Chapter 115 — Northbound to the Wall
The steamship moved slowly across the sea. Every day, the sailors went about their work with steady, methodical efficiency, and the few passengers aboard followed similarly regular routines.
That "dog," having apparently been confined for far too long, refused to leave the deck the moment he was given freedom. Day after day, he lingered there without fail, never returning below deck until the sun had fully set. Even so, he caused no trouble—on the contrary, he was unusually quiet, tilting his head from time to time, getting along surprisingly well with the sailors.
Connie behaved much as she had on the previous voyage. She came out occasionally, but spent most of her time in her cabin like a shut-in. The difference this time was that Charles now understood what she was actually doing—practicing magical rituals nonstop.
Those with pegasus bloodlines excelled at escape and ritual magic. Such rituals weren't at all like what Charles had once imagined; simply setting them up could take several days, requiring precise calculations of timing and even celestial movements.
As for Zachary, he had been absent for days at a time as well. Unlike before, when he had been preparing spells, this time he was recovering from injuries.
The wounds he had suffered on the isolated island continued to trouble him. Each time he treated them, he sealed himself in his cabin, refusing all visitors—sometimes even neglecting meals.
Charles was certain of this. With the Eye of Reality and the knowledge he had gained from that book, the Church's methods were no longer a complete mystery to him.
So, on one quiet and unremarkable night during the journey, he swiftly summoned the Traversal Gate and stepped through it.
After all, they were still half a month away from Seign Port. Everyone else was busy—there was no reason for him to waste time.
The army stretched into a long, winding column along the Kingsroad.
Horses crunched through the snow, producing a chaotic chorus of creaks and snaps, mingled with soldiers' shouts and the occasional neigh. The procession heading toward the Wall felt unexpectedly lively.
The road beneath their feet extended all the way to the horizon. On one side rose towering mountains, wrapped in drifting clouds and mist; on the other lay dense forests and stretches of barren land, bleak and untamed.
By now, they had already covered most of the journey. Looking ahead, the Wall loomed faintly into view—vast and towering, forged of ice crystal. Stretching from east to west, its seemingly endless length was like a structure binding the very edges of the world together, inspiring instinctive awe and dread.
Charles sat upright on horseback, reins loosely held in both hands. A thick, violet-bound tome floated before him, pages turning on their own as he followed the column without lifting his head. He let the horse keep pace by itself, showing no concern about drifting from the formation.
The long, grueling days on the road had sharpened his riding skills quickly. At the very least, he no longer feared being thrown from the saddle under circumstances like this.
With guards riding nearby, there was little chance of anything unexpected happening.
Robb Stark rode alongside him, eyes fixed on the road ahead. From time to time, however, he couldn't help glancing at the book hovering before Charles, its pages flipping automatically. He was intensely curious about this sort of "sorcery."
When they first set out, Charles had ridden normally like anyone else. Yet only a few days in, he had suddenly begun reading as they traveled. Perhaps the monotony of the road bored him—but Robb suspected this was a newly learned spell.
That suspicion was reinforced by the wagon following behind them, laden with books. Every volume bore strange writing no one else could understand, radiating an air of mystery.
"Magic is always mysterious," Robb thought. "Or… divine arts?"
Winterfell was his home, yet he couldn't recall such books ever existing in its libraries. And before arriving at Winterfell, Ser Cranston—this man of many titles and identities—had carried little baggage at all.
So where had these books come from?
It wasn't just Robb who wondered. Everyone did. But since Charles never volunteered an explanation, no one dared press him.
As they rode on, the man beside him—still fully absorbed in his reading—suddenly spoke.
"We should be close now, shouldn't we?"
"Yes," Robb replied. "About two more days."
He was about to say more, but Charles had already returned his gaze to the floating book.
Robb could only shake his head helplessly.
He felt this man was almost excessively diligent. Apart from stopping to camp, eat, or deal with unusual situations, Charles read nonstop, barely moving his eyes.
Was it really that fascinating?
