Black Hearted Mage

"How do you know about the Surao Valley?"

With a clang, Wrathion dropped his knight's longsword to the hard ground. His calloused hands untied the rusted steel helmet. The wrinkles carved by time deepened even further, and his cloudy blue eyes were filled with confusion and wariness. He stared at Caesars, his face still adorned with a strange smile, his Adam's apple bobbing as he forced out only this dry question.

His full-body plate armor looked awfully worn in the moonlight, dark red rust seeping from the seams. It was clearly a substandard piece of inferior magic steel—perhaps containing less than 20% magic steel. Caesars scoffed inwardly. If it were high-quality armor, made of 50% magic steel, wouldn't he need to apply anti-rust grease to the joints every day? But that was just as well; the rusted armor suited this indecisive old man perfectly.

"Want to know the answer?"

Caesar licked his sharp teeth, his scarlet eyes sweeping over the scattered paladins around him. "Let's get rid of these troublesome guys first, otherwise..." He deliberately dragged out his tone, "Your crime of treason will be confirmed..."

Wrathion's calloused hands clenched tightly, his gaze wandering over the paladins who were either groaning or unconscious. A young knight, his leg bones bent at a strange angle, was still struggling to reach his fallen sword.

The old knight whimpered in pain and finally shook his head dejectedly: "I... can't do it..."

"If you are not ruthless, you can't stand firm!"

Caesars smiled sinisterly and gently kicked the bulging puppy at his feet. The puppy rolled over and hummed with contentment. At the same time, obscure incantations began to flow from his teeth, and the shadows in the air seemed to come alive.

As the shadow arrow pierced the knight's chest, the soul gem clad in Caesar's waist suddenly shone with a faint light. Within the previously dim crystal, white spiderweb-like patterns gradually emerged. With each falling corpse, the patterns grew brighter, like a thirsty serpent awakening.

After a while, the soul gem emitted a dazzling light. The soul energy inside was full, and it would be a waste to continue killing people.

"Wrathion, I leave these corpses to you. It's best to burn them all, otherwise they will become food for ghouls and aberrations!"

Caesars had achieved his goal, gathering enough soul energy. He cast several buff spells, grabbed the pup's soft flesh by the scruff of its neck, and soared into the sky. Wrathion, bewildered, gazed at the sky. From the jet-black wings, he guessed the identity of the newcomer—someone so audacious as to use the Pope's name on a fat dog.

Wrathion clenched his fists, his knuckles white from the strain. He stared intently at the corpses on the ground, which had begun to stiffen, beads of sweat brimming on his forehead. The western terrain of Bitterwater Farm emerged vividly in his mind—the mist-shrouded swamp, the dozen or so crooked mage towers on the estate, standing like rotten teeth. He had heard from the old hunters that the necromancers would perform a gruesome ritual at full moon, feeding the corpses to their captive monsters.

"Damn it, come and help!"

Wrathion's voice grew hoarse with anxiety. He turned toward the kitchen and shouted again, "Throw all these bodies into the woodshed and burn them. Otherwise, by the time the ghouls smell them, it will be too late!"

The kitchen door creaked open, and several cooks poked their heads out, trembling. The head chef's hands were still stained with flour, and when he saw the bodies scattered across the yard, his wrinkled face turned pale. "God damn it..." he muttered, remembering the rumors he'd heard at the market last week—that shepherds had seen walking corpses in the mass graves to the west, their eyes glowing green at night.

Jack, the younger kitchen helper, suddenly began to dry heave. He recalled the scenes described by the drunkards in the tavern: those zombies transformed by the necromancer had razor-sharp claws that could cut open a person's belly as easily as tearing sheepskin.

“Don’t stand there!” Wrathion shouted, the torchlight casting dancing shadows on his face. “Burn these bodies now while the necromancer doesn’t know about them!”

Several strong cooks finally woke up from their dreams. They wrapped their hands in aprons and began to carry the bodies, suppressing their fear. Each body left a dark red mark on the mud as it was dragged into the woodshed, like some kind of terrifying mark. Wrathion stared fixedly at the west, as if a twisted figure would pounce from there at any moment.

