The battle at the "Abyssal Realm" catapulted the independent battalion "Dragon and Beauty" of the Third Knight Regiment to fame. Various versions of the battle report, compiled by interested parties, soon found their way onto the desks of several prominent figures. The readers' reactions varied – some gritted their teeth in fury, some couldn't help but laugh, and others were filled with disgust. The parties involved, however, remained blissfully unaware.
All involved showed a surprising unanimity in keeping their mouths shut. The Duchy of Bavaria maintained strict military discipline with severe penalties. A private brawl among soldiers meant a month in solitary confinement and twenty lashes. A clash of this scale, occurring inside a gambling den no less, would likely mean losing their heads for the ringleaders if it became public. That Paxis had to swallow this loss for now, biding his time for future revenge.
It was only after hearing Keith's explanation that Rogue and the others finally relaxed. Had they known the potential consequences of causing such trouble, they feared they would have barely started collecting their army pay before being forced back to a life of banditry.
The following days were spent on edge, but not idly. They busied themselves separately purchasing land and houses, evidently planning to settle down in Lyon City for the long haul. The hundred "Dragon and Beauty" knights and the fifty mountain tribesmen were being drilled relentlessly by Franco in the military camp. The primary goal was reportedly "surviving a street brawl," a clear preparation for potential future provocations from the Second Knight Regiment in the streets. As the saying goes, bad news travels fast and wide. Within the Third Knight Regiment's camp, soldiers from other battalions, even the regular knights of the First Knight Battalion, now looked upon the "Dragon and Beauty" knights with different eyes. Their gazes held a mix of admiration, envy, scorn, and jealousy.
Perhaps haunted by a childhood of poverty, Rogue had a particular fondness for having a nest of his own. The fatty fondly remembered his first little building in Faerburg. Even if it was riddled with traps and perpetually messy, it was his first home. And that wonderful night, the unparalleled frenzy after their narrow escape, the soul-stirring moans, those long, straight, powerful legs, the emptiness after the climax... it was all etched so deeply in his memory. Suddenly, and for no clear reason, Rogue felt a pang of missing Keevey. It was a strange, inexplicable feeling. Keevey was fiery, beautiful, highly skilled in martial arts, and young. Even in this era of rigid hierarchies, people still respected those with true strength. Though just a commoner, she was far superior to someone like him, the scion of a fallen noble house. Rogue knew that, barring some miracle, he had no chance with a woman like her.
Maybe that's why that night remained so vivid in his memory, Rogue thought self-deprecatingly. For him, or for any man, Keevey's martial prowess was ultimately useless. What he wanted was merely her body and her face. She was beautiful, but far from a peerless beauty like Elexis; there were plenty of commoner girls with looks just as fine. But when you combined all her attributes, few women could compare to Keevey. It was like the weapons and armor from the "Hammer of the War God." While practical and indeed quality items, they couldn't be called legendary divine arms. It was the addition of various decorations and gimmicks that made them seem extraordinary.
Ah, and the sense of conquest! Rogue knew Keevey undoubtedly looked down on him, considered herself above him. "So what?" the fatty thought viciously. "Didn't I still get to see all of you? Do whatever I wanted?" It was probably this stark contrast between her perceived status and the reality that made it so satisfying, the act of obtaining a woman seemingly beyond his station.
Every man's dream, right?
"This is conquest!" Rogue felt a little smug. But another voice inside him countered, "Is this really conquest? You just obtained her through despicable means. Did you break her will? Or win her heart?" The fatty fell silent.
"In this day and age, who has time for all that hassle!" he thought indignantly. "I just want your person, not your heart!"
But bedding a famous woman wasn't the end of it; you had to find a way to let others know. It became a symbol of status and identity. *See, such an outstanding woman has submitted to me. I must have something extraordinary about me.* As for what exactly that was... hahaha, figure it out yourself! How to let others know was an art in itself. You couldn't just go around telling everyone, 'So-and-so is my woman now.' It had to be indirect, preferably making them work a little to discover it themselves. Who you told was also important. Birds of a feather flock together. Boasting about this to a laborer would either get you labeled an idiot or cursed out as insane.
