Chapter LIV

  As before, a fireball formed in the necromancer's hand as he spoke. Vanus, now charging toward him, managed to dodge the projectile. But Jerome suspected this maneuver brought little comfort to the vampire, for all of them had witnessed the devastating power of the necromancer's fireballs.

  The fireball exploded further down the tunnel, somewhere between the charging Vanus and the other vampires retreating in disarray. Its impact triggered a violent explosion, forcing Jerome to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Yet he saw just enough to witness Vanus engulfed by a wall of fmes.

  As before, Jerome felt a wave of scorching heat wash over him. None of this was surprising anymore; it had become a familiar spectacle. He almost sighed in resignation but stopped short when he heard the unexpected—a scream.

  Snapping his eyes open, he turned his head, still partly shielded by his arm, to see a figure abze and still running toward the necromancer. Even the necromancer, usually composed, seemed momentarily startled by the sight.

  Vanus, it seemed, had been far enough from the fireball's core to avoid instant incineration. Yet his state was grim. Jerome couldn't imagine how the vampire expected to survive, let alone reach his target. But he couldn’t deny a flicker of respect for the determination fueling Vanus's desperate charge.

  Vanus screamed, his voice a mixture of agony and defiance, as he pressed on. With every step, though, his pace faltered, his body visibly succumbing to the fmes. It was clear he would never reach the necromancer.

  The necromancer, unperturbed, gnced toward not-Tyrun and gave a subtle nod. The undead warrior responded immediately, moving toward the fming vampire with swift precision. In one clean motion, the bde of fire struck, decapitating Vanus. The vampire's body crumbled into ash. His screaming finally extinguished.

  As not-Tyrun returned to his master's side, silence fell over the group, save for the crackle of the fmes from the smoldering remains of the tunnel's wooden supports. The scene mirrored the aftermath of Mercy's destruction, and Jerome couldn't help but feel a chilling sense of déjà vu.

  The tunnel ahead, where the remaining vampires had fled, now glowed faintly with the light of the burning supports. In this eerie tableau, Jerome saw the necromancer more imposing than ever, calmly examining not-Tyrun with a calcuting gaze.

  "Total victory!" excimed Seres beside him, practically jumping with joy, his voice brimming with awe. "They never stood a chance!" he added, bouncing toward the necromancer enthusiastically.

  Jerome exchanged a gnce with Sab. As much as they hated to admit it, they agreed with Seres. Between the undead and the necromancer's fireballs, the vampires had indeed been doomed from the start. Survival should have brought relief, yet it only underscored Sab's earlier warning: they wouldn’t stand a chance against the necromancer either.

  "But Nero, I thought he wasn’t a mage. Did he lie to us?" Seres asked, csping his hands as if holding an imaginary sword, his question resonating with Jerome's own suspicions. Could not-Tyrun have deceived them all?

  "It’s not magic," the necromancer replied curtly, his gaze never leaving the fming sword wielded by not-Tyrun. A weapon that starkly contradicted his cim.

  "It’s not magic?" Seres repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief and confusion, echoing Jerome’s puzzlement.

  For a moment, the necromancer said nothing, continuing to scrutinize the radiant sword. The group dared not interrupt, uncertain what he might be thinking—or doing. The light from the sword offered an odd sense of reassurance, and Jerome found himself reluctantly trusting the necromancer's assertion. Somehow, it didn’t quite feel like magic.

  "It’s faith, not magic. The systems are different," the necromancer finally said, his voice tinged with frustration as he scratched his head, as though grappling with a puzzle.

  The expnation made a strange sort of sense, yet also didn’t. Miracles, as priests always cimed, were distinct from magic. But what did the necromancer mean by systems? And more importantly, how could an undead perform a miracle?

  Unless… Could it be a miracle granted by one of the dark gods? But no—Jerome couldn’t bring himself to believe that. Not with the pure, radiant light emanating from the sword.

  "Hey, what’s the name of the sun god again?" the necromancer suddenly asked, his exasperation palpable.

  "Icaras Invicto," Sab replied, his tone betraying his bewilderment at the bizarre question.