The scorching midday sun scorched the Paladin training camp. Blazing flames shot skyward from the center of the camp, black smoke twisting like the claws of a demon. A few blood-stained cooks huddled in a distant corner, their trembling hands stained with flour and blood as they made the sign of the Holy Cross before the flames. The flames flickered in their terrified eyes as they whispered prayers, imploring the holy fire to cleanse this tainted land and lift the fear from their souls.

"Instructor Lacio, why didn't you stop that person? Otherwise, this tragedy wouldn't have happened!"

After the prayer, Chef Mike dragged his fat body forward. His white chef's coat was splattered with dark red blood, and his round face was distorted with anger.

Wrathion leaned against the broken stone wall, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in his armor, casting mottled shadows on the ground. He kicked the gravel around his feet in frustration, and the scraping of his metal boots against the ground made a harsh sound.

He replied gruffly, his fingers tapping impatiently on the burn marks on his breastplate. "Mike, you're not blind. He threw an alchemical bomb, and my shabby armor is no defense against it. He can also fly. You must have seen it in the kitchen." At this point, he suddenly narrowed his eyes and looked at the frightened cooks suspiciously. "By the way, do you know who he is?"

Chef Mike's Adam's apple rolled noticeably, and beads of sweat oozed from his greasy forehead. "He's a mage noble from the Roland Empire, and his fat dog is called..."

His voice stopped abruptly, as if someone had suddenly grabbed his throat. He covered his mouth in fear, his eyes darting around. Everyone present knew that if the Pope's name came out of the mouth of a humble cook like him, he would probably not survive this evening.

Wrathion sneered, his gauntlets rubbing against each other with a teeth-grinding sound. He lowered his voice, as if about to share a terrible secret. "You guys probably don't know, but he was originally a member of the Violet Alliance. Because he killed many members of the Church, the Roland Empire rewarded him with an earldom." He paused, letting the fear spread in the air. "And he blew up Bone Castle, and he was also responsible for burning Graystone Castle last year!"

"He was the one who kidnapped the royal children..." a fat cook suddenly blurted out, and then shrank back into the crowd like a frightened rabbit.

"That's right!" Wrathion slammed the wall, sending a cloud of dust flying. "He also killed all the priests heading to the Redstone Kingdom!" His voice echoed through the empty ruins. The crackling of burning wood in the distance seemed to bear witness to this horrifying fact. Several cooks shuddered in unison. They gazed at the still-burning training grounds, and vaguely, they seemed to see the grinning demonic figure in the air again.

"Instructor Lasio, now that the training camp is gone, what are we going to do in the future?" a cook suddenly asked.

"What should we do? If we don't want to fall into the hands of the necromancer, we should pack up and run. So many people died here, and we are the only ones who survived. The church leaders will definitely track us down!"

Wrathion replied. He knew that all those who had made mistakes in the church were sent to the necromancer's territory, and this was already a secret known to everyone.

Several cooks hurried to the back of the kitchen to pack their things. Lacio also walked towards his old cabin, ready to leave Bitterwater Farm.

Caesar flew directly back to the castle and continued his meditation. Now he had no shortage of cultivation resources or soul energy. The only thing he lacked was the strength to compete with Sandro.

Inside the towering central hall of the Church of Saint Laurent, beneath the dome inlaid with colored glass, the sound of endless debate once again echoed. However, such debate would be fruitless, as the Church had no power to start a war.

Caesars's repeated attacks on the Church of Saint Laurent had left the Pope's knuckles white as he gripped his scepter from the golden throne. Most intolerable to him was the fact that the fat dog had actually used "Saint Paul" as his name; it was tantamount to blasphemy against the Church of Saint Laurent and a slap in the face.

Not long after, in a deep basement west of Bitterwater Farm, a stone coffin carved with ancient magic patterns suddenly vibrated. Sandro, slumbering within the coffin, was awoken by the sudden interruption, and the soul fire in his skull pulsed violently. Nothing in the world irritates a necromancer more than being interrupted at the crucial moment of absorbing soul energy.