But no matter how he thought about it, the affair with Keevey was just too shameful. Even when nobles bullied others, they maintained a basic decorum – challenge them to a duel if you could, gang up on them if you couldn't, but it had to be done with some semblance of honor. When it came to women, nobles were even more particular; they wanted both the person and the heart. His methods, full of traps and knockout drugs... besides those degenerate friends of his, it was truly unspeakable. This left Rogue with the frustration of "wearing fine clothes only to walk in the dark."
Although many nobles were mediocre, there was no lack of good-for-nothings and spendthrifts, the desire to compete, to strive for advancement and accomplishment, was universal. After going through all the hardships to gain status and position, who wouldn't want to flaunt it immediately? Thus, the great and ancient families, with their pure and noble bloodlines, naturally displayed their lineage, boasting of the kings and royal consorts in their family trees. Those of slightly lesser status, whose histories also included dukes and marquises, still felt it insufficient and had to show off their current official positions and fertile lands. Then there were the wealthy merchants. Though their status wasn't high, their jewelry and artifacts, priceless and vast, could even make nobles covetous. As for the fallen nobles, even if their family fortunes had declined, their aristocratic airs must never wane. Thus, a few family heirlooms became items the elders had to bring out and display to their descendants during festivals.
Even the strong often couldn't escape this vulgarity. The status of mages was already quite revered, but the Mages' Guild still had to create a tiered system. The robes and accessories for each rank were distinctly different. Rogue had long understood that magical power didn't necessarily equate to combat prowess. If a rookie mage like himself knew this, there was no reason the great archmages wouldn't. The tier certification didn't make much practical difference. Yet, every year, mages flocked like carp crossing the river in an endless stream to get certified. The certification fee wasn't cheap; this single source of income made the Mages' Guild wealthier than some countries. Of course, as outstanding representatives of the clever, the services provided by the Mages' Guild were not ordinary. Just the design of the high-level mage robes, for instance, was meticulously crafted by true masters, incorporating styles from various regions. The designs were elegant in their simplicity, timeless classics, and tailored by master tailors specifically for the individual – not the mass-produced goods from clothing stores. Thus, every high-level mage (generally referring to mages above level 12) cut a fine figure, appearing scholarly, elegant, and wise.
Rogue's wandering thoughts suddenly sparked an idea. *Right! A man must have status, and if you have status, you must show it off. The name "Hammer of the War God" should become a symbol of status and identity. We can't sell low-priced items anymore. Our real big clients wouldn't want to use the same things as commoners. As for those wealthy merchants, we can't neglect them either. If you're willing to pay a premium, some of the fine items originally reserved for nobles can be yours to take home, as long as it doesn't break any taboos. That Fess is indeed a master craftsman when it comes to magical artifacts, especially defensive gear, but his taste is a bit lacking. Besides, relying on him alone, how many items can he produce in a month? The spoils bought from adventurers by the Hammer of the War God are already piling up like a mountain. We need to turn them into gold coins quickly. Looks like it's time to hire a few more master craftsmen. We definitely need one artistic master. Should we also find an expert in etiquette? Seems I should discuss this with Franco.*
In the blink of an eye, Rogue was walking through the snow into his own small courtyard. The house wasn't large: a two-story building with a courtyard of about five hundred square meters. The building had seven rooms – four upstairs and three downstairs, including the living room. Compared to his place in Faerburg, this one wasn't much bigger, but the location was considerably better. Binshe Avenue bordered the area between the wealthy and commoner districts, meaning it could at least claim some proximity to a respectable neighborhood.
Land in Lyon City was expensive, far more so than in a semi-border region like Faerburg. This little property had cost Rogue a full two thousand gold coins, making the fatty's heart ache for a long time. But you got what you paid for. The original owner was also a fallen noble who had spent his life on art and history and had a keen interest in gardening. This small courtyard had been meticulously maintained, elegant and tranquil, showing great ingenuity. An ancient tree provided shade for over half the yard in summer, and the winter frost on its branches made for a scenic view. A winding path of crushed gravel connected the gate to the house door. A pergola stood over the entrance, with withered vines still coiled around it, quietly awaiting spring. The lawn in the courtyard had dried up in winter, with two carriage lanterns, painted black, placed sporadically upon it. Lit at night, their faint yellow glow gave returning home a particularly warm feeling.