  "Icaras. Really? Why not just go with Icarus?" the necromancer muttered, shaking his head. His tone struck Jerome as faintly bsphemous, though he wasn’t even a follower of Icaras.

  "Whoever came up with these names is zy," the necromancer continued, his disdain evident.

  For some inexplicable reason, Jerome felt a shiver of unease at the necromancer’s irreverence. Worried that his words might invite divine wrath upon them all. Jerome decided to interrupt with a question of his own.

  "How is it possible for an undead to do miracles?" he asked.

  "Miracles?!" the necromancer asked, intrigued, as he turned to get a better look at Jerome. He opened his mouth, hesitated briefly, and then finally began to speak.

  "Right. Well..." He pointed his thumb at not-Tyrun and said, "He’s a warrior monk, a follower of Icaras."

  Hearing this, things began to make more sense. Not-Tyrun had indicated before that he wasn’t exactly a warrior.

  "The Order of the Petal and the Fme, right?" the necromancer asked, returning to not-Tyrun. Even the usually impassive undead creature seemed surprised by the question before nodding in affirmation.

  "Yeah, thought I recognized the sword. The number of times I've..." the necromancer began grumbling but was cut off by Sab.

  "How can you control a servant of the gods?" Sab asked, echoing one of the questions Jerome himself had been pondering.

  The necromancer gnced at Sab, then back at not-Tyrun, before answering, "Bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? He’s a follower of a god," he said, gesturing toward not-Tyrun, "not a servant of one. Trust me, if you ever saw a servant, you’d know the difference."

  Jerome felt a pang of unease as he tried to imagine what the necromancer meant. Had he encountered and interacted with a direct servant of a god? And if so, which god? Given that he was a necromancer, the implications were troubling.

  "But, of course, I can’t raise those types of beings from the dead. They don’t leave bodies behind..." the necromancer shrugged casually and added, "It’s just some lights or smoke and then vanish."

  Jerome’s mouth fell open in shock, now genuinely fearful. How could he possibly know something like that? Had he...

  "Otherwise, he's a living being with a body. So, I can reanimate him," the necromancer said, returning to the original question, pointing his thumb at not-Tyrun.

  "And, generally, what makes it harder to raise someone from the dead has more to do with their level than with the source of their abilities," the necromancer continued. Though it seemed he was now talking more to himself, than to anyone else.

  "Level? What do you mean by that?" asked Seres, his curiosity piqued.

  This made the necromancer look very seriously at the blond youth. He seemed momentarily at a loss for how to respond. Finally, he spoke again.

  "Why are we wasting time on this?" the necromancer asked, no one in particur. Though Jerome got the distinct impression he was trying to change the subject.

  "We need to get out of here," he concluded. Jerome agreed that escaping the mines should be their priority, but everything the necromancer had just said unsettled him deeply. Who was this necromancer, really?

  Seres, in a rare attempt to assert himself, began to speak. "But, we haven’t—"

  The necromancer ignored him entirely, turning instead to not-Tyrun. "Hey, there are still some vampires left. At least their leader. Do you think you can handle them?"

  The undead monk nodded emphatically.

  "Are you sure? Because they did kill you and leave you down there. Not exactly stelr for a vampire-hunting monk," the necromancer said sarcastically.

  From this, Jerome learned that not-Tyrun’s order specialized in hunting vampires, something he hadn’t known before. Then again, he’d never even heard of the Order of the Petal and the Fme. Still, he couldn’t help but feel offended on the poor monk’s behalf.

  "He must have been caught in the same trap as us. He just didn’t manage to escape," Jerome said, leaping to not-Tyrun’s defense.

  "He might not even have survived the fall," Sab added, offering his support.

  The necromancer shrugged again and scratched his head. "Yeah, sure. So now that you’re an undead monk vampire-hunter... well... it should be harder for them to deal with you," he said, before adding, "So, start the hunt."

  Not-Tyrun began to move, but the necromancer suddenly called out. "Wait." He pced a hand on the undead monk’s chest and murmured something, clearly casting a spell.

  "You’ve got about twenty minutes. After that, the spell wears off, and you’ll... well..." He didn’t finish the sentence, instead gesturing to the ground with his head. "It’s the best I can do."