"Rod-Man--"

The necromancer's magic sounds like a rusty saw being pulled back and forth on dry oak wood, and each syllable carries a teeth-grinding friction sound.

In the shadows before the sarcophagus, a figure wrapped in a black cloak swayed slightly. A hoarse response came from beneath the cloak: "Sandro, St. Paul wants you to kill someone on the other side of the Emerald River—my former student, Caesars!"

"The Pope is a fool!"

The skeleton within the sarcophagus suddenly sat upright, its joints clacking with crisp, creaking sounds. It rubbed its gleaming skull with its fingertips, a playful glint flickering in its soul fire. "Your former student is now under the protection of the elves. The mark that old elf left on my soul last time still aches. As long as I remain on Roland Continent, that old space-tearing monster could appear before me at any time." The skeleton's jaws opened and closed, and suddenly the subject changed: "By the way, what kind of trouble has your former precious student caused this time?"

The figure beneath the cloak trembled slightly. "He slaughtered the entire Paladin training camp!"

"That's it?"

The fire of Sandro's soul suddenly dimmed, and he shook his skull in disappointment, "Kill the Paladin? Your student has really bad taste. In my opinion, we should destroy the lair of the ascetics - those lunatics who chant scriptures all day long are the real foundation of the Church of St. Laurent." The bony hand slammed the edge of the sarcophagus, splashing a cloud of dust.

"Where are the bodies?"

Sandro's hoarse voice echoed in the cold dark room, and his skinny fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the sarcophagus.

"They were burned!" Old Roman spat, a trace of regret flashing in his cloudy eyes. "Those fools had no idea the value of those corpses."

"What a waste!"

Sandro straightened up. The sound of bones rubbing against each other could be heard from beneath his black robe. The soul fire in his eye sockets trembled. "That's excellent material... It can be refined into at least thirty bottles of blood essence..."

Old Roman shrugged, revealing his broken yellow teeth.

Sandro sighed again, this one a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of the grave. He waved his bony hand toward old Roman. He slowly sank into the stone coffin, carved with strange patterns. The lid, covered in magic patterns, slowly closed with a dull sound under the dim green magical light.

Old Roman gazed at the closed sarcophagus, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. He knew that in the crypts of Bitterwater Farm, the Pope's authority was meaningless. Here, Sandro was the sole ruler, and even the high priests, eager for the blood essence that would prolong their lives, were the ones to do so.

Moreover, only Sandro and he could extract the blood essence needed by the church's higher-ups. Old Roman stumbled toward the tomb's exterior, leaving icy shards on the ground with every step. He had no regrets about becoming a necromancer. Although his heart had stopped beating, he could still continue his research and pursuit of magic's true meaning.

"What did Master Sandro say?"

As Old Roman's hunched figure slowly emerged from the deep shadows of the chamber, the Pope's attendants, who had been waiting outside for a long time, immediately came to greet him. The flickering light of the torches on the stone wall cast a swaying light on Old Roman's wrinkled face, adding a touch of eeriness.

"That stubborn old man refused!" Old Roman's hoarse voice seemed to come from deep underground. "That wizard lord is not only protected by the elves, but also proficient in the magic of flight. Even with Sandro's strength, there's no guarantee of taking his life." He wrapped his black cloak tightly around himself, his bony fingers folded across his chest. "More importantly, if this operation fails, the wrath of the elves will surely follow. If Sandro and I die then..."

At this point, Old Roman paused. Under the shadow of his cloak, his cloudy old eyes suddenly shone with an eerie blue light, and the temperature around them plummeted. The attendant shuddered unconsciously, watching the white breath he exhaled condense in the air.

"Then... the essence of blood will never exist again!" Old Roman spoke the last few words very lightly, but they hit the servant's heart like a hammer.

The servant's Adam's apple rolled up and down, and beads of sweat oozed from his forehead. He saluted hastily and almost fled from the cold stone room. The heavy oak door creaked eerily behind him.