Chapter Forty-One: Wild Dogs and the Patchwork Beast

A single undead hound.
It could only be an undead hound—the rotting flesh and the gut-churning stench proclaimed its identity unmistakably.
Lucas held his breath. He had never wished to see the undead anywhere, under any circumstance.
Undead born naturally were exceedingly rare; in thirty years, Lucas had only encountered them four times.
Such dangerous creatures emerged only where death gathered in abundance.
They were the harbingers of calamity and curse; wherever the undead appeared, plague and death soon followed.
Wild graves, piles of corpses on battlefields… those restless souls, dragging their decaying shells forward, bore a relentless hostility toward all living things, attacking any living human with mindless ferocity.
Even if one managed to fell an undead with a sword, there was no escaping the contagion of plague and curse that clung to their remains.
Could this be the handiwork of a necromancer?
Had the village of Bronte fallen victim to a terrible necromancer?
In that fleeting instant, Lucas’s mind raced through countless possibilities.
If a necromancer had slaughtered a small mountain village, it would explain everything—the eerie silence, the desolation.
This forbidden vocation, fiercely outlawed and hunted by the Church of Twilight, was the realm of those who defiled both the dead and the soul in their madness.
They were among the most dangerous beings in existence; no nation would ever welcome a necromancer. If anyone were caught secretly practicing necromancy, they would, without exception, find themselves atop a pyre by noon the very next day, burned alive until nothing but charred remains were left.
From childhood, Lucas had heard chilling tales about necromancers—these wicked souls who exhumed graves, prowled the edges of battlefields, and sometimes even ventured into remote places to dismember the living.
He wanted nothing more than to flee the village that very instant. If a necromancer had truly passed through here, their situation was even more dire than if they were facing Viking raiders.
Lucas’s instincts screamed at him: they had to take a detour, abandon the main road, even leave behind their cattle and sheep—discard all excess baggage, and head for Alvado through the ravine forest.
They must bring word of the Vikings and necromancer to the world beyond.
The rest would be left to the Church of Twilight and the border viscount—matters far beyond the reach of men of their modest station.
All he could hope was that the necromancer, if one existed, was not currently lurking in the village.
Retreat was the only option…
Lucas motioned with his thumb, signaling for Veyd to step back quietly and not to alert the undead hound before them.
But suddenly, the hound lifted its head and fixed its gaze on Lucas.
Its jaws were stuffed with black crow feathers as it let out a guttural snarl, bloody fangs bared, its back arching in a menacing display.
They had been discovered!
Lucas’s heart plummeted.
His pulse raced. It was said necromancers could see through the eyes of the undead they commanded; Lucas felt as if he was now exposed to the necromancer’s gaze.
He recalled the corpse they had unearthed in the snow—the mutilated, battered remains—and for an instant, he was certain that would be his own fate.
Had Lucas been a mere commoner or a novice adventurer, his legs would have given way beneath him, his hands trembling so violently that he could scarcely have held his weapon.