  Rubbing his head, he hesitated briefly before concluding, "Good luck on your mission."

  Not-Tyrun stood still for a moment, then pced the hilt of his fming sword against his chest. With the glow of the fmes illuminating his unmoving face, he bowed his head slightly in salute to the necromancer.

  With that, the monk, illuminated by the light of his sword, rushed into the tunnel from which the vampires had come.

  The necromancer, for his part, seemed disinterested, turning to the group and gesturing at the supplies they had dropped earlier when the vampires had attacked. "Right, grab the stuff, and let’s go."

  He began gathering the supplies himself, and after a moment of confused hesitation, the others followed suit.

  "Hey, you—tracker. Start scouting the way out of here. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of these mines," the necromancer said to Sab, pointing toward the tunnel they had been following before the vampire ambush.

  Caught off guard by the necromancer’s sudden urgency, Sab stared at the tunnel, for a moment before replying. "Yeah, yeah. We shouldn’t be far. No more than half an hour, and we’ll be back on the surface."

  "Cool, cool. Let’s go. Blondie, light us up," the necromancer said, urging them to move while ordering Seres to use his magic. Jerome didn’t even have time to ask what the man meant by “cool.”

  "Of course... the final light of magic," the blond youth replied, conjuring a glowing orb of light on the first try.

  "Good, good. Now move it. No time to waste," the necromancer said as they began their journey.

  Burdened with the supplies, Jerome remembered the mule and said, "Wouldn’t it be better to load the mule first so—"

  "No, no. Better to keep moving than waste time. You heard him; it’s not far. Let’s go," the necromancer interrupted, continuing to press them forward. Considering that the mule obeyed him, Jerome didn’t even bother arguing further.

  But the necromancer’s newfound haste left Jerome puzzled. With not-Tyrun hunting the vampires and their proximity to the surface, it didn’t seem like there was any need to rush. Yet, for some reason, the necromancer was clearly eager to get out as soon as possible.

  A few times, someone tries to start a conversation, but the necromancer cuts them off, urging them instead to pick up the pace.

  Finally, Jerome has enough and speaks up.

  “Listen, why are you in such a hurry?”

  Sab responds, seeming like he’s trying to diffuse the tension.

  “There’s no point in arguing. We’re almost out of here, just a few more minutes.”

  “Really!?” asks the necromancer, suddenly interested.

  “Yes. We just need to finish this tunnel and take another one. And we’ll be outside,” confirms Sab curtly.

  “Fantastic!” the necromancer says cheerfully, stopping in his tracks, which causes the group to halt as well. Jerome thinks that, with the exit so close, he must have decided to take a short break. “I was worried the spell would wear off before we made it out. That would’ve been inconvenient.”

  As he speaks, the necromancer moves toward the skeleton and starts giving positioning instructions to his undead minions, arranging them ahead of Sab and Jerome. Watching this strange behavior, Sab and Jerome exchange confused gnces.

  “What are you doing?” Jerome asks the necromancer.

  “Oh, nothing much, just making sure the skeleton sts a little longer.” As he says this, he pces his hand on the skeleton’s chest and, as he did earlier with non-Tyrun, murmurs something.

  It becomes clear that the necromancer is reinforcing his undead servant, which raises concern in Jerome. Why is he doing this when they’re so close to the exit? This makes him wonder what the necromancer pns to do once they’re outside. The camp is full of people. But then again, the necromancer is powerful enough to act on his own. What could he possibly want with the others in their group?

  “What the—” Sab begins to say, but the necromancer doesn’t let him finish, instead turning to his undead servant.

  “Keep these two from going anywhere.”

  And with that, the mask falls, revealing that the bastard has no intention of letting them leave. Jerome grabs his knife and lunges, but the skeleton blocks his path. The pale, almost imperceptible light in its eyes fixes on him.

  “Try not to hurt them. And if any vampires show up, prioritize dealing with those leeches,” the traitorous necromancer instructs his undead servant.

  “What’s going on here?” Sab demands angrily, stepping beside Jerome.

