The soul fire of the lich “Gangrene” flared wildly, a sense of foreboding rising within it.
A tall figure seemed to seep out from the deepest darkness atop the tower, stepping forward at an unhurried pace.
He wore armor just as ornate as Tarton’s, yet on him that splendor settled into something cold and imposing. Under the ghostly blue candlelight, his slicked-back hair gleamed with meticulous precision. His features were stern, his lips pressed into a lifeless line. Standing there, he seemed to merge with the surrounding darkness.
Between his fingers, he held… an utterly ordinary silver coin.
“Ah, dear Augustus, you’re finally back.” Tarton broke into a bright smile, the sword at the lich’s throat not relaxing in the slightest.
“Gangrene” saw who it was—and the coin in his hand. For the first time, fear appeared on that dead face, and it let out a shrill scream, “Augustus Constantine! My phylactery! How is this possible—?!”
Tilting his head, Tarton addressed the horrified lich in a teasing, almost lyrical tone. “It seems your loyal subordinates were not quite as loyal as you believed.”
“You bastard—!”
The lich jerked backward in retreat, violent dark magic surging out as all composure vanished. It was going all out.
Dense mana coalesced into a massive green skeletal apparition. With a venomous howl, it opened its jaws and lunged from midair toward the expressionless Augustus. As befitted a lich lord who ruled a region, it unleashed a fourth-circle death spell—Wailing Wraith—without incantation.
Tarton gripped his sword with both hands, the blade erupting with a chilling surge of magic. “Dispel Cross Slash!” With a sharp shout, a fierce silver cross-shaped arc of sword light struck first, slashing straight into the enormous skeletal phantom.
At the same time, Augustus—the target of the attack—did not move a single step. He simply watched coldly as black flames burst from his right hand, the one holding the coin. The flames carried no heat, yet they were more terrifying than hellfire, devouring the coin in his grasp.
Boom!
The charging skeletal apparition seemed almost tangible as it collided with Tarton’s strike. A violent explosion erupted atop the tower, shaking the entire structure as the shockwave sent dust billowing into the air.
“Damn it—you’re a… Spellbreaker!” the lich’s shocked scream rang out from within the haze.
Before the words had even faded— Clang! Tarton’s figure tore through the dust, surging forward in a savage rush. In stark contrast to his elegant noble appearance, his swordsmanship was wide and unrestrained—fierce, ruthless, imbued with a raw, brutal beauty.
The lich had no time to cast again.
Slash!
Its withered body was instantly cleaved into several pieces, scattering across the ground. A shriek of utter agony rang out—but not from the heap of severed flesh. It came from the silver coin in Augustus’s hand. Under the burning black flames, the now warped and twisted coin emitted one final flicker of light.
Crack! A crisp sound echoed as the magical barrier shattered.
The coin collapsed into a misshapen lump of smoking silver, and the scream ceased abruptly. The lich “Gangrene,” an undead lord who had dominated the borderlands for years, was utterly annihilated—body and soul—its final wail of hatred fading into nothing.
Stepping over the scattered remains, Tarton approached with an easy expression. Augustus watched him, and at last spoke, his voice devoid of any emotion. “What are you so pleased about? A lich’s weakness lies only in its phylactery. Destroying its body is no different from cutting down a tree.” He paused, giving Tarton a measured once-over. “Still, being able to break a fourth-circle spell… your rate of growth isn’t exactly a disgrace to the Krauser family.”
“I know. At the very least, I got to vent a little.” Tarton flicked his blade in a smooth flourish before sheathing it, then meticulously adjusted his armor as if he had just finished a noble’s dance rather than a life-and-death battle. Leaning closer to Augustus, his single eye gleamed with exaggerated delight. “Did I hear that correctly? You actually said I’m ‘not a disgrace’? Oh, my dear Augustus, what an honor! Should I take that as the highest praise you’re capable of?”
Augustus let out a cold snort and ignored the question.
Tarton didn’t mind. He glanced at the scattered remains on the ground, amusement flickering in his eye. “So bringing Gangrene into the ‘Imperial Chosen’ was just to make him lower his guard from the start. His Majesty already knew a rebellious type like that would never truly submit and never intended to give him the chance, right?”
Augustus regarded him in silence. After a moment, he replied in that same flat tone, “If you need me to answer questions this obvious, I’ll seriously consider requesting His Majesty to revoke your status as envoy. I was assigned as your deputy, not your tutor.”
Tarton’s expression didn’t change in the slightest, as though he were long accustomed to such bluntness. He hadn’t truly needed an answer anyway. With a faint smile, he changed the subject. “Where did you get that thing? A lich’s phylactery is something it would never reveal, not even in its deepest dreams.”
Augustus was as concise as ever. “I borrowed a fragment of memory from the soul of its most trusted corpse mage.”
“Wow.” Tarton feigned astonishment, as if he might start applauding at any moment. “Since when could you do that? Wait, are you hiding other tricks from me too?” He leaned in, half joking. “My dear friend, you’re not planning to use that on me someday, are you?”
Augustus cast him a sidelong glance and replied calmly, “That depends on your performance.”
With that, he casually dropped the now-melted lump of silver to the ground with a dull thud.
Tarton clicked his tongue at the ruined metal, narrowing his eye. “The Constantine family really lives up to its reputation—lavish as ever. If it were me…”
He didn’t get to finish.
“If you ever do something so degrading to the dignity of a vampire noble in front of others,” Augustus cut in coldly, “I’ll be the first to kill you.”
Tarton immediately raised both hands in surrender, a lazy smile hanging on his face. “Alright, alright. Just joking. I’ll keep that in mind.” He smacked his lips. “Using an ordinary silver coin as a phylactery—utterly lacking in imagination. He died just like his taste… mediocre. Though I have to say, Augustus, you seem to be in a good mood today. You’re talking more than usual. Normally I can’t get more than a couple of words out of you…”
Augustus said nothing. He simply stared at Tarton coldly, his right hand slowly resting on the hilt of his sword.
Tarton took the hint and dropped the teasing, his expression turning serious again. “Alright, enough fooling around. We’ve got a lot of cleanup to do, and we need to move quickly. His Majesty’s winter offensive against Elfin won’t wait. The list of ‘pacifications’ is still long—at this rate, it’ll take a month even without eating or sleeping. Let’s go, my dear deputy. In the report to His Majesty, we’ll write: ‘No fighting along the border.’ …We don’t need to eat or sleep anyway.”
The two left the lich tower side by side. As Tarton cast one last glance northward, toward the land shrouded in night, the playfulness in his eye gradually faded, replaced by a hint of doubt.
Wiped out to the last man… fifty corpse mages, along with the lieutenant, annihilated by the Guard of a mere border town.
“Rosenberg…” he murmured the name softly. “It seems an interesting variable has appeared there.”
***
At the Rosenberg garrison, that very “variable” suddenly sneezed.
Sign up to join the discussion...
Already have an account? Log in
No comments yet. Be the first to discuss this chapter.