Rogue walked a circle around the small yard, extremely satisfied. Entering the house, he stoked the fireplace until it blazed, pulled over a rocking chair that was at least fifty years old, and lazily settled in by the fire, picking up a copy of *"On the Nature of Necromancy"* to read.
The book was written fifty years ago by a great necromancer. As a typical example of a heretic, that necromancer was unfortunately exterminated by the Sacred Church, and all his property naturally became the Church's. The book had been sent to Rogue by Ophirok, an act that had nearly scared the fatty out of his wits. It was one thing for a mage to summon a few undead creatures, quite another to read such forbidden texts. Right next to the most radiant glory of God in the Great Temple of Light existed the darkest of places – the Religious Inquisition. Except for a few holidays a year, the flames on the Inquisition's stakes never ceased. Therefore, Rogue always chose the most secluded spots to read this book. Now, with no servants or cooks yet in the small building, it was the perfect place for some quiet reading.
Necromancy, put simply, was magic dealing with souls. In that regard, it was quite similar to many spells of the light school. All undead creatures relied on various negative energies to move, while their intelligence and instincts came from either simulated souls crafted by the mage or the direct insertion of living souls. The myriad strange and bizarre undead creatures were the result of combining different bodies, bones, and various types of souls. Simulated souls had the advantage of stability. After centuries of refinement, necromantic incantations were quite perfected. If a mage wanted to summon a skeleton soldier, a skeleton soldier would appear. Using living souls was far less certain. Often it resulted in complete failure, and more often than not, it summoned all sorts of inexplicable creatures. For example, using the soul of an evil warrior as a catalyst might summon a Blade Walker or a Skeleton General. But once a particularly useful undead creature was formed, necromancers had a chance to learn how to simulate that particular soul state. If successful, a new necromantic summoning spell was born.
For instance, the Carrion Crawler was a low-level undead creature born this way. The Carrion Crawler was massive, its body dripping with highly toxic pus, slow-moving, and survived mainly by absorbing the death energy from corpses. But it was far from reaching Fengyue's level of directly absorbing soul energy; it could only slowly absorb by swallowing corpses whole. The Carrion Crawler could spew highly toxic stomach acid and had fairly decent physical and magical defense, making it a good choice for defending key communication points.
Rogue became engrossed. The author of this book had even drawn a picture of a Carrion Crawler. As Rogue stared at it, he felt waves of black mist drifting from the pages. An earth-shattering roar accompanied by an indescribable stench assailed him. From within the mist crawled a giant beast – a Carrion Crawler over three meters tall, greenish-yellow, staring fixedly at him.
Rogue sucked in a cold breath. Facing this suddenly appearing Carrion Crawler, he had none of his axes, armor, or any of his usual equipment. How was he supposed to fight? Survival was paramount. The fatty had no time to ponder why reading a book had suddenly conjured such a thing, but he firmly remembered the four-word description of the Carrion Crawler: "slow-moving." Rogue turned, ready to flee, when a familiar pulling force lifted him, carried him through the black mist, and away into the void.
It was that familiar gray place once more.
As Rogue flailed his limbs uselessly, threatening and intimidating to no avail, Fengyue unceremoniously drew Rogue into itself. Rogue's psychic power once again began to drain away like water from a broken basin. *"Just take it. After all, a mage and his familiar are two sides of the same coin, sharing weal and woe,"* Rogue thought wryly. Over the past two years, Rogue had practiced diligently, and both his psychic power and mana had improved significantly. Especially since the last dream, his psychic power had increased noticeably. This time, after Fengyue finished feeding, a small portion of his psychic power remained.
