Chapter Fourteen: Settling Matters Ahead of Time

The next morning, Han Shuo was rudely awakened by a heavy garbage bag landing on him. In the midst of a pleasant dream, he suddenly felt as if a mountain had crashed down, jolting him awake. Rubbing his eyes, he found a thick, heavy garbage bag lying on his bed. He immediately realized that someone must have thrown garbage through the little window in the storeroom again.

Muttering curses under his breath, Han Shuo kicked the garbage bag off the bed. With a dull thud, it rolled toward the door. He was about to bury his head back under the covers when the thought struck him: if someone had already thrown garbage over, it must be late.

He pushed open the window and glanced outside, seeing the sun already high in the sky. He sighed inwardly, blaming his oversleeping on the exhaustion from practicing demonic arts the night before. As he got up to hurry out, he suddenly remembered his dream from last night. In it, the little skeleton had helped him teach Fake a lesson. The memory of a previous dream coming true startled him. He quickly looked toward the small wooden bucket.

Inside, the little skeleton rested its dark skeletal hands on the rim, left leg crossed over the right, swinging back and forth as if enjoying a sauna, looking utterly relaxed and carefree. Seeing it still in the bucket, Han Shuo breathed a sigh of relief. He pushed the bucket under the bed and blocked the space with a garbage bag before opening the door to start his day.

“Hey, Bryan, what took you so long today?” Jack was wiping the stone statues along the path and greeted Bryan with a distant smile.

Han Shuo glanced around. With no students in sight, he realized classes had already begun—he was definitely late.

“Oh, Fake knocked me on the head twice yesterday—I was so groggy I overslept!”

Jack chuckled mischievously and sidled up to Han Shuo. In a low voice, he said, “Bryan, don’t be upset anymore. I heard the students talking this morning—last night, that black seven-winged skeleton appeared again and gave Fake a real beating. His face was so swollen!”

Han Shuo: “…”

So last night’s dream had really happened, though not quite as he had imagined. This time, the little skeleton had acted swiftly, finishing things before dawn. No wonder when he saw it this morning, its posture in the bucket was different from last night.

“Hey, Bryan, why so quiet? Too happy to talk? Ha! That black skeleton is amazing. They say after Fake was beaten awake, he only saw seven little wings flapping before the thing leapt out the window and vanished. Oh! Fake lives on the fourth floor, you know. It’s a miracle he didn’t end up a heap of broken bones!”

Han Shuo forced a laugh, feeling a surge of satisfaction. “Good job! I wonder who summoned that little skeleton. It really avenged me. Luck must be on my side lately!”

In the days that followed, nothing unfortunate befell Han Shuo. No one came looking for him to test magic either. In this rare period of tranquility, he arrived early each morning at the necromancy classroom, broom in hand, eavesdropping on Gene’s lectures.

Fake, perhaps still nursing his wounds, hadn’t shown up for class. Each day, Han Shuo listened in on Gene’s explanations about magic, and many topics that had once baffled him suddenly became clear.

At night, Han Shuo first cultivated the “Mystic Ice Demonic Flame Technique,” circulating his demonic energy through the prescribed paths in his right hand. Each attempt seared with pain, but after these few days, he could move the energy almost to his wrist.

He continued to study “Fundamentals of Necromancy,” noting down anything confusing to see if Gene would cover it during the next class. With better meals and nutrition, and the effects of his training, Han Shuo’s once frail body began to develop muscle, and he seemed to grow a little taller. Even his demeanor subtly changed.

Other students noted Han Shuo’s transformation but chalked it up to the eccentricities of madness, paying him little attention. Han Shuo was content with this, enjoying his routine of work, secret study, and cultivation, relishing the changes in himself.

“Endless darkness, gather and become a shattering bone arrow. Let my will destroy all before me—Bone Arrow!” With the incantation complete, a sharp bone arrow materialized in midair. Guided by Han Shuo’s fingers, it shot toward a straw target, only to veer off course halfway.

Crack!

The arrow exploded in mid-flight, missing the makeshift straw man by a wide margin.

