Chapter 1
The life of a baron’s heir held no allure. Especially not in a rural fiefdom on the periphery, so remote it was doubtful the central government even knew of its existence. Beneath a clear, cloudless sky, windmills spun with vigor while cows and goats grazed in the vast pastures below.
Thud.
From the forest opposite, the sounds of the village men logging echoed. Boisterous laughter rang out, suggesting the good-natured Robert had cracked another joke. Life in this small domain was the very definition of peaceful, slow living. Still, Simon was quite content.
“Simon,” his father, Richard, began, breaking the young man’s reverie as they walked next to each other.
“What do you believe is the most important virtue for a lord to possess?”
Though startled by the sudden question, Simon quickly collected his thoughts.
“Hmm… magnanimity, perhaps?”
Richard smiled gently.
“Not a bad answer.”
“Then what is a good one?”
Richard slowly raised a hand to his chest.
“A heart full of passion.”
Simon blinked at the unexpected response.
“…What?”
“Just as the leaves change their colors with each season, the virtues a lord needs also change depending on the situation,” Richard explained, gently stroking Simon’s head. “A lord must be a friend, a parent, and at times, even a villain. But a lord who approaches his people with a passionate heart gains the power to convey his sincerity, no matter the circumstances. That is the true bond between a lord and his vassals.”
“My lord!”
Richard and Simon turned. Several grown men were shouldering a massive log, their strained expressions revealing the immense effort it took.
“Forgive us for interrupting your walk! If it’s not too much trouble, could we ask for that?”
“Gladly, Charles.”
A flicker of tension crossed Simon’s face as he watched his father. Richard Polentia was an ordinary rural lord, but he possessed one extraordinary trait.
“Step back, Simon.”
Richard closed his eyes and quickly, quietly, recited a few words of an incantation before opening his palm. A cluster of black light floated into the sky, transforming into the shape of a magic circle. Simon glanced around warily. As the circle activated, the surrounding trees and bushes began to tremble.
It’s happening!
The ground rippled like a black swamp. Arms shot up from the muck, waving as if yearning for the sun. They were devoid of a single shred of flesh, composed entirely of pure white bone.
Undead. Monsters with a blind aggression toward the living.
But here in this fiefdom, the opposite was true.
Clack.
Clatter.
Skeletons pushed themselves up from the ground and rushed forward, their bony limbs moving in unison to support the heavy log.
“Thank you, my lord!” The villagers, far from being afraid, beamed with relief.
“You’re a lifesaver!”
“Keep up the good work,” Richard said with a nod.
That’s right. Simon’s father was a necromancer.
* * *
It had been quite some time since necromancers came to rule half the world. It all began with the Talhern Empire. When the Emperor of Talhern, seeking to escape their influence, sent a fifty-thousand-strong army to Kizen—the necromancers’ stronghold—Kizen dispatched only ten of their own.
A mere ten.
What followed was the historic event known as the “Rose March Back.” The fifty-thousand-strong army, once marching on Kizen, turned right around and returned to the imperial capital.
Every last soldier had become undead.
The capital of Talhern was devastated, and the emperor surrendered. Afterward, the throne was occupied by the rotting corpse of “what was once the emperor.” The empire’s officials bowed their heads to a decaying puppet, and for thirty years, tens of millions of citizens were toyed with by the whims of a dead man. It was a chilling testament to the power and terror of necromancy.
Having risen to prominence, the necromancers gradually expanded their domain until their influence stretched across half the continent. The other half was held by their sole rivals, the Priests. Now, decades after the brutal Hundred-Year War between these two powers, the continent was enjoying a precarious peace.
I suppose none of that has anything to do with our fiefdom, Simon mused. The history of war felt like a mythical tale to him. The most significant recent events in Leshill, the land he would one day rule, were that Charles’s long-barren cow had given birth to two healthy calves, and that Kalon, while mopping the floor, had slipped and needed three stitches on his forehead.
Simon let out a faint laugh as he arrived at the lord’s castle. Of course, “castle” was just a courtesy from the residents; in reality, it was an ordinary wooden house. While even the poorest lords maintained a small fortress for dignity’s sake, Richard, the lord of Leshill, was remarkably modest.
The door creaked open.
“Mom, I’m home.”
As he entered, the comforting scent of wood filled the air. In the hearth, firewood crackled as it burned.
