creations had a hard ceiling that he could not surpass.

Thankfully, there was one blissful silver lining to this torturous prison that the system had locked Tharaxes inside. The rate at which new adventurers entered his hallowed halls massively increased—for a brief period at least.

Wave after wave of them.

Some were similar to those original six that had arrived, others completely alien species that he'd never even thought could exist. Most of them, he slaughtered with the aid of his undead legions, but the odd group was able to defeat him.

The first time his phylactery was destroyed was a harrowing experience. Terrifying. Tharaxes had become a lich because he refused to let death claim him, and that revulsion towards the end of his life hadn't changed one whit after eons lived as a lich.

Even stranger was the sensation of returning to life.

The First Ancestor found himself sitting in his throne room, reclining in his plain chair of stone, staring down at the rows of skeleton soldiers that guarded his final hall. And he remembered everything, from his birth, to his 'true' death.

A single floating sentence was all the system saw fit to grant him after putting him through that awful experience.

You have been defeated! Your sentence has been extended!

That was it.

No extra information, like how much longer his sentence had grown, or what it had been in the first place. Tharaxes raged at his own impotence, but there was nothing he could do.

When the group of three opened the doors to his throne room, they found him lying in a pile of shattered bones. He slaughtered them with ease, and resummoned the creations that had died at his own hand.

After that, there was a long period of time where he had no new visitors. Tharaxes had long since forgotten how to tell time, or what units his people used, but he knew it was an exceedingly long period of solitude.

Then, one day, the waves of visitors began again.

The cycle repeated itself, one hundred and two times. Tharaxes slaughtered the visitors in droves. And, they defeated him many times over.

Each time, the same message from the system taunted him. He wondered if he would ever feel the cold, dead warmth of his system's star on his bones once more, or if he was cursed to an eternity in his throne room.

While he had been defeated many times, he had never been so thoroughly shocked by a group of adventurers as he was now. The one hundred and third waves had begun recently, and Tharaxes had slaughtered the vast majority of them.

He'd only died once out of eighteen groups, in fact, which was better than usual. Then that oddity arrived.

Immediately, Tharaxes noticed the human's unusually high level. Level 49. It was absurd. Some of the solo adventurers often reached into the late 30s, but to almost be at Tharaxes' own level? It was impossible.

Yet the evidence was in front of his very eyes.

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The level alone wasn't what set the man apart. Tharaxes' first challenge to all adventurers that reached his throne room was to order his legions of giant skeleton soldiers to attack them. A fair few of the groups fell to the initial assault. The weaklings.

However, that man had obliterated the first soldier with a single swing of the crude mace he wielded. The other three weren't useless, by any means, but compared to this Ronan Steele, they were ordinary. Barely worth mentioning.

His skeleton soldiers hadn't been entirely useless. One of them had almost killed the mage, but the coward had stepped up and sacrificed himself in one final act of heroism.

When the last of the giant skeleton soldiers fell, the man wasn't even fazed. In fact, Tharaxes could've sworn that he was excited. Tharaxes felt the tides might be turning, but he wanted to be sure. To deal with the unusually powerful brute, he summoned six of his deadliest assassins.

When the first wight managed to cut the towering brute—towering for a human, anyway—the hobgoblin lich-lord had felt at ease once more. Until the brute showed off its skill with mana.

He'd practically erased the wight assassins that the lich-lord summoned to test the trio, and that was when he'd grown furious. His temper was usually rather calm, but the mage bitch had riled him up with the height taunts towards his failed vessel. She'd had the gall to continue when she saw his true, majestic form. Even the brute joined in. So, Tharaxes vowed he would kill them, no matter what it took.

He'd been experimenting with a new summon in the gap between the last wave of adventurers and this most recent one. Death knights were strong undead, and he'd been able to merge the summons with their mounts, ensuring they were always brought to un-life as elite units, as marked by the system. However, his constant refining of the summoning procedure and his own magic—his ability to forge sparks of the undead—Tharaxes had pushed the death knights to a new level.

He felt that one elite death knight cataphract wouldn't be enough to take out this pestilent trio, so he spent the excessive mana required to summon two. Tharaxes had almost begun to prematurely celebrate his impending victory, when the damnable musclebrained human did the impossible.

One moment he was wielding that annoying mace, dodging the barrage of delightful spells that the lich-lord was tossing at him, then the next… The pang of pain that shot through his soul-fire was agonising, but paled in comparison to the rage of having victory stolen from his grasp. The brute had charged right through one of the nascent cataphracts, and smashed it to smithereens.

Even the spark had been extinguished.

He'd lost a few seconds of memory after that. When his consciousness clamped down on his errant soul-fire, Tharaxes observed the damage. Not so bad.

Apparently he'd unleashed a tirade of his necro-lightning and mundane fireballs at the trio of adventurers. That in turn, had bought the elite death knight cataphract the time it needed to complete its summoning. He felt his staff, and realised it was almost drained of stored mana.

A shame, after how long he'd spent filling it. He wasn't even sure that a single cataphract would be enough to defeat the monstrous human, but when it managed to block his first monstrous blow, Tharaxes felt a second wind turning the tides of battle.

Despite how drained he was, he began to unleash the rest of his mana against the irritating mage and the fly-like swordswoman.

When the knight managed to block the next few charges as well, Tharaxes was elated. He felt that he could crush this irritating, arrogant human. He soon realised that was his own hubris at work.

The cataphract was holding on, yes, but with every clash, and subsequent explosion of mana, its lance grew weaker. When it shattered, Tharaxes cursed. He saw what was coming next, and tried to throw out a fireball to stop the man, but it was futile.

The man's mace smashed into the cataphract's mount, and its head burst in a shower of bone. The horse didn't die after losing its head. Undead were not so pathetic.

However, it had lost a great deal of its perception. That meant that it wasn't a challenge for the human to completely shatter its front legs. The death knight handled the fall well, as its mount collapsed to the ground, and met the man's first blow with a summoned shield.

Tharaxes saw where the battle was going. His own magic had been largely ineffective. His phylactery was fully charged, and this vessel, despite being one of his greatest, had reached the end of its use.

With a final curse and a three-pronged bolt of necro-lightning, he emptied all of his mana and a hint of his soul-flame into the elite death knight. The lightning missed the mace-wielding warrior.

To his delight, the swordswoman was caught on the shoulder, the flesh burning and then rotting. The mage fared worst, attempting to block with a mana shield. Her spell finally faltered against his superior skill, and she caught the brunt of the necro-lightning bolt in her chest.

Tharaxes cackled as his vision went black, and his phylactery claimed his soul. While stuck in its cold embrace, his mind raced for a way he might slaughter these insolent adventurers.

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