Chapter 50: Visitors

All of this was done while Rodhart was fully conscious, feeling every sensation with terrifying clarity. The seemingly half-dead old man appeared to take immense interest in his work, possessing an endless reserve of energy. He rested for only a short time each day, and aside from eating, he devoted all his time and effort to Rodhart's body.

Never in his life had Rodhart imagined he would end up in such a situation. He had considered death, and he was not afraid of it, but he had never anticipated experiencing something worse than death itself.

Now, he finally understood the meaning of a fate worse than death—a phrase that seemed tailor-made for his current predicament.

That day, he was only spared because the queen had begged desperately for his life. Had it not been for her relentless pleas, the furious Commander Roland would have slain him on the spot. Instead, he was exiled, with the decree that he would never again be allowed to set foot in the royal capital.

Women are strange, soft-hearted creatures. That was the thought that crossed Rodhart's mind when he saw the queen kneel before Roland, pleading for mercy on his behalf. He had betrayed her completely, yet she still fought so desperately to save him. It was baffling—but at the same time, he could not help but be grateful for the peculiar nature of women.

From a squad captain in the Holy Knights to a banished man with nothing to his name—his fall was absolute. Yet, he did not despair. He was neither discouraged nor broken. If anything, the humiliation only ignited his resolve even further.

Rather than live in obscurity, wandering aimlessly or hiding away, he would rather fight for his dreams—even if it meant dying in pursuit of them.

He had already lost too much. The only way forward was to gain more. If he could not, then he would rather die. He refused to accept such a crushing defeat. The only way to erase his failure was to turn it into an even greater victory.

That was why he set his sights on Dehya Valley, to seek refuge with Marquis Jarvis's father. From Jarvis, he had learned much about the hidden affairs of Dehya Valley. Jarvis had always intended to make him his right-hand man, and the information he shared had been both an enticement and a means of control.

Rodhart firmly believed that someone as valuable as himself would surely earn the marquis's recognition and acceptance.

Moreover, he held a secret—something that likely only he knew. He was certain that the necromancers would be very interested in this knowledge. Information was also a form of power, and he had carefully safeguarded it, never revealing it to anyone.

Breaking into the Spiral Shadow Mountains alone—he knew that was tantamount to insanity. But he had no other choice. He had to soar higher.

Just when he was on the brink of death, a necromancer saved him. This necromancer, dressed in the robes of a cardinal, not only healed his fatal wounds but also brought him to Celeste, where he was granted an audience with the marquis. At that moment, Rodhart believed that he was finally about to rise again.

But after listening to his words in silence, the marquis merely nodded, then cast a Hold Person spell, freezing him in place.

"Thank you for telling me all of this. I know you are a very useful person. But I also know that the only reason you want to serve me is because you find me useful to you. And I know that you would never be content to simply be of use to me—your usefulness is, in the end, only for yourself."

"A man who is never satisfied cannot be controlled. And if he cannot be controlled, then no matter how useful he is, he is of no use to me."

With those words, the marquis turned away from him and addressed the red-clad cardinal who had brought him. "Such a useful individual… Take him to Master Shantee. Didn't he say he needed more test subjects?"

"Hm, that was my original intention as well." The cardinal chuckled. "To be able to venture so deep into the Spiral Shadow Mountains alone, his physique and willpower are undoubtedly exceptional. Master Shantee specifically asked for someone like that. I brought him here just to see how he would present himself to you—but I never expected to gain such an interesting piece of information from him."

"A piece of information that, for now, is useless… Let's hope that it's only for now. Otherwise, this man will have no value to me whatsoever," the marquis replied indifferently.

If he couldn't fly, then falling to his death along the way was acceptable. But what he never expected was that not only did he fail to take flight—he couldn't even fall to his death. Even dying was not an option.

How could this happen? How did I end up like this? What have I become?

He had no idea how long he had been trapped in this strange little hut. Maybe it hadn't been long. Maybe it had been a lifetime. Other than the relentless, searing pain, only one thought remained in Rodhart's mind.