But seventeen years as an adventurer had honed his instincts. He rallied swiftly, gripping his spear, aiming its tip squarely at the undead hound’s skull, ready to pierce its head in one thrust.
Yet someone moved even faster than he: the black-clad wandering knight sprang forward.
A flash of swordlight—
The monstrous hound’s head soared high, then thudded into the snow.
Lucas glimpsed only Veyd’s back—his tattered clothing shielding him from the full horror of the rotting canine corpse.
He saw Veyd grip his sword with both hands, the blade angled downward, plunging it mercilessly.
It seemed as though he pinned the undead hound beneath his boot, skewering it with his blade.
Afterward, there was nothing but silence.
Lucas’s taut nerves eased a little.
To have a reliable and formidable companion—what a profound reassurance.
He could not be more grateful for having met such a mighty and admirable knight upon the road.
Having dispatched the undead hound, Veyd signaled for Lucas to follow him onward.
Lucas hesitated for a moment but found himself falling in step behind Veyd.
He had been the one to lead the way, and now their roles had reversed.
This knight from the Netherlands, though speechless, exuded a quiet authority through his actions that was impossible to ignore; Lucas found himself instinctively following at his side.
In truth, Lucas was not intimately familiar with Bronte village.
He had only passed through five or six times, using it as a stopover to resupply and rest for a night.
He had only a rough sense of the terrain in the open areas; on the winding paths within the village, he was as much a stranger as his companion.
Even that undead hound earlier had been spotted first by Lord Veyd. It was only right to let him lead.
Lucas thought, surely Veyd’s knowledge outstripped his own—he, who had never ventured beyond Tania, was a low-ranking adventurer at best.
Since Veyd wished to scout further, he would follow.
A seasoned adventurer always scrutinized every detail before taking on a task, preparing thoroughly.
The more one knew about the enemy, the greater the odds of victory.
The two of them navigated the steep, stone steps of the village, ascending and descending through its uneven lanes.
Lucas was astonished by the keen perception of the wandering knight; every time Veyd stopped, something awaited them ahead.
After the encounter with the undead hound, they fought twice more.
Both times, Lucas had no chance to act.
Veyd’s sword struck swiftly, effortlessly piercing the skulls of the undead wild dogs.
Apart from the first lone hound, they soon faced two more packs—one of three, then another of four. Veyd dispatched each with a single stroke, as easily as slaughtering chickens.
The wandering knight drove his blade through or crushed the skulls of the undead hounds, rendering the monsters inert.

Lucas’s anxiety slowly dissolved under Veyd’s calm.
Now, once again, Veyd raised his hand; no words were needed—Lucas stopped in perfect accord, lifting his spear.
They were still perhaps twenty paces from the next bend, but Veyd had already raised his sword.
Lucas sensed that whatever lay ahead was no feeble undead hound; otherwise, the wandering knight would not have prepared so early.
Lucas gripped his spear tightly; at the tenth step, Veyd halted and turned, pressing his palm downward in a silent command for Lucas to hold back.
He pointed to himself, then ahead, then to Lucas, and pressed his hand down again.
As if concerned that Lucas might not understand, he stooped to write in the snow:
“I go, you stay.”
Four simple words—clear as could be.
Lucas hesitated. Veyd seemed intent on facing the creature ahead alone.
Did he think Lucas would be a liability?
He was at least an iron-ranked professional, wounded though he was—not incapable of fighting. Even injured, he was confident he could take on a militia of fewer than ten.
But looking at that battered black helm, he chose, in the end, to trust.
“If you need assistance, please strike your sword against your shoulder armor. I’ll come to aid you at once,” Lucas said.
Veyd nodded, gave a thumbs-up, and strode forward alone.
He walked with unhurried purpose, like a veteran tempered by a hundred battles, emerging from fire and blood.
That figure—weathered, yet brimming with strength.
And indeed, Veyd had fought hundreds of battles—in dreams, his duels with Sweyn numbered one thousand three hundred sixty-three, each one etched indelibly in his memory.
He did not fear combat. Yet as he stepped from the alley and beheld the monster before him, he felt a weight press upon him.
Stained, silver-white fur; three heads stitched together; mutilated limbs and rotting flesh sloughing from the corpse.
It was a horrific creation—a necromantic abomination made from the body of a winter wolf.
Veyd could sense the tormented souls trapped within, writhing in agony and unable to end their hellish suffering. Only time could grant them release, but when would their pain finally end?
“Pitiful souls,” he murmured.
The creature, itself undead, had not noticed Veyd. It still crouched amid the charred corpses, weeping without tears.
Mia drifted to Veyd’s side. He sheathed his iron sword and drew the radiant blade.
From the moment he entered the village, he had felt the sword’s vibration. He did not truly know how to wield a weapon of such grade, but as he faced the necromantic abomination, the runes on the blade lit up of their own accord, casting a pure white glow.