Chapter 9: The Ill-fated Lich

When Constantine opened his eyes, a pair of murky pupils swam into view, flecked with flickering dim flames. A startled scream escaped the boy. But then he realized the eyes belonged to a familiar face—Walter gazed down at him. The faint yellow glow of a candle lit the old steward from one side, casting sharp relief over every wrinkle on his face, which added a slightly terrifying atmosphere. Yet it also illuminated the deep concern etched there.

“Walter…”

In the boy’s eyes, that usually stern face seemed unspeakably dear. Over the years, this old man had been the only person in this world who truly cared for him. Though Walter wasn’t skilled at showing it, the sincerity within that concern was felt keenly by the adult soul dwelling inside the child’s body.

He even thought about planting a kiss on the aged cheek—though the idea failed. A slight shift of his body reminded him that his muscles still ached sharply, as if pierced by needles. Whether this was due to injury or exhaustion, the boy didn’t particularly care. This discomfort, after all, was his reassurance that he’d finally escaped that dreadful nightmare.

“What time is it? Why aren’t the lamps lit?” Constantine looked around, realizing he was back in his room within the Duke’s mansion. The sun seemed to have sunk below the horizon, leaving the room illuminated only by the flickering flames of a few candles. The fireplace cast the main glow, a warm reddish light that bathed the space but failed to properly illuminate anything.

“It’s late at night… After casting that spell, Young Master, you collapsed. It’s been six hourglasses since… The Duke summoned Archmage Nikolai and Priestess Niruel to examine you. They advised rest and minimal light stimulation.”

The Old Steward’s tone remained slow, but it carried a softness rarely heard, a hint of unmasked joy even seeming to soften his calm, heavily wrinkled face: “Ah, and congratulations are also in order, Young Master. The Archmage says you may possess the talent to become a Sorcerer…”

This was genuinely thrilling news.

In this world, Mages, Clerics, and Sorcerers were collectively known as Spellcasters, undeniably symbols of some of the most powerful forces on the Continent. Throughout its long history, it frequently happened that the exceptional achievements of a single Spellcaster could cause a kingdom to suddenly prosper. Especially in ancient times, countless kingdoms rose and fell abruptly—and behind these dramatic changes, Spellcasters were often present.

However, the stringent conditions required made suitable candidates incredibly rare. Therefore, even for a Duke’s son, possessing such a gift was truly a joy for anyone.

Unexpectedly, however, the boy showed very little outward glee at the news. He simply uttered a careless “Hmm” before shifting the subject to the fight hours earlier: “Did you find out who those people were this afternoon?”

“Two Twilight Assassins, part of a small guild. Though it appears it was a case of mistaken targets—they were surely after that young lady. That group of thugs was hired by someone to create a distraction.”

“Twilight Assassins? Then why attack during the day?”

“It’s merely our classification for such assassins, not meaning they only operate at night… Twilight Assassins have undergone the most rigorous training and are masters of all manner of weapons and infiltration or escape skills. They rely heavily on the cover of darkness for their killings. They are typically devoted Believers of some dark Deity, possessing abilities akin to Divine Magic.” The boy’s question seemed somewhat naive, prompting a faint smile on Walter’s face, but the old man elaborated patiently. “There are also Artifice Assassins. These haven’t undergone specialized assassination training but excel at disguise. They could be Nobles or Commoners, changing gender at will, blending seamlessly into crowds. Finally, Ambush Assassins work in groups, trained in coordinated attacks, adept with heavy weapons and crossbows. Of course, this is just a basic classification. Depending on their beliefs and abilities, they have their own unique titles.”

Constantine carefully noted this down. Although Walter had never once slackened his training in martial arts and other disciplines, this was the first time the boy had heard the old man speak about worldly societal topics like this. Perhaps it was another reward for his performance today.

“Generally… training a true Twilight Assassin is an extremely difficult endeavor. Yet to think, Young Master, you actually killed two of them head-on…” The unusual gentleness on the old man’s face seemed to deepen, his voice tinged with satisfaction: “Though you exploited their underestimation, the fact that you defeated two genuine Twilight Assassins in open combat still surprised me. It seems your daily exertions haven’t been in vain.”

“Of course, I was trained by Walter, the God of Death, after all… a few Twilight Assassins pose little problem.”

The boy grinned cheekily, his smile tinged with childish naivety. After his dream experience, the two killers seemed rather insignificant. Still, he couldn’t pass up a rare chance to flatter the old man before him.

“Confidence is good, but remember, arrogance is a bottomless grave capable of burying any great man or sage.”

The Old Steward had never been adept at expressing sentiment, nor did he react to this compliment. He simply handed over an object and stood up. “You should rest a while longer. Dinner hour passed long ago; I’ll fetch the chef to prepare you something. Ah, yes, Young Master, the two weapons you bought have been placed in your chamber. And this… you held it tightly before collapsing. It must be quite important…”

The object the old man offered was the Amulet Constantine had taken from the vendor. The dark stone had completely lost its previous greasy luster; its surface had become rough, making its dull black form even more inconspicuous.

