He watches his scythe tears it's way though the Polybius's clear phylactery, the ruins on the weapon flaring as it consumes the Greater Undeads soul. He raises his hand, and it hurdles back to him, the green flames seeping into his weapon, devoured by its ruin etched magic. He bends as much necrotic power away from his helmet as he can when the mage touches his helm, to lessen any damage that might befall Ophion as he consumes any excess power from the self destruction of the Lich king, his form glowing with necrotic power like a black sun.

He watches the caverns, and the mountain, implode into itself, and he drifts a inch or so from Ophion so his inflated aura doesn't start corrupting the Draconians flesh. He shudders, both from overuse of his magic in fighting the lich, and from the sudden exposure to the heat and sun again. He inclines his helm to the destroyed dungeon. "And so ends Lich king Polybius." He examines the golden staff, and his eyes smile. "Now to break this down and reforge it."