To Charles, it felt like a child finally getting their favorite toy—or someone stuck on a game level for ages suddenly finding the perfect walkthrough. Robb could never understand that feeling.
But that was exactly Charles's state of mind.
With so many "guides" in hand, he simply couldn't suppress his curiosity. And in truth, they were already paying off.
He had learned two new spells.
The first was Detect Undead, which allowed the caster to perceive spiritual entities with the naked eye.
The second was Shadow Servant—the very spell he was using now. It was like gaining an invisible attendant.
This spell was easy to master but weak in effect. A servant formed from residual deathly souls couldn't lift anything heavy, making it nearly useless for combat or ambush. But for Charles's current situation, it was perfect.
He had countless books he dared not touch directly. Previously, he had relied on walking corpses to flip pages for him. Now, things were much simpler.
Unfortunately, these were the only two spells he could currently learn and use from that entire collection. The rest either had tier requirements or—more troubling—racial requirements.
Yes. Race.
Advancing as a necromancer required choosing a bloodline or race. How many options existed, Charles didn't know—but he was already aware of several: lich, vampire, ghoul, flesh golem.
Compared to the Church's heavenly races, embodying all mortal virtues, or the terrifying demons of Hell, the necromancer's options were… deeply unsettling.
Charles had no intention of choosing any of them.
They were too conspicuous, too easy to expose. And the bloodline alterations—or outright physical modifications—were simply repulsive.
Instead, he favored a path outside those racial transformations—a road his aunt had once walked.
The Spirit Medium.
"But to advance," he sighed inwardly, "I need a stepping stone—and a method."
He was still pondering the former, and as for the latter, he had no clue.
From one book, he learned that as long as one chose their path carefully, necromantic power didn't necessarily conflict with the Church's forces. That eased his mind somewhat.
The Church's circular advancement system required little thought from him. But the necromancer's road—he would have to carve that himself.
Yet among the "inheritance" he had acquired, there were only spells and knowledge. The most critical element—the method of advancement—was nowhere to be found.
Perhaps, for necromancers—or any faction—that was the most tightly guarded secret of all.
With that thought, he glanced down at the book in his hands.
Secrets like these would be beyond a novice like him. But what if he added a high-level spirit medium—and an ancient vampire—to the equation?
Much of what lay hidden in his spiritual core had previously reached him only unconsciously, through dreams. But if he could master the dream-weaving technique described in this book…
He might be able to explore it at will.
"It's just that this spell won't be easy to practice."
Shaking his head, Charles closed the floating book with a thought and finally focused fully on the road ahead.
As the column advanced, dark clouds gradually gathered overhead.
At first, only a light drizzle fell. Then came steady rain. Finally, a torrential downpour erupted, rain hammering down as thunder rolled through the clouds above.
In moments, everyone was soaked through.
"Is there anywhere to take shelter around here?!" Robb shouted, wiping rain from his face.
"Crown's Rest is just ahead!" a soldier answered quickly. "We can shelter there!"
The army veered off the Kingsroad, turning toward the mountains to the left and pressing forward at speed.
Finding the way in such rain was difficult, but Robb's guide proved reliable, leading them with clear purpose.
Before long, they reached the settlement known as Crown's Rest.
Under the rain, the town looked bleak and colorless. Though called a town, it was little more than ruins now. Years of wildling raids had driven all the original inhabitants away, leaving it desolate and empty.
Or so it seemed—until sudden signs of life appeared.
They saw people.
Figures sheltering from the rain inside one of the abandoned buildings.
Firelight flickered within, silhouettes moving across the walls—there were quite a few of them.
"Walder," Robb ordered a nearby attendant, "go speak with them. We'll look for other places to shelter."
The attendant set off at once.
But he had barely gone a few steps when a horn suddenly sounded outside the firelit building.
Robb froze.
One of the veteran soldiers beside him reacted instantly.
"My lord—it's a wildling horn!" he shouted, drawing his weapon without hesitation.