Han Shuo shook his head and sighed. Understanding was one thing; execution another. This most basic bone arrow spell had eluded him—sometimes he failed to summon it, sometimes it flew wildly off-target, and sometimes it shattered midair.

He knew that success in necromancy required relentless practice. Only by repeated attempts could he master the technique and cast it flawlessly.

Each night, Han Shuo would first cultivate his demonic arts, then, once all was quiet, slip to the old burial ground where he’d once been “discarded,” secretly practicing necromancy. The little skeleton, after dumping two bags of garbage, would obediently sit motionless in a grave.

While Han Shuo pondered the flaws in his spellcasting and mental focus, urgent footsteps echoed from afar. Alarmed, he quickly hid among the rocks near a tomb.

This graveyard was vast and silent at night. Apart from Han Shuo occasionally dumping magical waste, few ever came here. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to discover his secret training. So at the first sound of footsteps, he hid without hesitation.

Soon, a tall, blue-haired middle-aged man, his clothes soaked in blood, mouth foaming crimson, and wielding a broadsword, staggered into view. He glanced back anxiously as he stumbled forward, clearly fleeing someone.

Reaching the spot where Han Shuo had been practicing, he suddenly shuddered and collapsed. In a frenzy, he pulled a gray pouch from his chest, dug a hole in the soft earth, buried the pouch, smoothed the ground, and then staggered onward.

“Dylan, where do you think you can run?” came a gentle voice from afar. A flash of black light, and a kindly-faced, thin old man appeared, dressed in a gilt-embroidered mage’s robe and holding a staff adorned with three precious stones—red, yellow, and blue.

As the benevolent old mage appeared, a mass of deep green light streaked from the distance. When it stopped, the glow faded to reveal a burly swordsman, muscles rippling, long sword at his hip.

“Mr. Duke, what should we do with Dylan?” The swordsman stood respectfully at the mage’s side.

Duke, the kindly old mage, frowned at Dylan, who still lay bleeding on the ground. He sighed, “Poor Dylan. He can’t go on suffering like this. Eric, help him out.”

“Sir, your compassion knows no bounds,” Eric replied with a strange look, then dashed toward Dylan like lightning. Han Shuo saw only a flash of green light; blood sprayed from Dylan’s back, and he collapsed, motionless.

Eric sheathed his sword and began rifling through Dylan’s belongings, his face darkening as he found nothing. At last, he stood and reported, “Mr. Duke, the item isn’t on him.”

“How is that possible?” Duke’s face changed. With a wave of his staff, Dylan’s corpse floated before him. Duke chanted a wind spell, and razor-sharp blades of air tore Dylan’s clothes to shreds.

Crouched behind the rocks, Han Shuo watched everything. Eric’s earlier attack, glowing with green energy, marked him as a high-ranking swordsman. For such a man to show Duke such deference meant Duke’s status or power must be even greater. This was Han Shuo’s first time witnessing a killing; his heart pounded wildly in his chest.

“It really isn’t on him,” Duke muttered, frowning, then tossed Dylan’s corpse aside as if it were garbage.

With another wave of his staff, a surge of psychic force swept toward Han Shuo, lifting him involuntarily and carrying him through the air toward Duke.

“Hey, how did you know I was there?” Han Shuo stammered in panic, flailing his arms and legs as he was pulled through the air.

“My, what an innocent and endearing young man! Judging by your clothes, you’re from the Babylon School of Magic and Martial Arts, aren’t you?” Duke looked at Han Shuo with gentle amusement. With that, Han Shuo was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

“That’s right, I’m a menial worker from Babylon Academy. I was just here to dump magical waste. I didn’t see a thing. Well, it’s getting late, you two carry on—I’ll be heading back now.”

Han Shuo stood up, feigning innocence, and strolled a couple of steps toward the academy—then suddenly broke into a sprint, fleeing with all his strength. These two looked dangerous; he had no intention of lingering.

Chuckling behind him, Duke said kindly, “What a sly little fellow. Eric, see him off, will you?”

No sooner had Duke finished speaking than Han Shuo felt a powerful surge of air rapidly approaching from behind.