  “What do you think is going on?” replies the necromancer, unbothered. “We’re almost at the exit, and I’d like to avoid any trouble at your camp…” He looks at them very seriously before finishing, “…you know, when you’re pnning to throw me to the wolves.”

  “What?” Jerome and Sab excim in unison, baffled by the accusation.

  “Do you want to pretend you haven’t been pnning something for when we get there? Like exposing my abilities to everyone. When else would you cause problems?” the necromancer asks, shaking his head with a hint of frustration.

  The necromancer must see something in their faces because he continues, “You think you’ve been hiding your disgust with the undead well?” He almost ughs as he turns to Seres, who’s standing next to him. “Can you believe this?”

  “It’s true. Ever since you discovered Nero is a necromancer, your attitudes have been… problematic. Jerome, for a moment, I even thought you might cut the rope when Nero was climbing earlier,” Seres chimes in immediately, almost eagerly. This nearly makes Jerome protest—if Nero cimed the sky was green, Seres would agree with him. Unfortunately, he can’t deny Seres’ final point.

  “Anyway, the spell shouldn’t st more than twenty minutes. After that, you can return at your own pace. By then, I’ll be gone,” the necromancer finishes, turning his back on them.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jerome shouts, taking a step forward. But the undead servant raises its mace, making it clear it will use it. This causes Sab to hold Jerome back.

  “Good luck, boys,” the bastard says, waving at them as he walks off with the mule and Seres.

  “Damn, traitor!” Jerome yells furiously. If he could, he’d be strangling the necromancer right now. But Sab continues to hold him back.

  “Jerome, stop,” Sab shouts, pulling him away.

  “Stop? Didn’t you hear him? He’s pnning something at the camp. We don’t even know what danger the others might be in!” Jerome retorts, frustrated by Sab’s ck of support.

  Sab, in turn, puts his face directly in front of Jerome’s and asks ftly, “And what do you pn to do about it?”

  This shuts Jerome up. After all, what can he do against such a powerful necromancer? Seeing Jerome’s silence, Sab sits down against the tunnel wall.

  “What are you doing?” Jerome asks, unable to believe his companion’s calm demeanor as he sees Sab rummaging through the supplies he had been carrying.

  “I’m taking a break. Or do you think it’s a good idea to just stand here waiting? Besides, I’m looking for a torch for when that thing goes out,” Sab replies, gesturing to the glowing orb of light created by Seres.

  Part of Jerome wants to grumble, to protest against everything, but he can’t argue with Sab’s logic. This leads him to imitate Sab, sitting down beside him.

  “I don’t understand how you can be so calm,” Jerome criticizes.

  “I’m not. I’m just accepting that this is a fight we wouldn’t win. Besides, if the bastard really wanted to harm us… well, he had plenty of other opportunities. Let’s face it, we’ve been more of a burden than a help,” Sab responds.

  Jerome, annoyed, tries to think of something to counter this perspective. “We helped with those two vampires! Without us, he might’ve lost the fight.”

  Sab gives him a disapproving look before saying, “You mean the fight where we were shielded by his mule? And used knives enchanted by Nero?”

  This undeniable truth silences Jerome until, as Sab predicted, the glowing orb goes out, leaving them with only the light of their torches. As it happens, the undead servant doesn’t move. Jerome is almost about to joke that it didn’t even twitch but then realizes how ridiculous that would sound in this situation.

  This makes him start to wonder if he should attack the skeleton—charge at it, using his weight against the undead. But he’s seen the skeleton fight and knows that even if he managed to win at first, the undead is strong and fast enough to turn the tide.

  Maybe with Sab’s help? Even so, he doubts they’d escape unharmed from such a battle.

  As more time passes, more questions arise in his mind, leading him to ask Sab:

  “What happens, if the undead keeps us here indefinitely?”

  “He said it was only twenty minutes,” Sab replies.

  “But he could’ve lied,” Jerome says doubtfully.

  “Why would he lie? Even magic has limitations,” Sab says calmly, as expected from him.

  “Yes, but the mule…” Sab looks momentarily confused. “The mule is also undead. And it’s still walking around…”

  This makes Sab show a hint of fear, his mouth falling open as he contemptes this.