“Alright, then, off you go…”

Once certain the old man had left, the boy grasped the talisman in both hands. Closing his eyes, he began softly chanting a string of bizarre words. As the whispers filled the air, faint wisps of grey fog seeped from his palms. The mist writhed like a living thing, emitting faint, reedy, yet raspy chirping sounds, reminiscent of ghostly wails in eerie tales. Moments later, when the boy opened his palms, the Amulet once more glowed with a dull sheen. Yet it was different now—a fine, diamond-shaped crimson line pulsed intermittently at the stone’s center, making the dark Gemstone resemble the blinking eye of some strange beast.

“Are you really just a Human? Or some monstrosity born of the Gods? I figure you’re probably a disciple of the God of Tricks—no, the Lord of All Lies and Shadows! You accursed beast!”

As the crimson line pulsed, a voice abruptly echoed within the boy’s mind: “I’ve never met anyone capable of such an flawlessly worded Pact! Are you some thrice-damned litigator? This Pact could be described with the term ‘exquisite’!”

The miserable Lich’s voice dripped with sourness—not only because he’d been utterly defeated by a mere child in a battle of souls, and subsequently bound by a terrifyingly perfect Pact… but also because of the ludicrous things he’d faced during his own spell—a whirlwind of bizarre cultures, countless techniques, energies, charms, and technologies flying at him en masse, each one completely incomprehensible to the poor Undead.

Thus, the unfortunate Spellcaster lost all chance for rebellion and was stripped of his last shred of defiance. The boy had even managed to effortlessly extract considerable knowledge from the Lich’s memories, including the Soul Contract spell meant for the soul—ironically, originally intended by the Lich for him.

“Enough, shut it. This ceaseless whining doesn’t suit your status as an Archmage of the Purple Violet, and it even diminishes whatever shred of manly dignity you fancy you possess—though I am beginning to doubt you ever had any.”

Constantine retorted sharply, his voice brimming with triumph. Once the Soul Pact was signed and sealed, its clauses were inviolable—another tidbit gleaned from the unfortunate Lich’s mind. “A certain sage once remarked that any existing consciousness is bound by invisible rules. As knowledge grows, these constraints tighten. Your mental world, for example, should manifest as anything you desire. Yet you stubbornly cling to the form of a Mage. Had you transformed into some Hundred-armed Giant or a creature out of myth, you probably would have won!”

“Imagination alone cannot conjure what hasn’t been encountered within the Soul Channel!” the Lich retorted with a sound like grinding teeth, or perhaps choking coughs, before adding vehemently after a pause. “Had I manifested them recklessly, how could you possibly—yet… Preserve me, by Majesty’s grace! What you summoned earlier didn’t seem like anything that could exist in reality either! How did you employ something so utterly inconceivable?!”

“Blah, that’s just a nerd’s special trick… beyond the comprehension of a scrap like you… Fine. Rather than wasting time lamenting, why not instruct me? What exactly are a Sorcerer’s abilities?”

Constantine commanded bluntly. The Pact he’d seemingly scribbled offhand contained thirty-seven exceedingly detailed clauses, one of which demanded the Lich answer all his queries truthfully and comprehensively.

Though uncertain how binding this magic might be on a Lich’s Soul, the boy was confident he’d come out ahead—the majority of the Pact paraphrased an employment contract he’d signed in his past life, supplemented with cunning clauses common among merchants, including the infamous “Final interpretation rights belong exclusively to the drafter.” Perhaps an Archmage could eventually find loopholes, but that would likely take decades.

“Sorcerers are beings born with the inherent ability to cast spells, much like magical beasts. They don’t require Spellbooks or mentors; they learn spells purely through sheer will. They often don’t even need to prepare spells like other types of Spellcasters. Legend says Sorcerers usually possess dragon blood or are descendants of Deities… though that’s merely lore… Truthfully, regarding raw intelligence and acumen, Sorcerers aren’t necessarily superior, perhaps only on par with ordinary folk. But they are innate wielders of Arcane Magic—according to Mage research, these individuals naturally perceive the Weave of Magic. With minimal training, they can tap into it, drawing forth power, no Spellbook key required.”

Though constrained by his own Pact, Hartdiel—or rather, Comrade Hartdiel—lived up to his scholarly reputation. His voice was sullen, yet his explanation was thorough, giving the boy a solid grasp of his newfound capacity within moments.

Hmm, or perhaps he simply couldn’t resist an urge to pontificate?

Mr. Hartdiel was a relatively young Lich, transformed near the end of the Undead War. Compared to legendary archliches surviving millennia, he was a fledgling. Yet he prided himself as a well-read Spellcaster. “A glance at my lab would reveal nearly twenty advanced diplomas in diverse languages, alongside countless medals and trophies,” proclaimed a memory within the Lich’s mind, marked by pride. “Pursuing knowledge, pursuing power, earning the recognition of civilization was my greatest aspiration.”

Alas, his formidable appetite for learning wasn’t matched by fortune… During one excursion, two centuries into his existence, gathering exotic components, he was spotted by a Mercenary. Worse, Hartdiel was absorbed by a pivotal discovery and oblivious to the danger.