“Simon! You’re back?” A woman with grayish-white hair, wearing an apron, popped her head out from the kitchen. It was Simon’s mother, Anna Polentia.
“Yes, I was just helping with the logging.”
“Have you eaten?”
“…I had lunch a little while ago.”
“I baked some bread with the leftover dough. Have some with the jam.”
Anna was possessed by a mother’s relentless spirit, ever so determined to ensure everyone was well-fed. Simon pretended not to hear and pointed to a tray on the table.
“Mom, what’s this?”
“It’s water infused with Rehak mushrooms.”
Rehak mushrooms were a poisonous variety often found in the southern mountains. Simply leaving them in water caused a green, oily substance to float on the surface. Consuming it would mean a week of stomachaches and diarrhea, but it was a different story in Anna’s hands.
She approached, rolling up her sleeves, and placed her hand over the water.
Whoooosh!
“Whoa!” Simon let out a small gasp of admiration. The moment a white light shimmered from her hand, the poison began to neutralize. The green impurities vanished as if erased from a painting, leaving only the mushroom’s nutrients intact. The white aura that emanated from her body as she purified the poison—the power commonly known as “Divinity”—was the symbol of a Priest.
That’s right. Simon was born to a Necromancer and a Priest.
He had never been told the whole story of his parents’ past. He only knew of their forbidden love, worthy of a fairy tale, and that he was the living proof of it.
“Simon!” Anna’s voice called out from the kitchen.
“I baked an apple pie, so have some!”
“…Oh, okay.”
* * *
The day passed as it always did. Dragging his weary body, Simon lay down in bed. Leshill was quiet today, and it would be quiet tomorrow. He drifted off to sleep, certain that this peaceful life would last forever.
However.
Change had already begun. A letter flew in through the window and slapped onto his face.
“Ugh.”
Simon raised an arm to peel it off and opened his eyes.
“Hello?”
A strange voice made Simon blink. Sitting on the windowsill, bathed in the pale moonlight, was a girl. Her beautiful silver hair cascaded down to her legs, and she exuded an atmosphere so alien it was mystical. It was like looking at a forest fairy straight out of a storybook.
“The time has come.”
Her voice, sweet as honey, roused him from his sleep. After staring blankly for a moment, Simon quietly pulled the blanket up over his head.
“Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t see me!” the girl snapped, her expression souring as she hopped down from the windowsill. “You saw me! Get up, now!”
At her screeching insistence, Simon reluctantly threw off the covers and groggily sat up.
“…How did you get here? Are you lost? Where’s your mother?”
The girl let out a small sigh, then seemed to regain her composure and offered a smile. The moonlight streamed through the window, making her silver hair shine all the more enchantingly.
“I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I came to see you, Simon Polentia.”
Simon’s eyes widened in surprise. She knows my name.
“…Me? Why?”
“Read the letter.” Her voice was solemn, belying her age.
Simon carefully broke the seal and opened the envelope. With a soft rustle, a stiff piece of paper, folded in half, was revealed.
BANG!
“Simon!”
“Simon! What was that noise?” The door flew open, and Richard and Anna rushed in. Their eyes met the silver-haired girl’s.
“Oh…!”
“Lady Nephthys!”
The couple’s faces lit up as if greeting an old friend. The girl smiled brightly and waved.
“It’s been a while! Richard, Anna!”
The three of them began to talk excitedly, and Simon suddenly felt like an outsider. A boyish flush colored his father’s face, and his mother was in a tizzy, insisting she prepare a meal at once.
“Simon,” Richard said. “Greet her with courtesy. This is Lady Nephthys Archbold.”
Wait a minute. I’ve heard that name before. Nephthys Archbold. Nephthys Archbold. No way that it is…
Nephthys Archbold of Kizen!
The ruler of Kizen, the pinnacle of all necromancers. The mastermind behind the ‘Talhern Incident,’ who turned an emperor into a corpse puppet. The Witch of Living Death, who has lived for three hundred years. That’s who this girl is?
Then what is this? Simon pulled out the letter, his hands trembling.
“I’m making you a formal offer, Simon Polentia.” As Simon read the letter, the girl’s voice rang in his ears like a song.
[Kizen Admission Notice - Simon Polentia]
“Come to Kizen.”