A grating sound echoed through the room, sending shivers down his spine. The pain searing through his arm was enough to drive a man insane—but somehow, he couldn't even lose his mind. He didn't need to look. He already knew—the old man was engraving magical runes onto his arm bone. That massive, hulking creature—his "kin"—had nearly every inch of his bones inscribed with the same markings.

As the unbearable screeching continued, Rodhart felt his own magical energy being drawn into the engravings, coalescing into strange, unsettling fluctuations.

"Oh? This one has magical aptitude? Quite rare, quite rare. Good, good." That had been the old man's delighted remark the first time he cut Rodhart open. It seemed that because of this discovery, he had taken extra care with the engravings, carving even more of them into his body—occasionally even injecting his own magic into them.

Suddenly, the old man's movements halted. He lifted his head and turned toward the hut's entrance.

"Visitors? A rare occurrence indeed…" The old man gestured with a wave of his hand. "Clean yourselves up."

At his command, Rodhart's long-unmoved limbs sprang into action. He leaped down from the stone slab, reassembled his dismembered arm, and moved to the corner of the room. Standing beside him was the massive, muscle-bound being—his so-called counterpart. Without hesitation, Rodhart grabbed a filthy, tattered cloth from the floor and draped it over both of them.

His movements were swift, fluid, precise. And worst of all—they were entirely his own. He had no conscious intention to act. He had simply felt a sensation at the center of his forehead, and his body had obeyed.

It had to be the magic circle engraved onto his skull. Rodhart remembered the old man putting special care into inscribing that one, even letting a drop of his own blood fall onto his exposed brain. He could still recall the sensation of that blood—thick, viscous, like a glob of phlegm.

But that was all he could do—remember. Ever since that drop of blood merged with the magic circle, he had almost entirely lost his ability to think. Most of the time, he could hear, see, move, and feel—he just couldn't think.

Only on rare occasions, like now, could he grasp fleeting moments of awareness. To recall. To regret.

...

"A graveyard in a place like this? And someone actually lives here?" Talice looked around in surprise.

After days of flight, they had finally entered Nigen's territory. Now, they stood before an abandoned graveyard.

When people thought of Nigen, the first thing that came to mind was its vast underground world. Beneath the westernmost edge of the continent lay massive caverns, a realm entirely different from the surface. Minotaurs, dark elves, harpies—countless creatures had built a self-sustaining world in the depths.

The origins of their war against the surface dwellers had long been lost to history. The land above had been ravaged by conflict time and time again. Though Nigen was not as inhospitable as the Wyvern Desert or the Lizard Marshes, it was still far from suitable for human habitation. Only scattered groups of goblins and the occasional harpy roamed the surface.

Even though this graveyard was in a remote part of Nigen, and they had yet to encounter any goblin settlements along the way, it was still strange for someone to be living here.

It was called a graveyard, but it was little more than a chaotic collection of graves surrounded by a few wooden fences. At its center stood a house that barely looked any different from a tomb. That someone actually lived here was peculiar indeed.

"Excuse me, is Master Shante here? I have come at the guidance of Agrenel." Asa did not enter the graveyard but instead called out from outside.

"Come in," a frail voice responded, accompanied by a fit of coughing from within the house.

"Another necromancer?" Talice's gaze swept across the graves, and she nudged Asa warily. "There's necromantic magic in these graves… We should be careful."

"Only the Church's finest are buried here. Among them are thirteen temple knights and eight bishops—your predecessors. You should have more faith that they won't attack you without reason," the voice replied, piecing the words together between coughs.

Though Talice stood far from the hut and had spoken softly, the person inside had not only heard her but also discerned that she was from the Church.

Asa gestured for Talice to stay calm. Since Grandma Ail had sent him here, this man was likely not an enemy. The three of them stepped into the graveyard and approached the door.

An old man hunched with age opened the door. He had the wretched appearance of a bat—an aged, decrepit bat. His frail, trembling movements and incessant coughing made it seem like he could keel over at any moment. His cloudy eyes swept over the trio, lingering slightly longer on Asa. He weakly raised his hand and said, "Come in and have a seat."

As they entered the tomb-like house, Asa felt an odd sense of familiarity. Talice remained tense, her wary demeanor unchanged. Meanwhile, Ayime let out a startled cry and nearly bolted out the door, only to shrink behind Talice in fear.