Thus, the careless Undead was ambushed by Tyr’s faithful. Hartdiel successfully eliminated a full contingent of Paladins, attendant Clerics, and hired Mercenaries led by two high-ranking priests. Yet he too fell, shattered by Divine might. Though his phylactery preserved him from true death, the inherent conflict of energies ensured he resurrected significantly diminished…

Wiser after his ordeal, Hartdiel devised the spell he called Soul Channel. By hijacking mortal vessels, he successfully circumvented much of his physical vulnerability.

Prosperity proved fleeting, however… Not long into his renewed quest for knowledge, his previous stolen body expired prematurely deep within the Underdark. Clearly, the timeless Undead sensed flowing time poorly. The Amulet subsequently found its way to Constantine. We can only surmise the Lich possessed some unique and dubious favor from the Lady of Ill Fortune, Beshaba.

“Naturally, innate talent guarantees nothing. Without rigorous post-natal training, even the gifts of the Gods become useless. Mages are replete with fools never touching beyond the Fourth Layer; Sorcerers below the Third Sphere? Uncountable numbers…” Whether sensing Constantine’s inner elation or not, the Lich poured cold water at the opportune moment: “Moreover, Sorcerers have flaws: they often lack rational thought and logical analysis… As the saying goes, Sorcerers are like women—overly emotional, unable to control themselves.”

“Regardless, innate closeness to the Weave is a big advantage, right? Releasing spells without relying on Spellbooks—doesn’t that make them superior to Mages?”

The boy brushed aside the sour grapes undertone. Though he hadn’t shown it before Walter, excitement filled him now. As some literary hack once lamented, when faced with Spellcaster versus Warrior paths, most reincarnated materialists would likely choose Mage… and Constantine naturally proved no exception. With one foot already through that door, genuine excitement surged within him.

Especially from a practical viewpoint, Constantine felt this mirrored movie depictions of mutants or empowered beings formed by sudden gene shifts. Thus, even in this world suffused with Arcane and Divine energies, such individuals were prized.

His excitement drove him to endure muscular aches. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself from the bed, hung the amulet around his neck, and proceeded with gentle stretching—holding each pose briefly, releasing, massaging areas to dissipate lactic acid buildup. This was critical post-strain recovery; otherwise, agonizing soreness would plague him for days.

“Hmph! Their repertoire of spells is pitifully small! While the greatest Sorcerer may unleash dozens of spells daily, their arsenal—including Cantrips—rarely exceeds forty types… True, many Sorcerers grasp uniquely rare magics unseen by ordinary Mages. But they simply can’t deal with complex scenarios!”

Clearly, the boy’s suggestion challenged Spellcaster hierarchy, coloring the Lich’s voice with profound disdain: “Not only deficient across environments, they also seldom master specialized casting techniques! Many Arcane academies perceive them simply as living Wands or Scroll factories! What on Mundus are you doing now?”

Though once more confined to the tiny stone, the Lich’s Soul seemed able to observe the boy’s movements. Constantine’s conduct piqued his interest; exhausted people usually remained motionless.

“Flexion exercises for muscle relaxation and healing—inconceivable to inactive beings like you…” The boy calmly held the stretch three times before switching legs. “So… what spells can I cast now?”

“How should I know?! At your current level… four or five Cantrips and two or three basic spells per day, perhaps? Actually, currently you grasp only Magic Missile; others would require study… But Sorcerers can exhaust their vitality repeatedly casting the same spell within one day. Hence, even knowing only one First-Level spell, you could cast it three or four times daily.”

“Is there no method for increasing the spells available?”

“That hinges solely upon innate capacity! Some Sorcerers manage one or two more than others—but no further!” The Lich’s reply was emphatic, its finality making Constantine frown slightly. Under the strictures of the Soul Contract, the boy firmly believed the Lich wasn’t lying. Yet such uncontrollable growth irked him greatly—his gaming habits always leaned towards mastering every possible skill to forge ultimate versatility.

“Never mind. There are no useless spells, only incompetent Spellcasters.” His physical exertions didn’t impede thought. After weighing the prospects, the boy chose pragmatism. Given his anomalous mindset, Sorcerous potential was an unexpected bonus—not necessarily his sole reliance. Those supposedly genuine Twilight Assassins, capable of instant invisibility, were still dispatched by a child exploiting their complacency! Plus, he harbored numerous theoretical resources this world offered. While storm-raising ambitions might exceed his grasp, comfortably coasting through life remained plausible.

“‘No useless spells, only incompetent Spellcasters…’?” The boy’s succinct wisdom clearly struck a chord regarding Spellcaster essence. The Lich paused significantly before finally enquiring: “A worthy maxim. Its source?”

“City Lord Amedar, Sovereign of Rainbow Gate… Incidentally, you’re technically a Mage class, correct? Then explain this Magic Array’s purpose.”

Constantine refrained from flaunting esoteric knowledge. Dragging over his full-length mirror, he removed his shirt, presenting the intricate Array etched across his back for over ten years to his newly obtained Arcane consultant.