The Necromancer's Servant

Claudius's hands were soaked with sweat. He began to worry that he wouldn't be able to grip his sword properly. He had never felt this tense before; he didn't even know his palms would sweat like this when he was nervous.

In the eyes of most people, Duke Murak was a high-ranking and influential figure, astute and skilled in the ways of the world—a highly respected politician and minister. However, he knew that even on the battlefield, the Duke would not fall short of any general in the Empire. In terms of combat skills, the Duke undoubtedly qualified to be among the top five in the Empire.

The Duke had just given him and his subordinates a command: not to care about the person they truly wanted to capture but to focus on attacking whoever the Duke himself was targeting. He didn't ask the Duke who this person was that required such a large-scale operation. He completely trusted the Duke's judgment; it was clear that this was an opponent beyond imagination.

This was his first encounter with a huge, unknown, and potentially unimaginable danger—something that far exceeded his life experience, which had been smooth and bright since birth. So he was nervous.

Tap, tap, tap. Three distinct knocks echoed at the door. The Duke called in a friendly tone, "Mr. Sandru, I'm back again."

Claudius tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. The hilt, which usually fit so snugly against his palm, felt like a slippery eel covered in sweat, and he feared it would suddenly slip from his grasp during an attack. The Duke turned to him, glanced at him, and calmly said, "Relax."

Only then did Claudius realize that his forehead was already drenched in cold sweat. Don't be nervous. Don't be nervous. He repeatedly emphasized to himself. In front of so many subordinates, what kind of person am I? I am the best, the strongest, the most capable, the most talented person. How can I be nervous? It's just about capturing a soldier; there's nothing to be nervous about. He mentally rehearsed the Duke's plan, contemplating every step he needed to take, what posture to adopt at which moment, how to speak calmly and confidently, and then to strike suddenly when the opponent was caught off guard...

The large wooden door creaked open, revealing a pale young man in his twenties, whose complexion showed a lack of sunlight.

Seeing this face, Duke Murak was somewhat surprised. When the door fully opened, the situation inside astonished him even more.

Looking at the face that had caused him sleepless nights and endless worry over the past two months—more than even the most devoted lover would feel—Claudius felt as if fire were about to burst from his eyes. This was the soldier he had seen two months ago, the one who, in his fiancée's eyes, was a hundred times more important than himself; who had caused him to repeatedly make mistakes and falter. And now, this bastard dared to appear boldly and openly before him, looking at them as if they were uninvited guests.

In a fit of rage, he drew his sword, intending to execute the one who dared to look down on him. But as soon as the sword was unsheathed, he noticed something strange: everyone, including the Duke, had put down their weapons and knelt on one knee.

An empty space was left inside the large room, where a cart was parked. Two priests and an elderly man stood beside it.

The elderly man was thin, with his cheekbones meeting his chin in a narrow, flat face, making his already small eyes appear fitting. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't rested well in a long time. He wore a pure white satin robe, embroidered with a cross of platinum threads on his chest, and a crown adorned with a gem-studded cross on his head. The aura of his attire lent a solemnity to the room, making even the corpses feel dignified and reverent.

Claudius hurriedly lowered his weapon and knelt on one knee, performing a standard blessing gesture: "May God be with you, Bishop Ronis."

"God is with everyone who believes in Him." The skinny face of Bishop Ronis revealed a slight smile as he gestured for everyone to rise.

"Duke, what are you doing?" Bishop Ronis asked, glancing at the pile of weapons on the floor.

The Duke remained unperturbed, gazing at Asa as he slowly replied, "We were just suspecting this young man might be a fugitive, so we were preparing to capture him for questioning." He had already recognized the young man before him; if someone could disguise a limp, surely they could also disguise their face.

"Oh?" Bishop Ronis looked at Asa, his eyes flickering like a pair of candle flames in the dark. "Young man, swear by God's name and your own honor that you are not a fugitive as he says."

Asa shook his head, "No, I'm not."

Bishop Ronis nodded, smiled, and turned back to the Duke. "He says he is not."

"Yes," the Duke affirmed, as cold sweat began to bead on Claudius's forehead.