Like a basin of ink poured over its head, a blot of blackness began at Fengyue's head and rapidly spread downwards. Amidst a series of cracking sounds, Fengyue's entire skeletal frame expanded, growing over three inches taller. The scythe it never let go of also writhed and grew like a living thing. Occasionally, white, rot-like substance would flip out from within, quickly turning black and hardening, forming a new layer on the scythe. A clear sense of joy transmitted from Fengyue into Rogue's mind. Rogue could only smile bitterly. Which ancient text ever mentioned undead creatures having emotions like joy or sorrow?
"If this is a dream, let me wake up soon!" the fatty groaned.
Wisps of black mist emanated from Fengyue's body. Some nearby zombies slowly stood up. Only then did Rogue notice the dozen or so zombie corpses lying on the ground near Fengyue, one of which was a zombie warrior, its wounds deep enough to reveal bone. Balls of death energy shot from Fengyue, blasting these already "dead" zombies to pieces, rotting flesh flying in all directions. Pale white netherworld flames ignited from Fengyue's feet, rapidly expanding into a ten-meter-wide circle of fire. The zombies within the circle were swiftly burned to ash, leaving only tiny, glowing specks floating in the air. These specks slowly gathered together, eventually forming a piece the size of a fingernail. Rogue's psychic power gently extended, touching the substance. The small thing immediately twisted, constantly expanding, finally becoming an extremely thin, large membrane that floated over and covered Fengyue, slowly dissolving into it.
Fengyue's Death Scythe also stopped growing. Now, the scythe was thicker and half again as long, reaching over four meters in length, its shape monstrous. From time to time, a dark red electrical fire leaped from the blade tip to the hilt, shooting out and melting a small, smoking pit in the ground.
Fengyue let out a cry of joy – silent, of course. But to Rogue, perceiving it psychically, the cry was as pleasing as a nightingale leaving the valley or a breeze stroking a zither. Only, the psychic vibration was a bit too strong, like a thunderclap, making stars dance before Rogue's eyes.
Fengyue pointed its scythe diagonally towards the sky, its gaze fixed intently on a distant black mountain faintly visible within the grayness. Rogue once again sensed that ancient presence. With his increased psychic power, the fatty felt more clearly than ever the immeasurable depth of that being's power. Yet Fengyue was already charging forward, its bone wings fully spread as if riding the wind, leaping and gliding effortlessly over dozens of yards with each bound.
In the blink of an eye, they reached the place where they had been forced to retreat last time. Zombies were once again emerging from the earth one after another. This time, leading the charge were three zombie warriors. Facing the impending battle, Rogue focused his energy, gathering his psychic power and launching three powerful psychic strikes aimed directly at the energy cores of the three zombie warriors. The three energy clusters flared brightly, like candle flames in a gale, teetering on the brink of extinction. Fengyue's massive scythe, trailing a purple electrical fire, drew a perfect arc, directly bisecting the first two zombie warriors. The third zombie warrior, with a weaker energy core, had its core directly shattered by Rogue's strike and fell to the ground, motionless.
Streaks of black energy, accompanied by soul-chilling shrieks, swirled madly around Fengyue. Limbs and body parts of various zombies flew in all directions.
Looking out, an endless sea of zombies was crawling out from the earth, crowding, rubbing against each other, slowly pressing forward – a veritable ocean of the undead!
Yet Fengyue was unwaveringly determined, advancing step by step against the tide. With each step forward, dozens of zombies fell. Fengyue's eyes remained fixed on the distant black mountain in the sky, on that ancient presence residing upon it.
Rogue unleashed wave after wave of psychic oscillations with all his might. Like a fierce wind, each wave of psychic oscillation caused dozens of energy sparks to scatter like dust in the wind. Yet, more candle flames ignited in the darkness.
If human persistence was often driven by desire, what was Fengyue's persistence for?
In this era, even skeletons have gone mad.
"As a construction engineer who writes in my spare time, your feedback means the world to me. If you like the story, your praise and comments are the greatest encouragement!"
"The first volume is wrapping up soon. I'm still working on how to write the next one and would love to hear your thoughts in the comments! I will be listening to your ideas to help inspire my writing."