  And so, the two return their attention to the skeleton, exchanging increasingly tense looks.

  “So, what do we do?” Jerome asks.

  Just as Sab is about to respond, the sound of something hitting the ground fills the tunnel. When they turned to where the skeleton was, they saw its armor lying on the floor, surrounded by its scattered bones.

  “It was true after all,” Sab says, standing up. Yes, the necromancer hadn’t lied.

  “Let’s go,” Jerome urges. They’ve already wasted enough time. Sab nods in agreement, and they start heading back to the surface.

  The journey is silent and rushed, as they have no way of knowing what awaits them. Between their desire to simply leave these cursed mines and their concern about what the necromancer has been up to, Jerome grows more anxious with every step as they approach the exit.

  Finally, they pass through the exit and find themselves back outside. For a moment, Jerome can only breathe; the air out here feels so good. It’s as if he had forgotten the taste of fresh air. Despite his exhaustion, his whole body feels lighter and more energized simply from no longer being confined.

  But this joy can’t st long. Refocusing on the remaining problem, Jerome looks around. The camp is in a state of flux, with people moving back and forth. He can feel the worry and anxiety hanging in the air around them.

  “Finally!” a voice cries out.

  Looking toward the source, he sees Gouse limping toward them. She’s an older woman, strong and with long white hair. Whose old injury to her leg barely stops her from being one of the most active people in the group gathered here.

  As she makes her way around a dirt barricade. Jerome notices, that while they were inside the mines, the rest of the camp has apparently been fortifying the entrance.

  When she approaches with a small group, he hears her excim, “Finally, we were starting to think something had happened to you!”

  But as she speaks, Jerome asks, gncing around, “What happened here?”

  She pauses for a moment, following his gaze.

  “Oh, yes. The barricades. An idea from the young lord of Riversong. And, apparently, a good one,” she replies with some satisfaction.

  “Yes, a good idea indeed. He said they might come in handy if the wolves came back,” agrees a voice from the growing crowd behind her.

  This reminds Jerome of the young noble, who is part of the necromancer’s group. Someone who should already know the truth about Mercy and that the wolf attack was a lie. These barricades, then, are clearly here to deal with Mercy, in case she escaped the necromancer’s grasp.

  “In the end, they might actually be useful—only for dealing with vampires,” Gouse continues, her voice tinged with sadness and anger. Jerome wonders how she could know about the vampires, though the expnation is simple: the necromancer and Seres must have told her.

  “But it’s a relief you made it out, even though we lost poor Mercy.” Her sorrow is now evident as she shakes her head slowly. Jerome and Sab exchange gnces, wondering what story the necromancer must have spun.

  “But you were heroes, holding the rear to ensure the escape,” a new voice excims, immediately followed by agreement from several others. It’s clear now, what story they have been told.

  Apparently, they’ve been painted as heroes who stayed behind to allow the others to escape after being attacked by vampires inside the mines. The attack, according to this tall tale, resulted in Mercy’s death, while the rest were forced to flee.

  “What happened to Nero and Seres?” Sab asks, looking around as if searching for them.

  “The ones who went with you?” a voice from the crowd says.

  “Those cowards!” growls Gouse. “They returned to the noble’s group and fled.” She spits on the ground as she says this, clearly furious at what she sees as their betrayal.

  “Well, they did say we should wait for you and then destroy the entrance,” someone in the crowd says timidly, only to be drowned out by more comments about their cowardice.

  Though Jerome is furious with the treacherous necromancer, he also feels somewhat insulted by how the crowd is referring to them. After all, if there was one thing he didn’t see in the necromancer and Seres on this journey, it was cowardice.

  “But…” Jerome starts to say before Sab grabs him and pulls him back, telling the crowd, “Just a moment, please.”

  “Keep quiet,” Sab mutters to Jerome, who gres at him in irritation and some confusion.

  “They’re with one of the sons of Riversong. What do you think will happen, if we start telling people they’re involved with a necromancer?” Sab expins, his tone slightly aggressive and pushy.

  But the question is illuminating—both of them are now entangled in something far more dangerous than they realized.