The Necromancer's Servant

Pedestrians on both sides of the street paused to watch, murmuring their admiration for the knight on the white horse. The young girls whispered to each other, with their eyes sparkling with the kind of expression that men most desire to see — admiration, intoxication, and desire.

The horse was a rare find, and the person riding it was even rarer. The shimmering silver knight's armor seemed less like an item to wear and more like a natural expression of the man's charisma, an imposing presence that only he could carry. His dazzling blond hair appeared as if the brilliance of the sun becoming a part of him. With sword-like eyebrows, a straight nose, and a handsome face that retained a masculine ruggedness, he looked as though sunlight was bouncing off his armor and hair, making onlookers mistakenly believe it was his own radiance.

Of course, someone of such stature must have a matching identity. A few knowledgeable individuals in the crowd whispered to each other that he was Claudius Ernie, the eldest son of Duke Ernie, the captain of the Knights Tamplar, the son-in-law of Duke Murak. Some of the young girls immediately fantasized about their mothers having had romance with Sir Murak in the past.

Claudius paid no attention to the crowd of admirers around him. In his eyes, these foolish low level people were no different from ants, and it was only natural for them to be astonished by his strapping presence, which he didn't feel the need to dwell on.

Moreover, he was currently very annoyed, or rather, he had been annoyed for over a month, and now he found himself wasting time here in a slow procession. If he could, he would immediately draw his sword and eliminate all the people lining the street who forced the caravan to proceed at a crawl.

For the past month, he couldn't even sleep well for one single night because of the escape of that soldier. The soldier could be still lurking somewhere in royal capital. Whenever he thought of that lowly bastard hiding in some dark hole, enjoying himself of evading a knight and taking pleasure in Claudius's anxiety, he would be engulfed by extreme rage. He swore that when he caught this soldier, he would take his time slowly, meticulously cut every sensitive part of his body, make him howl like a dog in a pool of blood for three days and nights, lick his shoes and beg for him to end his suffering.

The only good news was that the soldier had not yet leaked the information. It was possible that he himself did not understand the true significance of this news, and would hide himself somewhere with the news forever. The progress of the orcs in the west was unexpectedly good; perhaps in just half a year, it would be fine. But that soldier remained like an unknown bomb, potentially damp and inactive or ready to make his presence known at any moment, throwing everything into chaos.

Today, his injured fiancée was finally returned to him, and he was obliged to drop everything to escort her back to the duke's manor outside the city. He was very reluctant to waste time on such matters.

He despised wasting time. Time was precious; every minute should be spent efficiently, yielding benefits that contributed to his quest for greater power and higher status. He believed that life should be about striving for progress—this was his creed, and he took pride in it, looking down on those commoners who lived day by day like insects. Thus, he harbored intense hatred for anything that violated this proud principle.

He also knew that she felt the same way about him. Her disdain was not obvious; it was a dismissive indifference. This attitude infuriated Claudius, filling him with anger. He was accustomed to being admired, respected, feared, and even hated; at least those feelings indicated that he was a figure of importance and strength in others' eyes. But he could not tolerate being ignored, nor allow others to regard him as just a cockroach scuttling the corner.

There was only one person who looked at him that way in this world. If it were anyone else, he would do anything to make them aware of the consequences of underestimating him. He could tear apart anyone who dared belittle him. But, this person was his fiancée, someone who would accompany him for a lifetime with that very look in her eyes. And now he had to waste even more time protecting her.

This was undoubtedly a very annoying situation; if he could, he would definitely not do this.

But there was no way around it—sometimes the impression of onlookers was crucial; that was the essence of the matter. The Duke of Murak's daughter was injured, and given the Duke's relationship with the Ernie family, and the fact that the Duke's eldest son was also the fiancé of the young lady, it was inevitable that he would rush outside the city to escort her back to the Duke's manor carefully. Since that was what people thought, it had to be demonstrated accordingly.

Once they were reunited, the two exchanged not a single glance nor a word. Instead, upon their meeting, she asked her sister in a urgent with her weak voice: where is the young man who had reported to the Duke's manor a month ago. In her mind, that soldier was a hundred times more important than her fiancé. This made Claudius even angrier. But he was not jealous. To him, his fiancée—or any woman, for that matter—was merely a tool. However, her attitude indicated that, in some regard, he was inferior to that soldier.

He didn't want to consider in what way he was inferior; he simply would not allow a lowly country bumpkin to surpass him in any aspect. I am the strongest, the most perfect, the most powerful, the best. This concept had taken root in his mind long ago, and it was also his pride. He was indeed a very proud person, and thus he was easily annoyed and quick to anger.

Perhaps that damn soldier would use this opportunity to get close to her. Then he could cut off that guy's hands and feet one by one in front of her, demonstrating to her exactly who was more worthy of attention. Claudius thought this, trying to give some meaning to this tiresome and unpleasant endeavor. But he also knew it was merely self-comforting; in any case, that soldier wasn't foolish enough to act that way.

"Brother-in-law, did you notice the way those girls looked at you?" Christine remarked, looking at Claudius with the same expression she described, excitedly reporting on the others.

"Yes," Claudius replied, focusing on his own thoughts.

"Don't always be so cool," Christine said, her gaze intensifying. She was the younger sister of his fiancée. Seventeen years old, with a beauty resembling her sister, but even prettier—she was one of the few beauties in the royal capital, embodying the typical frivolous and oblivious nature of noble girls.

