Chapter 73: Power and Sword

Wade stood face to face with the Demon Mother and Quasimodo’s sewn beast. The deformed demon loomed before him, far more terrifying than any legend had described. 

It resembled the corpse of a pregnant woman submerged in icy waters for dozens of days. Blood-red skin covered in bubble-like pustules of varying sizes, its abdomen appeared to have been sliced open with a knife. Instead of intestines or stomach, there was only a massive cavity within.

Fleshy tendrils writhed inside the cavity, where several sleeping Flame Imps curled like infants among the pulsating growths. Umbilical-like cords connected the imps to the Demon Mother. 

It was said that demons had no fixed form since ancient times. Fundamentally different from birds and beasts, their manifestations in the material world reflected the fears and desires of surface-dwelling creatures. 

Wade now believed this saying. The Demon Mother before him defied all logic more than any creature he’d ever encountered. 

The three-headed wolf stitched together from demons and magical beasts was equally unnatural – its form assembled from mismatched organs and fur of magical creatures. 

Anyone standing before these two monstrosities would feel crushing pressure, let alone with Quasimodo’s wailing wraiths adding their mournful cries to the nightmare-inducing scene.

Yet Wade felt no fear. Or rather, something else moved him more deeply.

When Quasimodo appeared in the square, the souls bound by the necromancer emitted even more sorrowful wails. 

The lamentations came from that chaotic pile of corpses – their souls imprisoned after death by some shackle of Quasimodo’s making. 

Thousands of souls trapped together, consciousnesses that should have returned to nature after death forcibly bound without release. 

The layered, pulsating cries were more piercing than anything Wade had heard in Bronte Village. He saw flashes of the tragedy that befell Alvado that night. 

Fragments flashed before his eyes. Though he made no contact with those souls, he still witnessed the dead’s memories.

Icelanders wielding butcher’s cleavers, led by Quasimodo’s hellhounds, stormed into the town. They smashed through residents’ doors, slaughtering the sleeping Tanians. 

Blood and fire ignited the once-peaceful town. Young women suffered atrocities. Laboring farmers fled down cobbled streets only to find armed soldiers and pursuing hounds at every turn. 

Those undead hellhounds could sense every hidden living being. Whether hiding in chests or cellars, any breathing, heart-beating creature would hear approaching footsteps. 

Tears and kneeling won no mercy from soldiers or necromancers. No amount of begging while abandoning dignity could stay the violence and blades. 

Wade saw all the ugliness of that night laid bare. 

Yet even in death, the deceased found no peace. 

The dead pleaded, wept, and mourned – their grievances heard only by Wade. 

Wade suddenly recalled his final conversation with Old York that morning – the last question he’d asked. 

He’d initially worried the question might violate some taboo, but knowing Old York studied necromantic magic, he held nothing back. For specialized knowledge, one must consult specialists. 

He’d asked about natural growth and advancement among the undead, having never raised a young soul before. He’d raised children but never a phantom like Mia. The ecology of wasteland skeletons had piqued his curiosity. 

He wanted to understand more – how phantoms advanced into banshees and wraiths, whether skeletons simply needed to absorb their kind’s soul fires to perfect their bones. 

York had answered thus: 

“Whether undead advancement or professional warriors’ progression, it’s never mere power accumulation.”

“Aside from rare exceptions like dragons with racial memory inheritance that automatically overcome barriers through aging, most beings face critical thresholds.”

“An Iron-rank professional warrior seeking to break through to Silver-rank must first build solid foundations through daily training. Yet not every well-prepared Iron-rank can advance.”

“Innate talent determines much, but upon reaching one’s critical point, what’s needed is opportunity – something akin to a ritual.”

“Take phantoms. For necromancers cultivating a phantom to higher levels, they must continuously provide sufficient soul power and magic nourishment. Necromancers expose phantoms to their greatest fears, making them endure terrible suffering.”

“When that pain and fear reach extremes while the phantom possesses sufficient magic for advancement, qualitative transformation occurs – breaking through barriers to the next rank.”

“Thus necromancers use rituals of pain and fear to cultivate high-level wraiths. Yet many wraiths collapse mid-process. Only rare souls endure such torment to advance.”

“In necromancer theory, all high-level undead are cultivated thus. While a gold-rank bone dragon might be created from a golden dragon’s corpse under ideal conditions, transforming a skeleton or zombie into a death knight-class undead requires arduous rituals.”

This was what the gnome told Wade. By gnome and necromancer theory, he should constantly torment Mia – inflict pain and despair until she endured it all. Only through this singular ritual could she advance, gaining terrible power to inflict suffering upon others. 

But was this truly the only way?

Wade sensed his own experiences differed from the gnome’s theories. 

As undead himself, his personal practice held more value. 

That “barrier” indeed existed – he could feel it. 

He’d touched his own barrier. After absorbing the sixty-fourth skeleton’s soul fire that day, he’d gained much feedback from Mia – including a Silver-rank professional warrior’s soul. 

Yet unlike before, he no longer felt dramatic changes – just simple accumulation. 

But now, something grew clearer. 

His own epiphany, like Sven’s enlightenment of fire. 

In that cramped wooden hut, he’d seen Mia’s memories. In Bronte Village, he’d witnessed the undead pup and sewn beast’s pasts. 

Now he saw thousands of sorrowful souls speaking to him. 

Why had Mia so quickly took form after contacting him, bonding with his soul? 

A month prior, he’d thought the mysterious twenty-sided die was responsible. 

Now he knew better. No external object connected him to Mia – it was his own compassion. 

Because he pitied, he could hear souls speaking. 

Mia yearned for vengeance. The pup longed for its master. The sewn beast craved release. 

His compassion for suffering souls let him see these yearnings. 

He’d never intended to wield swords or fight others. 

He’d loved being a baker – selling bread to customers, lounging on rooftop chairs watching clouds drift across blue skies, feeling gentle breezes. 

He could sit alone like that all day, happily chatting with any visiting friends. That leisurely life was his ideal. 

Yet he pitied the suffering people. Pity for tormented souls. 

And so he took up the sword, surrounded by pitiable dead. 

“If this is your plea, then rise. Mourn no more, grieve no longer. Your souls shall be released.”

Wade plunged Radiance into the ground. A certain rhythm emerged from among the dead. 

He stood silently, his sword like a scepter – as if commanding an army.