Chapter Seventy-Two: The Ghost Mother

Sven Freud, the dead Viking, returned to the world once more, clad in frost. Vade had not anticipated that Mia possessed the ability to create ice golems. No one had ever taught her how, and yet she had learned to wield magic herself, using snow and ice to reconstruct the soul she had consumed.

All the power of the necromancer’s heart was poured into the body of the ice golem. The magical crystal lost its energy, becoming nothing more than an ordinary stone, while the golem, as if granted life, began to move.

That towering construct of snow and ice stepped forward like a living man.

It seemed that Mia was not directly controlling the golem; rather, it possessed its own combat instincts. Its movements were uncannily familiar to Vade, who had seen them countless times in dreams. The golem perfectly reproduced Sven’s mannerisms and fighting style—Mia had instilled Sven’s very “soul information” into the lifeless ice.

Mia had not only recreated his form but restored something of his essence as well. She even fashioned a weapon for the golem—not a sword, but an oversized, round-headed war hammer.

Clearly, she preferred Vade’s hammer from the wastelands over a sword.

With Sven’s visage, the ice golem raised the massive hammer and slammed it into the frozen zombies. The heavy ice hammer crushed their skulls like melons, sending fragments flying into the darkness.

Its strength was terrifying, rivaling the stitched abominations Vade had seen in Brontë Village. Even Sven himself would scarcely have been so mighty. Its resilience was equally impressive—a zombie exploded at its feet with a thunderous blast, splattering corrupted blood, but left only the faintest cracks in the golem’s icy form.

Even these cracks could heal, as the magic drew in snow, refreezing and mending the damage.

Until the magic was spent, the ice golem was a terrifying engine of war. It kicked away the hounds that threatened Vade, swung its mighty hammer to smash zombies aside, and used its colossal body to shield Vade from the corpses’ explosions.

The golem, following Mia’s will, stood guard over Vade.

The little ghost drifted to Vade’s side, settling on his left shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck, and making faces at the zombies and undead.

She looked somewhat peeved, and the golem’s ferocious actions seemed to reflect her inner feelings. The ice golem pinned a hound beneath its foot, then brutally flattened it with the giant hammer.

The tremendous force crushed the steel muzzle on the hound’s neck, splattering fluids like a can of tomatoes bursting open.

The scene was gruesome, almost unbearable to behold.

Vade thought to himself that the little ghost must have a natural penchant for violence. Anyone who angered her would not meet a pleasant end.

Just as those zombies and hounds discovered—thanks to the ice golem, Vade was finally able to destroy the majority of the undead minions before the flames died out.

He himself was surprised at the sheer strength he and Mia could muster together.

It was fortune, timing, and circumstance: the demon-cleaving power of the Radiant Blade, the necromancer’s heart harvested from Brontë Village, the hard-won experience from nightly battles against Sven in dreams, and the elemental battle skill “Starlight” Sven had mastered as a Silver-rank fighter…

All these factors combined, unleashing power beyond their own limits.

Yet none of this was mere coincidence—it was an inevitable result.

He and Mia had successfully repelled the first wave of undead. The ice golem still stood resolutely before Vade, who, aside from being splattered with some debris, was otherwise unharmed.

He calmed himself, searching for any living presence nearby. It seemed Lukas had found the Stone of Mist. Looking back, Vade saw Lukas emerging from York’s alchemy workshop.

Lukas waved the milky, swirling stone above his head, his face alight with excitement as he greeted Vade.

“Sir Vade!” Lukas called, elated.

But Vade did not respond. He sensed another life approaching and turned sharply.

The darkness was pierced by a crimson blaze, its fiery light glinting off Vade’s helmet.

The ice golem was illuminated, and through its body Vade saw a massive fireball.

Roaring flames and thick black smoke—the fireball was as enormous as a boulder tumbling down a mountain. It struck the ice golem and exploded, the terrible shockwave hurling up dust and burning fragments that set corpses and ruined buildings alight.

A vast hole was vaporized instantly through the golem’s abdomen, white steam bursting through the haze.

From within the smoke, a pale, hoarse voice spoke:

“Grave soil, lily-of-the-valley, and tobacco—this scent is reminiscent of my improved Ashen Elixir. No wonder you managed to infiltrate my domain.

“Only York in Alvado should know how to brew such a potion. Did he send you?

“That sword—is it a church blade?

“Are you agents of the Church?

“What is it you seek?

“Where is York hiding?

“If you’re willing to answer… No, I’d best ask your souls directly.

“After all, the dead are the most honest witnesses in this world.”

A figure emerged from the smoke.

A smooth, pale face above a pristine black robe; jet-black hair falling across his epaulets, stray locks drifting in the wind. He looked young—far younger than Lukas—no more than a man in his twenties, and undeniably handsome.

In his left hand, he held a crystal skull; in his right, a staff fashioned from bones.

Visible shades of darkness and resentment swirled around him. Casimodo Wick, the necromancer, had finally arrived on the battlefield.

He pointed his staff at Lukas, who stood before the workshop. Several wailing spirits hurtled toward Lukas, and the crystal skull in Casimodo’s left hand flared with light.

Lukas found himself paralyzed, his ears ringing and vision swimming—he realized Casimodo had cast some soul-based spell upon him.

He gritted his teeth, willing himself to grip his spear, but his legs were numb and unresponsive. The gulf in power was insurmountable—a five-circle necromancer could kill an Iron-rank fighter as easily as crushing a chick.

All he could do was watch as the deathly spirits closed in. But in his despair, a flash of swordlight cut through the gloom.

The wandering knight raised his radiant blade, slashing at the spirits. Where the blade touched them, they shrieked with a piercing, bone-splitting wail.

Casimodo scowled, swinging his staff to recall the spirits.

Lukas regained control of his body and saw Vade gesturing to him.

He clenched his jaw, turned, and forced his legs to move.

Running was all he could do—and all he should do.

Only a fool would remain.

He knew his own weakness, his mediocrity, his helplessness. Lacking strength, he could only flee with everything he had.

If he could, he would gladly die a warrior’s death. But such a death would serve no purpose—it would only squander the precious time and chance the knight had won for him.

“I must bring the Stone of Mist back!”

Never in his life had he run like this, tearing through alleys and passages as if his legs would break.

Night-owls and hounds pursued him; one owl exploded on his back, leaving his flesh mangled, but still he ran, fleeing into darkness and distance.

“Foolish Tanians, I have found you. Did you really think you could escape?” Casimodo’s voice echoed. “My eyes will guide my minions to seize that reckless soul.”

Casimodo turned his gaze upon Vade.

“As for you, knight, you will regret making an enemy of me. I shall teach you the true meaning of pain and torment. Hell’s flames will deny you peace forevermore.”

The smoke dispersed, revealing at last the enormous shadow behind Casimodo.

A burning, unspeakable form—a dreadful demon, as immense as a mountain, grotesquely fat and swollen. Its belly split open in a jagged maw, inside which imps of flame curled in slumber. Upon its swollen, deformed face played a sinister smile.

A mid-tier demon: the Mother of Imps.

Not only that, but beside Casimodo stood a three-headed stitched beast, utterly unlike the flawed specimens seen in Brontë Village. This three-headed stitched wolf burned with violet magical fire.

The bodies of imps had been sewn into the creature; Casimodo had used not only monsters and men, but the flesh of demons as well.

Standing between these two colossi, Casimodo’s expression was cold as frost, stirring terror in the soul.

Vade said nothing; he merely raised his sword and faced him.

The ice golem, its gaping wound slowly knitting back together, stood at Vade’s side. The two sides stared at one another, silent, the only communication that of a fight to the death.