An Isekai Story

Deep beneath the frostbitten crust of the Frozen Necropolis lies a hollow kingdom of death and ritual—the Silent Catacombs. Here, beneath pillars of blackened ice and bone-ribbed arches, Aethelred the Lich King works his frozen will. The corridors twist endlessly, carved not by tools but by time and quiet malice. Bones are mortar and wall both, their former owners long forgotten. The air never stirs, save for the faint tremble that follows his whispered commands. In these frozen halls, his undead legions slumber until summoned, their eyes alight with the cold flame of necromantic purpose. Runes, etched in forgotten tongues and pulsing faintly with glacial light, snake across the walls, reinforcing wards older than memory. The silence here is suffocating—not a pause, but a presence. It clings to the soul, stretches into eternity, and sings in your skull like a lullaby from the grave. This is not a place of rest—it is the forge of unlife.

The Silent Catacombs stretch like the frozen roots of a dead god—arched tunnels framed in hoarfrosted bone, icicles clinging like teeth to the vaulted ceilings. Every surface gleams with a cold sheen, from the rune-scored slabs of necromantic altar-stone to the frozen faces of half-buried corpses in the walls. Ghostlight flickers without flame, casting long shadows that do not belong. Stillness reigns, broken only by whispers that never reach the ear.