Chapter Seventy-Three: Power and the Sword

Vaid stood face to face with the Demon Mother and Casimodo’s stitched beast, that grotesque devil looming before him, far more terrifying than any tale had ever described. It resembled the corpse of a pregnant woman, soaked for days in icy river water, its blood-red skin mottled with blister-like lumps. Its abdomen appeared to have been slashed open by a knife, revealing no intestines or stomach within—only a vast, gaping cavity. Inside, fleshy buds writhed, and several sleeping fire imps curled within them like infants, connected to the Demon Mother by umbilical cords.

It was said that the form of a demon had never been fixed, unlike birds or beasts; their manifestation in the material world reflected the deepest fears and desires of living things. Vaid believed these words now: the Demon Mother before him defied all logic more than any creature he had ever seen.

The three-headed wolf, stitched together from demon and beast, was equally unnatural, its mismatched organs and fur composing a monstrous exterior. Anyone standing before these two colossal beings would feel an overwhelming sense of oppression, not to mention the wailing of vengeful spirits beside Casimodo—the anguished cries, the scene resembling a nightmare that chilled the soul.

Yet Vaid felt no fear, or rather, something else stirred him more deeply.

When Casimodo entered the square, the souls bound by the necromancer began to wail with greater sorrow. The cries came from the chaotic heap of corpses; even in death, their souls were shackled by Casimodo. Thousands of souls trapped in one place, their consciousness forcibly held together, denied release to the natural world.

The collective sobbing, layered upon itself, was more harrowing than anything Vaid had heard in Bront Village. He saw in his mind the horror that had unfolded in Alvado that night.

Fragments flashed before his eyes. Though he hadn’t touched the souls, he glimpsed the memories of the dead. Icelanders, wielding butcher knives and led by Casimodo’s hounds, stormed the town, breaking into homes and slaughtering the sleeping Tania people. Blood and fire engulfed the once peaceful town; innocent girls suffered atrocities, farmers who lived by labor fled along stone-paved roads, but wherever they ran, soldiers and hunting hounds awaited.

The undead hounds could sense every hiding soul; whether you hid in a box or a cellar, so long as you breathed and your heart beat, you would hear their approaching footsteps. Tears and pleas could not win mercy from soldiers or necromancers; no matter how you abandoned dignity or begged the invaders, only violence and the blade awaited.

Vaid witnessed every atrocity that night.

Even after death, the departed found no peace. The dead cried out, mourned, and grieved—only Vaid could hear their grievances.

Suddenly, Vaid remembered his last conversation with old York that morning, the final question he had asked. He had worried that the question might breach some tacit taboo, but after learning York had studied necromancy, he no longer held back—professional questions belonged with experts.

He had asked York about the natural growth and advancement of undead, for he had never raised a young soul before. He had raised children, but never a spirit like Mia, and he was curious about the ecology of skeletons in the wastelands. He wanted to know more: how ghosts could ascend to banshees and cursed spirits, whether skeletons merely needed to absorb the soul-fire of their kind to perfect their bones.

York answered him thus:

"Whether it's the advancement of undead or professionals, it isn’t simply a matter of accumulating power."

"Except for rare beings like dragons, who inherit racial memories and can cross thresholds as they age, all other creatures face a critical point."

"A professional at the iron level seeking to break through to silver must first lay a solid foundation, training day and night, but not every well-prepared iron-level will succeed."

"Innate talent determines much, but when you reach your threshold, what you need is more than power—it’s a catalyst, a ritual, so to speak."

"For ghosts, a necromancer must constantly provide them with soul energy and magic to nurture them, subjecting them to their greatest fears and ceaseless sorrow."

"When pain and terror reach their peak, and the ghost possesses the magic needed to advance, it undergoes a transformation, crossing the threshold into the next rank."

"Necromancers use rituals of pain and fear to cultivate high-level vengeful spirits, but most spirits collapse along the way; only a rare few can endure such torment and ascend."

"In necromancer theory, advanced undead are bred thus. With a golden dragon corpse, one might create a gold-level bone dragon under ideal conditions, but to turn a skeleton or zombie into a death knight requires arduous rituals."

This was what the dwarf had told Vaid. According to their theory, he should ceaselessly torment Mia, inflict pain and despair upon her, until she endured it all and, through this singular ritual, gained advancement and the dreadful power to inflict pain on others.

But was this truly the only way?

Vaid felt his own experiences differed from the theory. As an undead himself, his practice held greater value.

He sensed the existence of something like a "threshold." He had touched his own; since absorbing the sixty-fourth skeleton’s soul-fire, he had received much feedback from Mia, including that of a silver-level soul.

Yet he no longer felt as if he had undergone any great change; it was merely accumulation.

But now, he vaguely sensed something becoming clearer.

It was an insight, from within himself, akin to how Swin comprehended fire.

In that cramped cabin, he had seen Mia’s memories; in Bront Village, he saw the pasts of the undead pup and the stitched beast. In this moment, he saw the stories of hundreds, thousands of grieving souls, speaking to him.

Why had Mia, upon contact with him, quickly taken shape and bonded with his soul?

Weeks ago, he had thought it was the mysterious twenty-sided die affecting him.

But now he did not think so. It wasn’t some external force binding him to Mia—it was his own compassion.

Because of his compassion, he could hear the souls speak to him.

Mia yearned for vengeance, the pup for its master’s companionship, the stitched beast for release.

He pitied the suffering souls, and so he saw their desires.

He had never sought the sword, nor wished for battle.

He cherished the life of a baker, selling his bread to customers, then reclining on the rooftop chair, basking in the sun and watching white clouds drift across the blue sky, feeling the gentle breeze.

He could sit alone all day like that, and if friends came by, he was glad to chat. Such leisure was what he yearned for.

But he pitied the afflicted, the suffering souls.

Thus he took up the sword, surrounded by the mournful dead.

"If this is your plea, then rise—no more wailing, no more sorrow. Your souls shall be freed."

Vaid thrust his shining blade into the earth, a certain rhythm pulsing from among the dead.

He stood silently, the sword in his hand like a scepter, as though he stood before an army of thousands.