Like all the youngest daughters in families, she was doted on by her father. After her birth, the Duke had little time left to educate his children. Growing up in the same environment as other noble offspring had resulted in a similarly shallow personality. Not long ago, she had even insisted on attending a magic academy to study ancient texts, but it seemed more about creating an aura of nobility than having any real significance.

Claudius sometimes wondered why the Duke didn't marry this daughter off to him. Such a childish and superficial girl would be easy to manipulate. It would be his second nature to play with her, and it would be much more convenient for both the Duke and himself.

Suddenly, a commotion arose from the back of the convoy. "Someone tried to climb into the young lady's carriage, and we caught him," a soldier reported.

This report made Claudius remember a notion he had only imagined moments ago; a strong sense of fortune surged in his heart as he rode over.

A few soldiers were holding onto a person cloaked entirely in a tattered mantle. This person was hunched over, and it seemed he was also lame, wearing a cloak that looked like it hadn't been washed in centuries. One could easily associate him with someone engaged in bizarre activities in a dark basement.

Claudius looked closely and suddenly realized that the cloak was quite well-made, perfectly concealing every part of this person's body. Even standing opposite him, one would find it difficult to see the person's face, and the figure was also obscured by the cloak.

Claudius dismounted, his eyes fixed on the face submerged in the shadow of the cloak, as if he aimed to pierce every detail with his gaze.

He walked slowly and deliberately toward the man, each step careful as if confronting a ghost that had finally emerged from the crevices of time—one misstep could make it vanish back into thin air.

He slowly grasped the hilt of his sword and commanded, word by word, "Pull off whatever's covering his head." At this distance, he was confident that no one could escape.

As the cloak was pulled back, the first to react was the soldier pulling it, who immediately jumped back in fright.

The face revealed was far from suitable for the light of day. Its features looked as though they had been melted in boiling water and hastily reshaped, like the work of an incompetent sculptor dissatisfied with his creation, who carelessly pressed his hands onto an already ugly face. There were patches of purplish-red growths, glistening with oil, swollen to the point of seeming like they would burst, spilling hot pus and blood. "It's the hunchback assistant of that old man Sandru," someone in the group immediately recognized him.

Claudius carefully scanned this face from top to bottom, finding no trace of the expected features, only feeling a wave of nausea. He turned to the soldier who had spoken earlier, and the anger and disgust in his eyes were palpable enough for even the dumbest cow to sense. He asked, "Do you know him?"

The soldier, trembling, clarified, "It's not that I know him, but many people do. This guy is the assistant of that old man Sandru who deals with corpses over in the west of the city." Many onlookers chimed in, with some shouting, "Hunchback, did you think that was a cart for hauling corpses? Get down and apologize!"

Just another person? Just a coincidence? But even if he accidentally killed the wrong person, it seemed there would be no consequence; he couldn't afford to overlook any slight possibility. Claudius felt the veins on the back of his hand throb.

However, he took one more look at that truly repulsive face and finally released his grip on the hilt. Someone so ugly, involved in such filthy work, would surely have blood as dirty and foul as the water in a gutter—what if it got on his clothes or body? What if it splashed on his face? The thought made him feel sick. He turned and mounted his horse, ordering, "Get rid of him."

"Get lost." The soldier, afraid of dirtying his shoes, didn't actually kick him; he just raised his foot in a feint, making a shooing sound. The crowd erupted in laughter.

"That person looked terrifying just now," Christine said, clutching Claudius's arm in a feigned scare as she watched the figure pull the cloak back on and limp away into the crowd.

"Who was that just now?" a weak female voice called from inside the carriage. Christine replied, "Nothing; just a crazy man."

At dusk, in a large house, Sandru was comparing the livers of two corpses, cutting them into small pieces to soak in a solution, while Asa helped by handing him various tools.

A wild cat jumped in through the window, staring at Sandru and meowing. Sandru casually cut a piece from what he was working on and tossed it to the cat.

"What if the vertebrae in the neck crack?" Asa asked.

"Throw it away," Sandru replied without looking up.

Asa made an effort to adjust his wording: "Not for the dead, I mean, how should we treat a living person if their neck vertebrae get injured and cracked?"

Sandru picked up the small hammer from the table. With a dull thud, he crushed a vertebra in one of the corpses, saying, "Try putting it back together yourself." Then, as if suddenly remembering, he fixed his gaze on Asa and said, "You still owe me three years and two months of work."

"I know," Asa replied.

"Then please consider my three years and two months of work," Sandru emphasized the words "my" with particular weight. "Don't go and get yourself killed. I heard you were quite brave today. But do you know that your act of being a cripple is not convincing at all?"

"How can I make it more convincing?" Asa asked, eager to learn. He had to speak with her next time.

Sandru picked up the small hammer again. "Lift your foot."

At the same time, in the Duke's manor, Duke Murak was sitting by his daughter's bedside, telling her a fabricated story. He hadn't done this in over ten years, but now, returning to his old profession, he still did it with ease.

"So he just left like that?" Elaine's eyes were filled with disappointment.

The Duke's eyes were also full of disappointment as he replied, "Yes. Such an outstanding young man; I wanted to keep him around. But he insisted on leaving, and I had no choice."

Beside him, Christine imagined her sister's story, lost in reverie, exclaiming, "A person traveling alone in the most dangerous swamp on the continent, fighting against an orc to save a girl… It's just like a tale from a bard. He must be incredibly handsome, with long hair covering half of his face… Perhaps he's even a prince from some small country." She sounded as if she was inexplicably excited by her own words.

"Did he say anything?" Elaine asked, her eyes filled with hope after disappointment.

The Duke's eyes were filled with the tenderness, tolerance, and understanding a father should.