"I think you may have some misunderstanding or have made a mistake somewhere," Bishop Ronis concluded on behalf of the Duke.

"Yes, we made a mistake," the Duke repeated, while Claudius's cold sweat streamed down his temples.

"Since the misunderstanding has been cleared up now, there should be no further trouble, right?" Bishop Ronis asked.

"Yes, there will be no more trouble," the Duke answered.

"Duke, you know I have no interest in military matters or politics, nor do I wish to get involved," the Bishop spoke as if chatting with an old friend, his tone heartfelt. "So I also do not wish for anyone around me to be dragged into it. You must understand, this is the place of the Magic Academy, and the people here are also part of the Magic Academy."

"Yes, please rest assured, Your Grace. We will take our leave now." The Duke spoke politely and gracefully, as if he were simply a gentleman who had walked into the wrong room.

After exiting the large room and dispersing the troops, Claudius said to the Duke, "The Bishop deliberately set this up to let us in; he is intent on protecting that guy."

The Duke nodded. Bishop Ronis had intentionally brought the cart inside to prevent them from realizing it was there and retreating upon seeing it. Only when they were at swords drawn could he ensure that the matter would be settled without ambiguity.

Strictly speaking, the Bishop had no real power; he could neither adjust taxes nor mobilize a soldier. But even a king would not dare to play tricks on him. Since he stated he did not want that soldier to have any more trouble, then indeed, there could be no further trouble.

Claudius felt that things had come to a dead end.

The duke asked him, "Do you think that soldier will tell the bishop everything?"

Claudius shook his head, "I don't know. What do you think?"

The duke also shook his head, "I don't know either. It seems we can only ask him directly."

"How do we ask?" Claudius was confused.

"Just ask him," the duke said lightly.

Claudius still didn't quite understand, but seeing the duke's calm demeanor, he felt that things might still turn out well.

The duke said, "From a certain perspective, there are only three kinds of people in the world. One kind is those who have nothing to do with you; you don't need to care about them or pay any attention to them. The second kind is your enemies; these people should be few in number, and once you have them, you must eradicate them completely." He looked at Claudius. "But what should you do if you have an enemy you cannot defeat?"

"With all my strength and every means to defeat him," Claudius said valiantly, furrowing his brow, filled with fighting spirit. He was already thinking about how to explain things to the bishop afterward.

The duke shook his head in disappointment: "You should think of a way to turn him into the third kind of person—friends. The more friends you have, the better. Especially with those you cannot deal with."

"Friends?" Claudius sounded as if he was hearing the word for the first time.

At noon that day, shortly after Bishop Ronis had left, a servant from the duke's residence delivered a letter to Asa.

The letter was personally written by the duke, with sincere wording. It basically expressed that he was very grateful to Asa for saving his two daughters. However, due to some unavoidable reasons, there had been some misunderstandings. He now felt very sorry for the previous misunderstandings between them, as there were many detailed reasons that were inconvenient to explain in the letter. The duke would send a carriage that evening to take him to the residence to apologize in person.

Asa read the letter back and forth several times but still couldn't decide whether to go or not. He feared that as soon as he took a seat, dozens of guards would suddenly rush out and turn him into minced meat, or that he might eat a piece of food or take a sip of water, and instantly bleed from every orifice. So he asked Sandru, "Do you think there would be danger if I go?"

"Danger," Sandru said, concentrating on cleaning up a body. "He'll hold a knife to your throat and force you to marry his daughter." He extended his hand. "Give me the saw."

"If that's the case, I'll definitely introduce you to him." Asa handed him the saw. But this was also an opportunity to clarify the truth of the matter. What exactly was the misunderstanding? How had his report turned out? What was Elaine doing now?

"Just go," Asa finally decided. He hated the feeling of having something unresolved weighing on his mind. He liked a saying from an old dwarf who often visited his home: even if it's a pile of dung, eat it down instead of letting it sit there and worry you.

"Go introduce me." Sandru said, focused on sawing the leg of a corpse, the sound creaking.

"Yeah," Asa held the letter up to the sunlight and flicked it, hoping to find a hint falling from the seams of the paper.